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There are wounds that bleed openly. And then there are wounds that hide in plain sight, silenced not by accident, but by design. In my work as a psychotherapist, I’ve spent over a decade sitting quietly with such wounds. They are not theoretical or distant. They have names. Faces. Tears. Trembling silences. Laughter that arrives too quickly. Shoulders always slightly tensed. Men who learned long ago how to survive, but never how to feel safe.
These are the survivors of clerical sexual abuse, boys who placed their trust in Roman Catholic priests and were repaid with violation. Boys who were told they were being guided toward God, when in truth they were being led into a profound and disorienting trauma, not only of body, but of soul. This is not an abstract critique. It is a reflection born of thousands of hours listening to real people, holding their pain, and honoring their long, unfinished journey.
They didn’t arrive at church looking for danger. They came seeking warmth, structure, encouragement, a place to belong. Some came from families in crisis. Others were altar boys raised in devout households. Many were told by their parents, “You can trust Father. He’s a good man. He’ll look after you.” And so they did.
At first, it felt like attention. Then affection. Then privilege. A special bond with the priest. Extra time. Gentle touches on the shoulder. Long conversations. Emotional closeness disguised as spiritual mentorship. The line crossed slowly, almost imperceptibly, until the moment came when there was no mistaking what was happening, and no way out that didn’t cost them everything.
These boys, now men, often describe the moment of realization not with words like assault or rape, but with words like collapse, shame, or disappearance. “It felt like the floor of the world gave out,” “I left my body and never came back,” and “I didn’t know who I was anymore.”
What makes clerical sexual abuse so uniquely damaging is that the predator wears the garments of the sacred. He invokes God, speaks scripture, blesses with one hand while violating with the other. The child is not only abused, he is betrayed by the very symbol of safety, morality, and divine presence.
The confusion that results is not just psychological. It is spiritual. The soul is split.
This story isn’t only about the boys. It is also about the families who placed their trust in the Church, often with full sincerity, even reverence.
Mothers and fathers who wanted their children to grow up strong in the faith, surrounded by upright men. Who saw the priest as counselor, teacher, even a surrogate parent. Who believed that a relationship with the Church was a path toward moral clarity, safety and protection from the world’s dangers. Never did they imagine that the danger might be inside the very sanctuary they cherished.
When the truth surfaced, sometimes decades later, the grief of these families was staggering. Guilt. Rage. Disorientation. And for many, a secondary silence:
“How could we not have seen?”
“What does this say about everything we believed?”
“What do we do now?”
Some parents defended the Church out of fear or denial. Others turned against it with fury. But most simply crumbled. The institution that had given their lives structure and meaning had stolen something sacred from their child. There are no words for that.
It is one thing for harm to occur. It is another thing entirely when those in power choose silence over protection. And silence was the prevailing doctrine for decades. Instead of removing abusive priests, bishops reassigned them. Rather than believing survivors, they doubted them, or paid them to go away. Instead of honoring the Gospel they preached, they closed ranks, buried files, and maintained the illusion of moral superiority. The message to the victims was clear:
“Your pain is less important than our image.”
This institutional betrayal compounds the original trauma. It teaches the survivor that truth will not save them. That justice is not coming. That God, if He exists, must surely be deaf, or worse, complicit.
In clinical terms, this produces complex trauma, a wounding not just of the psyche, but of the very foundation upon which meaning is built. Survivors are left with no solid place to stand, because every source of trust has collapsed beneath them.
What happens to a boy who is abused by someone called “Father”? What happens when that same man leads prayer, distributes communion, blesses families, and speaks of divine love on Sunday morning, while enacting betrayal in secret? The result is not just trauma, but spiritual confusion woven into identity. Many survivors describe a lifelong sense of brokenness: a body they can’t inhabit without shame and sexuality they can’t understand without fear or numbness. A manhood they feel unworthy of and a God they either fear or reject outright
Some became overachievers, always trying to outrun the secret. Others lived small, afraid of taking up space. Still others turned to substances, sex, or compulsive service to keep the pain buried. But no matter how they lived, many carried the same inner echo:
“Something is wrong with me. Not just what happened – it’s me.”
That voice often began the day they were abused, and was reinforced by years of silence. The lack of acknowledgment became a second betrayal: “If it really mattered, someone would have stopped it. Or at least said something.”
But no one did.
Healing from clerical abuse is not linear. There is no quick fix, no tidy closure. What there is, at best, is a sacred and often lonely journey back to selfhood, dignity, and trust. In the therapy room, the process often begins in silence. Not because there is nothing to say, but because the words are still wrapped in shame and disbelief. Over time, with careful attention and reverent listening, the survivor may begin to share the edges of their experience. Sometimes years pass before the whole story is spoken aloud. Even then, speaking isn’t the end. There is grief to face. Anger to allow. Trust to rebuild. Faith, or whatever remains of it, to reimagine.
For some, healing means reclaiming a connection to God — one no longer mediated by corrupt institutions. For others, it means releasing spirituality entirely and focusing on presence, truth, and embodiment. What matters is that the survivor leads, not the system, not the therapist, not a theology. Healing is the process of returning to one’s own authority — the right to say “This happened,” “It was wrong,” and “I am not what was done to me.”
There is a quiet irony here, one that I’ve seen over and over again.
Many of the men I’ve worked with, despite the depth of their injury, have become sources of profound wisdom and spiritual clarity. Not because they were healed by the Church, but because they survived it, and in doing so, uncovered something deeper. They are often men of deep conscience. Men who can hold space for others without judgment. Men who understand the cost of silence, and who now live with a fierce commitment to truth.
In some strange, redemptive way, these survivors have become the leaders the Church failed to be, not in robes or pulpits, but in presence, humility, and unwavering care. They carry a sacredness that was not given to them by any institution, but born through suffering and reclaimed through courage.
If I could say one thing to every survivor of clerical abuse, it would be this: You were never the impure one and never to blame. Nor were you were weak, or dirty, or complicit. The shame was never yours to carry. What was done to you was a desecration, not of your soul, but of trust, love, and the sacred space that should have protected you.
And yet, here you are. Living. Remembering. Reclaiming what was always yours:
This is not easy. It is not quick. But it is real. And it is holy. If you are a survivor, or someone who loves one, know this:
The silence was never holy.
But truth is.
And so is the journey back.
Greg Corbin, LMFT
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