The Cries of Bartimaeus

Steve Theisen is a burly guy in his fifties with short, gray hair. His e-mail address incorporates the names of his two favorite sports stars–LT and Reggie Jackson. On a cold, Saturday evening in late January 2005, Steve stood outside a Marshalltown, Iowa parish handing out leaflets while officers in two police cars observed. Steve asked the nun who was the Pastoral Associate of the church about the police presence.

“Sister, tell me you didn’t call the cops on me,” Steve said.

“Yes, we did,” replied the Sister.

“Why?” asked Steve.

“For your protection,” said the Sister.

“For my protection? From whom? The people in the pews?” asked Steve.

“No, for their protection,” replied the Sister.

“From whom? Me?” asked Steve.

This incident left Steve “hopping mad.” Steve didn’t have a criminal record, but the parish did. Steve’s leaflets described three abusive priests who had served in the parish. Steve was trying to inform parishioners and encourage abuse survivors to come forward. Although the reaction by the Marshalltown, Iowa parish was extreme, Steve says that when he leaflets parishes to tell about cases of abuse, few Catholics show interest in the issue. Most are indifferent. A few are actively hostile.

Steve currently directs SNAP (Survivors’ Network of those abused by Priests) for the State of Iowa — a volunteer vocation he pursues hoping to draw attention to the pain caused by sexual abuse and the need to care for clergy abuse survivors. Many survivors are too filled with shame and pain to speak for themselves. Steve, himself, was abused by Franciscan nun starting when he was nine.

I met Steve Theisen while attending a SNAP convention in Chicago in June 2005. It was a long and painful journey that brought me to that SNAP convention.

I am a convert to Catholicism, baptized along with my children, at a Catholic Church in Portland, Oregon, in June 2001, by a dynamic and giving Franciscan priest. In May 2002, a man came forward alleging he had been abused by that same Franciscan priest when he was a boy. The Franciscans removed the priest from ministry three days later. His removal caused deep pain and division between parishioners who loved him and those who thought we were lucky to be rid of him. Church leadership allowed parishioners to grieve for six weeks.

Then leadership told parishioners, “We can’t talk about Father; the parish is too divided”.

By November 2002, attendance by English speaking parishioners had declined by at least one quarter.

Devastated by the loss of the priest who had baptized me and frustrated by the lack of information, I sought my own answers on the Internet. I discovered that clergy abuse was much more pervasive and much worse than Church leadership confessed to. I also realized that few survivors had been cared for properly. I realized that clergy sex abuse and cover-up hurt the whole Catholic Church, so I started reaching out to survivors

In August 2004, I met the boy who had accused my Franciscan priest of abuse. He was a 40-year-old man whose struggles with depression and anxiety were so great that he was unable to hold down a steady job.

I tried telling other parishioners about what I learned.

“I don’t go for this gouging the church bit,” said one woman.

“Survivors need to forgive, forget and move on,” said another woman.

“I don’t want to get involved.” the church receptionist told me.”

“Many of the accusations are false.” said a catechist.

“It’s people who won’t let go of issues who are the problem,” said a lector.

“We don’t need to do anything. The bishops have taken care of everything,” said a cantor.

The more my message and I were rejected, the angrier I got.

Frustrated by the lack of support from other Catholics, I sought out people who could understand my pain and anger at the people and the leadership of the Catholic Church — survivors of clergy abuse. I went to the 2005 Chicago SNAP convention.

I met Steve Theisen at that convention; I also met Robert Fuller. When I boarded the airplane to fly home to Oregon from Chicago, I saw a wiry man with long brown hair wearing a baseball cap and a SNAP t-shirt