Render Unto Rome_ The Secret Life of Money in the Catholic Church - Jason Berry [55]
As the Boston scandal sent out shock waves in 2002, the Vatican dispatched Seán O’Malley to the diocese of Palm Beach, Florida, after Bishop Anthony O’Connell calmly admitted at a news conference that, yes, he did have inappropriate contact, years ago, with a seminarian who had just publicly accused him, and by the way a second accuser might be in the offing. Three men ended up suing O’Connell.5 In Palm Beach, one of the wealthiest dioceses, O’Malley had the unenviable task of replacing a corrupt bishop who had replaced a corrupt bishop. Before the Irish-born O’Connell, Bishop J. Keith Symons resigned in 1998 upon disclosure that he had molested altar boys years before.6 Symons moved to a Michigan retreat house, O’Connell to a South Carolina monastery. But in the Vatican idea of apostolic succession, both men remained titular bishops. Cardinal Ratzinger’s tribunal at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith laicized priests, not hierarchs.
In Palm Beach, O’Malley formed a lay panel to monitor accusations against clergy. He told victims, “I want to do what I can to promote healing for you and for all those affected by this abuse.”7 Before the year was out, the Vatican sent him to his third scandal-battered post. Boston’s historic status also put O’Malley in line to become a cardinal. His modesty was refreshing. Unlike the imperial Law, he encouraged people to call him “Archbishop Seán.”
In the summer of 2003, the newly appointed Archbishop O’Malley went to Rome. He had issues to review with men in high places. O’Malley’s meeting at the Vatican is key to our grasp of the larger financial issues in the American church that would engulf him and other bishops who slogged through property disputes that pitted people in the pews against the Vatican.
Cardinal Darío Castrillón Hoyos at the Congregation for the Clergy was a pivotal figure for O’Malley’s presentation on the impact of the proposed settlement for the 552 victims. Discussions of a possible bankruptcy pleading had leaked to the press.8 A Chapter 11 filing, if the court approved it, would freeze debts as the church reorganized its finances and its lawyers tried to bargain down the survivors’ attorneys. The gamble was the backfire potential. The law required disclosure of all assets, swatches of which the media were already scrutinizing: spreading everything on the table could make the cash-strapped archdiocese seem rich. It also meant that O’Malley would begin his most important job having to explain to the many victims expecting compensation that his predecessor had, in effect, broken the bank. For as Peter Borré would learn, months later, on ferreting out copies of the archdiocese’s past financial statements from a privileged source, the archdiocese had lost $10 million in fiscal year 2000, $8.3 million in FY 2001 (before the Globe series on the abuse scandal), and $12 million in FY 2002 that forced a sale of assets from its investment portfolio. When O’Malley reached Rome that day in 2003, the archdiocese he had