Losing My Religion: A Guide to Fighting the Catholic Church Abuse Scandals

Virtue & Vice

Nov 7

My parents made a very conscious decision to raise their children with the values of religion separated from the scripture. They wanted us to choose what doctrine — if any — we believed so long as we upheld the central values of being a good and happy person. Coming from a Catholic family, this meant that I was taught the danger of vanity and the beauty of a simple life without referencing God or the Bible, that I pray but rather noncommittally, and that I walk the line of skepticism that separates belief and cynicism.

Although they never enforced dogma, they advocated for the benefits of organized religion for the intangible soul and tangible bodily health. My father, in particular, will push back and ask me to consider the benefits of spirituality when I lament about the guilt-tripping of religion; he’ll argue that churchgoing means a healthier, longer life as much as it means assimilation (Ducharme 2018). As much he’s right, I sometimes struggle to internalize that nuance, especially when breaking stories of abuse make it undeniable that the system that delivers good to communities is the same one that enables tangible, severe harm to young children.

I’m referring to, of course, the Catholic Church’s sexual abuse cases. As these cases have piled up in the last twenty years, it’s nearly impossible to ignore it or interpret the facts in any way that absolves the church and my relationship with it. And with the most recent lawsuit against the L.A. Archdiocese that ended in an 880 million dollar settlement followed shortly by the resignation of the Archbishop of Canterbury in response to sex abuse scandals, the push for justice is accelerating. So, how do I react?

I’ve seen church leaders suggest praying, but that’s not nearly enough unless it gets God himself to come down and instruct priests not to abuse children (R. Burke 2002). Or do I “detach themselves from the clerical hierarchy—and take the faith back into their own hands,” as former Catholic Priest, journalist, and staunch proponent of church reform James Carroll suggests Catholics do? Both options seem better geared for someone whose faith is a significant part of their life, so maybe the question is: how do I react, as someone who walks the line?

I couldn’t seem to find a guide for those of us who are less involved—mild Catholics, not-very-Catholic-Catholics, non-Catholics, agnostics, and atheists—so why not write one? Not to imply that I know the answer, but I think I know how laypeople can respond in a way that tangibly supports the fight against abuse without depriving the church of its charitable functions.

The first step is understanding the depth and breadth of abuse in the Catholic church. The precedent for severe abuse is longstanding and widespread—from the subjection of children and women to “lives of coercive servitude” to the disposal of dead babies in “mass graves or sewage pits” (Carroll 2019). There is, in particular, a pandemic of child sexual abuse—over 200,000 victims have been abused in France since 1950; over 4,000 in Australia since 1950; and over 15,000 in Ireland “between 1970 to 1990 alone” (Al Jazeera 2021). And with outcry and demand for action in Latin America, Africa, and Southeast Asia as well, we have to acknowledge it is not just a few bad apples; the whole Catholic institution facilitates the rotting of apples (López 2022; Tostevin 2010; Associated Press 2024).

The second step is to understand why the system creates abuse. One possibility is the culture of secrecy, particularly concerning celibacy. Richard Sipe, a former Benedictine monk-priest and retired lecturer at Johns Hopkins University, concluded after 37 years of research into the sex lives of the Catholic clergy that “only half of all priests remain celibate.” Perhaps more importantly, he hypothesized that “this struggle — between normal physical needs and religious devotion — is the root of the Catholic Church’s biggest crisis” (Reed 1997). The prevalence of sexual activity under persisting religious pressure to be celibate encourages a “don’t ask, don’t tell” culture that suppresses any discourse about sexual activity, legal or not, consensual or not (Reed 1997).

The third step is to support the movements to end abuse in the Catholic Church through justice and prevention. For the more moderate Catholics, it means advocating for revising restrictions on Catholic priests for a contemporary world: as of 2015, 59% of Catholics in America are in favor of allowing priests to marry, and many priests, including the high-ranking Archbishop Charles Scicluna, have spoken out in favor of marriage as well (Corichi and Evans 2015; Pullella 2024). Allowing marriage could address the “underdeveloped sexual impulse” of priests who sexually abuse young children, according to Father John Allan Loftus, a priest and psychology professor at St. Jerome’s College (Reed 1997). After all, when the institution places moral pressure on the virtue of celibacy, it enables the vices of individual priests who sexually abuse young children while committing vice itself by covering up the abuse.

For the layperson involved, fighting abuse scandals could look like donating to activism organizations such as Ending Clergy Abuse and the Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests (ECA; SNAP). But most importantly, it means supporting the momentum for reform and resisting against the resistance to change. Notice how much of the research I have cited here has been around for a long time. Father John Allan Loftus, James Carroll, and Richard Sipe are among the many priests who have studied and reported the systemic abuse of children for decades; the Boston Globe famously broke the story of at least 70 priests in Boston alone who molested children in 2002 (Robinson 2002); the Ryan Commission in Ireland published a 2,600-page report that received widespread attention and sparked condemnation in 2009 (McDonald 2009).

And yet, stories of ongoing abuse are still breaking; it feels like little has changed since then. In a way, it shows progress — more and more survivors are stepping up, speaking out, and demanding compensation. But there needs to be legislation that enshrines protection for survivors of religiously affiliated sexual abuse and ensures due punishment for abusers regardless of their religious standing. There needs to be more thorough governmental oversight and intervention for the entire Catholic Church institution without stumping its ability to do its charitable work. And for that, the layperson can vote and demand change where they see fit.

Lastly, the most crucial part of this guide is about how we discuss this topic. A not insignificant part of me wants to believe the Catholic Church—or at least, many of its believers—stands for doing good. From day one, the North Star of my life has been defined by Catholic values; as much I was raised detached from doctrine, I still carry a Mother Mary Pendant, my grandmother still prays the Holy Rosary when I’m sick, and I still feel the urge to pray. So I’ve tried to stay nuanced as my father does, but as we learn more about the Catholic Church’s abuse record, that nuance feels more like equivocation.

At some point, I have to be honest with myself and realize that the covering up and enabling of violence is not just a part of the Catholic Church and the priesthood, but a mechanism of its very function and the corruption of its foundational virtues. That is not to say that we should push to abolish the church entirely—the freedom to practice religion is just as important as the freedom to criticize religious institutions. And it is especially up to those of us who are closer to those institutions to be frank when engaging in discourse. We can’t—I can’t—equivocate because the Catholic Church system has so much social and moral capital, any movement that opposes it needs an organized, focused, critical mass. We must push the church to address its own vices because virtue is not a given but a fragile thing that needs to be proven by every action and statement.

I wanted to add a note about discourse because the Spark editor asked me to tone down my argument and argumentation. I wish I could tell you, dear reader, that I pushed back. But after a few years of understanding the bureaucracy of educational institutions, I knew that the unspoken ultimatum was to write a watered-down essay about the abuse of the Catholic Church or not write it at all. This is not what I really want to say — at least not all of it. We haven't touched upon the abuse of the Catholic Church while it justified the colonization and brutalization of Latin America and Africa; nor have we discussed the false notion of ‘Judeo-Christian’ values that underpin profiteering American foreign policy; and most importantly, we haven't discussed how real change can only come with a degree of resistance that will inevitably infringe on the freedom of religion, but that it is necessary to bring justice to the people the Catholic Church wronged and ensure the safety of those it intends to serve.

Losing My Religion: A Guide to Fighting the Catholic Church Abuse Scandals

Tempted by Intelligence

The Spark