Tag: St. Therese

Holy Thursday

navigating the priesthood post-2002

It’s Holy Thursday, the day we remember the last meal Jesus shared with His disciples. We remember that it was on this night that Jesus instituted the Eucharist, our shared meal of His Body and Blood.

It’s Holy Thursday, the day we remember that it was at the Last Supper when Jesus instituted the priesthood, by modeling a self-sacrificial life of service as He washed the disciples’ feet.

It’s Holy Thursday, and years of sexual abuse by clergy in the dioceses of Baltimore has been exposed. It’s all over the news. And God be praised it’s out. The only way to expel evil is to bring it to the light.

I wanted to write about the priesthood today, specifically how fortunate I have been to know priests striving to model Christ, struggling to be holier, humble in their office. I was going to write about scandals, Church wounds, and healing. And this news from Baltimore doesn’t change that, but makes it all the more necessary.

I came into the Church in the Archdiocese of Portland, Oregon in 2001, and the very next year in 2002, years of clerical sexual abuse and cover-ups were exposed. Bankruptcy soon followed. On the opposite coast in Boston, the same thing was happening, though on a much larger scale. We would move there in 2011 and see for ourselves the fallout: closed parishes, abandoned churches, diocese reorganization. The diocese of Seattle where we lived for a time had also gone through its own slew of scandals.

In all three of these archdioceses post-scandals, there were extensive steps required to volunteer, including background checks and training. When my husband worked as a youth coordinator at our parish, the background checks were actually useful in determining who could volunteer and who could not, and in one case just the mention of a background check scared away a probable offender. All these precautions are no guarantee, and how can we laypeople trust that necessary reform is happening in the seminaries? Sadly, there will still be predatory laypeople, monastics, and clergy, just as there are predatory coaches, teachers, and ministers (though predatory clergy is especially heinous). But I do believe the precautions have slimmed down chances, and hopefully prepared laypeople to watch for signs and suspicious behavior.

However. Oh, damn that however.

I am still shocked to see a lack of outrage and urgency in areas of the Church, both among laypeople and clergy. I am, right now, living in an area near a Catholic institution that refuses honesty and transparency about accusations against its beloved priests and brothers. I feel like I’ve stepped back in time, as though 2002 never happened, as though the Dallas Charter* was never created, as though scandal after scandal hasn’t rocked the Catholic Church.

As though they are untouchable.

It’s strange to have just moved from the Archdiocese of Portland, where reform is in active motion. When people hear “Portland” they think of the news from Covid lockdowns of rioting in the streets, the out-of-control homeless population, and liberal politics. Portland is so much more than that, and one of its treasures is the clergy. They aren’t all perfect (several years ago a Portland priest fled the country before he could be charged with criminal activity), and I’m sure there’s much I don’t know, but the priests I have known are joyful, struggling pilgrims. They’re openly struggling with holiness, openly asking for prayers, and preaching with humility. I think one of the reasons these priests are so obviously hungry for holiness is their shepherd, Archbishop Alexander Sample. One priest said to me once that as a priest, it’s easier to want to be a better priest when you have a bishop like Sample leading the way.

Not long before we moved away, some of my priest-friends had mentioned that during the Covid shut-downs of public spaces, including churches, Sample had been worry-laden. He had a conversion of sorts, realized wounds in his own spirit, and after seeking counsel and healing, his eyes were opened to the probable wounds of his priests, the men under his care. How could they offer Christ’s healing to the people of Portland when they themselves were so deeply wounded?

In a conversation I had with Bishop Sample before we moved away, he told me about how St. Therese had given him a sign that she was watching over his priests. He renewed his devotion to her, and entrusted his priests to her care. Then he began to do the work, making himself more available to his priests and having them attend retreats and seek counseling if needed. Wounds and healing became a part of the priests’ vocabulary in Confession.

It was an exciting time in the Portland archdiocese, and I was sad to move away from it, and even more sad to move to a place that lacks transparency, honesty, and humility when it comes to the abuse that has already been reported and actively suppressed. Take a clue from Portland. Confess. Repent. Heal.

It’s Holy Thursday, the day we spend our last moments with Christ before he is abandoned, condemned, and crucified. I will be thinking about the latest reports of abuse in Maryland; I pray the victims, and those affected by association, and the archdiocese can begin to heal. We all take the wounds of this crisis on ourselves, the Body of Christ, battered and bloody. Let it be crucified. And I hope the Archdiocese of Baltimore will rise with Christ and offer healing to its wounded members, as is happening elsewhere in the Church at this moment.

*The Dallas Charter is a comprehensive set of procedures originally established by the USCCB in June 2002 for addressing allegations of sexual abuse of minors by Catholic clergy. Read more about it HERE.

Want to pray for priests? Try This prayer by St. Therese of Lisieux.

Want to listen to a fascinating, heart-breaking, enlightening podcast about the abuse crisis in the Church? Check out some fine research, analylsis, and hope moving forward with the Crisis podcast.

Want to hear the story of a survivor? Check out Faith Hakesley.

St. Thérèse of Liseiux

our meet-cute

By January of 2000, I was nearly 18, a senior in high school, and my trajectory towards the Catholic Church was pretty sure and straight. My exterior life—friends, school, the rapidly approaching future—was suspended in mid-air, like an alternate reality carrying on in a thought bubble, while interiorly I was going through an inexpressible alteration. I was sneaking to daily Mass either before school or in between classes. The weekday stillness of St. Joseph’s, St. James’s, and the Grotto were my sanctuaries in every sense of the word.

One morning as I was heading to daily Mass in my ’85 Honda Accord named Bogie (after Humphrey Bogart who, like my Honda, was old and raspy, but so cool), I turned into the parking lot to see more than the usual seven to ten cars. The lot was overflowing. I rolled down my window to ask a parking attendant what was going on.

“St. Thérèse’s relics are here,” he said. I nodded like I knew what he was talking about, but inside I was reeling from the words “saint” and “relics”, having visions of fingernail clippings and femurs.

Why did I go in to Mass that day, then? I do not know. But I did. And in my pinstripe overalls, no less. Why, when I saw the TV cameras and men in funny hats and sabers, did I not turn around and leave? I do not know. Though the sanctuary was over-full, I squeezed by the anxious families in the foyer, slipped through the glass doors, and took a tiny spot alongside the wall. In the front of the church, at the foot of the altar, was a wooden casement surrounded by what I could only assume was bullet-proof glass. It was all very strange. Compelling, but strange.

The Mass began and I was quickly lost, as this was slightly different from truncated daily Mass. After I fumbled through the Gloria and the Nicene Creed, an older, handsome gentleman in front of me with dark, thinning hair and glasses turned around and said, “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you?” I answered, “No.” With a gentle smile, he said, “My name is Conchi, short for Concepción.” He pulled out a missal, stood beside me, and tried to explain what he could in a whisper. The lady in front of us looked back with a mean glare to hush us at one point, but Conchi ignored her and faithfully coached me through the Mass.

People were starting to file towards the relics. He told me what to do—to kiss my fingers, touch the casement, then make the sign of the Cross. I eyed the TV cameras in the back, hoping I didn’t make it on the news in my pinstripe overalls, then my secret of going to Mass would be out—and not just going to Mass, but doing whatever I was about to do with those relics. I did what Conchi said, mechanically, feeling like an imposter.

It came time for Communion and Conchi asked me if I wanted to go up for a blessing. In all my attendances of daily Mass, I had never gone up for a blessing, but had remained kneeling until it was finished. He told me to cross my arms over my chest, so I did.

I was starting to worry about the time at this point, concerned I’d be late for class since daily Mass usually didn’t take this long. As soon as it was over, I turned to thank Conchi, but he was gone. As I maneuvered my way through the crowd and out of the church, I kept an eye out for him, but I never saw him again.

As I walked by the St. Joseph statue outside, a strange awareness caught me by surprise: I had a sense that there was something over me, like a thin veil covering my face, a substance that I could see through, but that was protecting me somehow, hiding me. I wondered at the time if this was what “grace” felt like, that thing I had read a little about, that thing the early Church Fathers talked about with the Sacraments. Not the vague—though wonderful—grace I had learned about as a Protestant, the over-arching power that Jesus imparts to reach out to us and save us. This was different; it was an actual, tangible something.

The rest of the day passed in a fog; again I felt like I was going through the motions of my daily life: school, friends, play rehearsal, family, while this great secret tectonic shift was happening in the depths of my being.

When I got home late that night, I remembered a little green, musty book I had bought at a garage sale a couple years before, Wisdom of the Saints. I leafed through it and found the last chapter about St. Thérèse of Lisieux, which included an excerpt from Story of A Soul. As I read through this tiny piece of her writing, I was shocked by the amount of Scripture she quoted from memory, as though it flowed out of her heart as purely and freely as her own words. I cannot say what struck me most about St. Thérèse; I don’t remember feeling an immediate kinship with her. I was, however, struck by how she was called to the religious life so young, yet had confidence in God’s loving plan for her.

What I didn’t know at the time was how this little saint would become a companion through my life, a novice-mistress of sorts for my own spiritual life.