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This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual abuse. 

There were so many details in the women’s reports to law enforcement that were hard for me to read. That they were just little girls when it happened. That a man many knew as the “fun uncle” had touched them sexually under their skirts and tops. And that it happened in church or while swimming at the lake or during games of hide-and-seek. They were as young as 5 years old, according to the police reports. Some could even remember what they were wearing when it happened: a fluffy multicolored skirt; a pair of jeans with purple flowers on them.

But by the time my co-reporter from the 

, Andy Mannix, and I got those accounts — spanning from the early 1990s to the 2010s — the girls’ abuser, Clint Massie, had already pleaded guilty to four counts of felony sexual conduct with victims under 13. In March of this year, he began a 7 1/2 year prison sentence. Arguably, the case was over.

But we kept hearing from the victims and alleged victims, former church members, investigators and prosecutors that the outcome had fallen far short of true accountability. Massie, they told us, was a symptom of a much larger problem within the Old Apostolic Lutheran Church, or OALC, which he and his victims attended. They told us the leaders of this little-known faith tradition pressured victims to forgive Massie, then to forget about the abuse and never speak of it again. In some cases, these “forgiveness sessions” took place between the children and Massie; one girl described the terror she felt being hugged by Massie as her father and a preacher looked on.

These sessions allowed Massie to evade arrest and prosecution for years. Even after the victims came forward to law enforcement as adults, attempts to silence them continued, according to the prosecutor who charged the case.

“This was like a fucking machine,” said assistant St. Louis County attorney Mike Ryan, “that was basically trying to roll over these girls.”

That sentiment hit me especially hard the day I received a roughly 40-minute video of an interview between sheriff’s detectives in St. Louis County, where Duluth is located, and two OALC preachers. My attention was on Daryl Bruckelmyer, a preacher and leader of the church in Duluth; several of Massie’s victims claimed that either they or their parents had disclosed the abuse to Bruckelmyer, but that he did little beyond a forgiveness session.

We had hoped to sit down with Bruckelmyer and ask him about his involvement with the Massie case, but also about his church, its beliefs and its customs. But he declined to comment or to answer a detailed list of questions. A spokesperson for the Woodland Park OALC in Duluth also said in a statement that the church “has fully complied with the law in the referenced case, and it’s a matter of legal record.” He declined to comment further. Massie also did not respond to requests for comment.

So the video was the first and only time I heard Bruckelmyer explain himself in his own words. Here’s what stood out to me as I watched the recording and what helped me understand the mechanisms that allowed repeated sexual abuse to continue as an open secret.

I had wondered if Bruckelmyer might deny ever hearing about Massie’s abuse. But he did not.

“How many female victims do you think have come forward and said something to you?” Sgt. Adam Kleffman, the lead investigator, asked.

“There’s only been a few,” Bruckelmyer responded. “One, two, three.”

It’s not every day you see a recording of someone admitting that they knew about the abuse of children yet did little about it.

Bruckelmyer implied that he misunderstood mandated reporter laws in Minnesota (though another detective explained the law to him just three years earlier) and that he had “warned” Massie to stay away from children. He insisted that they made no attempt to “hide” Massie and encouraged victims to go to law enforcement.

But the words he chose stood out to me as well: “We don’t protect either one.”

Kimberly Lowe, a lawyer and crisis manager for the church, said its preachers are unpaid and therefore might not be legally required to report sexual abuse of children. Asked if she believes the preachers are mandated reporters under Minnesota law, Lowe would only say that the language of the statute is unclear.

Church policies did not align with Minnesota law

At one point, Bruckelmyer pulled out two sheets of paper and passed them across the table to the investigators. It was a list of “tools to help prevent violence, harassment and sexual abuse from occurring,” issued by the Old Apostolic Lutheran Church of America.

“We have guidelines in the church that we are told and instructed as a protection for both,” Bruckelmyer explained.

Many of the guidelines made sense: education, counseling for victims and so forth. But when I obtained a copy of the document, I zeroed in on the part of the policy that seemed to describe a forgiveness session: “When harm has taken place: Individual conversations with the victim … If possible, individual conversations with the abuser. Later, but only if appropriate, a conversation with both parties together.”

The document did not mention mandatory reporting laws and instead seemed to give preachers wide latitude on whether to involve law enforcement.

As soon as I watched that document slide across the table, it was clear to me that this issue went beyond Minnesota. The OALC has 33 locations spread across the U.S. and Canada. In our months of reporting, we spoke to over a dozen alleged victims, some of whom named other church members as possible perpetrators in Delaware, Michigan, Wyoming, Washington state and South Dakota.

An intentional isolation from the modern world

At one point in the video, Kleffman asked Bruckelmyer if he was aware of how sexual abuse scandals have played out in other churches — specifically, he said, that once one victim comes forward, it’s common for more victims to speak out as well. He cited a recent, local example: the conviction of a youth pastor from Vineyard Church in Duluth for felony sexual conduct with underage parishioners.

But Bruckelmyer said he was unfamiliar with the case.

I was struck by the lack of understanding that some church leaders and members demonstrated when it came to the impact of sexual assault on children, as well as an ignorance of other, similar sexual abuse scandals. But it seemed to go hand in hand with the ways that OALC members cut themselves off from certain aspects of modern life.

Former members told us that dancing, music, movies and television are all considered sinful. One former church member told my reporting partner that, as a child, she overheard a Taylor Swift song and was desperate to find another church member to confess to or risk going to hell.

We attended a Sunday service in Duluth, at the invitation of a spokesperson for the church, and were provided with literature that described some of the OALC’s history and philosophy.

“We Christians want to follow Jesus’ example and live a life that is simple and modest, whether it be our dress, our home or our way of life,” 

. “We do not believe it is right, nor do we have a need, to engage in worldly pleasures, alcohol and other drugs. The friendship we have in the church is so much more.”

Bruckelmyer was on the dais with the other preachers but would not come speak with us. So I tried to take in what I could: the hymns sung without accompaniment, the scarves on women’s heads and the toys in children’s hands.

During the three-hour service, I sat in a pew, fascinated by this small glimpse into a faith tradition and a lifestyle that I previously knew nothing about. Watching these families, particularly the young mothers with daughters in their arms, I couldn’t help thinking again about what we’d read in those police reports — in particular, the allegations that this sexual abuse has affected multiple generations of families. What these women and girls went through, not just the abuse but the silence that followed, shocks the conscience. We wrote this story to break that silence. Maybe it could prevent this from happening again.

A 24-hour statewide sexual violence and domestic violence hotline is available in Minnesota. You can call 

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A roughly 40-minute conversation shows how leaders of an Old Apostolic Lutheran Church kept an open secret quiet for so long.

The exterior of a church with a few vehicles parked outside.

Leila Navidi | The Minnesota Star Tribune

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What a recorded interview between police and preachers reveals about how a Minnesota church handled sexual abuse

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