December 1, 2019, was more than a date on the calendar. For thousands of us in New Jersey, it was the first day we could walk through a courthouse door without being told we were too late. It was the day the New Jersey Child Victims Act took effect — a law that finally gave survivors of childhood sexual abuse the right to be heard, no matter how long it had taken us to find our voices.
For me, that day wasn’t abstract. I was among the first to file suit — my case against Theodore McCarrick and the Archdiocese of Newark was filed in the opening minutes of the “revival window.” That window, which lasted from December 2019 to November 2021, reopened the law to anyone whose claim had once been shut out by statutes of limitation. For two years, truth came flooding out of locked rooms and sealed memories.
The Child Victims Act was a hard-won victory — a response to decades of survivors being told to move on, get over it, or forgive quietly. It extended the statute of limitations to age fifty-five (or seven years from the moment a survivor connects the dots between the abuse and its lifelong effects). It eliminated the Charitable Immunity Act, which had long shielded institutions from civil accountability. And it gave survivors like me the one thing we had never had: a legal path to speak truth in daylight.
That was the beginning of what I’ve come to call “the aftermath” — a long, uneven test of whether institutions could handle truth once the law required it.
Different Paths Toward Accountability
Across New Jersey, dioceses took markedly different approaches to the wave of litigation that followed. Some sought closure through bankruptcy proceedings and global settlements, attempting to create a public and measurable acknowledgment of harm. Others continued through extended discovery processes that are still ongoing in late 2025.
These divergent approaches illustrate a broader reality within the Catholic Church in the United States: there is no single model for accountability. Internal culture, legal strategy, and institutional priorities shape each response. For survivors, this has meant vastly different experiences of transparency, pace, and resolution.
Before the legal window opened, several dioceses also participated in the Independent Victim Compensation Program run by attorney Kenneth Feinberg. For some survivors, it provided a faster way to secure compensation. For others, the requirement to forfeit the right to future litigation made it an unacceptable trade-off.
Where Questions Still Remain
New Jersey is home to residences that house priests removed from ministry because of credible allegations. These arrangements — in various forms — have been part of the Church’s landscape for decades. They highlight ongoing national questions: how to ensure supervision, protect the public, and provide appropriate pastoral care for elderly clergy who can no longer serve.
The broader challenge for the Church remains how to balance safety, transparency, and the dignity of retired priests in ways that respond meaningfully to survivors’ concerns.
In 2019, under pressure from the attorney general, all New Jersey dioceses released lists of clergy with credible allegations. While these lists were important first steps, they have not been consistently updated. Because many dioceses tied updates to the conclusion of litigation, unresolved lawsuits have often resulted in little visible change.
This pattern is not unique to New Jersey; it reflects a national struggle to develop consistent standards for releasing and updating information about allegations.
Questions about transparency have also surfaced at Seton Hall University. After McCarrick’s fall, the university commissioned an independent investigation into his influence at the seminary he once controlled. The findings of that report have not been released, and subsequent reviews by additional firms have followed. Across Catholic institutions, such cycles — investigation, review, silence — point to a persistent tension between legal considerations, institutional risk, and the moral imperative for openness.
When the State Became the Backstop
In 2018, the New Jersey attorney general created a task force to examine the handling of clergy abuse. Although some Church entities sought to halt the inquiry in court, the New Jersey Supreme Court ruled unanimously in June 2025 that the attorney general had the authority to proceed and present evidence to a special grand jury.
For many survivors, this ruling offered the first real sense of momentum in years. It represented a moment when civil authority stepped in to ensure that the pursuit of truth continued even when ecclesial systems were slow or divided in their response.
This turning point was made possible in part by Bishop Joseph Williams, whose decision to end the appeal allowed the investigation to go forward. I remain grateful to Bishop Williams and to Bishop Kevin Sweeney of Paterson for their steady pastoral support of survivors, myself included.
Remember the Men
There is one truth the Church has not fully confronted. The majority of those abused were boys and young men. The crisis is, in part, a crisis of distorted masculinity and power — shaped by secrecy, clericalism, and a culture that struggled to acknowledge the experiences of male victims.
Predators like McCarrick thrived in that silence. They exploited shame and confusion about what it means to be a male survivor. Many of the men I have met are brilliant, compassionate, and wounded in ways that defy measurement. Too many did not live long enough to see the legal changes that finally offered a path forward.
The Child Victims Act is not an ending. It is a doorway — one that opened too late for some, and not widely enough for others. This aftermath is not only about lawsuits or settlements. It is about whether the Catholic Church — in New Jersey and across the country — can truly look its victims in the eye and accompany them with honesty.
Until that day comes, I will keep writing, keep filing, and keep speaking. Silence is how this all began.
Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash
John Bellocchio is a nationally respected dog trainer, trauma survivor, and advocate known for his groundbreaking work with blind and special needs dogs. A former educator, he turned his personal experience of surviving institutional abuse into a mission of healing, inspired by his black Labrador, Seamus. Through his company, Fetch and More™, John helps dog owners find hope and practical solutions, blending science, compassion, and advocacy.
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