We can't walk away: the gospel calls us down the long road to justice and forgiveness. (the examined life).

I'VE BEEN THINKING A LOT LATELY ABOUT ERIC PATTERson. And Daniel Romey, Bobby Thompson, Paul Tafolla, and Gilbert Rodriguez. These five young men grew up near Wichita, Kansas, where they were altar boys at different parishes. They were all molested by Father Robert Larson, and years later, in five separate incidents, each man took his own life. By pistol, car fumes, or drug overdose, they put an end to despair.

Until recently, as far as I know, I had never met a victim of clergy sex abuse. I had read about many like the boys in Kansas--stories that made me sick with anger and sorrow. But I had never encountered the faces behind these stories, had never heard them in their own voice.

In July, along with 4,000 other Catholics, I attended a convention organized by Voice of the faithful, a new group started in Boston earlier this year and now claiming more than 22,500 members across the country. Much of the conference was devoted to the voices of survivors of abuse.

Their stories were heart-rending. In a moment of silence to honor those who did not survive the agony of abuse, I could hear people openly weeping. It was difficult to listen to such testimony--face-to-face with a person sharing the most intimate details of his suffering with you. There were moments when I wanted to scream "Stop!" because my heart felt like it might explode.

But as one survivor put it, "You can walk away. But I can't."

I've been thinking a lot about Brendan Comiskey, too. He's a bishop in Ireland and has been a great friend of mine for years. Through very difficult times in my life he has given me support and guidance, prayer and hope. It has always been my wish that he would preside at my wedding ceremony.

But he made an awful, tragic mistake. A priest in his diocese abused many teenage boys, and he allowed the priest to remain. The priest abused again.

Every day I had read the news of the Geoghan case unfolding in Boston. The inaction of the archdiocese was simply unconscionable, and my rage against Cardinal Bernard Law boiled into hatred. And then one day I came into work and picked up the newspaper to see "Irish bishop resigns over handling of sex abuse case." It was my friend. I did not even know where to begin processing the information. I know the good and wonderful in him, and to learn of this failing was devastating.

Could I subject my friend to the same fury I had unleashed on the faceless Cardinal Law? I found I could not. Is that just? I'm not sure.

A couple of months later, the elderly priest-in-residence at my parish was removed because of an allegation of abuse. His accuser came forward after 40 years of silence. I have always liked this priest. He is jovial, friendly, welcoming, and very well-loved. And he may have violated a young man.

What defines a life? Your worst act? Your best?

We have laws and courts and prisons, and certainly all the misdeeds should be subject to the scrutiny of this system. But what do we do with the violations that do not fit legal categories, that defy statutes of limitation, or cannot be proved or disproved? And how do victims reclaim their lives, their suffocated innocence? How can we possibly measure their suffering?

I don't know the answers to these questions. But I am reminded now of the wisdom of Sister Helen Prejean, who in her ministry to death row inmates realized that to have compassion, forgiveness, and love for the criminal is not to stand opposed to the victim. And to stand with the victim is not to stand for vengeance against the criminal. Jesus broke bread with the suffering and with the sinners. The predators need to be held accountable, but they also need treatment and forgiveness. Those who seriously abused power need to relinquish that power, but they also need forgiveness. Victims need compassion, concern, attention, and action.

I am haunted by the man's words: "You can walk away."

I'm tempted to. Certainly that is the easier path, and there have been many days this year when I have considered adding myself to the growing list of twenty-somethings who leave the church and its hypocrisies behind.

But I am also reminded of the words of Jim Muller, a founder of Voice of the Faithful, who said he decided he could not justifiably leave the church without first making a real effort to change it. I'll accept his challenge, in honor of the victims and survivors, and in honor of the gospel call to choose the difficult road, the road to justice.

Unfortunately, right now it looks all uphill.

TARA DIX, an assistant editor of U.S. CATHOLIC.