Every time I learn of a sexual abuse committed against a boy or a girl, I feel something inside me crack. I think about how someone has damaged the most sacred part of a defenseless person, has broken their dignity, and has put at serious risk the development of a personality that is still incipient.
But when that abuse is committed by a consecrated person—a religious, a priest, a shepherd of souls—that feeling goes much further: it shakes my own structures, my deepest convictions as a believer.
Above all, I think about the soul of that boy or that girl who perhaps approached God seeking love, consolation, or meaning, and instead encountered the face of evil. Instead of God’s love, the spirit of the devil. I also think about their parents and put myself in their place: what would I feel if something like this happened to one of my children? It’s a question that has no possible answer without the heart breaking.
And I address God, asking him why he allows this to happen within an institution whose mission is precisely to bring souls closer to Him. Not from rebellion, but from bewilderment and pain.
I also think about the aggressor, and those harsh words of Jesus in the Gospel come to my mind: “If anyone causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better for them to have a large millstone hung around their neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.” And yet, from my faith, I ask the Lord to grant him the grace of true repentance: that he be able to recognize the horror committed, ask for forgiveness, and try, as much as possible, to restore the damage caused.
I cannot stop thinking either about those who, knowing about these facts, hid them or did nothing to prevent or correct them, believing that it was better to cover them up to avoid scandal. I also pray for them, so that they may be aware of their responsibility in the damage inflicted on those innocent and good souls, who now face a future marked by deep and difficult-to-heal wounds.
And finally, I wonder if I am better than them. What can I do to help, to collaborate in cleaning these stains that occur within the Church of Christ. I then remember some words from Saint Josemaría Escrivá that for years I struggled to accept: “We are all capable of committing the greatest errors and the greatest horrors.” And it is true. No one can feel safe if they do not fight, if they do not strive every day to live according to their principles. That is why I also pray for myself and for mine, so that the Lord keeps us faithful to his word.
But prayer is not enough. Prayer is essential, yes, but it must be accompanied by firm and courageous decisions. Religious organizations have the moral and human obligation to adopt all necessary measures to prevent these horrors from happening. And if, unfortunately, they occur again, they must act with speed, transparency, and justice: devote themselves to the care and accompaniment of the victims and their families, put all means to try to heal such a deep wound, and permanently remove from service those who have proven to be a danger to others.
To remain silent, minimize, or look the other way can never be an option. The dignity of a single child demands everything.