An Epidemic of Brokenness

I wrote about "crippled religion," because I needed catharsis. What I discovered instead was an army of kindred spirits.

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I’m overwhelmed. I’m stunned. Frankly, I’m a little exhausted.

When I sat down to write “Against Crippled Religion,” I had fire in my veins. I couldn’t wait anymore to talk about this thing that has been eating me for three years straight, growing more intense with every passing month. I had finally been pushed too far, and I felt as though I could no longer continue to be honest with my audience without sharing some of the seemingly insurmountable brokenness I was experiencing.

But when the moment came, five or six hours after I started typing and several revisions later, I was afraid to hit publish.

“You’re kind of blowing stuff up,” my wife said, a concerned look on her face.

“I know.” I replied. “But I don’t know what to do. I need to get this off my chest. I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been pushed one too many times, and I was already on the edge.”

We talked it over. For the past seven years, I’ve made my living running a Catholic website. There are currently eleven people living in my home — including an elderly parent and my grandchild — all of whom are fed and sheltered by the income it provides. That number will rise to twelve some time in the next few days, when baby number eight finally arrives.

It’s a lot of responsibility.

“Worst case scenario is that everyone just abandons me. Donors all cancel. Gig is up.” I said. “I don’t think it would happen like that — the people who have supported me all this time do so because they like the way I think and write and appreciate my honesty.”

“But some will probably leave,” I conceded.

Nevertheless, the moment had arrived, and it was inevitable. It was years overdue. So I made one last editing pass, and then I pushed the button.

I expected a mixed response. Some would appreciate it, others would excoriate it.

What I got was something else.

In the past 36 hours or so, the post was viewed over 15,000 times. (This little Substack only has 400 or so subscribers.)

Not long after it went live, the messages started coming in. First a trickle, then a flood. Over and over again, people poured their hearts out, in variations of the same themes:

I am so sorry for what you’re going through. I can’t believe your pastor denied your children sacraments. So much of what you’ve written is so close to what I’ve gone through. I feel every word of this. I feel so homeless in the Church. I’m so tired of the abuse.

Just this moment, I happened to glance over at Twitter, sitting open on the left side of my screen. And I saw this:

“Thanks for writing and sharing this… Your story is very much my story. Praying that the Church offers your family and you the justice you deserve.”

Hundreds of comments and private messages. Dozens of emails. I spent over 12 hours yesterday responding to people. I typed until my wrists ached. I was so grateful for every single message of support, and so floored by how deep and wide the path of destruction caused by crippled religion turns out to really be.

It goes largely unseen, because we are admonished not to talk about it, but it is an epidemic of brokenness. Of people trying to get to God while the Church and her ministers throw obstacle after obstacle in their way.

A commenter named Jen wrote:

As you know from comments in various places, there are many of us in the same boat with you. People are hurting. People who are trying to be good, faithful Catholics and raise good, faithful families are being harmed in environments we have been told are the ideal. And we’re invisible, or written off, or feel like we can’t say anything because we all “know” that only “beige” or “marginal” Catholics are falling away. There can’t be a problem on our side. I have no desire to leave Catholicism itself—I know I can’t, even if I wanted to—but I am angry.

This needs to be sorted out, now. I’m just not sure who the people who need to change will actually listen to. Thank you for giving a voice to this struggle. It’s a start. I will pray for you.

Even my pastor, who struggles to engage in helpful, timely communication, found a reason to call my wife yesterday after three days of radio silence. He left her a voicemail. There was no attempt at an apology, but instead that familiar, condescending tone: “I read some of Steve’s most recent post. I think if he really is zealous and solicitous for the sacraments for his kids that he’ll come to meet me.”

There it is again. The sacraments, but only on his terms. The implication that I’m just grandstanding, and not taking things seriously. The air of superiority, because he has what we want, so we’ll do things his way. The sudden interest in our kids receiving the sacraments now, when he was so ready to brush us off last Friday right until “next year.”

Zero humility. It wasn’t, “I’m sorry for the way I handled this and I want to make it right.” You know, like a pastor would say.

It was merely grease for a squeaky wheel, by means of another grab at control.

We live 50 minutes away from the parish. There has never been a need for an in-person meeting over this, whether at our house or his office, when the answer isn’t rocke science: “Oh, great, you want a Baptism and a First Communion? Let’s make it happen! Congratulations!”

I received several offers of help from canon lawyers, who were stunned at the overreach. I told one that while I'd prefer to see Father corrected so he does the right thing for others in the future, at this point I don’t want anything from him. That moment has passed. I’m not having an awkward, begrudging Baptism or first Holy Communion. And I’m not knuckling under so he retains his sense of power. For my own well being, I know I have to walk away from this situation. I can’t imagine going back to that parish, and I doubt we ever will. We’ve heard from some parishioners, and others who have already left, and we’re not alone in our experience or concerns.

(I should have asked you all to pray for him, by the way, but I was too angry at that moment to even think of it. Some of you said you would do so of your own accord. Thank you for that.)

As for the rest of what I wrote, I feel like I opened a wound. A deep, festering wound in the Mystical body of Christ. I didn’t know I was doing that, but suddenly, there it was. All this pain and heartache and sorrow gushing out.

People have shared so many stories with me that there’s no way to relate them all here. Some are too personal. Others are absolutely heart wrenching. A few were hopeful — people who found the courage and strength to stand up for themselves after reading what I wrote, or who shared their happiness at having finally found a parish with a good priest where they feel they belong.

But brokenness remains the dominant theme. The culture of abusive behavior from clergy does, too. The feeling of homelessness, of jumping from one “island of orthodoxy,” as one commenter put it, to another, trying to find home, never feeling like the effort is rewarded with much beyond more betrayal, disappointment, and heartache.

Pretty much everyone is fed up.