NOEL LINTON ALLEN

I love philosophy because as complicated as it is it simplifies life, and this is why my writing follows a philosophical model.  I also like to play with words and platitudes and challenge myself to attain the sublime—both in thoughts and their manifestations.  I enjoy painting pictures with words, and since life is a canvas and we are artists, we can repurpose our experience into beautiful strokes of wisdom.  And isn't this what we are all striving for--that perfect state of mind?  And isn't it a truism that we all want to be happy?  

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Accordingly, whatever brings you happiness, despite what others think, indulge in it, because happiness in the holy grail of contentment.  And we all want to achieve ataraxis (which is closely associated with apatheia)—the pinnacle of contentment; the peace that excels all things, even the fear of death!  I get a measure of happiness from gardening, long-distance walking, working out at the gym, climbing steps, reading great books, writing books, and most importantly, helping people, especially the less fortunate.  I'm hoping and praying that very soon I will arrive at the threshold of contentment and be spirited away into the bosom of ataraxia. 

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My surrogate father robbed me of my youth; my spiritual father—a Catholic priest—raped me of my innocence and continued to rape my mind for the rest of my life.  While I am trying to find space in my heart to forgive my surrogate father, I'm finding it difficult to forgive the priest.  Here is why:  We are dealing with one man who was ignorant and transgressed the law of man because the culture of the ghettoes allowed it, and another who was supposed to be intelligent and was charged with the responsibility to uphold the law of God, which transcends all laws.  He was expected to be above reproach facilitating the approach of anyone seeking love and spiritual guidance.  But instead, he allowed himself to fall victim to a culture of self-gratification and exploitation.  I turned to another priest for help, and he sexually abused me.

 

I was wronged, the stones will cry out.  But because of the Church's great wall of silence, I could not report my sexual abuse to anyone.  My parents—and the parishioners—were in a prison of reverence, shackled to the belief that the Reverend Father was the holies of holies, and the authorities were indentured to the concept that the Pope was virtually God, and to harbor any accusations against the Church would be tantamount to impugning the authority of God.

 

I give the lurid details of the sexual encounters, recount my deadly confrontation with the police as a result of my hearing voices, narrate my battles with the slough of despond and my stay in mental institutions.  I explain the crucible the Church's lawyers put me through to get a settlement after 52 years.  I excoriate the Church for giving me a stone for bread, hence denying me full compensation for my years of pain and suffering.