Washington State recently passed a law requiring priests to report child abuse—including information given during confession—to the authorities. The Church responded by suing, arguing that the seal of the confessional is absolute and that the law unconstitutionally burdens their religious freedom. On July 18, a U.S. federal judge agreed and blocked the state from punishing priests who refuse to comply with the new law. Today, Shalzed speaks with Seattle Archbishop Paul Etienne to find out why he believes that even in order to protect children, priests should not be forced to violate this sacrament.
I arrived at St James Cathedral in downtown Seattle a little early, so I went inside. The giant marble altar in the center got my attention- a sign says they call the window in the roof that bathes it in sunlight ‘the eye of God.’ I saw someone exiting a confessional and thought of going over, but I decided that would be in good taste. Instead, I went back out to wait on the stairs until the confessions would finally be over.
“Good morning, Archbishop, I’m curious what sins were confessed to you this morning,” I said when Paul Etienne finally came out.
At first he seemed taken aback, then he frowned. “Shalzed?” he asked. “Why are you here?”
“Because I care about children,” I told him. “If someone confesses to you about child abuse, I understand you refuse to notify authorities. So I thought I’d ask you and then do it myself.”
He waved his hand. “You know it’s wrong to say the church doesn’t care about children.”
“Sure you care. Just not enough to put aside your religious rules and do anything about it.”
A sudden wind blew his violet skullcap off his head and it fell at his feet. He bent down to pick it up, being careful no to get his white robe dirty. I stepped a bit closer so it wouldn’t be so easy for him to walk away. “Any Priest who hears about child abuse is obligated to report it,” he said as he stood up. “It’s only for what’s shared during confession that we need an exemption. Because of the sacred seal.”
“Because if you tell anyone what you found out during confession, even to help prevent child abuse, you’re liable excommunication and eternal damnation (p. 15).”
“That’s right.” He nodded, without a trace of irony.
“And you don’t think preventing child abuse is a good enough reason for the state to require you to violate your religion?”
He gave me that sympathetic look clergy use when a congregant keeps asking pesky questions about faith and refuse to just shup up and accept a tried and true millennia-old answer. “What about the soul of the abuser?” he asked. “The solution is for the priest to encourage the penitent to inform the authorities on his own, or to arrange to receive the information again in a different setting (p. 21). That way the sacred seal of confession will remain unharmed.”
I put my hands on my hips. Two Japanese-looking young women, both wearing shirts from the Seattle Art Museum and holding the city guides distributed for free at the airport, passed by walking up the stairs towards the church. They slowed to glance at us. I couldn’t tell if they were looking at me, or maybe wondering if the Archbishop was someone famous and trying to decide whether to ask him to be in a selfie. I frowned, and they continued inside.
“And what if that doesn’t work?” I asked Etienne. “You really think you’re going to burn in hell for helping to save a child?”
“This whole controversy is really about nothing,” the Archbishop said. “Did you realize that the state government also just passed a law that specifically exempts lawyers from reporting information about child abuse they get from clients (p. 16)? No one thinks that’s such a big problem.”
“So maybe they shouldn’t have passed that law either,” I said.
“Remember, parents, neighbors, and other caregivers are not mandatory reporters (p. 16). Everyone is comfortable with that. The likelihood that someone is going to give a priest actionable information that could be used to prevent child abuse, but not reveal that information to anyone else in any other setting, is absurdly small.”
A woman came out of the Church, looking lost and sad, with her eyes red like she had been crying. She seemed shocked to see the Archbishop. After a moment of hesitation, she stepped over. “Your excellency, may I ask you a question. It’s very, very important,” she said so softly her voice was nearly a whisper.
The Archbishop turned to her with a warm smile. “Of course,” he said.
“It’s about my oldest daughter, Elizabeth. She needs to hear the Lord’s voice. Would you pray that she agrees to go on the upcoming high school retreat?”
“Absolutely. And I’d be happy to call her about it myself if you give me the number.”
The woman brightened. I waited while Etienne typed the number into his phone. “There are some things I need to tell you,” the woman said to Etienne, then glanced at me.
“Is this confidential?” I asked. The woman nodded. “Then you shouldn’t worry. The Archbishop is extremely, extremely serious about confidentiality,” I told her.
She gave me a funny look, and Etienne cleared his throat. “Confidentiality is an important part of being a member of the clergy,” he said. “But when hearing confession, it becomes a sacred religious duty as well.”
“That you must defend even if it requires the shedding of blood (p. 5),” I added.
“That’s only a metaphor,” he snapped.
“Okay, but you must agree the government has the right to put limits on religious beliefs at least sometimes. I mean, what if someone decided actually shedding blood or putting children in danger was a necessary part of their religion?”
“I’m sure you’re right. But the Catholic Church would never condone doing anything that is harmful to society. Also by the way, this Archdiocese has taken tremendous steps to protect children (p. 21).”
I shrugged. The woman stepped closer, so her shoulder was between me and Etienne, nudging me aside. “Six months ago my husband and I decided to separate. Just as sort of a trial,” she began.
“If you’d excuse us,” Etienne said to me. “Perhaps there is some research related to space travel that you need to attend to?”
If only. Earth has none of the materials needed to build a wormhole gate. “I really think you should consider how you’re conscience will feel if you hear something in a confession and don’t take action,” I told him.
“And maybe you should recognize that confession lightens the conscience of the penitent by providing atonement and forgiveness. But that requires confidentiality. Or maybe on your planet there is no such thing as forgiveness?”
The woman began describing how her daughter had always been a good child, but recently began skipping school and hanging around with kids from what she called ‘bad families.’ I decided to go. I thought of heading to the Space Needle, but instead decided to go to the Chihuly glass garden. The shapes of those sculptures remind me of home.
On my planet of course we have forgiveness, but nothing like what Earthlings refer to as religion. Maybe that’s why I’m struck by how easy it is for humans to invoke religion as a justification for violating one another’s rights. But I suppose the Archbishop has a point- religion can do good, too.
Questions:
- What do we do when a religious group claims that a law forces adherents to violate their faith? . How much respect do we give religious beliefs, and at what point do we say that religion can’t be an excuse for not following the law?
- A key reason the judge concludes this law is unconstitutional is that while the State of Washington wants to require priests to report what they hear in confessions, it also exempts other professionals, such as lawyers, from reporting confidential information they may receive from clients (p. 21). Does religion deserve this high level of deference, such that if an exemption is created for anyone else then there must be an exemption for religion too?