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  Victims Divided over Public Tactics of Clergy Abuse Support Group

By Gillian Flaccus
Telegram & Gazette [United States]
December 15, 2004

The leafletting outside St. Matthew Catholic Church started well, with parishioners accepting the brochures about clergy abuse being handed out by alleged molestation victims.

Then a woman standing on a church balcony screamed "You're evil!" and a man made an obscene gesture. The parish called police, who told the protesters they couldn't leaflet without a city permit.

The angry reaction came as no surprise to members of the Survivors Network of Those Abuse by Priests, or SNAP. Since the sexual abuse scandal in the U.S. Catholic church blew up in 2002, SNAP has sought the spotlight by publicly portraying itself as the official voice of thousands of victims.

While those victims embrace SNAP as a support group and a means to win long-overdue justice, its tactics have alienated many practicing Catholics and even some of the very people it hopes to help.

Some abuse victims said the group is too angry and confrontational, while others insist it's not activist enough. Others fault SNAP for its close financial relationship with clergy abuse attorneys, saying the link fuels perceptions that victims are only after the church's money.

The attitudes reflect the deep divisions among victims over how to proceed now that the first wave of the scandal has subsided. That question has profound significance for victims, many of whom will never see their molesters criminally prosecuted because of the statute of limitations.

"This issue drives to the core of who you are - it's not like anything else in the world," said Mary Ryan, an alleged abuse victim from Rhode Island. "They're going to get criticized no matter which way they go. It's messy."

SNAP was started by Chicago social worker and abuse victim Barbara Blaine in 1989 and had 1,800 members, six active chapters and an annual budget of $2,000 until 2001. Then the clergy sex abuse scandal exploded in Boston and spread across the nation. The group now has 5,000 members, 60 active chapters and an annual budget of $250,000, with five paid staff members.

The growth gave SNAP clout in the national discourse on clergy abuse.

Among other things, its members recently protested outside a hotel in Washington, D.C., where bishops were holding their annual meeting. They routinely picket diocesan headquarters and leaflet churches to spread the word about abuse.

Mary Grant, who coordinates SNAP actions across Southern California, said the group's activism has been instrumental in identifying and removing molester priests. For example, she said, alleged victims of two Los Angeles priests who now face criminal investigations came forward after hearing about SNAP in the news.

"Many of us feel that maybe our lives would be different today if someone had been giving this information to our parents," Grant said. "Some don't want to be public and that's fine. But we've literally found thousands of victims by standing outside parishes."

SNAP members said they want accountability and healing and believe their approach is the best way to achieve that. They point out that 90 percent of its work goes on behind closed doors.

Through SNAP's group therapy, Esther Miller, 45, met another alleged victim of the same priest after thinking for years that she was his only target.

Learning she wasn't alone made her realize, "I wasn't really crazy, and I wasn't making this up," said Miller, a contract administrator from Seal Beach. "I have a lifeline now. I can call these people when my anger is raging or when I'm thinking of suicide."

The group's public tactics, however, have irked many other victims and led Joseph Alzugaray, a pastor in Napa, to file a libel lawsuit.

SNAP had circulated pamphlets alluding to the fact that Alzugaray was under investigation for alleged molestation. He denied the allegations and no criminal charges have been filed.

In his lawsuit, Alzugaray said SNAP funnels potential plaintiffs to a handful of lawyers who donate tens of thousands of dollars to the organization. A judge threw out the suit, but it fueled quiet criticism of the group.

"I would say there's inappropriate use of all the victims," said Chris Logue, a Boston clergy abuse victim who left SNAP to join Male Survivors. "These lawyers are only out for themselves. ... They never do nothing unless you have a case they can make money off."

David Clohessy, SNAP's national director, acknowledged that several of the highest-profile plaintiffs' attorneys in the nation have ponied up "probably the largest non-survivor donations we've gotten" - between $10,000 and $20,000 each annually.

But Clohessy said SNAP does not funnel clients to lawyers who donate. He said many members wind up with the same attorneys simply by word of mouth.

"It's totally understandable that people who listen to survivors' pain time and time again and who devote their professional lives to helping survivors would donate to SNAP," Clohessy said. "We don't funnel people toward anything except our support groups and professional therapy."

Other critics said they were more bothered by what they called SNAP's anti-Catholic stance.

Paul Schwartz, of Wichita, Kan., attended the group's therapy sessions until he realized they weren't helping.

"Every conversation I've ever had with SNAP is, 'Oh, we're going to bring (the church) down. How's that going to help me?" said Schwartz. "The Catholic church did not cause my anger and rage, the abuse did. You're allowing yourself to be victimized over and over again."

Others said prolonging that anger - and keeping it public - is the only way to prevent future clergy abuse. They insist SNAP isn't active enough and have formed other groups, such as Speak Truth to Power, or STOP.

They shadowed Boston's Cardinal Bernard Law before he resigned in late 2002, attempting to take him into custody with a "citizen's arrest" and using a bullhorn to berate him daily outside the Cathedral of the Holy Cross.

"I understood that SNAP members were trying to reach the mainstream type of thinking and not alienate Catholics. But I didn't care about alienating. I want the truth out," said Susan Renehan, 56, an alleged abuse victim from Worcester, Mass., and a board member of Survivors First. "This thing is not going away - it's going out of fashion, but it's not going away."

 
 

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