This post first appeared in 2019. Today it surfaced again in my “Memories” feed, and reading it now stirred the same complicated feelings it did then—feelings that many of my fellow Xavier High School alumni will recognize.
Several years ago, the head of the New York Jesuit Province released the names of Jesuits who had been credibly accused of sexually abusing minors over the previous fifty years. Like many who had been educated by the Jesuits, I read that announcement with a mixture of disbelief, anger, and sadness.
In response, I wrote to the Province. What troubled me most was a line in the letter from John Cecero, the Jesuit Provincial at the time. In explaining how abuse had been handled decades earlier, he wrote that “we did not know any best practices to handle these violations many decades ago and regrettably made mistakes along the way.”
That sentence stopped me cold.
What exactly is the “best practice” for the rape of a child? Wouldn’t the best practice simply have been to report the crime and protect the victims?
The phrase felt painfully similar to something another Jesuit Provincial once wrote during the abuse crisis in Alaska, when lawsuits were brought by Native villagers who had suffered decades of abuse by Jesuit missionaries. That Provincial spoke about the humiliation he felt as his Province faced legal action, comparing it to the humiliation Christ experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane.
The comparison was staggering. Christ’s suffering at Gethsemane had nothing to do with abusing children. To equate the humiliation of church leadership facing accountability with the suffering of Christ struck me then—and still strikes me now—as profoundly misguided.
For me, healing will only begin when those in Jesuit leadership positions fully acknowledge the truth many people already suspect: that some leaders knew what was happening, that the culture surrounding the priesthood often ignored or minimized the problem, and that silence became the “best practice” that was followed.
Years ago I also wrote to Tom Smolich about abuse cases uncovered in California. To my surprise, he responded. But the reply felt less like accountability and more like a polite apology wrapped in theological language, suggesting that perhaps God had “opened this door for a reason.”
I shared that correspondence with a Jesuit priest whom I deeply respected. His response surprised me even more—he told me he didn’t understand my anger or why I had written the letter at all. Sadly, that conversation marked the last time we spoke.
Publishing the names of accused priests may bring some measure of closure for certain people. I sincerely hope it does. But for many of us, the feelings are more complicated.
I remain deeply grateful to my family for the sacrifices they made to send me to Jesuit schools. In an article I once wrote for the Xavier alumni magazine, I reflected on several Jesuits who profoundly shaped my life and the life of my uncle, also a Xavier man.
Among them was Vin Duminuco—a priest whose influence I remember with gratitude.
Which is why it pains me to know that he is buried in the Jesuit cemetery at Auriesville Shrine beside Roy Drake, a priest later confirmed to have abused children. For those of us who respected men like Father Duminuco, that juxtaposition feels deeply unjust.
My anger has never been directed at the Jesuits who truly lived their vows with integrity. It is directed at those in leadership who knew abuse was occurring and whose response was silence—and at times, legal maneuvering.
One of the most troubling examples emerged during the Alaska litigation, when the Jesuits argued in court that universities and schools run by Jesuits were not actually owned or operated by the order. Critics later dubbed it the “Gonzaga Argument,” after Gonzaga University. The legal logic was widely mocked as being like claiming that Pontiac is not part of General Motors.
To many of us, it looked less like accountability and more like an attempt to shield assets.
When I reread these words today, years later, I realize the conflict hasn’t disappeared. I still feel gratitude for the education I received, and I still carry anger over the institutional failures that allowed abuse to continue for so long.
I hope the publication of those names brings peace to those whose faith was shaken by these revelations.
For me, it still raises difficult questions.
Because healing will only truly begin when those who held authority fully acknowledge what happened—not as a failure of “best practices,” but as a moral failure that silence allowed to continue.
The Valley Viewpoint 