Victims of Clergy Abuse Wrestle with Faith, Past

All Things Considered, January 11, 2007 · The sex-abuse scandal that rocked the Catholic Church in January 2002first gained attention in Boston – a city that, for many, is thesymbolic center of American Catholicism. But new victims soon emergedin other parts of the country. Now, five years later, many of thesepeople are still speaking out.

Finding Strength in Coming Forward

"Ibattled the largest institution in the world," says Christy Miller, afiery red-headed mother of two in Cincinnati, Ohio. "And I'm OK. Isurvived. I'm better and I'm stronger."

Isat down with Miller in the kitchen of her home in an upscale suburb ofCincinnati. She showed me handwritten letters from the priest whoabused her when she was in high school in the 1980s. She taped thenotes onto yellow poster board that she's used in press conferences andcourtrooms. Some of the earlier letters are addressed to "Christy,Student," signed from "Father Tom, Teacher."

Later,as the abuse became physical, the language changed. Miller points outnotes signed "Love, Father Tom," or just "Love, Tom." Miller didn'tcome to terms with her abuse until she was married with children. Shedidn't go public until she saw things unravel in Boston.

"Atthat point, I began to feel knowledge is power," she says. "When Ifirst started dealing with this, I read everything I could get my handson. Everything. I read every book, every news article; I would searchthe Web for hours and hours."

In 2003,she sued the archdiocese of Cincinnati and started a support group.Miller was part of a case that went all the way to the Ohio SupremeCourt, but was dismissed because the statute of limitations hadexpired. Miller then led an effort to change the law and suspend thestatute, but that failed, too.

Thewhole thing was tough on her family. Her daughters had to leaveCatholic school because of pressure from other kids and their parents.Despite all this, Miller says she has never looked back. She is nolonger a victim, but a survivor.

"Imay not have won, but I was brave enough," she says. "I had the courageto say, 'What you're doing is wrong, and I'm not going to let you getaway with it anymore.'"

Tethered to Memories of Abuse

Manyof the victims I spoke with echo this same kind of defiance. But forothers, the last five years have opened more wounds then they've healed.

ChrisLuthy, 33, is a husband and a father, a recovering drug addict and avictim of clergy sexual abuse. Just a few months ago, he tried to killhimself.

"I think where I'm at rightnow is a very scary place," he says anxiously. "And it's not easy.Every day, that abuse just knocks on your door and says, 'How you doingnow?' Because you're a really miserable person."

It'sthe middle of the day, and Luthy is at home in his sparsely furnishedapartment just outside Cincinnati. He's in jeans and sneakers, his saltand pepper hair spiked up in a stylishly haphazard kind of way. Luthypicks up a picture of his son, Matthew, off a shelf.

"He's my most perfect thing I've ever done in my life," he says as he runs his finger over the frame.

And while his son helps him look to the future, Luthy remains tethered to memories of the abuse and his abuser.

"We'dsit down at the table to eat dinner for Thanksgiving, and under thetable, he'd have his hands probing around your pants and trying to getinto your pants," he recalls. "Till this day, I wonder if that's why Idon't like holidays."

Luthy was partof the same lawsuit Christy Miller filed. But instead of beingempowered, Luther ended up feeling victimized all over again. He hasbeen in and out of therapy for alcohol and drug abuse for more than adecade. He has refused to go to group counseling for the sexual abuse.But on a recent night last month, he took a big step: He sat down withother victims for the first time, at a monthly support meeting forvictims led by Christy Miller and Dan Frondorf.

Reaching Out to Fellow Victims

Greenwall-to-wall carpet covers the floors, and artificial plants decoratethe coffee table. Group members sit in a circle on floral patternedsofas and chairs. It feels like a stage set or the fake living room ona TV talk show, but the people sitting here and the stories they tellare very real. Miller welcomes the group. Frondorf asks everyone tointroduce themselves.

There are abouta dozen or so people present. While each one shares his or her story ofhow they were abused, the others listen intently, some with their eyesclosed, some with their arms crossed. It's emotional, and sometimesgroup members have to leave the room to compose themselves.

Itis clear from listening to their stories that to this day, theystruggle with a lot of issues, including their relationship with theCatholic Church. Some still call themselves Catholic but won't set footin a church.

Chris Luthy explains to the group how he's left organized religion altogether.

"Ihope that I can deal with it the way I need to, for my child's sake,"he says. "My baby was just baptized into the Catholic Church. I wasn'tthere."

Mending Broken Faith

Inthis group, Michael Vanderburgh is the exception. He's actually foundhis faith in God and church reinvigorated. Dressed in a tie-dyedT-shirt, Vanderburgh leans forward in his chair when it's his turn totalk.

"The cycle of abuse is aterrible thing," he says. "You know, we're the privileged ones that canbreak that cycle. And I think there are certain responsibilities thatgo along with that, and we don't just walk away."

Vanderburghsits on the lay committee on clergy abuse for the Archdiocese ofCincinnati, and he attends these meetings to try to build bridgesbetween the church and survivors.

But his words are unsettling for many at the talk sessions.

ChrisWard is with a national group of Catholics called Voice of theFaithful. She tells Vanderburgh that changes approved by the U.S.Bishops in 2002 ' such as stricter clergy background checks, a nationalaudit system and a pledge for more transparency ' are hollow promises.

"Five years into this, nothing has changed ' except pieces of paper that don't mean anything," she says.

Vanderburghexpects to hear this kind of frustration. But he made a decision a fewyears ago: The priest who abused him may have taken his innocence, buthe wouldn't take his faith.

"It comesback to this idea that this is our church, and it's our responsibilityto yell and scream, and to do whatever we have to do, to protectourselves and our families and our communities," he tells the group.

Victims Continue to Come Forward

Accordingto SNAP, the Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests, there are acouple thousand abuse lawsuits pending against the Catholic Church.Attorneys I spoke with who specialize in these cases say they get callsfrom new victims every week. Some seek solace through the courts;others, like Vanderburgh, find it in the church.

Butno matter who the victim is, or how much they've healed in the pastfive years, they all say that there are days when it feels like onestep forward, two steps back. People like Chris Luthy are just tryingto keep moving.

"It's a rollercoaster, and you can only handle 24 hours at a time," he says. "Andthen you have to hang up your coat and say, 'OK, I did my best today.Tomorrow is another day.' You shed your skin so you're new again. Ithink that's a baptism of sorts."

Theroad to that kind of rebirth is still a long one for Luthy and othervictims. But he says at least now, he knows he's not alone.

NPR's Evie Stone produced this report for broadcast.