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three, Predatory Priests: Sexually Abusing Fathers
The
priest said that their relationship existed on the highest
plane possible for two human beings, that they had attained
the ideal glorified by the greatest poets of the ancient
world. He reiterated that they experienced all forms
of love together: love of beauty, love of thought, love
of logic, love of art, and love of one another that
was intellectual, sensual, and emotional. Julian did
love Father Scott, and he craved the companionship and
deep interest the priest offered him. Nevertheless,
he was confused and conflicted about the sex that accompanied
that interest. “He did so much for me! Anyone
would think he was the best mentor a boy could ever
have, and, except for the sex, he was.”
Julian
put a stop to the sex when he was fifteen. After he
left for college, his family moved away from the diocese
where Father Scott served, and Julian seldom returned
to his old neighborhood. He excelled in school and entered
a seminary to become a priest, but dropped out when
he realized that this path was somehow an outgrowth
of his relationship with the priest. He married, but
remained ashamed, conflicted, and secretive about his
abuse. He continued to be grateful for the intellectual
and emotional expansion the relationship with Father
Scott had afforded him. At the same time, however, he
was covertly furious about the exploitation and mystification
involved in their sexual activity. As an adult, he was
a compulsive masturbator driven furtively to view peep
shows and consumed by female pornography when he was
anxious. When he began treatment, he felt out of control,
in the grip of the sexual impulses that flooded him
at these times.
In their treatments, both Julian and Lorenzo became
increasingly aware of the extent of their rage at their
priest/abusers. But they also realized, sadly, how much
they still hoped for from these inadequate men. Lorenzo
phoned the priest who had originally sent him to the
abusing priest. He found this priest receptive to the
call until he realized that Lorenzo wanted to talk to
him about how much he had been hurt by his boyhood abuse.
The priest then abruptly terminated the conversation.
He never returned other phone calls. Nor did he respond
to a letter in which Lorenzo told him that he was simply
interested in coming to some understanding of what had
happened, not in hurting him.
At age thirty, Julian attended a funeral in his old
neighborhood and there saw Father Scott, who came over
and introduced himself to Julian’s wife. Julian
felt furious but paralyzed, wanting to shame and hurt
the priest but barely able to speak to him. The priest
drew him into a corner and whispered, “You may
feel better than the rest of us now that you’ve
left town, but you and I know that all I have to do
is rub your belly and you’ll squeal like a puppy!”
Feeling helpless and shamed once again, Julian finally
got in touch with the full extent of his rage at his
former mentor. Yet he was never able to confront Father
Scott and maintained a fantasy of reconciling with him.
When
the priest died suddenly a few years later, Julian attended
his funeral. There, a number of people offered their
condolences to him as Father Scott’s former protege.
He was told that the priest had often praised Julian
and had been very proud of him. While in some ways it
was gratifying to hear this, Julian also felt inchoate
rage. When he learned that he had been left a small
sum of money in Father Scott’s will, he experienced
the bequest as a way of buying him off, even making
him a prostitute. At that point he talked to the other
boy who had participated at times in his abuse. This
man, himself now a priest, was the executor of Father
Scott’s estate. Julian did get some corroboration
from him of his former mentor’s predatory nature
but remained deeply conflicted about Father Scott and
the effect of their relationship on him.
I
believe that many of the suits against the Church in
2002 were brought by men who, like Lorenzo, initially
sought some kind of pastoral experience that would heal
them. When met with silence or denial, they eventually
chose legal means to get acknowledgment of the wrong
that had been done to them.
Both
Lorenzo and Julian had entertained thoughts of legal
redress long before the Church scandals became public
in 2002. Lorenzo focused more on his earlier abusers,
the men who had molested him before he ever spoke to
the priest about his worries. He went so far as to have
an interview with a prosecutor to warn him that these
men were still possible predators. In contrast to his
feelings about these earlier abusers, he was more ambivalent
about both the priest who had molested him and the one
who led him into that abusive situation. He was more
concerned about protecting other boys than about getting
recompense or justice for himself. He considered writing
the diocese where these priests were now serving, again
to warn them of the danger the men might still pose.
But his mixed feelings about the priests and the Church
stopped him from doing so. He reasoned that the Church
was unlikely to do anything about the situation. This
conclusion was, of course, later confirmed by the many
stories made public about abusive priests who were transferred
by Church authorities from one parish or diocese to
another. Eventually, Lorenzo decided that to write to
Church authorities would only give new life to the devastating
conflicts that had been largely worked through in his
lengthy analysis.
Julian
considered suing to have his analysis paid for by either
the Church or the estate of his now-deceased abuser.
He felt that such a demand would be justified but decided
that entering into a lengthy legal battle would do him
more harm than good. He concluded that to start such
a suit would keep him stuck in his anger and in his
memories for at least the five or six years it would
take to pursue such a court case. He also recognized
that a legal battle would risk his having to reexperience
the psychological fragmentation he had felt before he
began treatment and that there was no guarantee that
he would gain anything at all from the process.
Both
Lorenzo and Julian, then, recognized that the Church
would not offer either justice or solace. This surmise,
of course, has turned out to be, for the most part,
confirmed by the Church’s responses to the victims
who have come to the Church for either pastoral or legal
redress. Therefore, Julian and Lorenzo seem to have
been correct in assessing that their most fruitful path
would be to mourn their childhood and innocence, and
that this was better accomplished in the consulting
room than in the court room.
When
the Church scandal broke, Julian and Lorenzo experienced
a liberating sense of having their torment validated.
They were very glad that the Church was being forced
to acknowledge the extent of priest abuse. At the same
time, however, they felt a recurrence of shame. Furthermore,
they were conflicted about not having come forward as
other victims had, a conflict that was constantly triggered
by news reports about the Church. Lorenzo said that
he had to monitor tightly what he allowed himself to
read or hear in the media in order to keep himself from
being overwhelmed by anxiety. And Julian noted sadly
that he was a religious man without a church: “I
went to seminary because Catholicism means something
to me. But now I can’t go into a church without
feeling I will vomit. My wife says, ‘Let’s
go to an Episcopalian Church -- it’s almost the
same!’ But it’s not the same. I’m
not an Episcopalian, I’m a Catholic. And there's
nowhere I can go to be one.”
Dr.
X
The
theme of religious betrayal overlaying betrayal by a
trusted adult was underlined for me by a third man who
spoke to me about his abuse by a priest. Dr. X is a
mental health professional, married and now in his 50s,
who has had personal therapy for over twenty years and
who has treated numerous male victims of sexual abuse.
He has in many ways successfully dealt with his boyhood
trauma. But he is left with a cold fury at the Church
and all it stands for, as well as a bleak contempt for
organized religion.
Dr.
X was raised in a rural area of the American heartland,
the son of a devout Catholic mother and a less religious
father who nevertheless “went along with the program.”
A pious child who always wanted to please his mother,
Dr. X was a very literal believer in Church doctrine.
He absolutely believed that a priest was God’s
representative on earth.
Of
his mother, he says, “To her dying day she was
a praying, God-fearing woman. She was the ultimate Catholic,
and she wanted me to be one, too.” He paints a
mixed picture of his father: unpredictable, a workaholic,
sometimes dangerous, demeaning, and physically abusive,
at other times strong, capable, and “centering.”
Dr. X says his sense of self-esteem and goodness came
not from his parents but from two men close to his family.
One was a friend of his father’s who stayed with
the family occasionally and seems to have been a near-ideal
role model. The other was the family’s parish
priest.
The
priest came from New York and was viewed by Dr. X and
his parents as worldly and wise. He visited the family
frequently and often stayed the night, even though he
lived only three blocks away. On these occasions, he
slept on a couch outside Dr. X’s room. On many
occasions, starting when Dr. X was five years old, the
priest would take the boy out of his bed and bring him
into his own, where he placed the boy on top of himself.
Dr. X could feel the priest’s erection through
the sheet that separated them. The priest moved under
him or the priest would maneuver him, pressing the boy’s
moving body against his erection until the priest reached
orgasm. He would also fondle Dr. X’s genitals,
sometimes with an ice cube. As far as Dr. X can recall,
there was never any oral or anal contact. He notes,
however, that his memory is cloudy and has numerous
gaps in relation to the priest’s actions.
After
a few years, the priest moved to another parish in the
same state. He would visit the family every few months
and take Dr. X away for the weekend. At these times
they went to a suburban house that Dr. X believed at
the time was where the priest lived with other priests.
He now believes it was a house that the priests kept
for their encounters with young boys, since all the
other priests also brought boys with them on these weekends.
There were many incidents that Dr. X remembers only
vaguely. He recalls one in particular from within his
dissociated state at the time. Watching himself from
above, he sees himself step out of the shower while
the priest squats down and rubs shaving cream all over
his genitals, then “lovingly” wipes it off.
Dr. X’s younger brother came on at least one of
these weekend trips, and the brother recalls clinging
to a maid as the other priests tried to get him to accompany
them as they took their own boys into the bathroom to
watch Dr. X being fondled.
These
incidents continued until Dr. X was fifteen years old.
“As I grew older, the guilt intensified. I sensed
that things were off, but I felt it was only me, that
I was not able to exercise self-control. I didn’t
want him to take me with him anymore and grew increasingly
wary of his visits. I dreaded them but felt obliged
to be ‘good’ -- a good Catholic, a good,
compliant boy in both his eyes and my parents’.
I could not disappoint him.”
When he was in his late teens, Dr. X’s mother
told him that there were rumors about the priest being
sexually involved with children. “I became enraged.
I’d thought I was special to him. I told her what
he’d done to me, but, amazingly, she stayed in
touch with him, and so did I! I didn’t truly realize
that I’d been abused. It was just something that
happened.”
When
Dr. X moved to New York as a young adult, the priest
lived there, having left the priesthood. For a while,
Dr. X stayed with him. The priest tried to seduce him
again “for old times sake,” but Dr. X fended
him off. A year later, he began therapy and started
to identify his experience as abusive. He decided to
confront the priest, and, taking a “huge friend”
along for protection, went to see him. “I told
him, ‘You abused me,’ but he said, ‘What
I did was just love. It was good for you.’ He
never acknowledged any wrongdoing.”
Trying
to gauge the extent of his trauma, Dr. X exclaimed,
“I felt so betrayed! It went on for ten years,
a person who seemed to love me and whom I loved. That
reduces the trauma, I suppose, but ten years adds up
to a lot of trauma in itself.” He noted that only
after twenty-odd years of therapy was he aware of how
enraged he has been all his life. He had always known
about his anger toward his father, and even his mother,
a seemingly more passive figure. “My rage was
always under the surface, and I knew that. But there
was more, and I knew that, too. Only now do I affix
it to him as well.”
At
the time, Dr. X never considered telling anyone about
his abuse. The priest had said, “This is between
you and me. God thinks it’s OK. You don’t
have to tell your mommy and daddy.” In retrospect,
Dr. X believes his mother was in love with the priest,
albeit from a worshipful distance. In any case, he felt
sure that all hell would break loose if he told about
the abuse, and that he, not the priest, would be the
loser. “He was awesome. He would not be blamed.
He was God-like.”
Dr.
X was ambivalent about what the priest was doing. While
he had an underlying sense of disgust, he now feels
that he was somehow seduced into thinking that participating
in these acts was good and noble. “I remember
once, at age six or so, laying there, expecting him
to come in. I lay there in the form of a crucifix. I
thought he’d see me as Jesus. I’d please
him. I so wanted his attention!” His self-esteem
depended on the priest’s coming in and making
him feel special. “I had a love affair with him
in my heart, even at age five.”
In
addition, Dr. X felt, as Julian had, that his priest
held out the promise of helping the boy become like
himself, worldly and well read. “I somehow thought
he would show me how to be intelligent and sophisticated,
how to live in a better way, not like my redneck family.
I don’t know how much of that was my fantasy,
but certainly his manner reinforced the idea -- he was
on a pedestal, aloof, someone to be in awe of.”
Differentiating
between the physical and psychological abuse by his
father and the sexual abuse by the priest, Dr. X said,
“I had no power in either situation, but somehow
my connection to my father remained. I could actively
hate him as a counterpart to my love. He was a man.
A sick, scary, fucked-up, angry, mean, heartless man
at times, but loving, strong, safe, and capable of protecting
me, too. The priest was lascivious, stomach sickening,
confusing, obligatory, awesome, and desirable. My relationship
with him did not carry the attachment, dependency, and
love that I felt with my father. Yet I was more powerless
with him in a way, given his religious status.”
Noting
how vulnerable he was, Dr. X at first said that his
trauma would have been of an equal magnitude had his
abuser been someone other than a priest. “Perhaps
if my dad had sex with me I would feel the same way
about him, but it was the priest, in his God-like position
and his misuse of it, that soured me to ultimate authority.
Although today I think that is a good thing, at that
time it left me hopeless, angry, rebellious, hostile,
and running in circles. I survived. I did not live.”
Even
though he says he is now glad that his eyes were opened
to the “hypocrisy” of religion through his
trauma, it is clear that there was a painful crisis
of faith because of the specific nature of his relationship
to his abuser:
“I
felt it was God’s representative on earth that
opened my eyes to God’s failing. I don’t
believe in God today at all any more.” Reconsidering,
he went on: “I am angry at God. To the degree
God exists for me I am angry at Him. The idea of a Supreme
Being was shattered for me by this man. He introduced
evidence to me that God failed, that God won’t
protect you or prevent bad things from happening to
you. The fact that it was a priest was cataclysmic.
It taught me that there is a lie in the world. I developed
a slowly evolving cynicism. As I got older and gave
up on my piety, I grew to hate the smells, sounds, feelings
of the Church — the incense, the collars, the
robes. My spirituality and ability to believe in a higher
power were destroyed.”
Wrestling
with the idea of whether and how priest abuse is different
from abuse by others, especially fathers, Dr. X said,
“What is unique is that one’s connection
to religious belief, trust in God, belief in a higher
power, all becomes skewed, confused, shaken, questioned,
tainted. And that might be a good thing, ultimately.
I think it was for me.” Yet, he went on to say,
“The fact of his ‘priestness’ had
little real specific contribution. It was more the betrayal,
the stigmatization, the powerlessness, the frustration.
His priestness just gave him the right-of-way. Being
a priest was his ticket to taking advantage. His tool.
Like anyone who abuses a child. They all have some tool.”
Conclusion
Why
do the media focus more on the effect of the scandals
of 2002 on the Catholic Church than on the effect of
sexual betrayal by priests on young children? Perhaps
we all would like to have faith in the basic goodness
of the Church, and focusing on how the Church is affected
by scandal somehow forces us to consider how to make
the Church regain its exalted state. Obviously, such
concerns are legitimate, and it is crucial that Church
practices in relation to predatory priests be reformed.
But
I think that a more important cause of this relative
neglect of victims by the media is the fundamental taboo
many of us continue to have about boys being sexual
victims. The media are faced with hundreds of hurting
male victims of sexual abuse by priests. Yet, like many
of us, they seem unable to consider for long the effects
of these betrayals. I have personally found this to
be true when being interviewed by some reporters about
the sexual abuse of boys. The reporters, of course,
want to know about numbers and facts. But when I talk
about the specific outrageous acts that sexual abuse
inflicts on boys, or the long-term negative effects
of these acts, the reporters sometimes gasp in horror
and disbelief. None of us wants to hear these stories.
If
a parent betrays a child in a fundamental way, the child’s
resulting wounds are profound. To the extent that a
priest is experienced as a father, he will likewise
be the object of conflicting, complex feelings. Therefore,
if a priest is a child’s Father, his betrayal
affects the child to his core.
The
boys of St. Vincent were perfectly aware that they were
orphans and that their abusers were not their parents.
Yet they had nowhere else to turn -- their world was
totally controlled by their abusers. The concept of
in loco parentis was literally true for them. Their
priests became both their parents and their abusers.
Consequently, the aftereffects of their abuse were devastating,
affecting virtually all aspects of their lives.
The
men I have described whom I treated and interviewed
were not in quite the perilous situation of the orphans.
They each had other resources, flawed and inadequate
though those resources were. Yet each of these men was
in a vulnerable psychological state. Indeed, their vulnerability
is what made them easy targets for priest/predators.
As boys, they looked to their abusers for solace and
support, and they were betrayed. The trauma in all three
cases was shattering.
Overlaying
the betrayal in all three cases was the specific effect
on the child’s spiritual life following abuse
by someone trusted as a representative of God. Each
one had a terrible crisis of faith. Those whose religious
feelings were destroyed were thereby further alienated
from their religiously observant families. The boys
survived, and yet they were truly victims of what Shengold
(1989) has aptly called “soul murder.”
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