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Authors: Jason Berry
Tags: Religión, General, History, Business & Economics, Christianity, World, Catholic, Nonprofit Organizations & Charities
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who had abused him, and said prayers of forgiveness. 14 In those painful words to God he felt a cleansing. Bruce Teague enjoyed being a priest.
As the bishop of Burlington, Vermont, in the 1970s, Marshall put a child molester back in ministry. When he abused again, Marshall yanked him; he persuaded the prosecutor not to take action; he approved the church lawyers’ grueling tactics to wear down the survivors who sued the diocese. 15 The cases eventually settled with out-of-court payments. In the late 1980s Marshall went through a turn of mind. He lost trust in therapeutic facilities to treat clergy predators. He petitioned the Vatican to defrock one priest. 16 In 1992 Marshall became bishop of Springfield. He confronted another scandal, another priest. This time he eschewed a litigation-by-ordealstrategy, which many bishops deemed a necessary evil to protect church assets. Marshall pushed for timely settlements; he met with survivors. “We have to do this out of justice and charity,” he had told Teague at the time.
At the bishop’s mansion a nun ushered Teague into the parlor.
Pallid and gaunt, Marshall sat in a commodious chair, propped up with cushions, an IV tube planted in one arm. Teague took a seat. Light came to the bishop’s eyes. After small talk, the priest thanked him for his sensitivity toward the survivors. Marshall nodded. There was a bigger problem, he rasped. Teague listened. Stirring in the pillows, the bishop leaned forward and growled, “Wait until the Internal Revenue Service gets ahold of us!”
Teague had never heard a bishop speak so baldly about church finances.
Money was a source of gossip and folklore among clergy, most of it not good. Priests in religious orders, like Jesuits and Dominicans, take vows of poverty. Diocesan clergy take no such vows, but with modest salaries, a car, housing, health insurance, and presumed pensions, they lived with comforts. Teague knew clerics who traveled well, with money presumably from family or generous friends. Priests were expected to be prudent in handling a parish’s money. Pastors with large parishes had laypeople to handle bookkeeping, paying bills, and other jobs. But with all the cash washing through collection plates, money required vigilance. Teague knew a pastor who had been responsible for two parishes; he borrowed from the first to pay bills at the second, creating a mess at both ends. In Springfield, Bishop Marshall faced other thorny problems. An accountant pilfered from a parish’s fund for staff Social Security taxes. Another pastor renovated his rectory with funds reserved for cemetery maintenance. Marshall intervened in both situations; he saw that the taxes were paid.
Financial deceptions to race the blood of a dying bishop have come out in the open. Reform groups like Voice of the Faithful clamor for financial transparency; many bishops treat VOTF as enemies, alienating the kind of diligent Catholics that a diocese needs.
Bishop Marshall’s admonition about money took on heightened meaning after the next bishop sent Father Teague to St. Brigid in Amherst. “The parish was bleeding money,” Teague told me. “A lot of renovation had been done to the interior of the church. Our income was about three thousand a week. I had been a college chaplain and knew nothing about running budgets. This was in 1996. We suddenly had a termite problemthat needed attention—you’d be surprised, Amherst has a large termite population. Then the boilers started to go out, and right before Christmas a new boiler broke. My predecessor had raised a lot of money and left $100,000 in a surplus fund. But we had an old accounting system: there was no debt listed on the books. The window washer came to me at Christmas, he hadn’t been paid. A guy doing repairs on the organ was owed $1,000. All of a sudden a lot of bills were coming due … I thought my treasurer was handling everything. When I went through St. John Seminary in Boston, we never had an
As the bishop of Burlington, Vermont, in the 1970s, Marshall put a child molester back in ministry. When he abused again, Marshall yanked him; he persuaded the prosecutor not to take action; he approved the church lawyers’ grueling tactics to wear down the survivors who sued the diocese. 15 The cases eventually settled with out-of-court payments. In the late 1980s Marshall went through a turn of mind. He lost trust in therapeutic facilities to treat clergy predators. He petitioned the Vatican to defrock one priest. 16 In 1992 Marshall became bishop of Springfield. He confronted another scandal, another priest. This time he eschewed a litigation-by-ordealstrategy, which many bishops deemed a necessary evil to protect church assets. Marshall pushed for timely settlements; he met with survivors. “We have to do this out of justice and charity,” he had told Teague at the time.
At the bishop’s mansion a nun ushered Teague into the parlor.
Pallid and gaunt, Marshall sat in a commodious chair, propped up with cushions, an IV tube planted in one arm. Teague took a seat. Light came to the bishop’s eyes. After small talk, the priest thanked him for his sensitivity toward the survivors. Marshall nodded. There was a bigger problem, he rasped. Teague listened. Stirring in the pillows, the bishop leaned forward and growled, “Wait until the Internal Revenue Service gets ahold of us!”
Teague had never heard a bishop speak so baldly about church finances.
Money was a source of gossip and folklore among clergy, most of it not good. Priests in religious orders, like Jesuits and Dominicans, take vows of poverty. Diocesan clergy take no such vows, but with modest salaries, a car, housing, health insurance, and presumed pensions, they lived with comforts. Teague knew clerics who traveled well, with money presumably from family or generous friends. Priests were expected to be prudent in handling a parish’s money. Pastors with large parishes had laypeople to handle bookkeeping, paying bills, and other jobs. But with all the cash washing through collection plates, money required vigilance. Teague knew a pastor who had been responsible for two parishes; he borrowed from the first to pay bills at the second, creating a mess at both ends. In Springfield, Bishop Marshall faced other thorny problems. An accountant pilfered from a parish’s fund for staff Social Security taxes. Another pastor renovated his rectory with funds reserved for cemetery maintenance. Marshall intervened in both situations; he saw that the taxes were paid.
Financial deceptions to race the blood of a dying bishop have come out in the open. Reform groups like Voice of the Faithful clamor for financial transparency; many bishops treat VOTF as enemies, alienating the kind of diligent Catholics that a diocese needs.
Bishop Marshall’s admonition about money took on heightened meaning after the next bishop sent Father Teague to St. Brigid in Amherst. “The parish was bleeding money,” Teague told me. “A lot of renovation had been done to the interior of the church. Our income was about three thousand a week. I had been a college chaplain and knew nothing about running budgets. This was in 1996. We suddenly had a termite problemthat needed attention—you’d be surprised, Amherst has a large termite population. Then the boilers started to go out, and right before Christmas a new boiler broke. My predecessor had raised a lot of money and left $100,000 in a surplus fund. But we had an old accounting system: there was no debt listed on the books. The window washer came to me at Christmas, he hadn’t been paid. A guy doing repairs on the organ was owed $1,000. All of a sudden a lot of bills were coming due … I thought my treasurer was handling everything. When I went through St. John Seminary in Boston, we never had an
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