Mois : juin 2023

Here is the answer to those critics who accuse Francis of trying to align the church with the spirit of the age. The age to which the pope calls the church to conform is the apostolic age: We are to become a people who, like the apostles, have seen the face of God and have been changed utterly from that encounter.

The second section of the book delves into Francis’ encyclical Fratelli tutti. The authors jump into the deep end because, it turns out, there is no shallow end to that document, nor to the insights it yields. They note that the text « discerns the good that today bears as a promise of change and openness to the dynamism of grace (chs. 5-7). » 

Here we see an echo of something I mentioned in Part I of this review, namely, that when Pope Paul VI came to acknowledge the ambivalence of the concept « signs of the times, » his Magisterium « sought to clarify the category, so that it would not be reduced to a mere recording of ‘facts,’ but that in it one would perceive that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work. » We Catholics look to the « signs of the times » for signs of grace, our eyes are informed by theology not just sociology, our discernment moves along lines charted by the gospels. Again, this is no mere capitulation to the spirit of the age but it also stands apart from the dominant deconstructionist approach in the humanities, including theology, today, at least in America.

We see again how the pope’s vision in Fratelli tutti challenges, but does not conform, to the age in the chapter titled « Generating an Open World: Discerning and Judging. » For example, they observe, « Love implies something more than a series of beneficial actions (FT 94) in that it leads to ‘being good’ and not only to ‘doing good things’ (FT 95). Love encourages us to overcome utilitarian morality, in which the pursuit of the good refers primarily to oneself and not to the other. Love, on the contrary, keeps moral action gratuitous and from prioritizing one’s own private interest (FT 102). » 

Later, in that same chapter, the authors highlight one of Francis’ most interesting magisterial tics, his tendency to « bring opposing terms together, terms with ‘an innate tension’ between them (FT 142). » This tension is applied to the relationship of the global to local: « Turning our gaze to the global is indispensable if we do not want to remain confined to our own backyard, putting up fences that end up trapping us, » they write. « Vice versa, the global must not engulf what is proper to local realities, namely, domestic and family life in which all experiences of subsidiarity actually take place. »

The seventh chapter, « Building a Better and More Open World, » is faithful to the hopeful vision of Francis, which is, in turn, faithful to the hopeful vision of Gaudium et Spes. « How good it would be to establish an international body governed by law and empowered to sanction those who use economic means to establish hidden forms of neo-colonialism, » Czerny and Barone write. And, later in the chapter, we find this: « As far as war is concerned, it is a mirage to think it could be a valid response to the onset of conflict. » 

With my historian’s eye, I see more of the shadow of the cross hanging over the political landscape. Concupiscence infiltrates the mind, flaming not only sexual desire, but the desire for fame or glory, which twinkles at least a little bit in most human eyes. The suffering in Ukraine reminds us that we chart our moral paths in this vale of tears we call history.

Now, I want my popes and councils and theologians urging our political life to seek the better angels of human nature. No one wants a bellicose pope! And we need the teaching of the church to balance the burden of history. Here is an area of Catholic social teaching where I make my own the prayer of the father whose son was possessed by a demon to Jesus for healing: « Lord, I believe; Help me with my unbelief » (Mk 9:23-23).

The last chapter deals with Francis’ vision of the Catholic Church, and all religions, putting themselves at the service of a universal call to all persons to see ourselves as siblings. For regular readers of this column, which so often attends to the estuary where political and religion intermingle, this section will bristle with provocations and insights. The authors again set forth the issues with boldness and, like the pope, they do not try to resolve every tension but seek to make those tensions fruitful rather than fraught.

So, when discussing the path of dialogue in the light of Nostra Aetate, the Second Vatican Council’s « Declaration on the Relation of the Church to Non-Christian Religions, » they write:

… Christian self-awareness is called to hold together, in a dynamic tension, these two constitutive elements of its identity. On the one hand, the certitude that in Jesus is given the full and definitive revelation of God, and so he is the « one mediator between God and men. » (1 Tim 2:5) On the other hand, the certitude that God wants all humans to be saved (1 Tim 2:4) and for this reason makes himself present to them in myriad ways (LG 16; GS 22), not only to individuals who implicitly and subjectively respond to the promptings of grace, but — as John Paul II would late insist in Redemptoris Missio — to entire peoples, cultures, and religious traditions (RM 28).

In my experience, this dynamic tension is generative, and the most profound preachers — people like the late Msgr. Lorenzo Albacete or Archbishop Augustine DiNoia, people capable of breaking open the Gospel anew, like words freshly spoken — are also those who are the least threatened by, and most capable of, interreligious dialogue and dialogue with the secular world.

There is much else in these chapters to which I could call attention. The section dealing with the tension between the public and the private in Chapter 6 is excellent, as is their treatment of religious liberty and interreligious dialogue in Chapter 8. But you should buy the book and read it for yourself to explore these and other important themes. It is really, really good.

I do wish to highlight something I mentioned above and in part one on Wednesday, however. This idea that we attend to the signs of the times with the eyes of faith, seeking « that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work, » in Paul VI’s words, leads to an explicit critique of deconstructionism, that approach to the analysis of texts and history that focuses exclusively on power and its relations and, in its various forms of critical theory, seeks evidence of oppression, not grace. « A kind of ‘deconstructionism’ (FT 13) is underway that aims to dissolve historical awareness and undermine the shared memory of past events, » the authors note in Chapter 4.

Earlier, in that same chapter, in discussing the « facile » objections to Francis’ proposal that we all come to recognize each other as siblings, Czerny and Barone observe that one « possible reservation » with the proposal is « the defense of one’s own identity. This objection shuts down dialogue and encounter with those who are different or far away. In this case, the problem is not the attempt, as such, to safeguard one’s own cultural heritage, but rather yielding to the temptation of imposing one’s own worldview on others. … Pope Francis has no qualms about stigmatizing such attitudes as ‘ideologies of different colors, which destroy (or deconstruct) all that is different (FT 13).’  » 

In America today, where we are drowning in identity, these words ring true. The profound theological and philosophic issues that undergird these observations quickly get above my paygrade, but I can smell a mile away that they are onto something very important. Is it time to ask whether or not deconstructionism has proven to be a cul-de-sac? A dead end? 

Fifteen months ago, at an ecclesial gathering of bishops, theologians and other church leaders at Loyola University, one of the bishops said he thought a foundational issue is that « we live in a culture of grievance but we possess a theology of grace and gratitude. » Since that time, those words have haunted me as profoundly true and profoundly challenging. 

Here, in this new volume, I see the kind of focus that can build some bridges out of the socio-cultural impasse to which the bishop referred. It is a significant contribution, one of many in a book chock-full of important theological contributions. It should be widely read and deeply engaged. Cardinal Czerny and Fr. Barone have done something wonderful. This book is, itself, evidence of « that abundant ‘more’ that signals God is at work. »

Within four hours, police came and read us « the riot act » in Spanish and English, demanding that « we disperse as so ordered » and accusing us of starting a riot. Then we were arrested for breaking an unjust law stipulating that no person could stand next to another person to form a picket line. 

I was relieved to be arrested (able to sit down in a bus!). There were 53 of us — 34 Chicano women, three laywomen from Protestant churches, and 16 sisters. We were taken to the Fresno County Industrial Farm. Our unexpected arrival meant previous occupants were moved quickly, leaving a mess in restrooms and the single dormitory. 

Dorothy Day was with us and gave us sisters « Jail 101, » encouraging us to clean up the prison, decorate it with whatever we had in our purses, (e.g. dental floss holding brown paper towels with words like, « Hope, Healing, Peace » written in lipstick and hanging from the light fixtures). Bunk beds with no privacy lined both sides of our new « home » and the heat was melting us into oblivion.

Our brief weekend turned into two weeks, with two rides to the courthouse to be released, only to have the bus turn around and bring us back to an uncertain future. We were finally released on the third trip at midnight, on the morning of Aug. 15, 1973.

This experience taught me how vulnerable our Hispanic sisters and brothers are, how corrupt our « judicial system. » I knew in theory, but found the practice totally disregarded the law. 

What impressed me most was the racism that our Chicano sisters and brothers live with: their insecurity as migrant workers, their fears for their families, their livelihood, and their deep faith in Our Lady of Guadalupe.

Almost immediately we decided to take turns praying through the night. Our « altar » was a central picnic table, with a copy of the bible in Spanish and English, and a small « holy card » of Our Lady of Guadalupe, which someone had « framed » in a shiny silver gum wrapper. Hour by hour, two people would pray in silence during the long hot nights of our two-week vigil. I still remember the strength of « presence » as we sat in silence, sometimes watching tears stream down my Chicana partner’s cheeks as she worried about her husband, (many spouses were also in prison supporting the UFW) her children, no income, threats to their homes and loved ones. Their wisdom and strength left a deep respect in my heart.

A week after we arrived, we were told that we could meet with a lawyer who would help us get out on « our own recognizance. » To avoid the monotony of the endless days and nights — even though none of us wished to get out on our own recognizance — most of the sisters agreed to meet privately with the lawyer. 

A well-spoken man, dressed in suit and tie, invited each of us to meet with him, asking what we later found out was a bogus set of questions: « Do you live alone or in community? » « Are you gainfully employed or working for a group? » We learned later that each question had a number of points attached to it: if you lived alone you got five points, but if you lived in community, (i.e. hippies!) you got only one point. If you worked for the church rather than for a corporation, you got fewer points. None were deemed worthy of being let out of prison on our own recognizance. 

Another example of surprise was food. One afternoon after lunch, one of our members discovered empty cans of dog food in the dumpster. No wonder that « rice and beans » had a different taste!

On our second trip to the courthouse, I was riding in the bus next to Dorothy Day. To make conversation, I was asking folks what their favorite scripture quote was. I’ll never forget Dorothy’s response: in her brusque manner she almost shouted out, « Is there any other? Nothing is impossible with God » (Luke 1:37)!

One day, when I felt overwhelmed and discouraged, my mother called with what she said was good news: « I’ve talked to the sheriff and he’s a good Irish Catholic, and he will release you. » My phone time was up, and I thanked her and ended the call. Another call that dreadful day was from my leadership, telling me how wrong I had been to get arrested, knowing I was missing giving some retreats. I went outside for our 15 minutes of daily exercise, lay down on the grass behind the prison curled in the fetal position, asked Mother Earth to hold me, and cried into the dry grass. Even now as I write this, I feel the energy of that embrace. It sustained me then and continues to do so.

When I got home my dear friend, our provincial leader, told me she had marched with Cesar during the Leadership Conference of Women Religious meeting in Washington, D.C. My mother insisted on taking me to a small cannery near my home where she proudly introduced me to some of the migrants working there. 

In the months and years that have followed those memorable two weeks with the United Farm Workers, my naivete regarding our political system has had a reality check. People of color throughout this country face such inequities and still they move forward, raising their families, contributing to their neighborhoods and churches, building community that strengthens the fabric of this country, waiting for folks like me to recognize our racism and help change unjust systems. 

As a Nun on the Bus, I met a Latino realtor who said that so many immigrants were afraid of deportation that they rarely bought their own homes, though they have the savings for a down payment. « However, » he said, « If the United States were ever to have a comprehensive immigration law that remained stable, we would have a housing boom in this country unlike anything we’ve seen before. »

Fifty years later, I believe the embrace of Mother Earth, as I anguished with the United Farm Workers under the banner of Our Lady of Guadalupe, was my « Si, Se Puede » moment. It energized me to shout with Dorothy Day, « Nothing is impossible with God! »

My dear father, #DanielEllsberg, died this morning June 16 at 1:24 a.m., four months after his diagnosis with pancreatic cancer. His family surrounded him as he took his last breath. He had no pain and died peacefully at home. https://t.co/x5qm73LW3c pic.twitter.com/GTBqgAADYj

— @RobertEllsberg (@RobertEllsberg) June 16, 2023

Dan’s death at age 92 has made headlines around the world, not only because of the Pentagon Papers and the lies he exposed about the horrific Vietnam War, but because his daring act led to the Supreme Court’s 1971 decision to uphold freedom of the press, and then further revelations of Nixon’s other crimes and, ultimately, his resignation. 

But for many of us who labor for peace and disarmament, it’s the 50 years of peace activism that followed the release of the Pentagon Papers that has been so inspiring. I knew Dan personally for more than 35 years, and I can attest that he never once let up his passionate writing, speaking and demonstrating for an end to war and nuclear weapons. He was one of the most passionate antiwar truth-tellers not just in U.S. history, but in all of history.

A week before Martin Luther King Jr. was killed, he announced his definition of hope as « the final refusal to give up. » In that spirit, Dan Ellsberg was one of the most hopeful, persistent peacemakers in the world.

Dan would be the first to acknowledge the influence of the growing antiwar movement for his decision to release the 7,000 pages outlining the history of U.S. warmaking in Vietnam. It was Randy Kehler’s speech at the 1969 War Resisters League conference that turned Dan around.

Randy announced to the small crowd that he was about to head off to prison for refusing to be drafted. After hearing his speech, Dan went to the nearest men’s room, sat down on the floor and sobbed uncontrollably for an hour. If this young man could go to prison to stop this war, he asked himself, what am I going to do?

He knew that he faced life imprisonment, and might even be killed for releasing the papers, but the steadfast resistance of young people like Kehler inspired him to risk his own career and life. 

There’s an important lesson here: We may never know the outcome of our public work for peace and how it might touch others in unexpected ways, but we can trust the God of peace, resist war, speak the truth, and do what’s right simply because it’s right and true. We can know that, despite the odds, the God of peace can use us to build a tidal wave of opposition that can stop a war and change the world.

I saw Dan many times over the decades and was arrested with him at various antinuclear protests. Last year, while visiting him and his family for a day in Berkeley, I reminded him of a moment that has stayed with me.

It was 1995 and Dan and I were holding a press conference to network news reporters on the steps of the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C. That afternoon, we had met with the head of the Smithsonian Museum and officials from the Air and Space Museum. We asked them to change the script that was about to be unveiled at the new display of the Enola Gay, the bomber that had dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima 50 years earlier.

We argued passionately that, contrary to the Smithsonian’s conclusion that the U.S. atomic bombings « saved lives, » instead, it killed some 200,000 people and was done to prove our military superiority over the Russians. It led directly to the development of the nuclear arms race that continues to threaten the planet today. Eventually, we persuaded the Smithsonian to drop its entire display, which they had spent 10 years and millions of dollars preparing.

After our press conference, I turned to Dan and thanked him for his help to stop the revisionist lie about Hiroshima. He looked me in the eye and said, « No, John, there’s nothing to thank me for yet. You and I have to keep working for the complete abolition of nuclear weapons. That’s what I want and what I intend to do till the day I die if necessary. »

I was profoundly moved and inspired by his determination, and witnessed him speak out for the urgent need to abolish nuclear weapons right til the end. His health took a turn last week just as he was preparing to be interviewed for the CBS television show « 60 Minutes. »

« I wish I could report greater success for our efforts, » Dan wrote on March 1.

As I write, ‘modernization’ of nuclear weapons is ongoing in all nine states that possess them (the US most of all). Russia is making monstrous threats to initiate nuclear war to maintain its control over Crimea and the Donbas–like the dozens of equally illegitimate first-use threats that the US government has made in the past to maintain its military presence in South Korea, Taiwan, South Vietnam, and (with the complicity of every member state then in NATO) West Berlin. The current risk of nuclear war, over Ukraine, is as great as the world has ever seen.  

China and India are alone in declaring no-first-use policies. Leadership in the US, Russia, other nuclear weapons states, NATO and other US allies have yet to recognize that such threats of initiating nuclear war–let alone the plans, deployments and exercises meant to make them credible and more ready to be carried out–are and always have been immoral and insane: under any circumstances, for any reasons, by anyone or anywhere. 

He concluded: « As I look back on the last sixty years of my life, I think there is no greater cause to which I could have dedicated my efforts. » 

What a profound statement! Many national leaders have said that Daniel Ellsberg was one of the smartest persons on the planet, and so it is noteworthy that this brilliant man insists that the best way we can spend our lives is to work for the abolition of nuclear weapons.

But Dan didn’t stop there. Instead of lamenting his personal predicament, he went on at length in his last letter to lament our global predicament — one that we never hear anyone talk about: the impending catastrophic threat of a nuclear winter.

For the last forty years we have known that nuclear war between the US and Russia would mean nuclear winter: more than a hundred million tons of smoke and soot from firestorms in cities set ablaze by either side, striking either first or second, would be lofted into the stratosphere where it would not rain out and would envelope the globe within days. That pall would block up to 70% of sunlight for years, destroying all harvests worldwide and causing death by starvation for most of the humans and other vertebrates on earth. So far as I can find out, this scientific near-consensus has had virtually no effect on the Pentagon’s nuclear war plans or US/NATO (or Russian) nuclear threats. 

Dan’s two mammoth best-selling memoirs, Secrets: A Memoir of Vietnam and the Pentagon Papers and The Doomsday Machine: Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner, should be required reading for every American. Yes, he is the father of all whistleblowers, and his support of Julian Assange, Chelsea Manning and Edward Snowden should push us all to do likewise. Yes, his public efforts to help end the U.S. wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were critically helpful in breaking through the silence, as were his regular talks and periodic civil disobedience in our campaign to close Livermore Laboratories near the Bay Area.

But I think Dan was far greater than he has been portrayed in the mainstream media. To me, Dan was a holy prophet. He was like Isaiah, calling us to « beat swords into plowshares and study war no more. » He was like Ezekiel, describing the nightmarish vision of a field of dry bones. He was like Jonah walking across the great city of Nineveh, crisscrossing the U.S., calling Americans to repent of the mortal sin of war and nuclear preparations, and to give our lives like him in a new global grassroots peace movement for the abolition of war itself and a new culture of peace and nonviolence.

Unlike the people of Nineveh, we Americans have not heeded his call; nevertheless, it is not yet too late to repent.

In this historical moment when we have so little leadership, so little vision, so little courage, Dan Ellsberg was the real thing. He offered the prophetic vision, voice and leadership that we desperately needed. He pointed a way back from the brink of permanent warfare and nuclear destruction toward the sanity of peace and nonviolence. Despite what he said of himself, his was a devoutly religious life for he gave himself every day to the cause of truth, peace and the fullness of life for all.

His visionary leadership and prophetic voice for peace should be the norm for every U.S. priest and bishop, and yet it is almost entirely absent — except of course for Bishop Tom Gumbleton, Bishop John Stowe and Archbishop John Wester, who last year published his great pastoral letter, “Living in the Light of Christ’s Peace: A Conversation Toward Nuclear Disarmament.”

As I mourn my friend and celebrate his peacemaking life, my thoughts turn to those unheralded brave souls who continue his effort to uphold the vision of nuclear disarmament. Today, the International Campaign to Abolish Nuclear Weapons has helped 68 nations to sign as parties to the U.N. Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons.

Last week, I joined a Zoom session with Rep. Jim McGovern of Massachusetts, who has launched the first serious bill in Congress (H Res 77) to get the United States on track to dismantle its nuclear arsenal and sign the UN ban treaty. I urge everyone to join this campaign, led by Back from the Brink, and to publicize this great effort.

Dan now lives on with the God of peace and all the great prophets of peace. May the rest of us heed his cry, repent of our nuclear violence like the people of Nineveh and welcome God’s gift of peace. Thank you, Daniel Ellsberg, as poet Gerard Manley Hopkins would say, for « brute beauty and valor and act. » Pray for us who remain that we too might persist, come what may and do our part to abolish war and nuclear weapons forever. Amen.

The co-edited volume Doing Theology and Theological Ethics in the Face of the Abuse Crisis joins a growing body of literature seeking to both come to terms with the revelations and to envision a new, different future for the Catholic church, a future beyond what one contributor calls the scandal that « now clings to [it] with a dispiriting viscosity. » 

The book includes 22 chapters by authors from six continents, reflecting the volume’s origins in a project of the network Catholic Theological Ethics in the World Church. As is to be expected with such a large number of chapters, there is some unevenness in quality as well as some repetition, but the volume succeeds not only in representing the global dimensions of the crisis, but also in indicating varied and distinctive local perspectives and concerns. For example, contributors from Nigeria focus on cultural challenges; contributors from Germany and Switzerland focus on ecclesiology.

It follows that the chapters and themes that stand out to readers also will vary, though there are commonalities across the continents. Power is a preoccupation of the volume: Michelle Becka, professor of Christian social ethics at the University of Würzburg, speaks to how it is distributed and whether it is controllable. German theologian Daniel Bogner states forthrightly that « the church is lacking sufficient mechanisms to place checks on power. » 

Bogner further asks, « Aren’t we all … dependent on mechanisms of formal and informal social control that prevent us from becoming perpetrators [of various kinds]? » And then he comments: « This is precisely where an organization that has a dysfunctional relationship with transparency, public criticism, accountability, and gender diversity is doomed to fail. » 

Not to be outdone, retired University of Oslo theology professor Werner Jeanrond adds that « the Roman Catholic system of exercising power is built on monarchic and paternalistic foundations. Today, a right use of such power can no longer be imagined or justified, most certainly not with reference to Jesus Christ and his proclamation of God’s praxis of love. »

As those quotations suggest, this volume pulls no punches, for which the editors are to be commended. The contributors tend to be very favorable toward Pope Francis, and not so much toward Popes John Paul II and Benedict XVI, but even Francis’ papacy is subject to criticism. In particular, Bogner and Australiam theologian Neil Ormerod raise trenchant questions about the adequacy of Francis’ emphasis on synodality in the face of what Bogner calls « the ‘systemic’ causes that have led to instances of sexual abuse within the Catholic Church. » 

According to Ormerod, « more is needed than … an episodic engagement of non-clerical perspectives. » Bogner claims more fully that « [t]he current agenda of synodality does not address urgently needed steps for the development of constitutional frameworks » to replace « the monarchist constitutional framework that bears a substantial share of responsibility for sexual abuse within the Church. »

Jeanrond, ecclesiology expert Richard Lennan and director of Catherine of Siena College at the University of Roehampton Tina Beattie all consider the traditional doctrine that, while members of the church can and certainly do sin, the church as such cannot, which seems to imply that no institutional vices can be ascribed to it. Jeanrond observes that, against that background, « official reactions to emerging accounts of abuse first displayed a rush to individualize abuse and to protect the institution against any attempt to identify systemic dimensions of clerical failure in the church. » 

Drawing from Karl Rahner, Lennan proposes that « [i]t is crucial … to make clear that all references to the church’s holiness attest to the ineradicable presence of the Spirit as the church’s source of life, » thereby leaving open « the possibility that the ecclesial community will obscure rather than symbolize the gift of the Holy Spirit. » 

In an especially punchy chapter, Beattie outlines the « move from patriarchal to phallic theology » in the papacy of John Paul II, under the influence of what she memorably calls theologian and writer Hans Urs von Balthasar’s « theo-pornographic fantasies » of Christ the bridegroom and his bride, the church. It’s hard to imagine that « the gendered theologies that emerged during the papacy of John Paul II » didn’t affect the handling of the abuse crisis, as it likewise emerged during that time. The Theology of the Body, for example, obscures reality more than illuminating it. 

Several chapters examine the culture of clericalism, which Ormerod notes « combines elements of the aura of sacred power, a shared clerical life-style and patterns of formation, and [a] sense of group loyalty » that made it second nature to support and sometimes turn a blind eye to the misdeeds of « one of us. »

In his chapter, Villanova University professor of theology and religious studies Massimo Faggioli does not disagree that the culture of clericalism furnished what Bogner calls « an opportunity structure for abuse and sexual violence, » but Faggioli does caution that the crisis « is ecclesial and not just clerical. » As he observes, « Abusers could rely on a web of protection much wider than only the hierarchical church. » Notably, they often « could count on… silence and willful ignorance… among lay Catholics, » which he claims the predominant « legal and journalistic narratives of the crisis tend to ignore. » 

Faggioli accordingly calls for a historiographical approach to the abuse crisis, on the grounds that « historical research imposes complexity, both in its method and in its interpretations, » and might thereby contribute not only to a fuller understanding of the crisis, but also to its « de-politicization and de-ideologization. »

It will be difficult to come away from this volume without feeling great sympathy for the many, many Catholics who, according to polls, have distanced themselves from the church in the aftermath of the abuse scandal. At the same time, the contributors show a heartening faith in the church — or at least a persistent hope that God is not yet done with it. 

The urgency of the moment, however, cannot be overstated, and more than one contributor suggests that the church is now going through « the greatest ecclesial crisis since the Protestant Reformation. » It seems unlikely that the clergy abuse truth and reconciliation committee that Kate Jackson-Meyer calls for will come to pass, but she is surely right that reconciliation is the order of the day. Jeanrond may also be right that « [t]he trust of the victims, of the survivors of abuse, and of the public can only ever be regained by a radically different way of being church. »