Institutions love clean endings because clean endings require no accountability. Life rarely works that way. Neither does the truth. They will hand you a box to pack up your desk while asking you to join them in a chorus of polite lies. But an “amicable separation” is almost always a mirage. A velvet shroud thrown over a corporate execution to ensure the machine never has to answer for the blood on the floor.
In the wake of the Reformation, Church leaders sought not only to reform internal abuses but also to restore institutional credibility and unity. Much of that work happened through councils, ecclesiastical courts, and internal disciplinary processes that remained largely out of public view. Whether intended to preserve order or protect the Church’s reputation, the result was an enduring culture in which transparency often gave way to institutional discretion. They wanted to project absolute unity and peace to the public, believing that “not making a scene” was more important than transparent confession. They weaponized the illusion of internal harmony, proving that for centuries, the institution has valued a polished facade over raw, restorative truth.
There is another reason I struggle with institutional narratives.
When you’ve lived through something painful, one of the first casualties is often your own confidence in your memory.
People tell you it wasn’t that bad. That you misunderstood. That you’re remembering it incorrectly. Eventually, you begin wondering if they’re right.
- That’s why I keep records.
- That’s why I save emails.
- That’s why I write things down.
Memory deserves witnesses. I didn’t develop that instinct during my final week with the diocese.
During my final week with the diocese, our parish “shepherd” seemed consumed with protecting his standing within the hierarchy. Every conversation felt less concerned with understanding what had happened than with ensuring he didn’t appear responsible for it.
He didn’t want a fight; He just didn’t want to look as inept as he was. All the diocese wanted was a quiet disappearance. They wanted it to look like a mutual, peaceful decision to pursue other paths.
And I gave it to them.
Not forever.
Just until they thought the threat had passed.
From the Pages of Anathema
Ocassionally, I share a brief scene from my memoir, Anathema. Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the guilty.
What followed was presented as a mutual and prayerful decision. The conversation itself told a different story.
“So..” I said.
“A needle pulling thread,” Father said.
I stared at him. It wasn’t the time for jokes, but he didn’t seem to recognize the gravity of the moment, of course he didn’t. I also wondered how long it would take him to get to the point, but I was pleasantly surprised when he started speaking.
“So I’m going to be short and to the point. I reflected on the last conversation we had on January 28th, and the situation that you mentioned, and after a lot of reflection and prayer, it has led me to accept your resignation,” he stated.
“You do realize I’m still living within church teaching and not doing anything that goes against church teaching?” I said.
“I do understand that,” Father said.
“So you’re letting me go because I am considering re-marrying?” I asked.
“Yes, outside of the Church,” Father said.
“Possibly, but again, I’m only considering it. So you’re letting me go because?” I asked. “And why do you think when/if I get remarried it would be outside of the church..”
“It’s also because of the violation of trust as well,” Father interrupted.
“What violation of trust?” I asked.
“We talked when things began, had begun, that you weren’t going to date until an annulment went through,” he stuttered.
“No, we never talked about that.”
Demanding an “amicable separation” often shifts the moral burden onto the person being hurt.
They make you feel like you are the one being difficult if you refuse to participate in their public relations charade. But politeness is not a fruit of the Spirit when it is used to mask injustice.
Refusing to play along with their peaceful narrative isn’t being bitter; it is a refusal to let the institution rewrite your history. The truth is messy, loud, and uncomfortable—and it should never be traded for a clean corporate press release.
“…a time to be silent and a time to speak” Ecclesiastes 3:7