The Time for Silence has Ended

I wrote this article for the Catholic Safeguarding and Standards Agency (CSSA) in the United Kingdom for Easter 2024. With their permission, I am publishing it here now with some alterations.

If you haven’t already, I encourage you to read my full story, The Lucky One, before reading the below piece.

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“I have risen, and I am with you still, alleluia.” These words never fail to make me tear up. They have brought me immense comfort over the years. They are from Psalm 139:18 and form the Introit for Easter Sunday, the commemoration of Christ’s resurrection. They carry the hope of all Christian people as Christ, having suffered through his passion and died, ends the silence of the Almighty and declares victory over death. It is a joyous time celebrating the most consequential event in human history.

For too long survivors of sexual abuse have had to live in the darkness without this hope, trapped in the silence we meet on Holy Saturday, left in despair that our Easter will never come. And the Church, something that should be a source of hope, comfort, and peace for all, instead becomes a source of suffering, and resentment. Every Sunday at Mass, Christ’s victory over death is achieved and the Church celebrates, but for many of us, the suffering while we wait in the shadows is relentless. The time for silence has ended.

For me, Holy Week and the subsequent Easter season is the hardest time of year. When I was sixteen I had the privilege to attend a school pilgrimage to the Holy Land and visit the sites of Jesus’ life. My favourite moment from the trip was when I was able to pray in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ prayed the night he was betrayed. It was an incredibly moving experience. Jesus asks us to stay with him as he awaits his arrest, and while in the silence of the Garden I desperately wanted nothing more than to stay there beside him for the rest of my life.

And now, twelve and a half years on, I wish I never left that Garden as just hours later I would be lured into a hotel room and sexually abused by a seminarian of the Catholic Church. I walked the Stations of the Cross through Jerusalem the next day, oblivious at the time that at the age of sixteen I had been given an incredibly heavy cross of my own to carry for the rest of my life. From that moment, the commemoration of Christ’s Passion would be inextricably linked to the memory of being sexually abused.

I can’t attend Maundy Thursday Mass without dreading what will come after. Sitting there with Our Lord in the Garden again, relating far too well to Christ’s words “take this cup away from me,” knowing that when I return home I will be forced to relive the worst night of my life. On Good Friday I have to confront not just my own sinfulness that crucified Christ, but the memory of sixteen year old me walking through Jerusalem, so innocent and fearless, unaware that the events from the previous night would torment him for the rest of his life and fundamentally change him as a human being.

A photo of the Garden of Gethsemane I took in August 2011. Hours after this picture was taken I would be sexually abused by a seminarian of the Catholic Church.

Eventually other things start to trigger the memories and you realise there is so much to be weary of: how you might respond to physical affection from a loved one, constantly worrying about who you can trust, encountering random objects that you also saw that day that trigger the distressing memories, wondering if you will be able to sleep that night, and if you do sleep you fear the nightmares that may occupy your mind.

Soon, a pattern emerges and it’s not just Holy Week that is traumatic, but every single day. There was a five year period where lying down on my bed reminded me of being held down against my will in a hotel room. I had to sleep in the loungeroom, greatly annoying my family. I still had terrifying nightmares, but at least I could get even a little sleep. I didn’t think I could tell my family the reasons; they wouldn’t understand, no one does. That became my life; I hid my feelings from the world - I thought it was a sign of weakness to be sad and depressed. So I lived in isolation, in silence, and in the shame of believing myself responsible for what happened, only God knowing the extent of my struggle.

I wish I could go back and talk to sixteen year old me in the Garden. I wish I could tell that innocent boy to be ready, that no matter what happens, he will be ok. I wish I could tell him that when he is most vulnerable, he will have the courage to stand up for himself and fight back. I wish I could tell him to ask his parents for help far sooner than I did. I wish I could tell him that he shouldn’t be afraid, his faith will sustain him through the many dark, torturous nights to come. I wish I could tell him he would be the last one to have go through something like this.

But sadly, I can’t. And honestly I would be lying. Yes, he was able to fight his way to freedom, but he should have been terrified, his life was about to change in a horrifying, incomprehensible way that he was not ready to handle. He would become selfish and untrustworthy in the years that followed, and use his pain to inflict pain on others such was his fear of being taken advantage of again. The crazy thing is, as hard as being abused has made my life, I was lucky in comparison to many others.

I was lucky that I was a fit, athletic sixteen year old which meant I could fight back when attacked. I was lucky to have a priest I knew I could trust who helped me deal with the aftermath. I was lucky to have loving parents who would provide me with the comfort and unconditional love I needed during my struggles with PTSD. And I was lucky that the day after I was abused, I was able to unite my suffering with Our Lord as we made the pilgrimage to Calvary. I dread to think just how bad things could've gone for me, as they have for so many others under the Church’s care. I was incredibly lucky, but I never should have had to be. What happened to me and thousands of others never should have occurred in the first place.

Anytime I want, I can close my eyes and remember in excruciating detail those horrifying five minutes when a seminarian kissed, groped, and attempted to rape me. I had to fight an adult three times older than myself to get away. That memory is something I have to live with on a daily basis. For years, I cried alone in the darkness, trapped with those horrific thoughts, hiding the wailing and tears from my friends and family. Realising you desperately need assistance is a humbling lesson to learn and it took me far too long to reach that conclusion. With the help of many people the cross has become lighter over the years, but the pain is irreversible. So many victims of abuse have similar experiences and so many of us have suffered in silence for so long.

It took me close to twelve years to finally tell my mother, siblings, and friends. I was embarrassed - when I was sixteen I was a gifted high school athlete with lots of friends. I was the exact kind of person you would never expect this to happen to - that was part of my denial for so long. I didn’t believe it myself, and so how could others? I don’t pretend it was a small thing to tell the world I am a survivor of clerical sexual abuse. It’s a gigantic label to put on yourself and it’s incredibly difficult to break the chains of shame and tell people you were the victim of a terrifying crime. I am grateful that I eventually found the strength to break my silence.

Going public with my story was freeing in a way that is difficult to describe. Initially I was overwhelmed with the sympathy I received. But as more people read my story and told me it resonated with them I realised just how much this is what I needed. In the last year I have heard countless similar stories to my own from survivors and their families. As challenging as it is to hear these stories, that people who have been silent for years finally feel comfortable telling someone is a great blessing. Many of them are still stuck living in the same silence I did for so long, but one by one the shackles are breaking and the seeds of hope are planted.

The Church hasn’t heard enough of these stories. They can say they’re listening, that they’re sorry, but the actions of the hierarchy prove that they still don’t understand the ongoing pain so many of us feel. It has been basically unmentioned at the Synod on Synodality that recently finished. We know our place in the Church even if those in power refuse to listen.

The official Vatican communications department used three of disgraced serial sexual abuser Fr Marko Rupnik’s pieces of art for liturgical feasts in the month of May, and a few times since. He hasn’t shown any sign of repentance and his artwork still hangs in churches all over the world. If the Church had learnt its lesson, Rupnik’s art would be publicly destroyed, and he would be marched to St Peter’s Square so the Pope could scrape the Chrism Oil off his hands himself. While this debate about what to do with Rupnik’s art rages on, victims of clerical abuse are re-victimised and reminded that the Church has always chosen to protect itself to the detriment of survivors.

I care immensely about the Church. I am a practicing Catholic who loves the tradition of the liturgy and adores the sacraments - I don’t want to change any of that. I just want the hierarchy to understand that the sexual abuse crisis has been a betrayal of all faithful Catholics. We don’t need our priests to be perfect, but we need them to not be sexual predators. I don’t think that is too much to ask. Every week Catholics put their hard earned money in the collection plate without asking questions, they should at least be able to do so with the faith that their money will not end up towards paying compensation for the sins of their priest.

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Dealing with abuse and preventing future abuse is not a simple task. I definitely don’t have all the right answers but I am happy to provide even a little insight to the decision makers as someone who has lived through the trauma of being abused. Finding the balance between keeping people safe and Catholic priests being able to fulfil their pastoral responsibilities to all the baptised, including children, is impossibly difficult. Most priests are good and holy men and it is likely that these priests and their flocks are punished by safeguarding regulations for the actions of the few. But that is the price the Church must pay for decades of failure.

The veil of secrecy must never return. I want to hear every story of sexual abuse. I want the Church to listen to every story; they at least owe us that. If it makes people uncomfortable, good. It should make us physically ill to listen to stories of people being sexually abused but they need to be heard. Our trauma is the Church’s trauma and there can be no healing from this horrid affair until everything is exposed. The administration of justice must be seen to be done, and it needs to be done now.