I once had the remarkable experience of meeting the Pope. When my husband and I got married, we decided to honeymoon in Rome. There’s a special event for newlyweds from around the world where couples dress in their wedding attire, receive prime seating for a papal audience, and have their marriages blessed. Afterward, the Pope comes over to greet the couples. I remember when Pope Benedict XVI extended his hand, and I kissed his Fisherman’s Ring—the very ring of St. Peter that is remade for each pope. “Where do you hail from, my child?” he asked in his thick German accent. He was far shorter than I had anticipated.
“South Carolina, Your Holiness,” I replied.
He nodded and continued on.
Our family was deeply Catholic. We attended Mass every Sunday, observed every Holy Day of Obligation, and sometimes went on random days, too. I would say the Rosary aloud to help my kids drift off to sleep. When I was in labor with my second son, I called on the saints in Purgatory for support. I felt immense joy when all three of my boys were baptized and held a celebration when my oldest received his First Communion.
Now, with a heavy heart, I find myself saying that I can no longer identify with the Catholic Church. We don’t contribute financially to the Church anymore, and we haven’t attended services since the early summer. It’s unclear whether we will ever go back.
I’ve always been a Catholic with my share of challenges. I have a transgender brother, and I’m proud to say I have never supported the Church’s stance on LGBTQ issues. I advocated against its teachings whenever possible. I had premarital sex and don’t regret it. I even attempted to avoid birth control for a time, but that proved difficult, and an understanding priest granted me a dispensation. If it was so sinful, I wondered, how could I receive a dispensation? That viewpoint quickly faded.
Then the abuse scandal intensified. A close friend of mine was expelled from seminary without cause, and I just couldn’t take it anymore.
We had become lax about attending church. For me, it was anger over our friend; for my husband, it was related to the abuse scandals, though we never discussed it. Then I came across a quote from Bishop Charles Cunningham of New York, who stated in a sworn deposition in 2011 that “at 7-years-old, children know what they’re doing, so it isn’t rape,” which he referred to as the traditional “age of reason.” He also recounted that Bishop Moynihan told him, “The age of reason is 7, so if you’re at least 7 you’re culpable for your actions.” That floored me.
I was reading this in the car on the way to my mother’s house while my almost-9 and almost-7-year-olds sat behind me. “I’m done,” I declared to my husband. “I’m so done.”
“I reached that point when I learned the diocese of New York spent 2 million dollars on a lobbying firm to obstruct child sex abuse law reform,” he replied.
And then there’s the rampant misuse of power everywhere. The Church in Ireland—my goodness, the very people who were meant to protect the vulnerable spent decades burying nearly 800 bodies in a septic tank in Tuam, County Galway. I had driven through that town long before I learned about those accusations, a peaceful place with the remnants of an old monastery. They even filmed The Quiet Man there.
Someone once told me, “If you know an institution is corrupt and actively oppressive, you have a moral obligation to withdraw your support from it.” I wholeheartedly agree with that sentiment.
However, I am Catholic to my core. I can recite the Nicene Creed with conviction, believing in every word, from the Communion of Saints to the resurrection of the body and life everlasting. I still mostly believe in the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, although that belief wavers at times. That’s how they keep you tied to the Church, you see. They claim to have a monopoly on Jesus, making it hard to leave, as if without Him, there’s nowhere else to turn.
But if it is truly Him, why isn’t His representative condemning those who have perpetuated child abuse for years—those who covered it up or ignored it? Our former priest drives a luxury car while homeless individuals beg for change downtown. If that’s not a scandal, I don’t know what is.
Eventually, perhaps you need to step away from what the old patriarchs are telling you. Maybe it’s time to cultivate a faith that isn’t rooted in a fear of hell. Perhaps you can no longer overlook the oppression within an institution that pushed your own brother away, a group that insists on female subservience while men commit unspeakable acts behind closed doors.
But I am still Catholic. If I were on my deathbed, I would call for a priest. If I were experiencing something unexplainable, I would seek a priest because when darkness arrives, everyone knows you need to reach out to Catholics—preferably an old priest and a young priest. I may sound flippant, but I mean it seriously. As the disciples asked, “Where else shall we go, Lord? You have the words of eternal life.”
Except maybe if God were truly present, He would overturn the Church, much like Jesus did with the moneychangers in the temple. Perhaps a God who doesn’t understand why I can’t donate to the Church is not God at all. Maybe my conscience tells me that love is always the answer, and love seeks the truth—not deceitful men who shield the most vulnerable from harm and retreat into their own clericalism.
I’m unsure of what lies ahead. Religion often encompasses more than spiritual belief; it’s the memory of your grandmother guiding you to church, her head bowed in prayer. It’s the veil from your First Communion displayed in your living room, and the Baptismal gowns stored in your attic. Faith is woven into the fabric of who you are. Letting go requires the courage to transform oneself. Do I possess that courage?
I don’t know.
But I also don’t see how I can remain.
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