Finding Little Solace in Sharing of Long-Guarded Secret

In 2002, he told then-Boston Archbishop Bernard Law about the 1970 incident and received an offer of financial support for counseling and later a $90,000 settlement from the archdiocese, but not what he wanted. "There was no validation of me as a good person," he said of his meeting with Law, who resigned later that year.

Reports about the extent of clergy abuse gnawed at him. The priest supervisor he tried to tell in 1970, the Rev. Richard Johnson, was accused of sexual misconduct by four teenage girls, the Associated Press reported in 2003, citing documents released that year by the Boston archdiocese. The priest Moran alleged had attacked him, the Rev. Anthony Laurano, described their encounter differently and said it was consensual, according to a transcript of a 2002 interview with a Boston church official. Laurano, 81 and retired, faces charges in two separate Massachusetts cases: two counts of raping an 8-year-old in 1991 and four counts of indecent assault on a mentally retarded person over the past four years. A phone message left for Laurano was not returned.

Moran's lower-back pain grew; his cholesterol level shot up 75 points. And his longtime mantra wasn't working. "There was so much bad going on now, I couldn't possibly do enough good to offset it," he said.

The Whole Story

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Thirty-five years after Moran was ordained, the Boston archdiocese granted him a medical disability retirement for chronic depression and post-traumatic stress. But he wanted people in Washington to know why he was leaving -- and not just in shorthand. He wanted to stop being jocular, the good kid, a victim who can hint but not outright name his pain.

He picked Holy Week. And that Tuesday, as about 20 hospital staff and patients' relatives filed into the chapel for Mass, Moran took a deep breath. Then he spoke about the bittersweet nature of the week for him and about the whole story, right there, in church, during the most hallowed time of the Christian year.

He railed against church leaders who protect abusers and care more about money than victims. He talked about therapy and the "rationalizations" that kept him in the ministry. Copies of his comments were in the back of the chapel, he said. And when it was over, a burly man came over to hug him. No one else seemed to know what to do.

The next day, a Washington archdiocese official called, telling him that the hospital thought his actions were inappropriate and that the church felt they were accusatory. His priestly credentials were being pulled immediately, he was told, something that usually wouldn't have happened until he retired six weeks later.

Hospital officials, who instructed Moran's colleagues not to comment for this article, said that people at the Mass had complained and that the priest had burdened people in trauma. Although Moran had recently been "more vocal" about his past problems, there was no sign until then that they interfered with his ability to do his work, said Janis Orlowski, chief medical officer at the hospital.

Officials with the Washington archdiocese said Moran left them no choice by saying in his letter that he was leaving the ministry.

"These men literally are responsible for people's souls, so we take it very seriously if a priest indicates he can no longer function," said archdiocese spokeswoman Susan Gibbs.

Moran feels he is being punished for speaking out: "My gut feeling is that I have been raped again."

Advocates of clergy abuse victims who know Moran are livid and say that because he was leaving his position anyway, removing his credentials was unnecessary.

On Easter, five days after he was removed from his job, Moran didn't know where to go. He had celebrated weekend Mass for the past eight years at the hospital, and that was no longer an option. So he drove to a small parish in Arlington where he didn't know anyone and sat in the back, alone.