Warum haben cis Männer solche Angst vor einem „Ja“? 🧐

Keine Ahnung warum mich der Algorithmus gerade jetzt mit diesen Diskussionen füttert.⬇️

#Konsens #JaHeißtJa #SexualViolence #Metoo #IntersektionalerFeminismus #Sexabled #SexualSelfDetermination #ConsentMatters #Consent #EndRapeCulture #sexuellegewalt #schweigenbrechen #keinetatohnekonsequenz #abuse #München #Queer

Joelle Casteix on Catholic Clergy Abuse: Coordination, Cover-Ups, and Real Reform

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/11/23

Joelle Casteix is a leading advocate, author, and educator on child sexual abuse prevention and institutional accountability. A survivor of abuse at a Catholic high school in Southern California, she became a spokesperson and Western Regional Director with SNAP, supporting survivors and exposing cover-ups. Her book, The Well-Armoured Child(River Grove Books, 2015), equips parents to recognize grooming, build safeguards, and empower children without fear. A former journalist, Casteix lectures widely, consults on safeguarding policies, and writes about transparency, restitution, and reform. She champions evidence-based, survivor-centred change through public education, media engagement, and practical, accessible tools for families and institutions.

In this discussion with Scott Douglas Jacobsen, Casteix explains coordinated Catholic clergy abuse through Orange County cases involving Eleuterio Ramos, Siegfried Widera, and Michael A. Harris, detailing settlements including $10 million to a single survivor in 2024 and prior awards of $5.2 million in 2001 and $3.5 million in 2024. She outlines why outcomes vary—evidence of diocesan knowledge, scope of abuse, and victim impact—and describes the 2004 $100 million global settlement’s grid for allocating compensation. Casteix exposes institutional gaslighting, misogynistic binaries, strategic transfers, and opaque data practices, while acknowledging limited reforms. Her central point: only transparency, external oversight, and survivor validation can counter reputational protectionism.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: What is an example of a coordinated clergy abuse case?

Joelle Casteix: One of the coordinated clergy abuse cases in Orange County involved a priest named Eleuterio Ramos, who was accused of sexually abusing children. His abuse led to multiple civil settlements; most recently, a California case involving Ramos and Siegfried Widera resulted in a $10 million settlement to a single survivor in 2024. Another set of cases involving Michael A. Harris—a former principal at Mater Dei High School and later founding principal at Santa Margarita Catholic High School—produced a $5.2 million settlement in 2001 to Ryan DiMaria and, separately, a $3.5 million settlement in 2024. 

Jacobsen: Why such differences in outcomes?

Casteix: Because the cases are still under protective orders, we do not know the full details. But generally, a higher settlement or verdict usually means there was much more evidence showing that the diocese knew—or should have known—about the abuse and failed to act. It can also depend on the extent of the abuse or the number of victims.

When the Diocese of Orange reached the $100 million global settlement in 2004, one of the most challenging tasks the attorneys faced was dividing the money among survivors. The diocese said, “Here is the money—now you figure out how to split it.” That is when they used the grid: How many instances of abuse occurred? What were the damages? How has each survivor been affected?

It is harrowing work. Unfortunately, our civil justice system has only one real form of punishment for wrongdoing—money. It is not a perfect system, but it gives survivors something tangible. Many have never been able to live their lives to their full potential. They have hospital bills, addiction issues, and decades of trauma. These settlements at least help them begin to rebuild.

Just as importantly, the process gives survivors validation. It provides proof—official documents and depositions confirming: “Yes, this happened. Yes, it was covered up. No, it was not your fault. Yes, it was illegal.” That acknowledgment is the most healing part.

If you ask many survivors, they will tell you, “I would not have settled. I did not want the money—I just wanted them to admit what they did.” The Church often denies it, even to your face. They will tell you, “It never happened,” or “You are crazy.” But when you have hundreds of pages of documents showing the truth, you finally have something undeniable.

Jacobsen: How does the Church internally frame these cases?

Casteix: As short-term liabilities. And this is just my opinion. The Catholic Church operates on what I call “geological time.” It thinks in centuries. It is run by men who have never had to feed a family or pay bills. Their understanding of money is limited to what appears on a ledger.

For most of its history—until maybe eight or nine years ago—the Church saw abuse survivors as temporary problems. The thinking was: “Yes, the kid was abused, but now the kid is a mess, a drug addict, a liar.” So they wrote that child off. Their loyalty lay with the priest, not the victim, because the Church had already invested heavily in that priest’s education, housing, and lifelong support. It was easier to protect him than to face accountability.

And priests are not exactly employable outside the Church. They cannot simply become plumbers or lawyers. So the institution doubles down on protecting them. Survivors, meanwhile, are treated as disposable—people to be vilified, marginalized, or discredited. The goal is to run out the statute of limitations, label them as enemies of the Church or even of Jesus himself, and move on.

Jacobsen: When the Church treats survivors as short-term liabilities, part of that seems to involve institutional gaslighting—essentially trying to convince victims that they are misremembering or exaggerating what happened. By “gaslighting,” do you mean that in the institutional sense?

Casteix: Yes, absolutely. Institutional gaslighting. The Church tells survivors things like, “You’re the only one,” or, “We found no evidence that anything happened.” I once had an attorney for the Diocese of Orange look me directly in the eye and say, “I went through your file—there was no evidence whatsoever that anything happened to you. I’m so sorry you feel that this happened.” That was the language: I’m sorry you feel that way, instead of I’m sorry for what we did.

They frame it as, “Let bygones be bygones,” or, “Things happened in the past, but let’s move forward.” It is a way to erase accountability. The gaslighting is intense, and they have done an equally effective job conditioning ordinary Catholics to believe that speaking out about abuse is wrong or disloyal to the Church.

When I came forward in 2003, other Catholics—even people I knew—wrote to me saying, “Joelle, how dare you do this? Are you even sure it happened?” Years later, some of those same people admitted, “The reason I was so mad at you is because I was ashamed about what happened to me. You made me face it.” The gaslighting operates on multiple levels: it isolates the survivor, controls the community’s perception, and protects the institution.

Jacobsen: In my research on evangelical denominations, I have noticed some of the exact mechanisms—pastors or leaders using coded theological language to stigmatize victims. For instance, a woman who speaks out against abuse might be labelled a “Jezebel” or referred to as “that woman,” which in their community is shorthand for someone deceitful or morally corrupt. To outsiders, it doesn’t sound very sensible, but within that theology, it signals that she should be shunned. Does something similar occur in Catholic settings?

Casteix: Yes. Absolutely. In the Catholic Church, women are stereotypically placed into one of two categories: the virgin or the whore. You are either the saintly mother or the fallen woman. There is no middle ground.

When it comes to abuse, this mindset becomes devastating. If you have seen The Keepers on Netflix—a six-part documentary—you know that many of those young women were sexually abused by priests in high school. But the Church did not see them as victims. It saw them as temptresses.

Abuse of boys was treated as abhorrent and sinful. Still, abuse of girls was rationalized—”at least he’s not abusing boys.” That is the mindset. I believe that there are far more female survivors in the Catholic Church than have ever come forward, precisely because they were conditioned to believe it was their fault all along.

Women are not empowered in the Catholic Church. They are not taught that they are equal or that their voices matter. So when abuse happens, it is easy for them to internalize blame: “The priest is the embodiment of God on Earth; if he sinned, I must have caused it.” That is the underlying theology that enables silence.

Women in this system are trapped in a binary—the virgin or the whore—and both categories serve to keep them powerless. It is not an easy place to be a female survivor of abuse in the Catholic Church.

Jacobsen: Not in the negative evaluation, the negative balance of “whore,” although certainly that is within the implication. Also, in popular culture in the United States, I am aware of the Madonna–whore complex that is colloquially discussed. But in terms of what women are supposed to be within the theology—and therefore the social gender roles derived from it—it is Mother Mary or Virgin Mary.

Casteix: Yes, right. A great point, yes.

Jacobsen: That duality. Then another might be the barren woman, the inverse of the mother.

Casteix: The Catholic Church—although they do not emphasize it as much now—has a long tradition of consecrated virgins. These are women who, and I had not even heard of this until I was an adult and visited Rome, dedicate their lives to God through a formal consecration ceremony. They are not nuns; they are everyday women who have jobs and lead normal lives, but they take vows of perpetual virginity. It fits neatly into that same mould of idealized femininity.

Jacobsen: I do not suspect that they are Ceausescu’s henchmen going in to check on whether or not they are having sex—or how do you confirm this label?

Casteix: It is a vow. You cannot confirm the celibacy of any person who has taken such a vow. You cannot verify it for men either.

Jacobsen: That is right. From the research with which I am familiar—for instance, Pokrov was active, and then Prosopon Healing compiled data to build a database further from them—there is enough evidence for a rough four-quadrant analysis. Anyone can be a victim, but statistically, based on verified cases and legal filings, pedophilic assaults tend to involve boys, while sexual assaults against adults are more often against women. Does that align with your understanding of how things have played out?

Casteix: I do not think there is sufficiently reliable data on that, because within the Catholic Church, there is such a repressed view of sexuality that priests will never be forthcoming about their relationships with adults. For example, there was a bishop in Santa Rosa, G. Patrick Ziemann, who was accused of coercing adult men into sexual relationships. One of them sued him, and all of them were adults.

Some studies suggest that around 80% of priests are not celibate. Still, many of them are engaging in consensual relationships with adults, so they are not committing crimes. Historically, the priesthood also became a refuge for closeted gay men. When I graduated from high school in 1988, I had three male friends who were gay but had not come out. They went to their priests for guidance, and the priests told them, “You should join the priesthood because you have to be celibate there.” So these poor kids were funnelled into that life. Two of them became priests and later left.

Once you are inside that culture, there is a kind of quid pro quo—it is “everybody’s doing it.” So I do not think we will ever have reliable data on whether men or women are victimized more in the adult sphere.

In the case of children, we have seen many different kinds of perpetrators. Some were what I would call omnisexual. Take Oliver O’Grady, for instance—he sexually assaulted boys and girls alike. Also, he had relationships with women to gain access to their children. He did not care about gender or age. Michael Baker did something similar: he groomed mothers to get close to their sons. That was how he cultivated access and control.

There’s another priest in the Bay Area who did the same thing. That pattern was familiar. You see these priests who are what I call the “omnisexual” types—they do not have a specific preference. Others, however, have a clear pattern or “type” and build entire communities around that access.

For example, in Orange County, we had Richard Coughlin, who abused prepubescent boys. To gain access, he founded a boys’ choir that operated for more than thirty years. The chorus still exists today, which is astonishing to me—people still send their sons there. And we are now seeing more survivors come forward, including women who were abused as little girls.

Especially in Southern California, where there is a large Latino Catholic population, the culture has made it even harder for girls to speak out. If a girl came forward and said, “Father so-and-so did something to me,” her mother might slap her across the face and say, “You’re sinful.” If a boy said something, the family might at least sense that something was wrong. So the reaction toward girls was very different.

That is why I do not think we have good enough data. We probably never will, because the people we would need data from—the Church hierarchy—are not honest brokers. It is not that they are insane; it is that no one in that system is going to fill out a form saying, “Yes, I prefer prepubescent boys,” or “Yes, I assault adult women.”

We regularly see cases of adults being sexually assaulted as well. There was a case in San Diego, where he invited a nineteen- or twenty-year-old woman to his rectory on New Year’s Eve and violently raped her. She went to the police and filed a report. The priest claimed, “There were lots of people there; I just patted her on the back.” Then he organized parishioners to protest the victim’s mother’s Bible study classes and had her brother expelled from the church. The District Attorney tried to prosecute, but the victim withdrew, even though the evidence was strong.

A few years later, I received an email from someone in Oklahoma City who said, “Hey, this priest is at our parish—we think it’s the same guy.” And it was. The Church had quietly transferred him out of San Diego and hidden him in Oklahoma. The bishop in Oklahoma City was reportedly furious—he had not been told the truth. The priest went on to assault women there as well and was eventually arrested.

The Church did not see it as a problem. Suppose the perpetrator had abused children or stolen money. In that case, they might have acted quickly to remove him or bury the story. But when the victims were women, it was not treated as seriously.

Jacobsen: Within the Catholic Church, the pattern is distinct and, in a way, easier to classify than in the Eastern Orthodox case. In Orthodoxy, even though Patriarch Bartholomew is considered “first among equals,” the churches are self-governing, decentralized, and more complex to map institutionally. The Catholic Church, by contrast, is pyramidal—hierarchical, centralized, and global.

Suppose an order comes from the top to conceal wrongdoing. In that case, the system ensures that the cover-up continues for decades, three, sometimes four generations of leadership. Much of this traces back to the era of Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (later Pope Benedict XVI), who led the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, which handled abuse cases.

So, let’s say hypothetically that five out of every hundred priests commit acts of sexual abuse. If Church policy then transfers each of those priests to four new parishes, the apparent rate—based on observed incidents—would inflate to twenty out of every hundred priests, even though the actual number of abusers remains five. The institutional practice of relocation multiplies the harm and distorts the statistics.

If the Church had implemented meaningful canonical reforms and mandated external reporting—say, to independent civil authorities rather than internal ecclesiastical channels—it could have contained the crisis decades ago. Instead, its secrecy policy perpetuated systemic abuse and compounded the suffering of survivors.

Jacobsen: Is that basically what generally happened?

Casteix: So, I am not a data person. There are two people you should talk to about the data: one is Patrick Wall, and the other—ironically—is my husband. He was responsible for compiling a lot of that information.

The main data set comes from the John Jay College Study, commissioned by the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops. They compiled and cross-referenced lists of known priest perpetrators and reports from dioceses across the country. At its peak, the study found that roughly four percent of priests had credible accusations of abuse. But when survivor networks and advocates expanded the dataset through lawsuits and archives, that number—based on identifiable, named individuals—rose to closer to 20% in certain dioceses. These were not anonymous complaints; these were named priests or priests flagged by their superiors as known problems.

The pattern of movement is one of the most evident warning signs. When a priest is ordained, there is usually a predictable career trajectory: their first parish lasts around five years, their second around seven, their third about fourteen, and so on. If someone deviates sharply from that pattern—say, they move every year or two, take unexplained leaves, or are suddenly transferred to obscure assignments—that is when advocates start to pay attention.

Survivors and watchdog groups often use the Official Catholic Directory—that enormous annual publication listing clergy assignments—to track these movements. It is now online, which makes it easier to map a priest’s history. Most priests follow a steady pattern: seven years here, fourteen there, maybe a short sabbatical. But then you will find the outliers—priests who bounce around erratically. That pattern usually indicates one of two things: they are either on the fast track to the Vatican or they are a problem being quietly moved.

So that irregular trajectory often tells us who the Church itself has identified as a risk. We cannot say with certainty, “This person is a perpetrator,” just by looking at the record—but we can say, “The Church clearly thought something was wrong.” Those men are often sent away to remote places—Guam, an Indian reservation, or Alaska—or quietly retired to isolated communities like San Dimas, with restrictions on being around children.

The data we have is not inflated. In fact, they are almost certainly underreported. When the first wave of cases came to light in the early 2000s, the peak appeared to be in the 1980s. But that was only because it takes survivors an average of thirty years to come forward. As time passes, the bell curve shifts—now the data show higher peaks in the 1990s and early 2000s. The Church tried to argue that the problem was unique to “the crazy eighties,” but that is simply false.

So yes, the actual numbers are higher. This is one of the most underreported crimes in existence, mainly because of complications with order priests versus diocesan priests.

Diocesan priests belong to a specific diocese and report to a bishop. Order priests—such as Jesuits, Franciscans, or Oblates—belong to religious orders with distinct chains of command and international mobility. That makes accountability harder. Survivors often only know a priest by his first name—”Father Mike” or “Father Steve.” If there are nineteen “Father Mikes,” identifying the right one can be nearly impossible.

So, the numbers are likely far higher than what is reported. The apparent decline in cases does not necessarily reflect fewer perpetrators—it reflects fewer priests. The pipeline has collapsed.

Not my generation, but the one before—those men were entering seminary at thirteen. That is part of a larger shift. Christianity itself is in decline, and the priesthood is no longer attracting young men. Those who do enter are often older, sometimes second-career seminarians. But yes, abuse still happens. The difference is that the pool of priests is smaller, and the institution’s capacity for cover-up—while not gone—has shrunk along with it.

Jacobsen: In religious organizations, is abuse increasing or decreasing?

Casteix: I do not know. I do some work with evangelical churches—the Southern Baptist Convention, for instance—and I can tell you this: anytime you have a hierarchical structure combined with a charismatic personality, you are prone to abuse. People often accuse me of being “anti-church.” I am not. Churches themselves do not make bad people.

Bad people are attracted to churches because those institutions provide instant credibility, instant access, and instant cover. The same applies to other environments. When people say, “Oh, there are teachers abusing children,” it is not because public schools are bad—it is because people with predatory inclinations seek out environments where they can access vulnerable populations. A person who wants to abuse children might think, “You know what would give me access? Becoming a gym teacher.”

So the real issue is not the church or the school—it is about training institutions to identify problematic personalities early and remove them before they cause harm.

The Catholic Church, oddly enough, has been forced to do this somewhat effectively simply because fewer people are entering the priesthood. The seminaries are empty; it is no longer a sustainable lifestyle. Many of the priests now being ordained are from Africa and Vietnam, where vocations are still growing. Even so, the Church is losing ground in Latin America, where large portions of the population are turning to evangelical Christianity.

So, the institution is changing, but problems persist—especially with volunteers, choir directors, and teachers within Catholic settings. They are protected by the same internal systems that once shielded priests.

For example, I was not abused by a priest. I was abused by a choir teacher at my Catholic high school, which was under the Diocese of Orange. He was protected by the exact mechanisms that protected priests—the same kind of confidential file, the same pattern of documentation, and the same layers of institutional silence. The only real difference between his file and a priest’s file was that the diocese withheld taxes from his paycheck. That was it.

Jacobsen: Where has the Catholic Church done well in addressing these issues—aside from what we already know they did wrong?

Casteix: That is a fair question. I do not know if I would call it “doing well.” Still, the Catholic Church was the first large organization to be placed under such intense public scrutiny. The scope of exposure forced them into a kind of institutional reckoning. Many people in the Church—perpetrators, enablers, and even those who were simply negligent—were exposed for committing terrible acts or making disastrous decisions.

As a result, other organizations under similar scrutiny, such as the Boy Scouts of America, have learned from those mistakes. They have studied both the Church’s best and worst practices to improve their own responses.

Jacobsen: Has the Church learned from this? 

Casteix: In some ways, yes. They now have policies and procedures designed to keep children safer than before. Programs like Virtus—which focus on awareness and prevention—exist to educate clergy, staff, and volunteers. But the Church remains deeply insular. They rarely invite outside experts or organizations to review their procedures or offer oversight.

I work with organizations that enter evangelical churches to teach practical safeguards—how to conduct background checks, design safe environments, and recognize red flags. The Catholic Church, by contrast, keeps these efforts in-house. If they opened the doors to outside professionals and allowed absolute transparency, not only would they become safer, but they would also rebuild trust with their communities.

So, the reluctance to let outsiders in—despite having improved internal mechanisms—is still part of the culture of secrecy. The Church could be a model for institutional reform, but only if it learned to share what it has learned—and to let others look honestly at the cracks still left in the walls.

Unfortunately, the Church is still litigating aggressively against survivors. I understand they have a fiduciary duty—a financial responsibility to protect Church assets—but they also claim to be a moral institution. You cannot claim moral authority while simultaneously re-traumatizing people you know were abused.

They are more open now, yes, more transparent—but that is a relative statement. They are better than they were twenty years ago, but I would still never feel comfortable sending my own child to a Catholic school or camp. They have not implemented the most basic safety protocols that any responsible institution should have in place.

If you walk into a well-run organization and ask, “What are your policies and procedures for protecting children from sexual abuse?”, the person in charge should be able to respond instantly: Here they are. They’re posted here, here, and here. Staff are trained regularly, and here’s the number to call if you suspect abuse. You can ask a teacher: Do you know the policy? And they’ll say yes.

But in Catholic schools, that infrastructure is often missing. Ask about reporting, and you’ll get, “Just come to me—I’m the principal.” It’s as if they’re still running on dial-up—metaphorically pulling out the old AOL disk and waiting for the connection. The culture is decades behind.

Will they make the pivot they need to make? Not anytime soon. But to be fair, we have come a long way since 2002, when the Boston Globe’s Spotlight investigation blew this open. Twenty-three years later, I never would have imagined we’d see even this level of exposure and reform. So progress exists—but it is slow, inconsistent, and far from enough.

Jacobsen: Let’s connect this to a broader question. If you look at the Larry Nassar cases, the #MeToo movement, lots of Hollywood cases, and the Catholic Church scandals—and even similar problems in the professional class of the handful of atheist organizations—what structural through-lines do you see?

Casteix: You always see the same architecture: a hierarchical system that prioritizes the charismatic personality over the welfare of the people it serves. Whether it is a priest, pastor, coach, or professor, the institution invests its energy in protecting that individual and the organization’s image, not the victims.

These organizations behave like corporations that only care about shareholders. But in this analogy, the shareholders are not the public—they are the institution itself and its power holders: the priest, the pastor, the principal, the president. Protecting reputation comes before protecting people.

You also see an ingrained belief that transparency is a flaw. Discussing abuse publicly terrifies these institutions because it risks exposure. So they suppress conversation, which allows the abuse to continue. You see fear, intimidation, and retaliation against survivors who speak up.

There’s also a hierarchical culture among children and young people in these systems. Look at the Nassar case: if you wanted to be a top gymnast, you learned not to complain. Speaking up meant losing your career. In Catholic schools, the student who complains is punished. In evangelical settings, the child who speaks up is told they are disobedient or unfaithful. Religious children often internalize this to mean, “If I complain, God will not love me.”

In secular institutions, the barrier is bureaucracy and the human tendency to avoid confrontation. People do not want to believe that someone they know—”Mike,” for example—could be a predator. So when a complaint comes in, the administrator says, “Mike, don’t do that again,” and Mike says, “Okay, I won’t.” And then, inevitably, Mike does it again.

It’s a universal human flaw: our wish to believe the best in others. In public schools, this dynamic has been devastating—principals not wanting to confront teachers, afraid of the fallout. They settle for a weak warning instead of accountability. “Don’t do it anymore,” they say. But without real consequences, the cycle repeats.

Jacobsen: So across sacred and secular spaces, the pattern is the same—hierarchy protecting hierarchy, and good intentions shielding evil.

Casteix: Until institutions start valuing truth and accountability over image and authority, this pattern will keep repeating—just with different uniforms. And then they think, “Okay, I’ll stop—or at least I’ll hide it better.” Those are the through-lines I keep seeing.

Jacobsen: Understood. Thank you so much for your time and expertise. 

Jacobsen: Excellent. Thanks so much, Joelle.

Last updated May 3, 2025. These terms govern all In-Sight Publishing content—past, present, and future—and supersede any prior notices.  In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen is licensed under a Creative Commons BY‑NC‑ND 4.0; © In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen 2012–Present. All trademarks, performances, databases & branding are owned by their rights holders; no use without permission. Unauthorized copying, modification, framing or public communication is prohibited. External links are not endorsed. Cookies & tracking require consent, and data processing complies with PIPEDA & GDPR; no data from children < 13 (COPPA). Content meets WCAG 2.1 AA under the Accessible Canada Act & is preserved in open archival formats with backups. Excerpts & links require full credit & hyperlink; limited quoting under fair-dealing & fair-use. All content is informational; no liability for errors or omissions: Feedback welcome, and verified errors corrected promptly. For permissions or DMCA notices, email: scott.jacobsen2025@gmail.com. Site use is governed by BC laws; content is “as‑is,” liability limited, users indemnify us; moral, performers’ & database sui generis rights reserved.

#MeToo

Timothy D. Law on Zero Tolerance, Vatican Resistance, and Clergy-Abuse

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/11/23

Timothy D. Law is a Catholic advocate for survivors and accountability. A founding leader with Ending Clergy Abuse, he campaigns for a universal zero-tolerance canon law that permanently removes abusers from ministry. Law helped advance clergy mandatory reporting legislation in Washington State and has worked alongside Ugandan and Kenyan communities for decades. He and advocates met Pope Leo to press for enforceable reforms after years of Vatican resistance. Sanctioned by his archbishop for supporting reform, Law continues to serve at the parish level while challenging hierarchical impunity. His approach combines legal strategy, media engagement, and collaboration with survivor leaders.

In this interview with Scott Douglas Jacobsen, Timothy D. Law traces the clergy abuse reckoning from the 1984–85 Gauthe case and Boston’s 2002 Spotlight exposé to UN scrutiny in 2014 and the 2018–19 crisis that forced a Vatican summit. He argues that policies without sanctions produce “no there there,” urging a universal canon law mandating permanent removal of abusive clergy. Law describes Vatican resistance, especially from parts of Africa and Asia, and recounts meeting Pope Leo, who acknowledged “great resistance.” He outlines poverty, church–state entanglement, and weak mandates as barriers, praises parish-level service, and champions transparency, civil investigations, and survivor-centred reforms, including Washington State’s clergy reporting push.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: What is the history of your work?

Timothy D. Law: The first significant date is 1984–1985, when the Gilbert Gauthe case in Louisiana became the first widely publicized criminal trial of a U.S. Catholic priest for child sexual abuse; civil suits followed, and the scandal broke into national view.

The Church initially framed the abuse as the work of “a few bad apples.” The next major year is 2002, when The Boston Globe’s Spotlight reporting exposed systemic cover-ups in the Archdiocese of Boston and beyond.

Rome first minimized this as an “American problem.” However, one concrete result was that U.S. bishops adopted the Charter for the Protection of Children and Young People and companion Essential Norms—effectively a zero-tolerance policy in U.S. canon law for clergy who abuse a minor, requiring permanent removal from ministry. The Holy See granted formal recognition to those Norms in December 2002. To date, the Vatican has not mandated a universal zero-tolerance law; advocates continue to push for it.

After 2002, the next major year is 2014. The UN Committee on the Rights of the Child (CRC) and the Committee against Torture (CAT) reviewed the Holy See. Both committees criticized the Holy See for prioritizing institutional reputation over child protection and issued recommendations that included: ending impunity for abusers and for cover-ups, mandatory reporting to civil authorities, greater access to files, and reparations. As a state party, the Vatican is expected to report periodically; another CRC report was due in 2017, and advocacy groups later complained about the lack of follow-through.

The next pivotal year is 2018, a perfect storm: Pope Francis’ troubled trip to Chile amid a national abuse crisis there; the Pennsylvania grand jury report detailing decades of abuse and cover-ups; and the Theodore McCarrick revelations that led to his removal from ministry in 2018 and laicization in 2019. These events prompted Francis to convene a global summit on the protection of minors in February 2019, which brought together about 190 participants, including the presidents of 114 bishops’ conferences. Survivor advocates were not official participants in the closed-door sessions, though survivor testimonies were presented to the assembly.

Two primary outcomes followed. First, on December 17, 2019, Francis abolished the “pontifical secret” for cases of clergy sexual abuse of minors, sexual violence, and child pornography offences—intended to allow cooperation with civil authorities and improve transparency. Observers welcomed the step but noted that other forms of canonical confidentiality still limit practical access to files in many places.

Second, Vos Estis Lux Mundi (May 2019, made permanent and expanded in 2023) established universal procedures for receiving and investigating allegations against bishops and religious superiors, and for handling reporting and case management. It is a procedural framework, not a universal zero-tolerance penalty law, and its effectiveness has varied from country to country.

Jacobsen: When these policies and announcements are made, what usually happens next?

Law: They make a big show of these things, and at the moment they sound terrific—full of potential. 

Jacobsen: I really love that phrase, “at the moment.”

Law: Because when the smoke clears, there’s no there there. The bishops face no real accountability. They can choose whether to follow the procedures, and there are no sanctions if they don’t.

There was no zero-tolerance law made part of this, so it was a toothless public relations effort. 

Jacobsen: If there’s no there there, then when our time comes, there’s no here here.

Law: Pope Francis is beloved by much of the world community, and people think he’s doing a great job. He talks about zero tolerance, but he wasn’t a canon lawyer—he’s more of a theologian, someone who gives statements and guidance. The current officials in charge of canon law could, in theory, put those principles into legal form, but they haven’t.

The Vatican often co-opts our language. They start using phrases like “zero tolerance” and other terms we use, but they don’t translate them into enforceable law.

Our goal has been to get inside the tent—to be part of the conversation and push for real change. We managed to get our foot in the door a year ago, in November, when we were invited into the Dicastery for Legislative Texts. I believe there are eight major dicasteries in the Vatican, and this one handles canon law.

We met with the president of the Dicastery and asked him directly: why no zero-tolerance law? They gave several responses, often contradictory. Some said, “We already have enough laws; we just need to enforce the ones we have.” Others said, “It’s cultural. We can’t have one law that fits the entire world. We’re a global Church.”

We pointed out that the Church does, in fact, enforce universal laws on issues like abortion or the death penalty. 

Jacobsen: Religion is a transnational movement.

Law: That’s true—but consistency should apply to protecting children as well.

They said that in some places, such as parts of Africa, attitudes toward sexuality differ. But one of our board members, Janet Aguti from Uganda, who runs a remarkable sexual violence awareness program there, told the Holy Father directly: “There is nowhere in the world where sexual abuse of children is culturally acceptable.”

The next significant milestone was our meeting with the Pope in October. We were genuinely surprised to receive the invitation. It was the first time in history that a Pope had met with a survivor activist organization. Usually, the Vatican arranges meetings only with hand-picked individual victims.

Jacobsen: What was the significance of your meeting with the Pope?

Law: Normally, the Vatican arranges private, emotional meetings between the Pope and individual survivors—what we call “kiss and cry sessions.” They generate much publicity but little systemic change. For a Pope to meet with a group like ours was different. More than half of our delegation are survivors of abuse, but we approached it as a professional meeting. We weren’t there to recount our trauma; we were there to say, “We need to be part of the solution. We need to be part of the conversation.”

We began by saying the Church must adopt a zero-tolerance policy. The Pope told us there is excellent resistance to such a law. That was new—previously, Vatican officials had claimed it wasn’t necessary. We knew the real issue was resistance, especially from bishops in Africa and Asia.

Jacobsen: That’s an interesting nuance. Why the resistance from those regions?

Law: The Pope acknowledged that Africa poses a serious challenge. He said many bishops there deny they have a problem, though he added, “I know better.” He told us that the days when he could sign a decree were over. He could, technically, do it, he said, but because of social media, if those under his authority aren’t willing to follow it, they’ll ignore it.

We understood that as an admission of a fundamental structural problem. Still, we said, if you can’t sign a universal zero-tolerance law now, then let us be in the room to help remove that resistance. Survivors and advocates have expertise that can help address cultural or institutional objections. The Pope agreed to that in principle.

What form that collaboration will take is yet to be seen. The question now is whether he meant it sincerely or was deflecting. He mentioned that we should meet with the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors, and I thought to myself, “That’s a toothless commission.” If he’s relegating us to that body, it means he’s punting on the real issue.

That said, he seemed straightforward. He told us, “I won’t promise what I can’t do, but I hear you. Let’s try to work together.”

Notably, he also revealed something we hadn’t expected: he didn’t know that the U.S. bishops’ zero-tolerance policy had been formally recognized as canon law. He believed it was just a voluntary initiative by the American bishops. I said, “No, Holy Father—it’s an essential norm approved by the Vatican.” That was news to him.

The significance of that moment is enormous. It shows we’re not asking for something new or impossible. The U.S. has had this in place since 2002. For all our ongoing problems, the United States is probably the safest place in the world for children within the Church because of those protocols and the zero-tolerance policy. Our question to him was simple: if it works here, why not make it universal?

He said again that there’s strong resistance to that. Our reply was: “Let us help you remove it.”

Jacobsen: Do you have any further reflections on why Asia and Africa are regions of acute concern regarding clerical abuse and institutional resistance?

Law: Yes, and it’s essential to understand the historical pattern. This crisis has moved in waves. It began in the United States, then spread to Western Europe, and then to Australia. Now we’re seeing it emerge in South America, though resistance remains strong in Asia and Africa. Their time will come.

The main reason for resistance is the tight interconnection between Church and State in those regions. They protect one another. For over thirty years, I’ve been travelling to Uganda and Kenya. I first became involved through a group of Ugandan Catholic nuns I met by chance three decades ago, and since then I’ve worked with them on various community projects.

The faith of the people there is firm, and their bond with the Church is almost inseparable. The bishops are deeply intertwined with the government. Corruption runs deep. When abuse occurs, even if it causes an uproar locally, it’s quickly suppressed. The people don’t want to believe their priests or bishops could commit abuse, and civil authorities protect the Church. Cracks are forming, but the reckoning hasn’t yet arrived.

Jacobsen: Why do laypeople remain in denial? Why do secular institutions of the state protect religious institutions complicit in systemic or individual crimes?

Law: Poverty is the central factor. When I visit every other year, even for a few weeks, I see how profound it is. For many people, faith is their only constant. They literally depend on it to survive. If that faith were shaken, they feel they would have nothing left. They wake up thanking God they’re alive. A bowl of food is a miracle. The Church often provides that food, and that charity cements loyalty.

But the tragedy is that this dependency prevents systemic change. People won’t fight for functioning economies, infrastructure, or accountability. I’ve seen regions where farmers all grow tomatoes but have no roads to transport them elsewhere. If they had decent infrastructure, they could sell to markets beyond their village. Deep poverty, in that sense, serves both the Church and the State very well. It maintains control. It’s heartbreaking.

At the same time, I see how meaningful faith is to them, and I feel conflicted about challenging it. When I stay in village rectories, I see firsthand how priests live and work. Africa is overwhelmingly young—about 75-80% of the population is under 30. It’s a continent of children and youth. Priests there are overwhelmed by poverty. A single priest may serve 15,000 to 30,000 parishioners, all of them struggling. He has limited resources but access to some aid. That dynamic—scarcity and power—creates a dangerous imbalance.

Many priests in Africa are also principals of schools. Their parishioners’ children will do anything to get an education—literally anything. Some even resort to prostitution to pay school fees. With that kind of power and pressure, it’s not hard to imagine how widespread abuse can become in a system like that.

These are good people, compassionate people, but when you’re living under immense pressure and poverty, people cope however they can—through alcohol, drugs, sex. Abuse grows out of that environment. I believe that when the truth eventually comes to light, the scope of abuse in Africa will be ten times worse than anywhere else in the world.

That’s why the bishops are so resistant. Deep down, they know that if a universal zero-tolerance law were implemented, they would lose much of their power—and many of their own.

Jacobsen: On a broader level, this brings us to international ethics. There’s only one real place where nations have agreed—at least formally—to play by the same moral rules: the United Nations, through its human rights framework. That principle of universalism means the same ethical standards apply everywhere. You’re calling for a universal zero-tolerance law. Why is it crucial that such a standard exist?

Law: It’s essential to call it a law, not a policy. The Church keeps saying it has a “zero tolerance policy.” But a policy is optional—it can be ignored. A law is binding. A law means that if you sexually abuse a child, you must be permanently removed from ministry. No exceptions.

That removes discretion from the bishops and shifts power toward the victims. That’s the fundamental struggle here—who holds power.

Of course, even if the Pope were to sign such a law, that wouldn’t be the end. It’s not a cure-all. It would still have to be enforced. But it would be the critical first step—the Achilles’ heel. Once that domino falls, everything else follows: full disclosure, independent review, perhaps even a truth and reconciliation commission. That’s why they’re so afraid of it.

When we met with the Pope, he was caught off guard. We were scheduled for a 20-minute meeting—it lasted about an hour. We began with a statement explaining who we were and what we were asking for, then introduced ourselves. The Pope was warm and personable, and the tone throughout was professional and respectful on both sides.

We got the Pope’s commitment to work with us. As the meeting was wrapping up, I debated whether to ask one last, pointed question. Finally, I did. I said, “Holy Father, you don’t have to answer this, but I must ask: why can’t the U.S. zero-tolerance law be made universal throughout the Church?”

He hesitated, fumbled a bit, and then said there was “great resistance” to it. That’s when he made the statements I mentioned earlier—the ones acknowledging the opposition, particularly from Africa and Asia. His response revealed just how aware Church leadership is of the potential consequences such a law would have for them.

Jacobsen: You were, shall we say, rather bold in asking that. It got right to the heart of the issue—universalizing a law that already exists in America.

Law: Yes, and his acknowledgment of resistance was significant news. From that moment, we decided to focus our efforts laser-like on this single goal: establishing a universal zero-tolerance law. We believe it’s the one thread that, once pulled, could unravel a culture of impunity.

Jacobsen: The slow progress raises a question. Is this delay simply because the Catholic Church is vast and bureaucratic—a 2,000-year-old institution with layers of canon law to navigate? Or is it more self-serving—an attempt to shield itself from exposure? Could it even stem from lay resistance or people protecting their own crimes under the cover of faith? What’s really driving the inertia?

Law: That’s a complex question. In one sense, things haven’t moved slowly at all. If you look at the last forty years, child sexual abuse wasn’t even a topic of public conversation. Now it’s part of global discourse. The clergy abuse crisis in the Catholic Church helped catalyze broader social awareness. Movements like #MeToo and increased attention to institutional accountability all owe something to the exposure of these crimes.

We now have a safer Church in many regions, and many other organizations—religious and secular alike—have adopted safeguarding protocols inspired by these reforms. So, in that respect, progress has been real. Every time we speak about this, every time you interview this one, it has a ripple effect. It makes the world a bit safer.

That said, we’re dealing with an institution that instinctively protects itself. It’s a self-preserving organism, and no one likes to confront such horror within something they love. Many good people have left the Church over this, leaving behind those who prefer to look away or trust that the hierarchy has it under control.

I may be the only person in our organization who still actively practices Catholicism. I still attend the same parish where I was baptized seventy-six years ago. I love the Church. I believe deeply in its spiritual message. But the hierarchy—since its earliest days—has always been susceptible to corruption. Power is intoxicating, and it corrupts. It always has, and it always will.

This issue affects different parts of the world in various ways. In Africa, for example, the people are not demanding accountability from their bishops. So yes, it’s both leadership and laity that allow the system to persist. It takes a few activists—people willing to keep pushing, to keep prodding the institution—to create a movement. Change happens, but it tends to occur in bursts rather than gradually.

We’ve seen this pattern before: 1985, 2002, 2018—each year marking a significant crisis or revelation that forced the Church to respond. My view is that if we’re in the room with a “shovel-ready law,” ready to be enacted, then when the next scandal inevitably breaks, they’ll call us. They’ll say, “We have to do something. We’re losing people. Let’s move on to this law.” Unfortunately, it often takes a catastrophe to create momentum. That’s why we have to be present and prepared when that moment comes.

Jacobsen: Why is the movement so catastrophe-driven?

Law: Because the survivors and advocates—people like us—are motivated by conscience, not power. We believe what we’re doing serves the good of both victims and the Church. The hierarchy knows what it must do—be transparent and accountable—but it won’t act voluntarily. It takes public outrage and those catastrophic shocks to jolt them into reform.

A pope would never have convened a global summit on clergy abuse or publicly acknowledged it as a worldwide crisis if not for the convergence of scandals that came to a head in 2018. That was a perfect storm—years of revelations building until he had no choice but to respond. It’s human nature, unfortunately.

Jacobsen: Within the theology itself, shouldn’t they fear God’s wrath for allowing such evil?

Law: I don’t think it works that way. I believe God gave us intelligence to solve our own problems. It’s our responsibility to use that—to act justly and fix what’s broken.

Jacobsen: Where has the Church done well, on the other hand?

Law: Well, credit where it’s due. The Apostle Paul wrote that before God, there is no male or female, rich or poor, that we are all equal in His eyes and share a common humanity. That idea—radical in its time—helped transform the world. It inspired the foundational ideals of equality in the modern era. You see echoes of it in the American Declaration of Independence: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” That philosophical lineage traces back to Christian thought.

Throughout history, the Church has also founded universities, hospitals, and charitable institutions. The impulse to love, to serve, and to care for humanity is deeply rooted in the Church’s teaching. It’s just that the institution often falls short of its own ideals. The principles are there—the implementation, far less so. But occasionally, we do get it right.

It’s exciting to wake up each morning and work toward justice. We all feel that way. If we didn’t believe that what we’re doing makes a difference, it would be unbearable. That drive—to seek truth and justice—comes, in part, from the very moral teachings we grew up with in our churches, across all faith traditions.

Jacobsen: You’ve supported the civil investigation in Washington State. What lessons from that effort could apply nationally or even internationally?

Law: What we’re doing in Washington is really a microcosm of what needs to happen around the world. We’ve asked the bishops of Washington State to enter into a truth and reconciliation process with us—to grant access to their files, to protect victims, of course, but above all, to put all the cards on the table. We need to understand why the abuse happened, how it happened, and how to prevent it from ever happening again.

This has to be a partnership between the people and the Church leadership. It can’t be a self-contained, internal process. That’s what needs to happen locally, and it’s also what must happen internationally. I do believe it will, eventually.

Each U.S. state has different laws governing access to Church records. Some, like Pennsylvania, allow grand jury investigations with broad powers. That’s how the Pennsylvania grand jury was able to force the Church to release decades of internal files, exposing systemic abuse. Washington State’s laws aren’t as clear.

So, we initiated a process with the state attorney general’s office to gain access to those files. We lost the first round in the trial court, but the case is now on appeal. The briefs are filed, the hearings are done, and we’re awaiting a decision on whether the attorney general has the authority to access those records.

Jacobsen: The argument for transparency seems foundational—what’s at stake in that decision?

Law: Full disclosure is essential. The Church, especially when dealing with children, cannot be above the law. It must be accountable to parents, to grandparents, to the public. We have a right to know. Those abuse files belong, in a moral sense, to the victims. They’re not the Church’s property—they’re the stories and the pain of human beings.

There are two reasons we want access. One is informational: we need to understand the scope and details of what happened. But the second is preventative. If the Church knows the public has a right to access its records, that knowledge itself acts as accountability. It’s a safeguard against future cover-ups.

Jacobsen: Survivors have sought justice through various paths—such as independent compensation funds, civil litigation, or hybrid models. While each case is individual, what tends to feel most like justice for survivors?

Law: The biggest thing is acknowledgment. Survivors want the Church to publicly admit that the abuse happened and that it was allowed to happen. Many survivors were told for years, “You’re the only one,” or “We didn’t know.” Then they discover that the Church had known for decades that there were thick files documenting the same abuser harming child after child.

That revelation—that they were lied to, that the institution they trusted knew and did nothing—is devastating. So when the Church finally acknowledges the truth, it validates survivors’ pain and their humanity. It’s not about money first—it’s about being believed.

When they acknowledge to the victim, “We hurt you. We did wrong,” that’s huge. That’s validating. The financial part—settlements and compensation—is good, but it’s not deeply satisfying. It doesn’t make anyone whole. No matter the size of the settlement, nobody feels whole afterward. Their soul have been shattered, and they can never be restored to what it was. That can’t be undone.

But it is accountability. When the Church has to sell off property to make funds available for compensation, that’s a form of justice. Unfortunately, they’ve begun using bankruptcy strategically—to limit compensation and to block access to the files. So, the accurate measure of justice is holding them accountable: making them pay, where possible, and forcing them to acknowledge wrongdoing.

Jacobsen: How realistic are transnational bodies—like UN treaty committees or regional courts—as avenues for action on behalf of survivors?

Law: It has to be a multi-pronged approach. No single system will fix it. Over time, you build a patchwork of solutions—legal, moral, and social. The United Nations and similar institutions can’t enforce much; they don’t have legal power over sovereign or religious entities. But they do have moral authority—what’s sometimes called “moral suasion.”

That matters. Speaking out always has an effect. Silence is never neutral. Every voice adds pressure. So we keep saying something, always. It’s a long game.

We have a board member named Janet Aguti—she’s 32. I’m 76. That gives you a sense of the timeline. There’s no quick fix, no “kill shot.” This work will outlast us. Independent lay groups like ours are new, both in civil society and within the Church’s context. That’s historic in itself.

Our existence must be permanent. These groups need to keep watch—to monitor, to hold the institution accountable. Centuries ago, the Church functioned as a law unto itself. That era has to end. We’re part of a movement meant to ensure it does, permanently.

Jacobsen: Many people—whether victims, advocates, or simply believers learning these truths—have struggled with their faith. How did you process this personally? Did you ever question your faith? Once? Several times? How did that reconciliation unfold?

Law: Yes, I’ve questioned it—more than once. I still do, sometimes. I don’t really know why I have faith—it’s a mystery, something larger than logic.

Until about 2014, I was oblivious to the depth of this issue. I’m relatively new to it. I knew about the 2002 Boston Globe investigation, of course, but I believed the bishops had solved the problem afterward with their so-called “safe environment” programs. I lived in a kind of bubble, thinking the crisis was over. I was wrong.

I lived in a lovely little religious bubble. Then local events here in Seattle burst that bubble, and I could no longer see my faith in quite the same way.

Jacobsen: What do you mean by that?

Law: The comfort I used to draw from ritual—from the daily Mass, from the rhythm of it all—was shattered. I went to Mass every day. Some of my best friends were priests and bishops. Some still are. But when I discovered that several of them were complicit in covering up abuse, that sense of comfort dissolved.

Even so, other experiences have convinced me there’s something rather than nothing—something divine, something loving. I believe there is a God of love. I realized that faith has been part of me since childhood.

When I was seven years old, I had a terrible experience with a nun in first grade. She called me up to read in front of a class of sixty children. I stumbled over a word, and she told me to stick out my tongue—then she punched me in the jaw. It wasn’t discipline; it was terrorism. Later, I started to recall how often she struck other children, too.

That was the start of understanding that there’s both good and evil within the Church’s ranks. My parents were people of deep faith, and I suppose I inherited that from them. The priests and nuns I knew—some were kind, others cruel—but none of them destroyed my belief in God.

The real challenge was this: I can believe, but why do I still belong to the institution? I had to decide. I remain a member of the parish where I grew up. These are my people. They do good work—serving the poor, fighting for justice. At the ground level, in local parishes, the Church can be a dynamic, life-giving community.

But once you move up the hierarchy, that’s where everything breaks down. Leaders seem to be chosen not for moral courage, but for their willingness to protect their fellow bishops. That creates and perpetuates a culture of corruption at the top.

Another reason I stay in the Church—and in my parish—is that it’s more effective to work from the inside. I get to educate people on the issues and, frankly, disturb their peace a little bit. Recently, I lobbied for and helped pass a bill in the Washington State Legislature to make clergy mandatory reporters, even when they learn of abuse in a confessional setting. That specific confessional clause was later set aside, but the law itself passed.

There’s a photo of my wife and me standing beside the governor as he signed the bill. Because of my public support, my archbishop sanctioned me—told me there were specific duties I could no longer perform in my parish. Ironically, that only amplified the story. Rolling Stone even covered it, and my grandkids now think I’m pretty cool.

This institution—the Catholic Church—has been around for two thousand years and will probably be around for thousands more. It’s 1.3 billion people strong and operates across national borders. That means it has an enormous responsibility to clean up its act. That’s what we’re working toward: reform from within.

Jacobsen: What about the push to vet cardinals’ abuse records and monitor the next papal election? I believe that’s connected to the Conclave Watch effort.

Law: Yes, that’s right. Peter Isely and Sarah Pearson led that project. They were both part of Ending Clergy Abuse (ECA) until last year—Peter was actually our public spokesperson. He’s an incredibly talented guy. They later moved to SNAP—the Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests—and took a more confrontational approach.

SNAP has always been bold and direct. Without SNAP, our movement wouldn’t exist in its current form. Their confrontation created space for us to take a complementary role—to work the inside track while they maintain external pressure.

Jacobsen: The classic “good cop, bad cop” dynamic?

Law: Exactly. We need each other. The Pope never would have met with us if we had taken SNAP’s approach. It was risky for both sides—for him to meet with us, and for us to accept the meeting. It brought us a lot of attention and goodwill, but also the danger of being co-opted.

We’re aware of that. Now we have to use the opportunity to push our advantage—to secure a genuine seat at the table. And if we don’t, we must be ready to call it out publicly: “You promised change. Where is it?”

The Pope took a real risk by meeting with us. I’m sure many bishops were furious—his own advisors have long argued the best way to handle us is to ignore us entirely, to deny our existence, to give us no oxygen. So for the Pope to acknowledge us was huge—for him and for us.

And now, after years of effort, the media finally understands what we’ve been saying: that the Church doesn’t need another policy on zero tolerance—it needs a law. For five years, reporters weren’t getting it. Now, they’re asking those questions themselves: “Where’s the zero-tolerance law?” That shift in understanding is a breakthrough.

That breakthrough with the press has created real momentum—momentum that can carry forward beyond us.

Jacobsen: You’re essentially talking about making accountability legally independent of bishops—canonically and jurisdictionally separate?

Law: Canon law is the Church’s internal legal system—its code of conduct and operating manual. It’s already there. What we’re proposing is quite simple: a canon law stating that if a clergy member sexually abuses a child, they must be permanently removed from ministry.

We’ve worked with canon lawyers to draft a version of that law that the Pope could sign tomorrow. It’s ready. It could become part of the Church’s binding legal framework immediately.

Right now, the Vatican’s approach borrows from the U.S. model—not a perfect fit, since it doesn’t hold bishops accountable for cover-ups. It focuses only on priests, not bishops. But even that—making permanent removal mandatory for any priest who abuses a child—would be a dramatic first step if formally enacted into canon law.

Jacobsen: You and Mary Dispenza have engaged major media outlets. What’s your advice for journalists or communications professionals trying to cover these issues with both sensitivity and firmness—enough pressure to get accountability, but without retraumatizing survivors?

Law: That’s a great question. We don’t have an institutional platform like the Pope does. We depend entirely on the press to carry our message. Without journalists, our work doesn’t reach anyone. So we need you—plain and simple.

The media landscape has changed. It used to be that if The New York Times or Associated Press covered you, that was it—you’d reached the world. Now, social media often carries more weight. We’ve had to adapt to that reality.

The Church says it isn’t a democratic organization, but in truth, every institution responds to pressure. Some do it formally through votes or policy, while others do it informally through reputation and visibility. What we’re doing—organizing, lobbying, forming alliances—is the same process I used in the Washington State Legislature to get the clergy-reporting law passed.

We lobby. We find allies. We look for people inside the Vatican who are quietly sympathetic. The organizational chart doesn’t show where the real power lies. The Pope surrounds himself with advisors he actually listens to—so our task is to find those people.

It takes time, energy, and persistence. Every time we’re in Rome, we try to meet with someone significant. On our last trip, in October, we met with someone extremely influential.

This person we met in Rome doesn’t have a big title, but he has real influence—and he knows exactly who the real power players are. Building those kinds of relationships is crucial to moving things forward.

Jacobsen: Any final thoughts on the Pontifical Commission for the Protection of Minors after your October 20th meetings?

Law: The commission was established with limited power and funding. It was a brilliant public relations move by Pope Francis. The problem is that it doesn’t have a real mandate. There are a lot of good people on it—people who genuinely care—but several have resigned out of frustration once they realized there’s “no there there.”

If we could work with the commission to make its recommendations more direct—more pointed—toward the Pope, that could have value. Right now, they issue reports but rarely challenge the Vatican to act. They should be the ones pushing for a zero-tolerance law. They were close to doing that last year, but then they backed away.

Because it’s a papal commission, they’d essentially have to go rogue to demand a zero-tolerance law. And of course, if they did, the Pope could dissolve the commission altogether—which, honestly, might not be a bad thing if it led to something more substantial and more independent.

Jacobsen: Tim, are there any other areas we should explore today, or does that cover the main ground?

Law: I could talk about this all day, but I think we’ve covered much territory. I appreciate your time. Thank you for listening and for what you’re doing. It’s essential work. Keep it up.

Jacobsen: Thank you. Cheers.

Law: Bye now.

Last updated May 3, 2025. These terms govern all In-Sight Publishing content—past, present, and future—and supersede any prior notices.  In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen is licensed under a Creative Commons BY‑NC‑ND 4.0; © In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen 2012–Present. All trademarks, performances, databases & branding are owned by their rights holders; no use without permission. Unauthorized copying, modification, framing or public communication is prohibited. External links are not endorsed. Cookies & tracking require consent, and data processing complies with PIPEDA & GDPR; no data from children < 13 (COPPA). Content meets WCAG 2.1 AA under the Accessible Canada Act & is preserved in open archival formats with backups. Excerpts & links require full credit & hyperlink; limited quoting under fair-dealing & fair-use. All content is informational; no liability for errors or omissions: Feedback welcome, and verified errors corrected promptly. For permissions or DMCA notices, email: scott.jacobsen2025@gmail.com. Site use is governed by BC laws; content is “as‑is,” liability limited, users indemnify us; moral, performers’ & database sui generis rights reserved.

#MeToo

Inside the Porn Economy: Gail Dines on Bodies, Profit, and Power

Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen

Publication (Outlet/Website): International Policy Digest

Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/09/04

Dr. Gail Dines is the founder and CEO of Culture Reframed, as well as a professor emerita of sociology and women’s studies at Wheelock College in Boston. Drawing on more than three decades of scholarship on the pornography industry, she is widely regarded as an authority on how porn shapes culture, sexuality, and social norms. She has advised government agencies in the United States and abroad—including in the United Kingdom, Norway, Iceland, and Canada—and in 2016 launched Culture Reframed, which develops education aimed at building resilience to porn’s harms.

Dines co-edited the best-selling textbook Gender, Race, and Class in Media and wrote Pornland: How Porn Has Hijacked Our Sexuality, translated into five languages and adapted into a documentary. Her work has appeared across major outlets such as ABC, CNN, BBC, MSNBC, The New York Times, Time, The Guardian, and Vogue. A regular presence on television and radio, she is also featured in documentary films, including The Price of Pleasure and The Strength to Resist.

In her research and public advocacy, Dines argues that decades of evidence show a strong association between pornography consumption and violence against women. She contends that mainstream porn cultivates harmful sexual attitudes, lowers empathy, and normalizes misogyny, racism, and sexual violence. Distinguishing a radical-feminist, harm-based critique from conservative moralism, she focuses on measurable social effects rather than questions of private morality.

According to Dines, porn distorts how men and women understand sex, relationships, and consent. She calls for comprehensive, “porn-resilient” education for young people and for broader social responsibility in addressing the industry’s outsized influence.

Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Today, I’m here with Professor Gail Dines, the founder of Culture Reframed. My first question, Gail: what is the connection between pornography and violence against women?

Gail Dines: We have over 40 years of empirical research from different disciplines that show that boys and men who consume pornography are more likely to engage in sexually aggressive behaviour, more likely to accept rape myths, more likely to develop harmful sexual attitudes toward women, and may experience increased anxiety, depression, and reduced empathy for victims of sexual violence. This happens because they are repeatedly exposed to depictions of sexual violence and objectification. Most mainstream Internet pornography today is hardcore—it’s cruel, brutal, and dehumanizing toward women.

As men and boys watch and become aroused by it, they internalize the ideologies embedded in these images. A key point about pornography is that it portrays women as always consenting, no matter how degrading or violent the act is. This gives the impression that women enjoy being mistreated, which is often far from the truth, as they may be coerced or paid to act in these scenes. This reinforces the harmful idea that it is acceptable to dehumanize and abuse women. We have substantial peer-reviewed research from fields such as psychology, sociology, and media studies that corroborates these findings.

Jacobsen: What research links pornography to sexual aggression?

Dines: Regarding the research linking pornography to sexual aggression, our website is a good resource. One in particular, titled “Understanding the Harms of Pornography,” lists many studies. Additionally, our academic library contains over 500 peer-reviewed articles on this topic. Scholars such as Paul Wright, Chyng Sun, and Jennifer Johnson have contributed important work. The strength of social science research is not in isolated studies but in the coherent pattern that emerges when we review a large body of work. The research shows a clear correlation between pornography consumption and violence against women.

Jacobsen: How does hypersexualized media align with human rights violations, particularly regarding youth?

Dines: Hypersexualized media, even content that isn’t classified as pornography, and pornography itself can be viewed as violations of civil rights because they infringe on young people’s ability to construct their sexuality. The multi-billion-dollar media and pornography industries are shaping the sexual attitudes and behaviours of young people worldwide, which strips them of their autonomy in this area. These industries commodify and monetize sexuality, taking control away from individuals and turning it into a product.

Young people deserve the opportunity to develop a sexuality that is meaningful to them, not one dictated by the interests of pornographers seeking profit. Additionally, there are significant human rights violations against women in pornography. The treatment many women endure in the production of hardcore pornography can be likened to torture, violating international human rights conventions. If the same acts were done to any other group, they would likely be recognized as torture. That’s how extreme much of mainstream pornography has become.

Jacobsen: What are the social and health consequences of pornography consumption?

Dines: Basically, pornography is shifting how we think about women, men, sex, relationships, connection, and consent—all of these issues. What you see in society is that when pornography becomes the “wallpaper” of your life, as it does for young people today, it becomes the main form of sex education. This shifts the norms and values of the culture, and it’s happening internationally. This is not a local problem. Any child with a device connected to the Internet is being fed a steady diet of misogyny and racism—there’s an incredible amount of racism in pornography—and the idea that men and boys have a right to ownership of women’s bodies, regardless of what women want. There’s also the notion that women’s bodies exist to be commodified and used however men wish. This sets up women and girls to be victims of male violence. Meanwhile, we are trying to build a world of equality between men and women.

Pornography shreds that possibility—not only in terms of sex but also in employment, the legal system, and more. It sends the message that women exist only to be penetrated, and often in the most vile and cruel ways possible. So, pornography undermines women’s rights across multiple levels and within multiple institutions.

Jacobsen: You raised an interesting point about the nature of consent. What is the framework of consent in pornographic imagery and in the industry itself?

Dines: First, let’s start with the imagery because the industry is slightly different. In the images, she consents to everything. The one word you rarely hear in pornography is “no.” It’s rare. If you go onto Pornhub or any other adult website, where most men and boys consume pornography, you won’t hear “no.” Now, there are some rape porn sites where the woman says “no,” but those are at the far end of the spectrum. I study mainstream pornography, such as what’s on Pornhub. In terms of consent, we often question whether a woman truly consents; this is where the industry comes in. While they might sign a consent form, we don’t know under what conditions it was signed.

Also, pornography is where racism, sexism, capitalism, and colonialism intersect. The poorer a woman is, the more likely she is to be a woman of colour with fewer resources, and the more likely she is to end up in the porn industry. These are not Ivy League graduates lining up to do this. These are women who have had few choices. When you have limited options in life, especially due to economic hardship, it is challenging to argue that consent is fully informed or voluntary.

Jacobsen: For those able to exit the industry, what are the ways they manage to do so, and what are the psychological and emotional impacts, as well as the physical effects?

Dines: It’s extremely hard for women to leave pornography. First of all, we know that women in pornography experience the same levels of post-traumatic stress disorder as prostituted women. Many of them are also under pimp control. The psychological, emotional, and physical tolls are severe, making it difficult for them to leave the industry.

And also, where are they going to go? Especially in pornography, where your image is everywhere, women who have been in the industry, even if they get out, live in constant fear that their employers, children, and partners will find their content online. The issue becomes extremely difficult. You never really escape pornography once you’ve been part of it. Even if you leave the industry, you’re never fully out of it because your image remains online. It can take many years to recover emotionally and physically.

Many women endure severe physical harm—STIs and injuries to the anus, vagina, and mouth due to the hardcore nature of the acts. What’s interesting is that, in the case of prostitution and trafficking, there are many survivor-led groups helping women exit the industry. This support isn’t as prevalent for women in pornography, and the reason is that these women feel so exposed. They feel vulnerable even after leaving the industry because their images remain there.

Remember, an image on Pornhub can go viral, spreading across all the porn sites, so you never know who has seen it. You never know if the person you meet has seen it, which creates a constant feeling of vulnerability.

Jacobsen: You made an important distinction between liberal feminism and radical feminism. Can you clarify that distinction about pornography?

Dines: Yes. The critical distinction is in the ideological framing. Radical feminists were among the first to highlight the violence of pornography—both in terms of the harm to women in the industry and the impact on women in society. Radical feminism grew out of a focus on violence against women. Over time, they recognized that pornography is part of that violence.

Liberal feminism, on the other hand, tends to be more neoliberal, emphasizing individualism. The argument often centers around the idea that “she chose it,” that it’s about sexual agency. But what we know about these women is that this is not a true sexual agency. If anything, it strips them of their sexual agency and does the same to all women. Women often look at pornography to see what they should be doing for the men who consume it. Radical feminists are anti-pornography because they see both its production and consumption as a major form of violence against women, and they understand that it contributes to real-world violence as well.

Jacobsen: What are the industry’s tactics, and how do they compare to those of the tobacco industry?

Dines: The pornography industry employs tactics similar to the tobacco industry, such as bringing in pseudo-academics to argue that there’s no harm, framing research in ways that downplay the issues, and lobbying. The pornography industry has a powerful lobbying arm, much like the tobacco industry did. They know the harm their product causes, but they’re not interested in liberating women from harm—they’re in it to make money.

And so, all predatory industries will do whatever it takes to make money, irrespective of the incredible social impact it will have. The United States is known for not having as strong a FACTED (Family Life and Sexual Health Education) program as Canada. However, Canada, at its best, still has its gaps.

Jacobsen: So, how does pornography act, as you mentioned earlier, as a filler for sex education and a particularly poor one for young people, and potentially for older people?

Dines: Let’s focus on younger people. Developing an interest in sex is a natural part of development, often starting from puberty. But because we don’t have good sex education, the content is outdated and doesn’t speak to the reality that kids live in today. So, where are kids going to turn when they have access to devices and a vast amount of free pornography? Pornography fills that gap, but poorly.

What is needed, and what Culture Reframed provides, is a porn-critical sex education curriculum. If you visit our website, we have a program for high school teachers (and some middle school teachers), which includes PowerPoints and detailed instructions on how to teach it. We don’t show pornography, obviously, but we focus on building porn-resilient young people. Unfortunately, in many cases, sex education isn’t prioritized, and many sex ed teachers aren’t even specialized in the subject.

They might be math or physical education teachers, told a month before, “You’re teaching sex ed.” We frequently hear from people who are unprepared and have no idea where to start. Interestingly, studies show that students immediately pick up on this lack of expertise. Research indicates that students are aware that their sex ed teachers don’t know how to teach the subject, don’t want to do it, and aren’t addressing issues relevant to their lives. As a result, sex education has effectively been handed over to pornographers.

Jacobsen: A question comes to mind. We’ve discussed liberal feminism versus radical feminism in framing the issue. But within radical feminist discourse, are there any internal objections or disagreements on this critical view of pornography?

Dines: Radical feminism tends to agree widely on this topic. Are you asking about internal conflicts?

Jacobsen: Yes, specifically within radical feminism.

Dines: Any disagreements are quite minor, mostly centered on how to define the issue or address it. But there’s a strong, unified belief within radical feminism that pornography is violence against women, both in its production and consumption. We have major arguments with liberal feminists, Marxist feminists, and socialist feminists. We don’t tend to have many internal debates about pornography within radical feminism. However, we do have disagreements on other topics.

Jacobsen: There may be surface-level critiques from traditionalist, conservative, or religious groups that object to pornography on moral grounds, often based on a transcendentalist or ethical view of sin. Yet, they seem to reach a similar conclusion as you do.

Dines: Yes, but the conclusions, although they may appear similar, are quite different. Right-wing moralists are often concerned with what pornography does to the family, particularly how it affects men. They argue that it may cause men to stray or damage family cohesion. Radical feminists, on the other hand, have a critique of the family as the place where women are most at risk, as we know from the evidence. We are concerned with the harm to women, children, and society in general, but our stance is not based on moralism.

We refer to this as a harm-based issue, not a morality-based issue. That’s not to say some right-wing organizations don’t adopt some of our arguments—they do—but the core driving force behind our opposition to pornography is different. They oppose it from a moral perspective; we oppose it because of the real harm it inflicts on individuals and society.

Jacobsen: What would a healthy societal view of sexuality and sex education look like?

Dines: Much of what we’ve built on Culture Reframed is what that should look like, to be honest. A healthy view of sexuality begins with the individual owning their sexuality. It evolves naturally as a person grows. Of course, it’s rooted in equality, consent, non-violence, and genuine connection and intimacy.

This doesn’t mean that sex is only for marriage or long-term relationships, but that there is some level of connection and intimacy involved. That’s what makes sex meaningful in the end. If you don’t know the person you’re having sex with, as is often the case in pornography, you become desensitized. That’s why the industry constantly escalates the content.

If you were to film regular people having sex, most of the time, it would be so dull that you’d fall asleep watching it. The fun and excitement come from actually having sex, not watching it. So, for pornography to hold viewers’ interest, they have to keep ramping up the adrenaline through more intense and bizarre acts.

Jacobsen: Is part of the core issue the dehumanization and depersonalization that comes with pornography? It seems like there’s a disconnection—people go to their computers, consume pornography, and then return to their regular lives as if nothing happened. It’s like their day becomes fragmented and disjointed.

Dines: Absolutely. That’s a great point. There have been studies done on this. One interesting study showed two groups of men: one group watched a regular National Geographic movie, while the other watched pornography. Afterward, they were asked to interview a female candidate for a job, and the chairs were on rollers. The men who had watched pornography kept rolling their chairs closer and closer to the woman. They also found that these men couldn’t remember the woman’s words.

This kind of behaviour shows how pornography impacts the perception of others, particularly women, and how it disrupts their ability to interact meaningfully in real-life situations.

So you’re right. When you think about it, much pornography is consumed at work. Then you leave that cruel world where men are depicted as having every right to women’s bodies and go back to working in a world with women where you don’t have those rights. It’s interesting because we have the #MeToo movement on the one hand, which is crucial for explaining what’s going on. On the other hand, pornography is working against everything the #MeToo movement is trying to say about consent and women’s bodily integrity. Even men’s bodily integrity is compromised in pornography—nobody has bodily integrity.

In pornography, the body is there to be used in any way possible to heighten sexual arousal, usually involving high levels of violence. I haven’t seen many films where this wasn’t the case.

Jacobsen: We’ve already covered building porn resilience in children, or at least how important it is. How far do gender inequality and sexual violence reflect each other in women’s rights movements, particularly within the frame of pornography?

Dines: Let me make sure I understand. You’re asking about the relationship between gender inequality and sexual violence and how this plays out in the context of movements like #MeToo, correct?

Jacobsen: Yes.

Dines: I addressed some of this earlier when I talked about equality in other areas of life and how pornography undermines it. Gender inequality and sexual violence are deeply intertwined. If there were no gender inequality, sexual violence would be unthinkable. Sexual violence is typically used to destroy and control women and to show power and dominance. That’s why we must call it “sexual violence”—because it weaponizes sex against women.

Without gender inequality, this kind of violence wouldn’t even be conceivable. It’s built into the very structure of gender inequality, and in turn, it perpetuates and exacerbates that inequality. It’s a vicious cycle. Gender inequality fuels sexual violence, and sexual violence deepens gender inequality.

Jacobsen: Just to be mindful of that, then. We talked about the psychological impact earlier. What are the similar psychological impacts on boys and girls, rather than the differences?

Dines: Similarities around what, specifically?

Jacobsen: In terms of pornography consumption and its impacts.

Dines: We know very little about girls. There aren’t many studies at all on girls’ exposure to pornography, and, as in many areas, girls and women are often under-researched. One of the few studies by Chyng Sun, Jennifer Johnson, Anna Bridges, and Matt Ezzell does show a few things. Some girls and women go to porn not to masturbate but to see what boys and men are doing, so they can reproduce that behaviour.

They also found that girls and women who become addicted to pornography, similar to men, lose interest in real-world sex, preferring pornography. They become isolated and depressed. So, if they do go down the route of addiction, the impact is quite similar to that on men, except they don’t become violent.

Jacobsen: What are the key points of feminist and anti-pornography activism, particularly in your book Pornland, intersecting with issues of gender, sexuality, and human rights?

Dines: That’s what the whole book is about. Pornland was written to explain the modern-day pornography industry in the age of the internet. People were talking about pornography as if the Internet hadn’t happened. I take a radical feminist perspective, using research to back up the claims and focus on how pornography undermines women’s human rights.

There are chapters addressing racism, showing how women of colour are especially targeted, both for their race and gender. I also discuss how mainstream sites are increasingly making use of images of young-looking women—sometimes they could be children, it’s hard to tell. So, they might be underage or made to look underage.

The main argument is that we live in a world that is completely inundated and infested with pornography. As a sociologist, I’m interested in the sociological impact. I borrow from psychological literature but focus on the macro level. How is pornography not just shifting gender norms but cementing the worst aspects of them? It hasn’t invented misogyny, but it has given it a new twist and continues to reinforce it across various institutions.

Jacobsen: Gail, any final thoughts or feelings based on our conversation today?

Dines: We’ve buried our heads in the sand for too long. For people who weren’t born into the internet age, it’s hard to understand just how much pornography is shaping young people. There’s been a massive dereliction of duty on the part of adults in helping kids navigate this world they’ve been thrown into, often left to sink or swim on their own—and many are sinking. The kids I talk to feel overwhelmed by pornography, and studies back this up. Many wish there were far less of it because they recognize the adverse effect it has on their sexuality, their connections, and their relationships.

So, it’s time we step up and take responsibility as adults.

Jacobsen: Thank you for the opportunity and your time, Gail.

Last updated May 3, 2025. These terms govern all In-Sight Publishing content—past, present, and future—and supersede any prior notices.  In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen is licensed under a Creative Commons BY‑NC‑ND 4.0; © In-Sight Publishing by Scott  Douglas  Jacobsen 2012–Present. All trademarks, performances, databases & branding are owned by their rights holders; no use without permission. Unauthorized copying, modification, framing or public communication is prohibited. External links are not endorsed. Cookies & tracking require consent, and data processing complies with PIPEDA & GDPR; no data from children < 13 (COPPA). Content meets WCAG 2.1 AA under the Accessible Canada Act & is preserved in open archival formats with backups. Excerpts & links require full credit & hyperlink; limited quoting under fair-dealing & fair-use. All content is informational; no liability for errors or omissions: Feedback welcome, and verified errors corrected promptly. For permissions or DMCA notices, email: scott.jacobsen2025@gmail.com. Site use is governed by BC laws; content is “as‑is,” liability limited, users indemnify us; moral, performers’ & database sui generis rights reserved.

#MeToo