“If you knew what he has done,” “The superiors decided that way because there were unspeakable things,” “There has been abuse,” “If Rome has decided, there must be a reason, right?” Over the past thirteen years, these phrases have become a kind of parallel language in the Catholic Church: whispers that do not explain but close cases; that do not clarify but seal. The phenomenon, it must be said, did not begin on 13 March 2013. In any institution made up of close and relatively small-scale relationships – movements, seminaries, diocesan curias, local communities – gossip finds fertile ground. What has changed in the last decade is not the emergence of this pattern, but the legitimisation of the method. Slander no longer functions only as a toxin inside self-referential worlds; it is often perceived, accepted or tolerated as a sufficient motive for decisions that affect life paths, vocations, roles, reputations.
Thus, people’s lives risk being rewritten by an inverted form of justice: no longer grounded in the verification of facts, but in allusions that can never really be disproved; no longer in the right to a good name or to a fair hearing, but in a judgment that spreads by osmosis, without any formal act and with no possible defence. It is within this undefined space – “hearsay” elevated to a criterion – that authority, when it fails to watch over itself and over the words of others, can generate real, very deep, and often irreversible wounds.
In far too many ecclesial communities, the script repeats itself with the rigidity of a set play: at a certain point, someone is said to be “a problem.” There is no need to prove it, no need to give specifics. It is enough to insinuate. And the most effective formula in recent years is a keyword that works like a stamp: abuse. Of conscience, psychological, relational, even physical. The precise definition matters little; what matters is the effect: delegitimising the person one wants to neutralise.
Abuse, which ought to name a wound and open a process of truth, thus becomes a preventive label, spread in low tones or amplified through the media, more useful for striking than for protecting. It is a charge thrown into the void, irrefutable precisely because it is never formalised. It does not describe what has happened; it anticipates what one wants to make happen to the other’s reputation. And it often succeeds. Because rumours, when they do not encounter institutional antibodies and evangelical frankness, have the disquieting power to do more damage than a written act. There is no proper procedure, no fair confrontation. There are phrases whispered in corridors: “He isn’t balanced…”, “He has problems with obedience…”, “It isn’t safe to leave him with young people…”. In a few months, that person is isolated, stripped of responsibilities, rendered suspect. No one really knows why; everyone “knows” that something is wrong. Here we are no longer faced merely with gossip or a clash of personalities. When those who feed these rumours occupy a position of spiritual authority – a superior, a bishop, the leader of a movement, a formator – and use the language of faith to discredit and remove a presumed “enemy,” we are in the precise field of spiritual abuse.
What is spiritual abuse?
The Carthusian monk Fr. Dysmas de Lassus, in his book Schiacciare l’anima (Crushing the Soul), defines spiritual abuseas the fruit of a “distorted spiritual power” born of the encounter between an egocentric psyche and religious powerexercised badly. Commenting on the work of an investigative commission, he observes that, among the various forms of abuse (sexual, of conscience, of power), there very often exists a real “system of abuse”, in which “one abuse generates another” and even those who are not personally aggressors end up functioning as such if they remain inside that system.
In a stark and lucid passage, de Lassus notes that clericalism – understood broadly as any form of religious power exercised over the faithful and not for the faithful – is a favourable environment for abuse, but does not exhaust its root. The root is no longer a question of a state of life but of a method of domination: the use of the spiritual relationship – spiritual direction, obedience, community belonging – to bend the other to one’s own conveniences, insecurities, and defences.
For this reason, the term clericalism is no longer enough. It evokes a power tied to the clergy and forces our gaze onto one specific category, priests, while the real phenomenon has already gone beyond it: the abuse of religious languageand of spiritual roles today thrives above all among the laity. Movements, foundations, governing teams, pastoral bodies: these are environments in which authority does not derive from ordination but from the management of relationships, of internal narratives, of formative processes. And it is precisely there that the clerical attitude – understood as a power that sets itself up as father rather than a father who serves – becomes contagious.
The paradox of our time is clear: with the increase of lay people in decision-making positions, the temptation has not decreased; the face of the risk has changed. And this confirms what some have been denouncing for a long time: abusedoes not originate in ordained ministry but in the human heart, in sin. Where in the past there was a paternalism that was sometimes naïve but recognisable and limited, today there is a lay spiritual paternalism that is more subtle, more widespread, and harder to challenge because it is not regulated by its own clear legal framework. And it is often worse in its impact than what came before: less constrained by traditions of personal discipline, more legitimised by internal consensus, more shielded by the language of the “interpreter of the charism.”
In this way authority becomes possession rather than mission; care becomes control; the vulnerability of the other becomes an opportunity. And when power presents itself as the impersonal voice of indisputable decisions (“I have discerned and decided this way,” “The Spirit has shown me,” “There were unspeakable reasons”), it is not exercising service; it is exerting pressure. A pressure that does not merely govern spaces, but risks crushing consciences. When this happens, the damage is not only psychological: it strikes at the victim’s faith itself. Many witnesses – explains Father Dysmas – describe the collapse of their image of God, “disfigured” by the behaviour of those who, in God’s name, have manipulated them.
The “culture of lies”
One of the most helpful pages for reading what takes place in certain movements or ecclesial environments is the one in which de Lassus speaks of a culture of lies. He describes the mechanism as follows: outwardly, everything appears luminous, centred on the Lord, obedient to the Church. But in practice, what is shown and what is hidden are chosen with extreme care; external events are filtered through the internal language of the community until they no longer correspond to reality. He writes: “One ends up presenting things externally in a way that distances them from reality, from truth… one can rightly speak of a culture of lies.” In these contexts, falsehood is not an accident: it becomes a functional virtue, serving the survival of the system. One must never “cause scandal,” one cannot “damage the charism,” one must not “embarrass the founder” or the leader, the bishop. Anyone who dares to speak is easily labelled as resentful, unstable, not very spiritual. The testimony reported by de Lassus is emblematic: “Given the prominence of our ‘movement’, no one dares open their mouth, because we know that the ecclesial hierarchy will never believe us.” That “never” is the clearest indicator of abuse: the system has convinced the victims that no authority will listen to them, because the public reputation of the community counts more than the truth.
Ecclesial-Style Gaslighting
The language of psychology helps to name what happens beneath the surface. Gaslighting is the attempt to manipulate another person’s reality to the point of making them doubt their own memory, perceptions, and judgment. The gaslighter, psychologists explain, begins by inserting small lies into real facts, so that the victim starts to think they “must have forgotten something.” Then the person’s ability to evaluate reality is called into question: “You’re too sensitive… you’re exaggerating… you’re making things up.” Gradually, the victim stops trusting themself, feels confused, wonders whether they are truly “sick,” and develops an emotional dependency on the aggressor, perceived as the only one who can offer approval and safety.
If we transpose this pattern into ecclesial life, the phrases change, but the logic remains identical: “You’re the one who has no faith,” “You cannot doubt someone who has been legitimately placed there,” “These are temptations against obedience,” “The Church has said so,” “You don’t understand the charism, that’s why you’re suffering,” “If it were really God’s will, you’d be at peace.” Here, gaslighting does not merely call into question a person’s mental health; it undermines their relationship with God, making them believe that even the distress they feel is a sign of sin, not of injustice suffered.
Why This Is Spiritual Abuse, Not Only Psychological
One might object: in every human environment there are cliques, jealousy, and power games. What makes this type of violence specifically ecclesial? Three elements emerge clearly both in de Lassus’ analysis and in psychological studies:
Appeal to the sacred. In spiritual abuse, power is justified by religious motives: God’s will, the founder’s charism, obedience to the Church. The person is not just contradicting a superior; they have the sense of contradicting God.
Using the conscience as a battlefield. The boundary between the internal and external forum is violated: what arises in confession or spiritual direction is used to steer community decisions, assess suitability, and build informal dossiers.
Damage to faith. As de Lassus notes, many who leave an abusive community need years to rebuild their image of God, damaged by authority relationships that have been turned into control of consciences. And often they can no longer trust the Catholic Church, seen not as a mother who welcomes, but as an institution that has allowed a power without transparency or accountability to run unchecked. He highlights this in Schiacciare l’Anima, where the wound is not reduced to an isolated case but recognised as a possible result of a diseased spiritual system, capable of isolating and discrediting on the wave of hearsay, to the point of breaking life and faith paths that were not meant to be broken.
In this gap between a spiritual role and service to the truth the critical point is found: not human error, but the absence of mechanisms that safeguard the other’s inner freedom and their right to a good name, especially when they have no real tools with which to defend themselves. In this sense, spiritual abuse is not a trendy label, but a precise way of violating the second commandment: using the name of God to justify evil.
Movements, New Communities, Diocesan Structures: A Systemic Problem
The analysis of the Prior General of the Carthusian Order insists on one point: it is not enough to focus on individual cases. There are abusive Christian systems in which many people, though not harbouring malicious intentions, end up participating in dynamics of violence.
This happens:
when criticism is forbidden or discouraged (“don’t speak ill of superiors,” “don’t question the president’s decisions”);
when unity is experienced as forced uniformity, not as a harmony of differences;
when fidelity to the founder or to the charism is elevated to an “implicit vow” that makes it impossible to report serious deviations;
when members involved in movements or ecclesial realities do not know whom to turn to in case of abuse, because the structure is not clearly embedded in the Church’s canonical framework.
De Lassus speaks in this context of the “immune system” of an Order or community: like a living organism, an ecclesial institution must also have antibodies – rules, procedures, formation – to recognise and stop deviant behaviours, especially when they affect the most vulnerable.
The Right to a Good Name and “Vulnerable” Adults
Many cases of spiritual abuse do not involve minors but adults: priests, seminarians, consecrated persons, lay people in formative paths. Pope Francis’ motu proprio Vos estis lux mundi considers “vulnerable persons” not only those with an objective fragility (illness, disability), but also those who, for reasons of dependence or power imbalance, are effectively unable to resist abuse. A seminarian whose ordination depends on the rector’s judgment, a consecrated woman bound by vows to a foundress, a priest tied to a community, a curial employee whose professional future depends on the bishop: all of these, in this sense, are “vulnerable.” The abuse that is committed even “only” starting from gossip – the circulation of targeted rumours aimed at destroying someone’s reputation – explicitly violates canon law and the Church’s moral doctrine, yet often leaves no written trace: it is a form of violence without documentation, played out in “spiritual” confidences, informal phone calls, letters never formally communicated to the person concerned. Our environment, moreover, is one in which, if you ask people to stand by what they told you just a short time before, they are quite ready to deny it without the slightest hesitation.
What Can Be Done: Some Possible Paths
De Lassus and other psychological studies suggest at least three concrete lines of work.
Formation and Awareness
The Prior General insists on the need for solid formation, both theological and human, initial and ongoing, that gives future leaders tools to recognise abusive dynamics and to exercise authority as service. Some psychologists underline the importance of helping potential victims to recognise the signs of gaslighting: when someone systematically makes you doubt your memory, makes you feel “crazy,” isolates you from others, and convinces you that without them you have no value, there is a problem.
Translated into Church life, this means teaching – in seminaries, novitiates, movements, and lay formation programmes – that it is not normal:
for a superior constantly to undermine you in front of others;
for them to prevent you from speaking to a higher authority;
for elements from the internal forum to be used in order to justify public decisions;
for you to be made to feel guilty simply for having asked for clarity.
Safeguarding Structures and “Exit Routes”
De Lassus shows how some communities have managed to begin reform processes precisely because they accepted an external gaze: canonical visitations, independent commissions, publication of reports.
It is necessary that:
in every diocese and ecclesial setting, avenues of appeal be known and accessible;
those who report abuse not be automatically perceived as “enemies of the Church” or “enemies of the movement”;
there be procedures to hear not only the alleged victim, but also those who have been pushed to the margins by discrediting campaigns. Such visitations, however, must be carried out by persons who are truly external and independent, not by “friends” of the leader.
Personal Conversion: Stop Playing the Game
Finally, there is a level that no structure can replace: the personal metanoia of each baptised person in their way of speaking. The first act of justice is simple and extremely difficult: refusing to listen to or pass on rumours about people who cannot defend themselves, and calmly asking: “What you’re telling me, have you also said it to him/her? Has a serious process of verification been initiated? Is there evidence for what you are saying?”
Starting Again from the Truth
The Carthusian monk speaks of spiritual abuse as a wound that often “crushes the wings” of those who had entrusted their life to God with enthusiasm. When these two dimensions overlap – psychological manipulation and spiritual betrayal – the result is devastating. But precisely for this reason, facing the phenomenon lucidly is not an act “against” the Church: it is an act of love for the Church, because it frees her from what disfigures her.
The Gospel promise remains: “The truth will make you free” (Jn 8:32). Not an abstract truth, but the concrete truth of facts, persons, and stories, even when it forces us to recognise that the community we love has allowed – and at times fostered – power dynamics that have crushed the souls of many. Only by starting again from here will it be possible to build communities where the words “father,” “bishop,” “formator” do not inspire fear, and where no one has to dread that, behind a spiritual smile, there lies the thin blade of an assassinous gossip.
fr.S.L.
Silere non possum