Society. And I will admit that although St. Elizabeth’s has a sort of
warehouse feeling, where St. Mark’s is a beautiful rustic, brick church, I
suffer equally in both churches. It’s because I feel dishonest. I’m in hiding, and my family is, therefore,
in hiding with me. None of us have yet come to terms with my identity as a gay
Christian.
I listen
half-heartedly to The Liturgy of the Word, but my mind is on the bottom line.
And the bottom line is this: In the fullness of who I am and who I want to be,
I am not accepted by the Catholic Church, in general. I’m no longer accepted by
my Catholic friends at school or in the St. Mark’s youth group, and I assume
that if the people at St. Elizabeth’s knew the truth about me, they would
reject me, as well.
The communion
song today is “Holy, Holy, Holy”, a longtime favorite of mine. In fact, back in
the day, all of the first graders had learned it and sung it as a group on the
morning of our First Holy Communion, all of us holding hands.
Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.
Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty,
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!
Today I sing the
lyrics louder and with more conviction than I ever have before, which sounds
dramatic, but that’s because it is dramatic to me. This morning, I’m singing my goodbye to the Body of Christ…and
to the Catholic Church.
The weirdest
thing is that this morning I let myself cry in public. Or maybe it’s that
there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears. I have come to realize that I can’t
participate in something this sacred any longer—not without the full integrity
of my soul. And at this point, I’m a total spiritual fraud. I’m not the good
Catholic I once was since I’m undecided
about what my status as a gay Christian means .
On the spur of
the moment, I make a few decisions:
*No longer can I
participate in Catholic Mass. I don’t belong here.
*No longer can I
partake of Christ’s body. I’m unworthy.
The Del Vecchio family waits in our pew until every last soul has
left the church. My sisters don’t grasp what’s going on, I know, but they see
my sorrow and they all reach for me to offer me comfort, as if touching me with
their little hands will somehow stop my tears. Mom and Dad reach for me, too,
all the while crying right along beside me. And I can’t explain the reason, but
the physical contact with my family consoles me, at least to an extent.
“I can’t do this
anymore,” I finally sob when the church is empty. I search the tear-filled eyes
of my mother and then I look to my father for the permission I need. “I can’t
come back to Mass.”
They nod, first
at each other, and then at me.
“Jesus Christ is
the way, the truth, and the life. Our family will find our way back to Him,
Anthony,” Mom says, and squeezes my hand.
There’s that
phrase again.
Dad adds,
“There’s nothing as important as finding our path to Him.” He hooks his pinky
around mine the way he used to do when I was little—he always called it the
secret handshake for the only two members of the Del Vecchio Boys’ Club. I sob again.
And my sister
Mary, who I thought was paying little attention to the facts behind this
interaction, leans over to me and brushes her fingers across my forearm. “I
know what’s up, Tony. And hear this—we won’t give up ‘til we find the church
where we all fit in.”
Even my little
sister, who I thought completely clueless, and who is only one year shy of her
Confirmation in the Catholic Church, has expressed her unity with me.
I wipe my tears
away, because in many ways, I am truly blessed.
Read The Book
It’s funny how
friendship just happens when you aren’t looking. I didn’t even have time to
panic at the prospect of having no one to hang with in classes and at lunch,
and that I’d feel like the solitary guy in the corner of the cafeteria with the
big L on his forehead, when David
warehouse feeling, where St. Mark’s is a beautiful rustic, brick church, I
suffer equally in both churches. It’s because I feel dishonest. I’m in hiding, and my family is, therefore,
in hiding with me. None of us have yet come to terms with my identity as a gay
Christian.
I listen
half-heartedly to The Liturgy of the Word, but my mind is on the bottom line.
And the bottom line is this: In the fullness of who I am and who I want to be,
I am not accepted by the Catholic Church, in general. I’m no longer accepted by
my Catholic friends at school or in the St. Mark’s youth group, and I assume
that if the people at St. Elizabeth’s knew the truth about me, they would
reject me, as well.
The communion
song today is “Holy, Holy, Holy”, a longtime favorite of mine. In fact, back in
the day, all of the first graders had learned it and sung it as a group on the
morning of our First Holy Communion, all of us holding hands.
Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee.
Holy, holy, holy! Merciful and mighty,
God in three persons, blessed Trinity!
Today I sing the
lyrics louder and with more conviction than I ever have before, which sounds
dramatic, but that’s because it is dramatic to me. This morning, I’m singing my goodbye to the Body of Christ…and
to the Catholic Church.
The weirdest
thing is that this morning I let myself cry in public. Or maybe it’s that
there’s nothing I can do to stop the tears. I have come to realize that I can’t
participate in something this sacred any longer—not without the full integrity
of my soul. And at this point, I’m a total spiritual fraud. I’m not the good
Catholic I once was since I’m undecided
about what my status as a gay Christian means .
On the spur of
the moment, I make a few decisions:
*No longer can I
participate in Catholic Mass. I don’t belong here.
*No longer can I
partake of Christ’s body. I’m unworthy.
The Del Vecchio family waits in our pew until every last soul has
left the church. My sisters don’t grasp what’s going on, I know, but they see
my sorrow and they all reach for me to offer me comfort, as if touching me with
their little hands will somehow stop my tears. Mom and Dad reach for me, too,
all the while crying right along beside me. And I can’t explain the reason, but
the physical contact with my family consoles me, at least to an extent.
“I can’t do this
anymore,” I finally sob when the church is empty. I search the tear-filled eyes
of my mother and then I look to my father for the permission I need. “I can’t
come back to Mass.”
They nod, first
at each other, and then at me.
“Jesus Christ is
the way, the truth, and the life. Our family will find our way back to Him,
Anthony,” Mom says, and squeezes my hand.
There’s that
phrase again.
Dad adds,
“There’s nothing as important as finding our path to Him.” He hooks his pinky
around mine the way he used to do when I was little—he always called it the
secret handshake for the only two members of the Del Vecchio Boys’ Club. I sob again.
And my sister
Mary, who I thought was paying little attention to the facts behind this
interaction, leans over to me and brushes her fingers across my forearm. “I
know what’s up, Tony. And hear this—we won’t give up ‘til we find the church
where we all fit in.”
Even my little
sister, who I thought completely clueless, and who is only one year shy of her
Confirmation in the Catholic Church, has expressed her unity with me.
I wipe my tears
away, because in many ways, I am truly blessed.
Read The Book
It’s funny how
friendship just happens when you aren’t looking. I didn’t even have time to
panic at the prospect of having no one to hang with in classes and at lunch,
and that I’d feel like the solitary guy in the corner of the cafeteria with the
big L on his forehead, when David
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