On Holy Thursday, I kneeled with the congregation as the priest and a long procession of altar servers moved the Holy Eucharist from the main tabernacle to the side altar, signaling the beginning of Jesus’ passion and death. I never realized how empty it looked without a ciborium. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread and sadness, as if God were no longer with us.
Pregnancy during Lent adds an extra layer of anticipation for new life and the glorious shouts of “Alleluia.”
I was asked to write a reflection of my experience as a survivor of sexual abuse by clergy. This Lent, just as last year, I read from two diaries; the first was that of St. Faustina and the second was The Diary of Anne Frank.
Since the latter half of 2018, and throughout 2019, I have been taking part in Listening Sessions throughout the diocese, as a member of a panel. The focus of these listening sessions has been the sexual abuse crisis in the Church. These sessions have been nothing less than challenging. Yet in the midst of taking on a topic which has been so profoundly hurtful for so many, somehow as only God makes happen, His presence is felt.
I am writing in response to “Class Dismissed: Rethinking the Catholic School Model.” I want to clarify some of the misleading points made in the column on Catholic elementary school education in the 21st century, and how it exists in the Diocese of Brooklyn.
Being the parent and caregiver to a beautiful daughter with special medical needs made attending Mass challenging over a five-year span. I would go with my sons when I could before dropping them off at CCD.
Increasing enrollment while remaining on solid financial footing is the enigmatic challenge faced by Catholic school leaders across the nation. While many are resolved to the idea that Catholic schools can no longer survive, let alone thrive, the potential still exists to prove otherwise. What to do? Three initial steps would serve to jump start a renewal.
This may seem strange, but I now thank God for the obstacle of my student loans. Without this obstacle, I would’ve probably entered the convent quietly and very few people would know about God’s work in my little life.
So many New Yorkers continue to mourn the state legislature’s enactment of the most permissive abortion policy in the country. I share your grief.
Sitting on the couch of a therapist’s office all those years ago, I never imagined I would be happy with the possibility of having a published list of names that includes my own abuser. In fact, I was adamant that there would never be any form of confrontation or public revelation: this was a private matter.
