(RNS) — A father confessed to me that he was thinking of kidnapping his son. Should I have called the police?
A new law in Washington state, which was to have taken effect Sunday (July 27) but has been at least temporarily blocked by a federal court, requires clergy to report cases of child abuse or neglect, explicitly mandating them to report information learned from parishioners in confession. Under the law, clergy are excluded from claiming professional privilege. New Hampshire, West Virginia, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Rhode Island, Tennessee and Texas already do the same.
The Most Rev. Paul Etienne, the Catholic archbishop of Seattle, has responded that church policy already mandates reporting child abuse to authorities — including any committed by a cleric — except when the information was gleaned in confession. Any priest who divulges anything a penitent confesses “under the seal” will be excommunicated.
Catholic bishops, along with the Orthodox Church in America, the Antiochian Orthodox Archdiocese of North America and several other Orthodox jurisdictions — all of which have similar rules — have sued Washington state to block this new requirement.
Gretchen Rehberg, bishop of the of the Episcopal Church’s Spokane Diocese, concurred: “The secrecy of the confession is morally absolute for the confessor and must under no circumstances be broken.” I would comply myself to report evidence of abuse or neglect — except when I had promised confidentiality to those who confessed.
If protecting children trumps all other concerns, why not require attorneys, who hear their share of criminal truth-telling, to call the cops? The Washington Legislature, like those elsewhere, is made up disproportionately of lawyers, and they protect attorney-client privilege, even in cases of child abuse. Why do they demand clergy reveal what parishioners confess, even when they have promised confidentiality and their denomination demands it?
Most of us have grown accustomed to legislators breaking campaign pledges; but to have your pastor, priest or rabbi divulge your deepest humiliation and violation could be shattering.
This legislation grows in no small part out of outrage at churches’ failure to protect children from predators, but there is plenty of blame to go around. Schools, Scouting, the medical profession, police departments, courts, legislatures, and a host of other institutions have had a slow, painful learning curve on this issue. Many families remain reluctant to recognize perpetrators in their midst.
Even if this new law is upheld by courts, is it a good idea? Catholic rules already mandate reporting any knowledge of child abuse — except what is learned “under the seal.” Do abusive priests admit in the confession booth that they themselves molest children? Almost never. They rationalize and deny their misdeeds, just like people in the pews. As a cleric on Long Island reports, they avail themselves of the sacrament of reconciliation no more frequently than laity do. (It has been years since he has seen lines of penitents outside the booth.)
Laws such as Washington’s would have a greater effect on non-Catholics. Protestant, Jewish and Unitarian Universalist clergy hear confessions less often than Catholic or Orthodox priests, but usually do so face to face, in a context of pastoral care and counseling — often, I find, right after a parishioner asks me not to reveal what they say.
Not all clergy and not all denominations consider confession privileged when it involves children, but my own position is like that of Catholicism and Orthodoxy, and I say so publicly, repeatedly. This makes it easier for people to admit that they have lied to their parents, cheated on their taxes or cheated on their spouse — and ponder the consequences of their actions. It is how I have learned about cases of incest, but only decades after the crimes occurred, long after the statute of limitations had run out, usually after the offender’s death.
Confidentiality helps people seek help. One afternoon, a teenager got annoyed when I would not tell her whether her mother had made a counseling appointment. “You know what I told your youth group the other day? That you could talk to me about anything, and I would not testify against you? That I will not even tell your parents you came to see me? I meant it.”
Frustrated, she left a message for me to pass along to her mom if I happened to see her. A few days later, she made a counseling appointment herself.
Keeping secrets does not mean taking no action. One incest survivor told me in a counseling session about a creep posing as a filmmaker to prey on vulnerable women in an incest survivors support group at another church. They were too embarrassed to go to the police. I asked if she would like me to call a colleague, a cop-turned-cleric, to see whom he trusted to investigate this with compassion for the embarrassed victims.
She invited her friends to join us while I made the call, vouching for my trustworthiness. My colleague suggested someone he respected in the Special Victims Unit. Within minutes, all three women were on the phone with her. She set up a sting with an undercover officer, nailed the predator and discovered outstanding wants and warrants for him in half a dozen states. Without my promise of confidentiality, he might never have been caught.
Another parishioner once sought assurances of confidentiality and told me she wanted to report a drug dealer who would not stay away from her husband, who was struggling to stay clean. She feared her local police department was on the take. How could she drop a dime on the dealer without jeopardizing the safety of her family? Another former cop I knew had a suggestion.
Another time, a parishioner who had lost custody of his son asked if I would keep secret what he told me. I assured him I would. He then said he was thinking of snatching his child. I could not tell him what his mother-in-law had told me: There was a shotgun waiting if he ever tried. “What will happen if you grab your son?” I asked. “Do you want to see him tonight if it means you never see him again?”
This reality therapy seemed to work, but as soon as he left, I called his ex to tell her to take her son and get out of the house; there was no answer. If I could not reach her parents, I decided, I would sit on her stoop and tell her ex he had to go through me to get to the door — which is admittedly easier for a pastor to do if you are male, 6’5” and a bit reckless. Fortunately, her mother answered the phone. “I cannot say anything,” I said. “But your daughter and grandson need to come visit. Right now.”
After a long pause, she replied: “So that’s where he went. They’re already here. Somebody saw him drive by. I’m glad he was headed to see you.”
What would have happened if I had told him there was no confidentiality where children were concerned? Would he have trusted my assurances if we lived in a state that required me to violate his trust? I’ll never know. What did happen was this: He bottomed out, got help, got clean and became a good father.
Here’s another thing legislators might consider: If clergy are obligated to report abuse and neglect to the police, some of us may call the cops whenever we see government neglecting children: slashing Medicaid or reducing staffing at Child Protective Services, for example, or blocking a congregation from opening a shelter for homeless families. That will be fun.
(Thomas W. Goodhue, a United Methodist clergyman and former executive director of the Long Island Council of Churches, is the author, most recently, of “Queen Kaahumanu of Hawaii.” A version of this essay appeared earlier on United Methodist Insight. The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect those of Religion News Service.)