A Wise Lesson and Five Reminders for a Hurting Young Church

To a Young Church that is Hurting:

            I am amazed at how many things feel as if they just happened only yesterday; maybe that’s a part of growing into adulthood. With all that has happened lately, I’ve been thinking about a lesson that my father taught me over the course of my life thus far—not necessarily through his words, but more through his actions. So many of these moments feel as if they just happened yesterday.

The overarching lesson: Jesus is bigger than it all.

            It was September of 2001. I sat in my third grade classroom as tragedy struck the nation with terrorists wielding airplanes as weapons. My third grade teacher turned on the television set that hung upon the wall, not knowing what images would appear, just as the second plane hit. We didn’t know what to do—so we prayed. And when I got home, just like every night, Dad and I knelt down to pray. We prayed the rosary, something we so often prayed together. He taught me to not be afraid, because Jesus was bigger than the bad men who had crashed the planes.

            It was the Lenten season of every year—which meant that we went to church not only on Sunday morning, but on Wednesday and Friday evenings, as well. On Wednesdays, we prayed the rosary before Mass, and on Fridays, the Stations of the Cross. I hated going. The church was old and stuffy, and full of ladybugs, which smelled horribly when you crushed them. The priest talked really fast. I was the only person who couldn’t get a senior citizen discount at the McDonald’s filling a seat. But, we were there—no matter how much I didn’t want to be—because Jesus was bigger than any of my complaining or alleged discomfort.

            It was the day after my big brother took his own life. Dad had to tell me. I’ve written about it before other places, so I won’t recount the whole story. After he told me, I went to my room and lost control, screaming and crying in disbelief, unable to wrap my mind around it. He sat in the hallway, crying. It was the first time I think I ever saw him cry. When I went out into the hall, he held me, and despite my lack of understanding—despite the rage I felt toward God—he made sure that we prayed. And we prayed, and we prayed some more. We did it, because Jesus was bigger than the anguish our hearts were feeling—because Jesus was the only one who was going to get us through.

            It was cancer—again. Dad found cancer for the second time, and this time around, it had spread quite a bit. The surgery was aggressive, and a lot for his aging body, worn tired by years of hard labor and raising eight children, to handle. He lay in his hospital bed coming in and out of consciousness, crying out in pain the moments he was awake. We were the only two in the room at the time. I looked at my hero in that hospital bed, in total disbelief. He came into consciousness and asked me to get his rosary for him. I went to the bag of things we brought from home, hoping that we had remembered to pack it. I found it, took it out of its case, and handed it to him. He calmed down a little, ran his hands across the beads, and stopped when he reached the small, golden crucifix on the end. He clutched it in his hand, and looked at me, saying, “If he can do that for me, I can do this for Him.” Jesus was bigger than his pain—Jesus was bigger than his cancer. He helped me to cling to my faith.

            And jumbled somewhere in there was 2002. I’ll be perfectly honest, I was too young, like many of you were, to remember that much about what happened. I was too young to have even heard of the Boston Globe and how the story broke there, and sent off a wave of victims coming forward, both across the nation and across the world. I remember watching the news with dad in the evening, just like we always did, and seeing all of those priests on the screen—priests who had been accused of doing some very bad things, although I didn’t really know or understand what those bad things were. Then, the next Sunday, after hearing all these bad things, we went to church. We went to mass. We prayed. We did it because Jesus was bigger than the actions of some priests who did some very bad things—we did it because Jesus was bigger than the corruption—whatever that word was supposed to mean to my nine-year-old mind.

We, the young Church—and by that, I mean young adults—are a generation that truly did grow up in the wake of what we now, sadly, have to call the first abuse crisis in the American Catholic Church. Many others our age are no longer in the Church at all—some were taken away by their parents who left in midst of the crisis coming to the fore, or they themselves have later learned about what was going on, and have chosen to leave on their own. We are a generation that has found it difficult, and has been honest about finding it difficult, to give ‘holy mother Church’ the trust that she so often expects. And yet, so many of us are still here. We haven’t left. We read the news of things that disappoint us—we learn of teachings that we internally struggle with—and every Sunday, there we are, in a pew. I believe it’s because we believe, deep down in our hearts, that lesson my dad has spent the last twenty-five years teaching me: that Jesus is bigger—and more important—than anything that comes up which would cause us grief, or anxiety, or worries, or pain, or doubts. And we know that while there are a myriad of ways to encounter Jesus, it is only in our home, the Church, where we can encounter and receive His very Person in the Holy Eucharist. And so, we’ve stayed. We’ve persevered.

            At this moment, though, we are a generation that is in pain. I saw one tweet, although I can’t recall from who, that called this a “summer of shame” for the American Church. We are standing at the beginning of what appears to be a second wave of the abuse crisis; a wave that I pray is not to the same extent as the last. We’ve read stories about the prominent American Cardinal—the man who rose through the ranks and took others along with him—who has allegedly abused, of all people, seminarians. This was particularly difficult for me, as one who is in the seminary—as one who is so often told to fully trust the men in charge of my formation. We’ve read stories about how this cardinal was heroically leading the charge in the creation of the Dallas Charter, the document drafted by the bishops after the break of the 2002 scandal, meant to protect our young people—and how he, an alleged predator, changed the document to address issues only regarding priests and deacons, leaving out bishops, and seemingly making an attempt at building in protection for himself. We’ve seen men whom  he has helped to get to where they are make some…attempts…to seem shocked by it all on camera, and unconvincingly say that they had no clue what was happening. We’ve read stories of people that did know it was happening—of people knowing and having proof that it was happening—and saying something, and nothing being done about it; a reality that apparently, and sadly, still exists in some parts of the Church even to today. And, the latest thing thrown into the mix seems to be seminaries, with a seminary in Baltimore having its rector placed on leave and an investigation launched. And now, a couple days after I first wrote this—that gut wrenching report from Pennsylvania. I couldn’t get very far into it. I literally wept. 

            I am writing this because I know that the young Church in America is hurting. I know it, in part, because I’m part of the young Church, and I’m hurting. But, I know it, too, because I cannot even begin to count the number of conversations I’ve had in the last few weeks—with young single people, young seminarians, young married couples, older people who see younger people struggling, and so many others. We’re hurt by the fact that the abuse is more widespread than we thought. We are hurt that the Church whom we love so dearly could be filled with so much corruption. We’re hurt by the deafening silence surrounding it—almost as if you can hear a pin drop in the room of the American Church. We’re hurt by the reality of evil—evil that is so evidently alive and well. I’ve heard stories of young men who feel the Lord may be calling them to the priesthood, but are walking away, for now, from the task of discernment. I know people who have fallen in love with Christ and His Church and desire to become Catholic, but are now scandalized and don’t seem too interested at the moment. I know people who are leaving. It’s really hard to feel like you stand in a credible place to tell them not to, especially as a young cleric.

            And so, this isn’t an angry letter. Instead, it’s something that I hope will offer…hope. I think reminders can always be helpful, especially in times of turmoil, and so that’s what I now present—some reminders—reminders for myself—reminders for young people—reminders for a young Church that is hurting and confused.

The first reminder: evil is real.

            It’s so easy for us to pretend that evil is just something we learn about in a religion class—or that it’s only an interesting aspect added in to the movies we watched as children. Evil is something that fascinates us, made so evident by the movies coming out these days, and yet, we like to tell ourselves that is just make-believe. Well, friends, evil is real—very real—and so is the evil one. He has spent every single moment since his own fall trying to tear you and I away from a God who loves us more than any words written here could even begin to describe. Sometimes, we notice it, or we feel it. But often times, it can be hard for us to believe in it, because it can be hard to point out—but now, I believe we’re in a time when we can so clearly see the evil one at work.

A second, related reminder: evil isn’t overcome by bitching.

            Excuse my language—but seriously, guys. We’re a generation, and I include myself in that, that likes to complain a lot. We bitch about everything, especially if it’s a very minor inconvenience. And now, we’re bitching about this. Granted, this is something serious that rightly brings up feelings of anguish and confusion, and makes us want to complain. But the thing is, guys, if all we do is sit around and complain, nothing is going to change. While it’s good to enter into dialogue with our bishops about how we feel and how this is impacting us as young people, it’s even more important to do the most powerful thing we can do—pray and fast.

            In the ninth chapter of Mark’s Gospel, there is a boy possessed by a demon. After Jesus casts the demon out, the disciples ask why they were unable to do so. Jesus simply replies, “This kind can only come out through prayer.” (Mark 9:29, NAB) This is a pill that can be hard for us to swallow. It can be challenging, because our culture, especially with all the violence in our world at the moment, tells us that prayer is useless. And what’s most triggering to me—prayer can be offensive, so we can “send good vibes instead.” I won’t say what I’ll call this, but it’s a compound word—the first part is “bull” and the second part rhymes with “bit.” Anyhow, our culture is one that is constantly downplaying the power of prayer—but I believe that all of us have experienced—either first hand or have seen in another—the true power of prayer. If we haven’t, this could be the opportunity. And what’s even better is we can make sacrifices and fast, as well. This demon of abuse and corruption in the Church, I’m convinced, is like that which possessed the boy in Mark’s Gospel—it will only come out through prayer—and a quick half-assed prayer before lunch or before bed isn’t going to do it, guys. We need to pray intentionally—for the Church, for the victims of abuse, and for our bishops. Pray knowing that you may not get an answer that you’ll be able to see or comprehend. Pray because you love Christ—and because you love Him, you love His Bride, the Church.

A third reminder: seminary formation is different now than it was then.

            There’s been so much speculation as to why the abuse happened. People are very quick to blame celibacy, although if you read any of the studies done, you’ll see that a celibate is actually quite a bit less likely to abuse someone than a non-celibate. Some, even some bishops, are playing the "gay card" and saying its all those who are allegedly gay in the clergy causing the issues—but I think that’s just a cop-out and an easy target to point at. There’s no way that’s the only reason. I think a large issue, though, is the fact that really until the abuse crisis of 2002, celibacy formation in seminaries was almost non-existent. While celibacy isn’t the cause of abuse, part of celibacy formation is coming to a deeper understanding of who you are, what your sexuality is, what you struggle with, how to integrate all of it, how to live a healthy celibate life, exploring your motivations for choosing to embrace celibacy, etc. A lot of the abusers, the Cardinal included, were formed in a time when that stuff was still too “dirty” to talk about. They were formed in a time when, at least I’ve heard, that anything having to do with sexuality was to be pushed down and not discussed. Well, we know that didn’t work. Now, seminaries are working hard to form men for celibacy—to help them realize that it is something they are called to, not just part of the job of being a Catholic cleric.  Seminaries are also getting better at removing the stigma surrounding seeing a counselor or therapist—my seminary even brags that over the course of a formation year, well over eighty percent of the seminarians will see a counselor at least once. As I was told by a very wise priest when I was starting seminary: you need to come out of seminary being able to love the people with all you’ve got, you’ve got eight years to deal with, or start dealing with, your crap—so do it!

            Of course, I can only speak from my experience at my seminary, and credibility seems to fade given that there’s now a seminary in the news. But, from my experience, that seminary is in a very small minority. The overwhelming majority of seminaries are working hard to ensure that men are well-formed, and are doing all they can to prevent bad things like this from happening again. No seminary will ever be perfect, but seeing the hard work of the formation staff gives this seminarian consolation in the midst of the turmoil the Church is going through.

            Something that has consistently bothered me, as I think is evident, is the presence of silence. Silence can be a good thing—it can clear our minds, it can help us connect with God. But in cases such as these, silence is the worst thing possible. I can only speak for myself and the men that I know, but we will not be silent. If something is wrong, I’m going to call it out—I don’t care about fears of getting in trouble—I don’t care who did it, even if it is one of my closest friends. Silence when it comes to sin is like leaving a wound untreated and rolling around in garbage—it’s only going to get worse. If you see something, don’t be silent. If you feel like you’re being ignored, go higher. If you still aren’t listened to, be persistent.

The fourth reminder: don’t run out of the burning building.

            A friend of mine sent a video of a homily to me, where the priest was talking about the very crisis we are now in the midst of. In that homily, the priest spoke of his own time in seminary, during the abuse crisis of 2002, and how an older priest visiting their seminary for several months on a sabbatical described the Church as a building on fire, and how he was encouraged in his old age that the young men in the seminary were willing to run into, and stay in, that burning building for the sake of the people inside.

            Another friend of mine who is in the seminary recently told me: If I wasn’t convinced in the presence of Jesus Christ in the Eucharist, and didn’t know so well that our people need someone who is going to authentically love them, I’d be out in a heartbeat. I think he hit the nail on the head. Where we are right now is challenging. It’s got everyone, including us in the seminary, having heads full of anguish and doubts. But we’re staying. We’re staying because we know that the Church is the Bride of Christ, that Jesus really is among us in the Eucharist, and because we love you. I recently ended my parish assignment, and at the end of one of the Masses I told the people how I’ve come to love them, and a lady came up to me shocked: “I’ve never heard someone in the clergy say they love me. I didn’t know they did.” Guys, that’s so sad. We in the seminary are genuinely excited about getting to spend our lives serving you—we love you—we want to lead you closer to Christ. We’re going to stay, but although it’s hard, we need you to stay, as well.

            We need you to stay because you are the Church. We need you to stay because you’re the ones who are going to call us out when we need it, and help us to see when we’re failing at loving you. We need you to stay because you are going to help us make the Church the most beautiful Bride for Christ that we can. We need you to stay to help us help the others in the burning building of the Church. 

The final reminder: what my dad has said for so long.

            Jesus is bigger. Jesus is bigger than the sins of men. Jesus is bigger than the corruption of the hierarchy. Jesus is bigger than the anguish that we are undergoing. Jesus is the reason that we stay in that burning building. Jesus is the reason that we keep going to Mass. Jesus is the reason that we pray, and fast, and make sacrifices for the Church. Jesus is the reason people have persevered for over two thousand years. Corruption and sin in the Church is nothing new—but anytime it rears its ugly face, we must remind ourselves that Jesus is bigger—that He keeps His promises, and that He promised that the gates of hell would not prevail against us. The Church has survived a lot—a lot of bad things—a lot of things we don’t know about that very well may be worse than this. She’ll stand strong—we’ll stand strong. We’ll get through this. At the end of the day, if all we have is our Eucharistic King, the Kingdom stands strong.

Maybe it all sounds too corny. But I’m convinced it’s real. I’ve found that when things don’t make sense, Jesus is the only thing—the only one—that does. 

This has been longer than I initially intended. In a way, it was a means for me to remind myself of these things, and to get some thoughts out of me. If it can help other young Catholics though, that’s great. We stand in difficult times that shouldn’t by any means be downplayed. But I deeply believe what my dad has taught me—that Jesus is bigger—and that at the end of the day, He will win and He will reign, and that He will always desire my home to be in the Church He created. As broken as she may be, she was still chosen to be His bride, and is where He chooses to dwell among us. May everything we do be only for His glory. Hold on to hope. Hold on to Christ.