For years, I’ve wrestled with the trauma of abuse inflicted by someone I once trusted—a priest in the Church of England. The scars of that betrayal run deep, compounded not just by the abuse itself but by the institution’s response to it. Recently, my anguish was reignited when a senior Church leader described my abuser as a “Rolls-Royce priest,” a phrase that felt like a cruel insult to the pain I’ve endured.
Hearing such glowing praise for someone who destroyed a part of my life was both shocking and heartbreaking. It reflects a troubling reality within the Church: an unwillingness to fully confront the truth about abusive clergy. By elevating and lauding my abuser, the institution invalidates the suffering of survivors like me, undermining the very accountability it claims to uphold.
I want to make something clear—no matter how skilled or charismatic an individual may seem, it cannot and should not overshadow the harm they have caused. Abuse is not an isolated act. It is a violation of trust, leaving victims with lifelong repercussions. Praising an abuser in any capacity only reinforces the toxic culture of silence and denial that has allowed such acts to continue unchecked for decades.
As a survivor, I’ve often felt that my voice is drowned out by the Church’s desperate attempts to protect its image. Instead of prioritizing the welfare of survivors and ensuring justice, the focus seems to remain on maintaining institutional reputation. Such statements, like the one calling my abuser a “Rolls-Royce priest,” only deepen the divide between the Church and those it has wronged.
What survivors need isn’t admiration for abusers or vague acknowledgments of wrongdoing. We need action—genuine, tangible efforts to address the harm caused and prevent future abuses. This starts with leaders recognizing the gravity of their words and the impact they have on those already struggling to heal. Every compliment or defense of an abuser is a reminder to survivors that their suffering is secondary to the Church’s internal politics and hierarchies.
I refuse to remain silent, even though speaking out often feels like shouting into a void. My story, like those of countless others, deserves to be heard and believed. Survivors don’t need empty apologies or defensive rhetoric. We need accountability, empathy, and change. Until that happens, the wounds of the past will remain open, festering in a Church that continues to praise those who have caused irreparable harm.
It’s time for the Church to truly reflect on its priorities. No institution can claim moral authority while ignoring the voices of the abused. Survivors deserve better, and so does the Church.
