Feeling Both Hopeful and Sad

PART NINE OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Friday

I guess it's been two recent things that have got me thinking upon my first sexual experience. First, Tony from Dignity has been seriously making the moves on me. He’s called twice since Sunday and even e-mailed me at work. He says he wants to spend time with me and get to know me better. The thing is, Tony’s already in a relationship, and has been for well over ten years. Vince shared this bit of information with me after our Dignity gathering on Sunday. He says that Tony and his partner have an “arrangement,” or so Tony has told him.

Personally, I don’t get it. I’d give anything to be in a relationship, and yet here’s Tony in one but who doesn’t seem to take it very seriously. I’m half tempted to go out with him just to find out more about how this “arrangement” actually works and to hear him try and justify it.

The other thing that got me thinking about my first time has been my interviewing of a number of young gay Catholics – or former Catholics, I should say. Many of them are at the age I was at when I had my locker room experience with the older guy who turned out to be a priest. I look back on that experience, and my life leading up to it, and realize what I child I was. I mean, even though I was twenty-two at the time, I was basically still an awkward teenager. I can't help but think that, in general, young gay people today seem to have it much more together than I and others in their thirties had it when we were their age. And that's especially true, I'd say, about most people of Vince's generation.

Not that I regret that first encounter. And I certainly don’t view the actions of the priest as abusive, as some may be quick to declare. No, as inexperienced as I may have been, I was (legally speaking) an adult. And I wanted it. It was an experience that helped me begin to grow up. It was more than a quickie in the locker room. I felt we genuinely connected; that we touched one another's souls, helped one another – however briefly. He gave me the opportunity to be loving and giving – and I took it, embodied it, grew from it. How can I regret that?

Anyway, as I said, I’ve been working on a feature article that the paper’s doing about why young people are abandoning organized religion. I was able to convince my editor to let me focus on young gay people, and thanks to some contacts in P-Flag was able to connect with seven of them over the past three days. Believe it or not, all come from Catholic families. None of them, however, identify today as Catholic. I don’t know why I’m surprised by this. I mean, let’s face it, I’m the aberration: a relatively young gay man who’s still in the church. And I can't help but think there's a connection between the "togetherness" of these young people I interviewed and the fact that they've consciously moved beyond the Church – a Church that, truth be told, prefers its members be good little obedient children. But does it have to be this way? Can't one be an adult and a Catholic?

One woman I interviewed, Monique, works with immigrants from a number of less developed countries – countries where AIDS is a real problem. She believes that the Catholic Church is perpetuating a major public health crisis because of its position on condoms. She can’t, in good conscience, identify with the church’s stance. Despite missing the social justice agenda of the church, she can’t bring herself to be part of any local parish because in her view, the wider church’s right-wing agenda overshadows conversations about poverty and justice.

Another interviewee, a guy in his mid-twenties, told me that organized religion hasn’t seemed relevant to him for over ten years. He finds the term organized religion, along with “faith,” to be artificial labels that are independent of people’s inherent goodness, sincerity, and capacity to love. For him, the church is more exclusionary and divisive than it is welcoming and inclusive.

What I found most interesting was how all seven people I interviewed reported having satisfying and meaningful spiritual lives – even though they were not connected to a particular church or religious tradition. I must admit I was shocked and not a little embarrassed by how taken aback I was by this – initially, that is. Once I started listening to what it was in these young people’s lives that gave them meaning and a sense of the sacred, I could totally relate to what they were saying. That was actually kinda scary. I mean, could I walk away from the church? Have I already began walking away? Sure, I attend daily Mass at St. Aelred’s, but I’m no longer connected to a Sunday parish community. Plus I attend the outlawed Dignity services – some of which are celebrated by women priests!

Anyway, as I said, I was struck by what some of interviewees had to say about what gave them satisfying and meaningful spiritual lives. Deb, for instance, says that positive and loving relationships between people are the most important ways of finding and expressing meaning in her life. She actively seeks out ways and opportunities to show others kindness, enthusiasm, sympathy, and non-judgmental thought.

Eric says he's learned to value bypassing what he calls limited and dehumanizing man-made rules. "I try to approach life thinking about how Jesus treated people while on this planet," he told me.

Claudia practices meditation, reads lots of books on different world faiths, and follows the example of individuals that she knows and who inspire her. Jeff finds volunteer work to be very meaningful. "Unlike a lot of organized religion," he said, "volunteer organizations don’t ask, 'Are you gay?' but rather they appreciate what you do for them."

Finally, Meg shared with me that she believes in "life and love." "I consider our relationships of love to be of God, to be sacred," she said with a warm smile - the type of smile I realized with a start one rarely sees on the faces of those bishops and priests who are ever-so-ready to judge and denounce the likes of Meg and I. Indeed, all the young people who shared so openly and honestly with me their spiritual lives.

I must admit I feel both hopeful and sad. I'm hopeful for our world because it seems clear to me that young people are much more self-aware and self-accepting of themselves as gay then were past generations. Things are changing for the better, and will continue to change. But I'm sad because the Church I love – or at least its official leadership – has had absolutely nothing to do with encouraging or facilitating such a loving and positive movement forward. Quite the opposite: it actively attempts to thwart it. Yet who knows: perhaps our confronting and grappling with such attempts to oppress and deny that which many of us intuitively sense and experience as beautiful and good, has actually helped gay people become more aware, more self-accepting, more determined. Kinda ironic, isn't it?

Tomorrow the Courage conference takes place at St. Jerome's. The local Dignity chapter is planning a peaceful protest outside the church, given that the group's attempts to have a public forum with members of Courage leadership have been rejected. It should be an interesting day.


To be continued.

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos
• Part Five: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”
• Part Six: Father Brandon
• Part Seven: The Note
• Part Eight: A Swimmer’s First Time

A Swimmer's First Time

PART EIGHT OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Tuesday

Do others have vivid memories of their first shared sexual experience? I would guess so. I certainly do. It didn’t occur, however, when I’m sure most people – or at least most guys – get to experience it: at some point during their horny teenage years. No, I was somewhat of a late bloomer. In my case, it occurred when I was twenty-two and in my final year of college.

I swam then, pretty much on a daily basis. I was lean, toned, and in much better shape than I am today - almost twelve years later. Back then I preferred swimming in the mornings before class – and after early morning Mass.

In a way, my time in the pool was an extension of my time at Mass, for as I cut through the water like a fish I would talk to God - sharing with Him whatever it was that was on my mind. This sharing, coupled no doubt with the physical exertion of swimming, always left me feeling deeply renewed. I’d usually swim 60 lengths of the pool in a little over 40 minutes. Like I said, I was much fitter in those days.

The pool's morning shift ended at 8:00 a.m. and I’d usually be the last through the door to the men's changing room before it was locked behind me. I’d often hear the turn of the heavy lock as I stood naked under the steaming hot water in the communal shower area.

One morning I noticed that another came after me through the pool door. He was an older guy – probably in his late fifties, maybe early-mid sixties. He was short, kinda stout, but muscular. I recall thinking to myself that for his age, he was in pretty good shape. He slipped out of his speedos and stood under the shower nozzle next to mine. That's weird, I thought. After all, there were eight showers in total, and, given the chance, guys would always leave one or two spaces between themselves and another naked man.

After a minute or two I looked over and observed the older guy staring at me – or rather, at my cock. He was slowly rubbing his own penis to the point where it was semi-erect. Our eyes met, and he smiled.

My first thought was to turn off the water, grab my towel, and bolt. Of course, by this time, I’d known for years that I was gay. I also knew that for some gay guys, encounters like this were commonplace; indeed, they were actively sought after. But I’d always wanted my first time with another to be something different, something special. And yet here I was, almost twenty-three and still a virgin. Suddenly the room began to spin from the realization that I wasn’t going to walk away from this; that I didn’t want to walk away.

So hard-hitting was this awareness that I had to steady myself by extending a hand to the wall in front of me. As I turned to look at my shower room companion, I lowered my other hand and began stroking my already hardening cock. We knew we were alone as we had heard the locking of the door leading to the pool. The other entrance to the locker room was quite a ways away, around a corner. It had a door that made a loud whooshing sound whenever it was opened. At this time of the morning, however, with the pool now closed until midday, no one would be entering the locker room, and we both knew it.

In an instant we were kissing and caressing one another under the streaming water. He got down on his knees and hungrily began to lick and devour me. I urged him on, somewhat startled by the commanding certainty in my voice and the natural ease at which my body responded in rhythmic thrusts to his touch. With my body’s first convulsions toward climax, he rose, gripped me firmly, and spun me around toward the shower wall. Reaching from behind, he vigorously jacked me off. When it was over, I fell back into the firmness of his warm wet body – utterly spent. I sighed at the soothing sound and touch of the hot water streaming over our entwined bodies. In time I felt his chest gently vibrate as he chuckled in a quiet and content way. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear, “Good morning.”

And then he was gone. I watched as he wrapped his towel around his waist and walked to the locker area. Standing under the water, I felt drained – quite literally – by what I now considered to have been a rather desperate encounter for both of us. Eventually, I reached up, adjusted the shower nozzle, and washed down the tiled wall in front of me. I soon joined my companion in the locker area, a towel wrapped around me and a sheepish expression on my young face. I felt I had let him down. I mean, I hadn’t reciprocated. I hadn’t satisfied him. Should I attempt something now?

He must have sensed what I was thinking. “Hey, thanks so much, friend,” he said cheerily. “That’s just what I needed.” He smiled and winked at me. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me.” He began removing articles of clothing from his locker. “Oh, and by the way, you have a great body.”

“Thanks,” I finally managed to say.

“You’re welcome. ”

He fell silent. Now it was his turn to look sheepish. “You’ve made an old man very happy,” he said with a distinct hint of weariness in his voice.

He dressed quickly and in silence. Then, as he gathered up the last of his things, he knocked his bag over. I watched as a number of items tumbled across the floor – including what was unmistakably a Roman collar. My gasp was clearly audible.

“Forgive my clumsiness,” he said softly as he gathered up his things.

We stood facing one another in awkward silence. “I’m the chaplain at St. Helen’s,” he said in an almost obligatory way. “It’s part of the consortium.”

I nodded. “Yes, I know. My older sister went there.”

He smiled. “Good. Well, I find there’s less chlorine in the pool here, and so . . . er . . . I actually usually swim in the evenings.”

He paused and looked me in the eyes. “You really are very beautiful,” he said. “I hope you don’t think . . .” His voice trailed off as his eyes revealed two deepening pools of profound longing. I felt a sudden surge of sorrow for him, mixed with a certain empathy.

“No,” I said, loosening the towel slowly from around my waist and letting it slip to the floor. “I don’t think that at all.”

I let his sad, hungry eyes feast on my body.

He stepped forward and we kissed gently, his hands moving slowly, reverently, over my naked skin.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I’m not sure how long I stood there alone and naked in that locker room. It was probably only a moment or two, but it felt like years. I had just shared my first sexual experience with another. And I had looked into the face of intense loneliness and longing, and responded, I believed, in love and generosity. My first time had been special after all.


NEXT: Feeling Both Hopeful and Sad

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos
• Part Five: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”
• Part Six: Father Brandon
• Part Seven: The Note

The Note

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PART SEVEN OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Sunday

I had a dream last night – one I’ve had many times before. It starts off with me being in a familiar place – a building of some kind – when quite unexpectedly I discover a whole new room, usually a large communal space; a banquet hall full of people, energy and life; a place that’s obviously been long established and yet completely unknown to me.

The discovery of this new space is always a great surprise, and in each dream I find myself pondering: How could I have not known about this place?

Years ago I researched dreams and learned that the discovery of a new room, space, or vista is symbolic of the beginning of a new phase in one’s life, a phase characterized by new experiences and insights, by things opening up and revealing new pathways and possibilities. What I think is most interesting is how such experiences and opportunities often occur within our everyday, “ordinary” lives. There’s no trip abroad, no life-shattering change, simply the culmination of some inner process whereby a new awareness works its way into our consciousness – often through our dreams.

I’ve come to see such dreams as heralds; emissaries from some sacred realm calling me to examine my life, to wake up – quite literally – and discern the changes quietly taking place within me. These dreams urge me to face up to the experiences and questions that, if I’m honest, I realize I’ve been avoiding. I believe that doing all of these things attunes me to the presence and movement of the sacred in my life, especially in those experiences and events, those changes and insights, that I often find unsettling and challenging. Yet face them I must.

And I am facing new experiences and questions – many of them to do with how I understand myself as a gay man in the Catholic Church. I’ve met some amazing, inspiring people in the weeks since beginning this journal – and I’ve been challenged in how I view the church and my place in it. I’m on a journey – and it’s changing me. That’s both exciting and scary.

It’s also presented me with some strange and unusual challenges – one of which was in the form of a scribbled note on a torn piece of paper. It all began earlier tonight when I attended a Dignity liturgy. A male priest presided – a “longtime friend of Dignity,” Vince assured me. Afterward, a group of us went out for supper at a Mexican restaurant. It was the first time I’ve really socialized with the Dignity guys, all of whom are at least 20 years older than me. They have such stories to tell of Dignity’s “glory days” in the ’70s and ’80s – a time when the church seemed to be more tolerant of the reality of gay people, and when there was a real sense of hope that official teaching could actually be reformed by the church's openness to this reality.

“Aren’t you bitter?” I asked Vince, who’s fast becoming my favorite of the Dignity crowd.

“Oh, honey, I refuse to become a bitter old queen. Besides, we have enough of those already in the Vatican,” he said with a hearty chortle.

Tony, a guy in his late-fifties, sided up to me. I have the distinct feeling that he’s interested in me. He’s always trying to catch my eye and smiling at me in an almost aggressive kind of way. All of this was confirmed when we were leaving the Dignity mass earlier this evening. Tony insisted I go out the door first. He followed with his hand upon my shoulder. Next thing I knew, I felt his hand move slowly down the length of my back, lingering on my ass. Much to my chagrin, I felt a tinge of excitement, and when I got to my car I found I had to adjust myself as I sat behind the wheel.

I looked at Tony now in the dim light of the restaurant. He had the trim figure of someone who had clearly taken care of himself in terms of diet and regular exercise. Looks meant a lot to him, and with a certain degree of chagrin, I realized that in that we had something in common..Siding up to me in the noisy restaurant, he placed his hand on my thigh and leaned in toward me.

“We need to get you out more. I think you work too much.”

I smiled and thought to myself, How on earth would you know anything about my work habits? But, of course, Tony’s comment had nothing to do with the facts. He was simply letting me know that he wanted to see more of me.

Suddenly Vince returned with our drinks.

“O-oh, someone’s moving in on my boy! Back to your own seat, Tony. I saw him first,” Vince said merrily.

Tony rose from his place beside me.

“We’ll talk later,” he said with a wink before moving around to the other side of the large circular table.

“Thanks,” I said quietly to Vince.

“You’re welcome, hon,” Vince replied knowingly.

I sat back and let the others talk around me. I feigned interest – nodded, smiled. But my mind was elsewhere. And I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, wishing Tony’s touch hadn’t once again aroused me.

I looked across the table at him as he sat chatting with Jeff, another longtime Dignity member. It would be so easy to push back; to let Tony know that, yes, I’d be willing to get together with him. He advances clearly indicated that he wanted it, and the throbbing in my crotch let me know that I did too.

Yes, a part of you wants it, James, but a deeper part of you wants more. The words resounded from somewhere deep within. So much more. And again I saw Carlos’ sweet smile, and felt his warm and firm embrace – an embrace I thought I’d have in my life forever.

“I tell you we need to act on this.”

Jeff’s voice had an edge to it that jerked me back into the here and now.

The ten men around the table were embroiled in an intense conversation, one that I soon discerned centered on a ragged piece of note paper that Jeff clutched in his hand.

“James is a journalist,” Tony suddenly declared. “He’ll tell us what we should do.”

How come every thing he says sounds like an order? I thought.

“I’d be happy to share my thoughts on whatever it is that . . .”

“We need advise,” blurted Jeff impatiently. “Advise about what to do about this.”

He handed me the piece of paper upon which writing was scrawled.

“It was sent to the Dignity office anonymously,” said Vince. “Jeff thinks we should go public with it. What do you think, James?”

I squinted as I deciphered the near illegible handwriting. It read: “The bishop travels to Chicago. He frequents gay bars and the Man’s Country bathhouse. It’s time to act to shut him up.”

“Well, it’s certainly to the point,” I said.

“Yes, but is it of any use to us?” asked Jeff.

“Use?”

A man named Jake leaned forward. “We’ve heard that our good bishop is about to release a statement condemning same-sex marriage – same-sex civil marriage. He also plans on forming an alliance with other conservative religious leaders to try and pass some kind of ‘marriage amendment’ at the state level – effectively banning civil marriage rights for gays. Now, imagine if we could prove that he himself is gay! It would be the end of all of it. He’d be forced out – in disgrace.”

“And you think this . . . this tawdry piece of gossip . . . proves that he’s gay?” I asked.

Blank faces stared back at me.

“Look, guys, I’m as pissed off as the rest of you with the bishop’s crap. But . . . but this . . .”

I dropped the ragged piece of paper on the table.

“. . . this is not the way to go.”

“Why?” Jeff asked, anger and frustration in his voice.

“Because you have absolutely no proof . . . of anything!” I said. “And another thing, even if you did actually get some proof, a photo, say, of the bishop at a gay bar or bath house, all that would prove is that he’s gay. I could well see him and his minders admitting that, yes, the poor bishop struggles with ‘same-sex attractions,’ and that he’s only human and sometimes falls short - just like any one of us.”

Jeff looked perplexed.

“Don’t you see, they’d turn it right back on you, “ I said. “You’d be the ‘bad guys’ for taking advantage of the bishop’s ‘weakness,’ his ‘human failing,’ and going public with it. From my perspective, I don’t think it should be about outing him as gay, but as a hypocrite. And to do that you’d have to prove he’s in an actual relationship; that he’s not just succumbing to temptation every now and then, but that he has intentionally formed and is maintaining a sexual relationship with another man. That won’t be easy. I mean, it’s the type of thing you’d need a private detective for.”

Silence . . . broken finally by Jeff: “Shit!” he mumbled dejectedly as he scooped up the note and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “I need another drink.”


NEXT: Part 8 - A Swimmer's First Time

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos
• Part Five: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”
• Part Six: Father Brandon

Father Brandon

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PART SIX OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Friday

The Sunflower Café and Bakery is one of those quaint, Old World-style establishments that can be found tucked away in leafy inner-city neighborhoods all over the country.

Arriving there early yesterday morning, I observed that a number of folks were already sitting at tables on the sidewalk – making the most of the warm spring sun. Inside, too, the place was quickly filling up with customers.

I must admit I was uncomfortable when Fr. Brandon suggested The Sunflower for our meeting place. It had, after all, been one of Carlos’ favorite eating spots, and I soon discovered that just being inside the familiar interior stirred up all kinds of emotions.

“Can I help you?”

The server beside me was a fresh-faced young man, probably in his early twenties.

“Oh, I’m meeting, er, a friend . . . for coffee,” I stammered.

“Well, feel free to take any available table,” he replied.

“Actually, you have a patio now, don’t you? Would it be possible to sit out there?”

He hesitated a moment before smiling – a smile that seemed as genuine and warm as the sunshine outside.

“Sure.”

He led me to a paved courtyard, complete with a little fountain. It was quite charming. As the server turned to leave, I asked him if he’d be on the lookout for an elderly gentleman.

“He’s a priest,” I said, “He might be wearing a . . .” I gestured toward my neck. The young man smiled and nodded knowingly before turning and walking back into the noisy interior of the café.

Father Brandon appeared shortly afterward, Roman collarless and apologizing for being late. We placed our orders with the young man whose name, I’d overheard from another server, was Miles. Father Brandon and I then sat in a rather uncomfortable silence for what seemed an eternity. In all probability it was no more than thirty seconds.

“I appreciate this chance to talk with you, Father.” I said.

And so it began. We must have sat talking and sharing in that sun-dappled courtyard for almost two hours. Surprisingly, no one else came out from the café to sit at any of the tables around us. Only Miles came and went, silently bringing and removing dishes, and replenishing Fr. Brandon’s coffee and the pot of hot water for my tea.

In retrospect, Father Brandon did something that I’d not experienced with any other priest – well, any other male priest: he asked me to share my story. And the way he did it conveyed to me a trust and belief that he could learn something of value from whatever I had to say. And so I shared with him my deep disappointment with what I see happening at St. Jerome’s, my efforts to educate myself about church history and theology, my involvement with Dignity, and the questions and uncertainties that the female ordination issue have raised for me.

“James, I can see you take your faith very seriously,” Father Brandon said when I’d finished. “I commend you for asking the questions and grappling with the issues that you do. Is Karl Rahner one of the theologians you’ve been reading? No? Oh, then you should, my boy! You should! He has this wonderful expression that I can’t help but think of as I hear you speak. You, James, think with the mind and heart you actually have, and not with the mind and heart you’re supposed to have. And that’s good. That’s very good.”

“But it means I disagree with what the Church says about . . . well . . . about all sorts of things,” I replied.

“Show me a time in the history of our Church when people weren’t disagreeing about something. That’s how we figure things out. That’s how we keep learning and defining who we are and what we believe.”

Father Brandon then leaned back in his chair and looked at me intently.

“I’m curious, James, in sharing with me the things you’ve been struggling with, I noticed you didn’t mention the Church’s stance on homosexuality. My sense is that you don’t agree with this stance, and so I’m wondering what is it about the Church’s teaching on this issue that first made you doubt it, that made you not believe it?”

It was a question that, I must admit, threw me. Yet I knew that it was an important and legitimate one. As I sat pondering it I was suddenly aware that Miles was beside me. In silence I watched his hands gently and skillfully replenish our liquid refreshments. I looked up into his face and for the briefest of moments I eyes met. And then he was gone, as quietly and efficiently as he had appeared.

“Beauty,” I said, turning to Father Brandon. “Those teachings . . . they lack beauty. The way they’re written, the things they convey . . . it’s all so narrow and rigid and . . . and clumsy and ugly. I think we should express our understanding of sexuality in the form of poetry, love poetry. To talk about such things in the heady language of doctrine is, well . . . it borders on the obscene. How can it possibly capture the beauty, the complexity, the truth of what two people feel and experience and know when they're together in that special way?”

“Some of the Church’s teaching on conjugal love can be quite beautiful,” Father Brandon observed.

“Yes,” I said, “but only if you’re straight. Why can’t that beauty be extended to someone like me? Surely it isn’t defined simply by what body parts we have and where we put them. Isn’t the beauty the Church refers to more about being in a loving and giving relationship? Isn’t it about the creating of something that endures, that gives life, vitality, hope and . . . and a sense – an experience – of God’s love?”

Father Brandon smiled and nodded.

“I agree with you, James. Our Church still has a lot to learn, still has a lot of growing to do.”

Now it was my turn to lean back in my seat and grapple with how to word the question I knew I needed to ask.

“So how did you, a priest, come to be able to think like that? To say the things you’re saying?”

Father Brandon laughed quietly - almost to himself.

“I suppose I’ve been blessed with a restless spirit, a need to be open to God wherever I find Him, and not just where the Church says He can be found. I’m sure my years in Guatemala helped in this regard. And I guess I’ve always had a hard time trusting the all-too-ready answers that the institutional Church has to offer on issues – complex issues, as you say – such as sexuality. It seems all too easy to build ghettos out of such answers – ghettos within which, sadly, too many of us hide from reality. The tragic thing is it shouldn’t be – and wasn’t always – like that. Again, read Rahner. You’ll see what I mean.

“And I suppose another thing is that I’m not a diocesan priest, so I’ve been removed somewhat from the politics, bureaucracy, and . . . well, let’s face it . . . the career ladder of diocesan church life. And trust me, James, nothing takes you more quickly away from the call and meaning of the priesthood than that church career ladder. Oh, I don’t want to imply it doesn’t exist within the religious orders, but it is more obvious – and more dangerous – among diocesan clergy. Priests should not be administrators . . . or rulers; on that I’ve become quite convinced. We’re pastors - servant leaders - for goodness sake.”

Now it was my turn to chuckle.

“That all sounds rather unorthodox,” I observed wryly.

“James, I’m 83 years old, and if there’s one thing I know it’s that orthodoxy is not what it’s all about. And certainly not what being a pastor is all about. It’s about being present with and for people. It’s about being present in an informed and compassionate and listening way. I don’t for a minute think that I have all the answers. I can try, of course, to be as informed as best I can about an issue like homosexuality, and of course that means listening to what the Church says. But the Church is bigger than Rome. It includes people like yourself, and the gay couples that attend St. Aelred’s, and the folks at Dignity. And being informed also means listening to what science says – real science, not that stuff that Courage is forever trying to push.”

I asked Farther Brandon if he was aware of the Courage conference taking place at St. Jerome’s next week. He said he was, and that he had also heard about Dignity’s unsuccessful attempt to work with the chancery to have some kind of dialogue forum take place during the conference.

“The chancery sent out a letter to all the priests – encouraging us to attend and warning us against engaging in any way with the Dignity folks. Can you believe it? Followers of Christ being told not to engage with people. What are they afraid of? That’s what I’m left to wonder. They tell us the folks of Dignity are not ‘agents or entities of the diocese.’ Since when did Jesus have ‘agents and entities’?”

“They think the matter’s settle,” he said of the chancery, “when clearly it’s not. I can’t tell you how many times some conservative type has lectured me about the infallibility of the Church’s teaching on homosexuality. They’re wrong, of course, but I’ve learned not to argue with such zealots. Unfortunately, it’s these zealots who are increasingly in control. And it’s something we’re seeing now in this diocese.”

“So, will you part of Dignity’s protest of the Courage conference?” I asked.

Father Brandon chuckled softly.

“I’ve learned to choose my battles, James. I made a financial donation to Dignity to help cover some printing costs related to the protest, and I’ll continue to make available supportive literature at St. Aelred’s. Some would say it’s out of line, others would say it’s not nearly enough.”

Miles returned, asking politely if there was anything else he could bring us.

“Just the check, thanks,” Father Brandon responded, before turning to me and explaining that he needed to be getting back to St. Aelred’s for a meeting.

I realized there was still something I needed to ask him – and that I’d better do so quickly.

“Father, when I met with Cathie, the female priest I was telling you about earlier, she said that our current understanding and, well, form of priesthood is on its way out, and that, in some ways, so too is a certain way of understanding church. Do you think she’s right?”

“It would seem so,” Father Brandon reflected thoughtfully. “The people in the pews aren’t happy – and many are showing it by simply leaving. Recent teachings – well, relatively recent teachings on things like contraception and homosexuality have simply not been ‘received,’ as we say, by the faithful. Fewer and fewer men are entering the seminaries. From everything I’ve read there seems to be growing support for women priests. So, yes, it would seem to me the Spirit’s trying to tell us something.

“I’m not a great one for heralding new eras," continued Father Brandon. "Yes, some things are changing and need to change, but in some ways I think it’s more about reclaiming than it is about forging something completely new. The Vatican and our local bishop can bluster all they want about their opposition to female ordination but the reality remains: there were women in the early church who were in leadership positions comparable to what we now understand as ‘priest.’ And quite frankly, even if they weren’t back then, they should be now.

“It also seems to me that there’s a movement within the Church that’s seeking to reclaim that vision of community embodied by Jesus – a vision that history shows was usurped and in many ways corrupted by the rise of what I call the imperial church and its cultic understanding of priesthood. It’s funny, don’t you think, James, that those of us drawn to the original model, to the Jesus-centered way of being church, are in fact the true traditionalists? The pope’s forever going on about relativism, about not being influenced by ‘the culture.’ And yet here we are today stuck with a model of Church based on absolute monarchy – which, of course, is a cultural phenomenon relative to a certain point in human history. If the consequences of all of this weren’t so damaging and tragic, I’d say God has one heck of a sense of humor.”

I offered to pay for our breakfast but Father Brandon would not hear of it. At the counter, as Miles counted out his change, Father Brandon thanked me for sharing my story and speaking so honestly about my journey with the Church.

“There may come a time, James, when for your own spiritual health you may find you need to leave the Roman way of being Catholic. You know that, don’t you?”

I thought of Jay, my gay friend and the former music director at St. Jerome’s, now working and worshiping at a Protestant church.

Father Brandon reached out and took my hand. “James, you’ll always be a precious child of God – a God bigger than any of our often self-serving efforts at defining and containing Him. Remember that, won’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I will remember that. And thank you, Father, for . . . for everything.”

I walked Father Brandon to his car and watched as he drove away. I felt drained yet also strangely elated – a feeling that remains with me still.

And I can’t help but think how appropriate in was that I met Father Brandon at The Sunflower Café. I mean, think about it: a sunflower moves its beautiful golden head so as to follow the sun; Father Brandon, it seems clear to me, has sought and followed God in ways that has ensured his thinking on all sorts of matters has moved. Has changed. Has grown. There’s a beauty in that, of that I’m sure. And it’s a beauty, a truth, that I long to be part of - and am part of, I know. For this I can only surrender in gratitude to God.


NEXT: Part 7 - The Note

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos
• Part Five: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”

Image: Michael J. Bayly.

My Lunch with a "Medicine Bearer"

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PART FIVE OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Thursday

It’s been a busy week-and-a-half since last I wrote, and even though it’s late and I’m feeling tired, I’m determined to write about some of the events of the past ten days.

And so I sit curled in the armchair tucked away in a corner of my bedroom. Before me a flickering votive candle illuminates my icon of the Scared Heart, that “mystical symbol of divine love” I’m so drawn to. I’ve stilled myself, and am very conscious of being in a “sacred time and space.” That’s how Father Brandon suggested I think about my prayer time. “Be mindful,” he said, “be intentional in your creating of a sacred time and space where you can just sit and be with God.”

I should say that Fr. Brandon is the priest at St. Aelred’s, the parish I’ve been attending as often as I can for weekday Mass. He’s a Cistercian priest, and St. Aelred was suggested to me by Vince at Dignity as it’s a non-diocesan parish and therefore able to be more welcoming of gay people. And Vince was right. I feel very welcome and accepted at St. Aelred’s. There’s even some P-Flag literature in the foyer, and informational flyers from New Ways Ministries. Old Fr. Brandon is responsible for all of this, which is quite something given that he must be well into his eighties. I guess I thought he wouldn’t be quite so “out there” in his support.

Morning Mass is offered three days a week at St. Aelred’s – Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I must admit that I started going there for the more traditional liturgy and environment. They don’t have a statue of the Sacred Heart like at St. Jerome’s but they do have a large portrait of it in an alcove on the right hand side of the church. I make sure I sit in a pew across from it during Mass. It feels like sitting near a trusted friend.

After my second visit to St. Aelred’s, Fr. Brandon came up to me and introduced himself. I told him I used to attend St. Jerome’s but was now trying out the Dignity Mass on Sunday nights at Southside United Methodist. He smiled a warm and understanding smile and said that in the past he had offered Mass for the Dignity community.

After attending Mass for the third time at St. Aelred’s – which was just this past Monday morning – I realized I wanted to talk to Fr. Brandon about my journey with the Church. I felt I could trust him with my questions, my concerns, and my hopes. He happily agreed to meet for coffee when it was convenient for me. We met earlier today.

But before I go any further, I should back up, gather my thoughts, and write a little about the other meeting I recently had with a priest – a woman priest.

I’d met Cathie at the first Dignity Mass I attended about three weeks ago. Initially I was totally taken aback by her and by the whole female priest thing. But her homily touched me deeply, spoke to a part of me that hadn’t been acknowledged, let alone spoken to, by . . . well . . . a regular priest for a very long time.

Afterward, I talked to Cathie and expressed my interest in discussing with her the whole female ordination thing. About a week later she called and asked if we could meet for lunch. It was an enjoyable meeting, though a bit overwhelming as I felt I was receiving a crash course in the Roman Catholic Womenpriest movement. Then again, I only have myself to blame as my journalistic instincts kicked in almost immediately and I no doubt overwhelmed Cathie with my many questions.

I still find myself pondering her responses. I can’t deny that they challenge me – and my understanding of church. Cathie maintains, for instance, that both society and the church are in the midst of what she calls a “paradigm shift.” She said that history is full of such shifts and that we can readily discern them if we just take the time to look carefully at how humans have developed as a species and how civilizations and even religions have progressed and changed over the centuries.

“Look around you, James,” she said. “Everything is in crisis – the economy, our relationship with the planet, the church. We’re on the verge of momentous changes across the board – changes that need to happen. I don’t see this chaotic time we’re living through as destructive but rather as a rebirth; a necessary – if at times painful and disorientating – new beginning.”

She insists that the days of what she calls the church’s “celibate male clerical system” are over. “That form of priesthood, that understanding of priesthood, is dying,” she said. “Yet a new understanding is rising within and among the people to take its place. And it’s happening all around the world. It’s such an exciting time, James, don’t you think?”

She must have detected my skepticism, or perhaps my discomfort. Believe me, both were like mini tornadoes in my head, mercilessly buffeting my thoughts.

“But if it’s all new,” I ventured, “why did you insist on being ordained the same way as the men in this system you say is finished?”

“It comes down to justice, James,” Cathie declared determinedly. “Look, a new form of priesthood is coming. In many ways it’s already here. But while ever the old way remains, we as women should be able to be ordained in it. It’s a matter of justice.”

“But aren’t you all excommunicated?” I asked. “I mean, this system you want to be part of doesn’t accept you. Why be part of it?”

Cathie looked at me intently.

“James,” she said softly, “does this system accept you as a gay man? You know it doesn’t, and yet you stay; you want to be part of it. Why?

I was lost for words.

“We stay, James, you and I, because we believe we have something to give to the Church. The Church would be incomplete with out us. One of my mentors is an old Native American woman, and in her culture they have the idea of ‘medicine’ – of healing insight and be-ing that brings wholeness to individuals and the community. I believe with all my heart that our dear Church, our spiritual community, is terribly sick, profoundly unhealthy, and that it’s people like us, people whom those in positions of power dismiss and ‘excommunicate,’ who carry within them the medicine that’s needed to make the Church well, to make it whole. That’s why I stay, James. Not to be part of a sick and dysfunctional system, but because I’m a medicine bearer, as are you. And we’re called to be part of the healing, part of this wonderful movement of the Spirit that is happening all around us. But we have to be within the system to facilitate the healing.”

In relation to this “healing,” Cathie also talked about how she believes that more and more people are “embodying through courageous acts of conscience” the words of a poem by Edwin Markham – words I jotted down in my notebook:

He drew a circle that shut me out.
Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.
But Love and I had the wit to win:
We drew a circle that took him in.

These words, along with Cathie’s, have given me much to think about during the past few days.

And in thinking about them I came to realize that I needed to speak to a priest – a regular male priest. I couldn’t help it! Somehow I needed to hear affirmed by at least one regular priest the types of things I’d been hearing from gay Catholics and women priests. Part of me feels embarrassed and ashamed that I need the approval of “father.” But that’s not what it’s really about. No, I have to know that the “radical” ideas I’ve been hearing that both excite and scare me, are capable of being accepted by everyone – including those who are so often cast as the “enemy” by these very same ideas. So that’s why I asked if I could meet with Father Brandon for coffee. I know, you could say that his welcoming of gay people at St. Aelred’s indicates that he’s not your “regular” priest. But it’s not the gay stuff that was challenging me but rather all the new ways of thinking about church that I’d been hearing. It was these types of things that I wanted to discuss with Fr. Brandon.

And discuss them we did – this morning.

My journaling about our meeting, however, is going to have to wait. It’s past 1:00 and I have an 8:00 o’clock meeting with my editor.

I will say this before I turn in: Dignity’s request to the chancery for a dialogue forum at next week’s Courage conference has been turned down, so a protest is being planned. Frank disagrees with me that this is newsworthy. It’s nothing but “church infighting about an issue that the rest of us have accepted or are tired of hearing about,” he said. Instead of covering the Courage protest he wants me to help with an upcoming feature article that, according to him, looks at a “much bigger picture, a much bigger story.” This article will explore why young people are abandoning organized religion. Frank could tell I was disappointed that we weren’t going to cover the Courage protest, and so suggested I focus on young gay people for this particular article. I agreed and so arranged with P-flag to make an announcement about my assignment at the end of one of their meetings. I actually obtained quite a few potential contacts – names and phone numbers of young people who might be interested in sharing their reasons for no longer attending church. Quite a few of them, it turns out, are from a Catholic background. And they’re willing to talk.


NEXT: Part 6: Father Brandon

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins
• Part Four: Carlos

Image: “Herein Lies Our Medicine” by Litina Egungun.

Carlos

PART FOUR OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Tuesday

I have just one photograph of Carlos – and not a particularly good one. Truth be told, we took it for the “so bad it’s fabulous” wallpaper that we discovered in a room of a bed and breakfast up north. I guess it’s okay, but I wish he was smiling in it. Carlos, however, always liked to look tough, to look “the man.” And he was my man – fleetingly. And, yes, I still miss him - and his smile.

We met in a strange, quite-by-chance kind of way. I was on an assignment about two years ago, covering a popular street parade put together by what I call the “old hippie” set. Not really my thing at all but always very popular owing to a local theater company being involved and contributing giant puppets and all types of curious props. Every year there’s always some kind of different “new age” theme, usually to do with celebrating “Mother Earth.” That kind of thing. Anyway, Carlos, believe it or not, was part of an anarchist contingent in this parade.

Dressed in tight-fitting black jeans and a sleeveless T, he eyed me suspiciously as I viewed him through my camera lens as he walked down the street, banging away on his big drum. I thought he was definitely cute, but also assumed he was straight – and probably in need of a good bath. I mean, judging from the look of his “comrades,” personal hygiene didn’t exactly seem a priority for this anarchist crowd. His unsmiling, angry-looking visage ensured I never took his photo. Yet as I lowered the camera our eyes met and for a timeless moment it was just me and him in the whole universe. Corny, I know . . . but true! He soon continued on his way, however, and I got back to the job at hand, heading off to photograph more obliging subjects.

Later that afternoon, I wandered through the city park where the parade ended and where a colorful and noisy festival was in full swing. There must have been several thousand people present, strolling and milling around a range of food stalls and informational booths addressing everything from ending the war in Iraq to animal rights. Many of those present were still in their costumes from the parade. All in all, there was a surreal vibe to the carnival atmosphere.

Things got even more surreal, however, when the cute anarchist I’d almost photographed approached me and shyly said hello. We engaged in awkward small talk: he asked me about the camera hanging around my neck, and I inquired about the group he had been marching with. As it turned out, he was part of that contingent as a favor for his sister – the usual drummer feeling under the weather that day! He nevertheless claimed allegiance to “the cause,” but I was already having my doubts. Let’s just say it was something about the neatness of his attire and his looks – not to mention the hint of cologne I detected when at one point the crowd pushed us close together.

You’re an anarchist wannabe, I thought to myself. He caught my smile and smiled back at me - that incredibly beautiful smile. We both laughed, and I knew then and there that we’d see each other again.

So that’s how it started. We met next for coffee, and then a few days later went and saw a movie together. Slowly we opened up to one another about our lives, our hopes, and our dreams. He shared with me how he was currently working as a roofer, but was finishing off a course in landscape design. He seemed genuinely interested in my work at the paper and asked a number of questions about past stories I’d covered. I shared with him how I was considering moving into film study with an emphasis on documentary film making.

By then, of course, I knew his name was Carlos – and that his mother was French and his father Mexican. He was raised Catholic, he said, but felt abandoned by the Church because of its “harsh and unforgiving” stance on sex between two people of the same gender. His mother was accepting of him as a gay man, but his father – whom, from what I could gather, was your typical Latino macho kind of guy – was not on speaking terms with him. There was in Carlos’ eyes a look of deep hurt and sorrow as he related this to me. And, if I recall correctly, that was when I first reached out and touched his hand.

For our next “date,” I invited Carlos to my condo for dinner and to watch a DVD. He ended up staying the night. I can honestly say it wasn’t planned that way, but rather, as the evening progressed, just came to be sensed (by both of us) as the natural thing to do.

Up until Carlos, I’d never been in a physical relationship with another man that I felt was a healthy and mutual one. In Memphis there had been Chad, whom I dated for just over six months. I guess you could say he was my first boyfriend. He was a nice enough guy, but I was more of a possession than a person with whom he was in relationship. I mean, Chad had his expensive condo, his jeep, his high-powered corporate job . . . and me. We never lived together – he liked his own space too much for that. Yet I was never jealous of him or thought he might be seeing other guys. Why should he? He had checked “boyfriend” of his list of acquisitions, and I was it.

I’m not proud of my time with Chad, yet neither am I ashamed of it. One thing I will say is that I learned from it. I learned how to be comfortable with another man sexually; learned something about my own desires and needs; learned how to give pleasure and, yes, love, to another; and learned, in the end, what it is that fails to fed my soul in a relationship. And once I realized this, I ended my relationship with Chad.

With Carlos it was different. I felt I came fully alive in his presence - body, mind, and soul. With him I wanted to be the best person I could be - physically, emotionally, and spiritually. And I was ready also to extend myself for him and his development as a whole person; ready and willing to create time and space in my life for him and for us.

I also felt I was able to make our relationship a better one, an authentic one, as a result of the things I learned from my time with Chad. I had grown as a man – as a relational human being – by being attuned to what did and didn’t work, not just with Chad, but with all kinds of people in my life. I guess that’s all part of growing up – not being afraid to live and learn . . . and to apply the knowledge and insights we gain to new situations and opportunities we encounter as we journey on. Hopefully, such a process makes us more mindful, loving, and humble.

I remember when my friend Jack first met Carlos. It was at a gay bar downtown and, like a lot of people, Jack was quite taken by Carlos’ physical looks. He is a handsome man, no question about that. And his work as a roofer has ensured a very well toned but natural-looking body, if you know what I mean. Jack’s drag queen friend Dee Dee was also present, and siding up to me while giving Carlos the once over, whispered, “Honeychild, there was a time when armies would have gone to war over that ass.” Much to my embarrassment I couldn’t help but blush, yet later after I shared Dee Dee’s remark with Carlos, he just smiled his beautiful smile and said that my blushing at such things was part of the reason he loved me. I didn’t blush at that, but I did almost cry. It was such a beautiful thing to say.

Despite Carlos’ undeniable good looks and hot body, it was never just about sex with him. That’s not to say that sex wasn’t important to us, but our relationship wasn’t built around it. I remember how with Chad we’d often get together simply for sex – no dinner, no movie, no time together sharing what had taken place that day – just sex. He loved to be fucked and had a need to be fucked on a regular basis. I guess most men – gay or straight – would jump at this kind of opportunity, but I soon discovered that that type of sex, devoid of any real connection, was not what I wanted. It just becomes so mechanical and, well, soul-destroying. Yet for some men, I know, anything is better than nothing. But to be honest, I’d rather have nothing. Despite all the sex I experienced with Chad, I can’t say we were ever really intimate. For one thing, he wasn’t one for kissing, and he never wanted to be “on top.” He was happy to be simply “serviced” on a regular basis. And afterward, it was clear that I was not welcomed to stay the night.

Again, with Carlos it was different. For a start there was mutuality in our physical lovemaking. Versatility, he insisted, should always be a feature of gay male sex. He gently and patiently showed me just how liberating it was to discover and enjoy the freedom that the male body offers to alternatively enter and be entered. I know I became a better lover and a better person by opening myself – quite literally – to him; a better lover and person by being vulnerable with him and trusting him. To this day I miss Carlos’ gentle touch, the feel and rhythm of his firm thickness moving into me, and the awareness and experience of my holding him inside of me. I miss talking with him long into the night, our bodies entwined in the afterglow of our lovemaking. Those conversations were always the most honest and open that we shared. It was scary, at times: that closeness, our opening up of ourselves – on so many levels – to one another.

I realize now that it was from this that Carlos eventually balked. Yes, Carlos, who taught me so much, found himself suddenly in water that was too deep, too frightening. I know that together we could have supported one another, learned to swim and stay afloat, found a shore to steady us. The rock beneath my feet, I know, was not only my love for Carlos, but also my relationship with God – the source of all love. I shared with God everything about my relationship with Carlos, often before the statue of the Sacred Heart at St. Jerome’s. Most of all I thanked God for the experience of the relationship I was forging with Carlos; of how it was making me a better person – a gentler, less uptight and judgmental person; of how Carlos too was changing – trusting me, for instance, to share more about his strained relationship with his father; and how all of these things drew me to turn to God countless times a day in thanks and praise.

But it’s all over now. Not my gratitude to God for what I experienced, but the experience itself; the experience of Carlos and me together. He wanted to remain friends but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. For weeks I slept on the sofa as being in my bed without his warm, manly body beside mine was just too painful. I can still find it difficult – and it’s been almost two years since he disappeared like a ghost. For soon after I told him that I couldn’t be “just friends” after all we’d shared and experienced, he vanished. I have no idea where he’s gone. And that itself is a cause of grief . . . and also anger. How could he just leave me wondering, knowing as he does how I feel and care about him? Did he fall off a roof? Did he not tell me the truth about his status and get deported? Or is he well and happy in another part of the city or in some other city? I simply have no idea – and no way of finding out.

One evening shortly after the breakup, Jack gently tried to suggest that perhaps Carlos had been a “player” all along; that he got what he wanted from me and then moved on – a sexual drifter. I entertained the possibility of this for about two seconds, but then dismissed it. I simply couldn’t believe that about Carlos, our relationship, and all that we had shared.

I know that I’ll probably never fully understand why it didn’t work out between Carlos and I, and I sense that I’ll never see him again or discover what became of him.

Protect me, God, from feelings of bitterness, anger, and grief about all of this. Be with Carlos wherever he is. May he know happiness and meaning in his life.

I write these things tonight as a way of attempting to get them out of my “system,” as they say. Earlier this evening, I shared with God my desire and readiness to move on, and, as a result, felt compelled to write the things I have.

And just two nights ago I wrote of how I feel I’m embarking on a new journey - one that I don’t want to be burdened with by unnecessary baggage. I know I’ll never completely forget Carlos – I wouldn’t want too. But I do want to gently put aside those memories and thoughts of him. I trust that in doing so, I will have more energy and focus as I explore the new things that are opening up for me in my life, and the new ways of living my life as a gay Catholic man in a Church unmindful of my experiences of you, loving God, present in those types of experiences I shared with Carlos. And, perhaps also, by handing over to You, God, the many different feelings I have about Carlos, I may find myself more open to a new experience of intimate relationship with another.

This is my hope and prayer tonight, loving God: that You may help me move on in mindfulness, trust, hope, and love. And I pray this in a spirit of thanksgiving for my openness to use all of my experiences of joy, yearning, disappointment, and regret as a vehicle to greater communication and relationship with You and those around me. I thank You for my resilient spirit – a spirit still willing to take risks; a spirit that yearns for Your presence, for human touch, love, and sensual expression and affirmation. For all of this and more I express complete gratitude and praise. Thank you, God. I love you.


NEXT: Part 5: My Lunch with a “Medicine Bearer”

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation
• Part Three: A Journey Begins

A Journey Begins

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PART THREE OF
THE JOURNAL OF JAMES CURTIS
BY MICHAEL J. BAYLY

(To start at the beginning of this series, click here)

Sunday

Well, that was certainly different!

“You really should check Dignity out,” Jay had insisted. “It’s a ‘traditional’ Mass,” he had said.

Well, I did check it out – and, as I said, it was certainly different.

I arrived at Southside United Methodist early and settled into a pew towards the front of the church. It was a nice enough worship space – though way too sparse for my tastes. Well, it is a Protestant church, I reminded myself. I looked around dejectedly. No statue of the Sacred Heart anywhere within these walls!

I must admit that I was surprised by the turnout. There must have been about 30 people – mostly men in their fifties and sixties. They all seemed pleasant enough, but I wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat, and so kept to myself – hoping I wouldn’t be considered a spy from the chancery!

As I sat waiting for Mass to begin, I found myself wondering what exactly I was in for. Jay said that, last he knew, some more traditionally-minded priests were celebrating Mass with the Dignity community. Well, traditionally-minded when it came to liturgy, that is. Obviously we won’t be hearing the virtues and benefits of the Church’s official teachings on homosexuality or of the Courage movement being extolled from the pulpit. And, yes, there was a pulpit.

Yet as appealing as the idea was of a more traditional Catholic Mass, welcoming of gay folks like myself, I questioned if this space at Southside United Methodist would work for me in the long term. Looking around once again, I was definitely missing those distinctly Roman Catholic elements that I appreciated so much.

An organ began to play and I searched through my hymnal for the words that folks around me were already beginning to sing. Movement to my left caught my attention and I turned to look at the processional. Perhaps I’ll recognize the priest celebrating this evening’s Mass. As it turned out: definitely not.

To my utter shock I watched as a woman walked past me towards the altar – a woman in the place where a priest should have been! Our eyes briefly met, and by her expression I realized my look of shock had taken her aback. Well, I thought, I can hardly help that! I closed my gaping mouth and turned away, fumbling with my hymnal. Just wait until I see Jay, I silently fumed.

I seriously considered making a run for the exit, but people had stopped singing and the Mass – if it really was a Mass – had began. This is terrible, I thought. I’m stuck here. I have to sit through this . . . this . . . charade! And on top of it all, her vestments were all wrong for this time of the liturgical year!

I couldn’t focus on the opening prayers or even the readings as I was racking my brain to remember what I’d read about these women “priests.” I recalled something about an ordination on a boat on a river or a lake, and that the identity of the male bishop who ordained them had to be kept secret. Now, of course, the women were ordaining themselves. I think there were even some female bishops! According to them, they were in full apostolic succession – I guess because they had been ordained by that male bishop. Still, weren’t they all excommunicated? It was all very confusing. And I resented the fact that I had been encouraged to come here only to have to sit through . . .

. . . She smiled at me! The woman . . . the woman priest . . . she smiled at me as she finished the gospel reading and looked out over the congregation! It was a warm smile . . . a welcoming smile. A smile that, I swear, said, “I see you’re upset, and that’s okay.”

She then began her homily in a voice that was light and lilting. Her message was all about how, when it comes to sexual matters, we need to transform the Church’s current “theology of arrogance,” into a theology that lovingly and respectfully listens to the sexual wisdom of all. She also talked about sexuality as an education in how to be human, in how to be open and vulnerable, not hiding behind facades. She was adamant that our sexual experiences can and should open us to growth and to learning how to love. She reminded us that our God is a creative God, and a lover of diversity. She even suggested that to truly respect this diversity, we should talk about “homosexualities,” as differences are just as prevalent among LGBT people as they are within the straight community, of which she counts herself as a member.

I must admit I was impressed by her words. They conveyed so much compassion and wisdom. And I realized with a curious mixture of sadness and anger, just how spiritually malnourished I had been kept at St. Jerome’s. Yet here, at last, was substance! Here was someone speaking to me as an adult, as a thinking, feeling human being. Here was someone who recognized that my experiences as a gay man had something to offer the Church, were needed by the Church.

I suddenly felt embarrassed by my initial reaction to this woman. I had been fuming and agitated, petty and judgmental. Yet now, after hearing her words and the truth they contained, I felt centered and at peace. I also felt compelled to talk to her, to learn more about her and the whole women priest thing.

To be honest, it had crossed my mind that I couldn’t possibly go to Communion. Yet now, after hearing such a welcoming and inclusive homily, I realized that I couldn’t possibly not go. Again, the difference from my last experience at St. Jerome’s was profound.

After Mass there were announcements, one of which threatened my new found peace. Apparently, Fr. O’Connor is hosting a Courage conference next month at St. Jerome’s! Furthermore, he has an article published in the latest issue of the diocesan paper (which I must admit I don’t read!) emphasizing the Church’s teaching that “same-sex attractions” comprise a “disordered desire for love.” Dignity, along with some folks from St. Anne’s, is planning on having a presence at this conference – to protest it, if need be. From what I could gather, someone from Dignity leadership is trying to negotiate with the chancery for a special forum at the conference – a forum that would allow people from both Courage and Dignity to exchange experiences and insights. It’s still unclear whether such a forum will take place, and I could sense that if it didn’t many of those present would be willing to picket the conference.

Wow, I thought, this is something new. Maybe I could cover it for the paper.

As people made their way downstairs for refreshments, I approached Cathie, the woman who had presided at Mass. Yes, I admit it: I was feeling ashamed about the way I had looked down on her and judged her. I wanted to apologize. But before I could get a word out she stepped forward and gave me a great big hug.

“Thank you,” she said.

No . . . Thank you,” I replied. “Your homily . . . I . . . it really spoke to me.”

“Wonderful!” she said. “Actually, I hope it spoke to all of us – male and female, gay and straight, partnered and single. That’s what is needed in our Church: a theology of human sexuality that is informed by all of our experiences; all of our dreams and desires and insights.”

“Yes!” I said with a wide smile. “Yes . . . yes!” To my amazement I was laughing – laughing with relief and joy!

“My, you have such a beautiful smile! What’s your name?”

“James. James Curtis.”

“Well, James Curtis, it’s a pleasure and honor to meet you. Is this your first time at Dignity?”

I shared with her my situation, of how I felt like I didn’t have a spiritual home within Catholicism anymore. Her eyes welled with kindness and empathy as she listened. And, movie buff that I am, I couldn’t help but think of Dr. Aziz’s words to Mrs. Moore in the film A Passage to India: “You have the most kindest eyes of any Englishwoman I’ve met.” Only I would have to say, “. . . of any priest I’ve met.”

Suddenly, my own situation seemed not so unique, not so important. And I heard myself asking: “But I want to know more about you, and about this whole . . . er . . . priest thing.”

I faltered, embarrassed.

“Why, yes, of course, James. I’d love to share my journey with you. And, believe me, it’s been quite a journey.”

Her warm smile really was quite infectious. I returned it and handed her my card.

Later, I got talking to some of the Dignity regulars. I shared with them my issues with St. Jerome’s - and, in particular, how, as a gay man, I no longer felt welcomed there. A guy named Vince suggested I try St. Aelred’s.

“It’s a Cistercian parish,” Vince said, “and as such it has a certain amount of, shall we say, independence from the Diocese. I think you’ll find it to your liking. I know the parish priest quite well. And believe me, you won’t be hearing Courage promoted from the pulpit - or on any church bulletin boards. It’s a very gay-friendly place.”

I asked how long female priests had been saying Mass at Dignity.

“They’re called Roman Catholic Womenpriests, dear,” Vince informed me, “and they’ve been celebrating Mass with us for about a year now. And let me tell you, when they first started it caused quite a stir. We lost a good 20, maybe 30 percent of our members. All men, I should add. It seems they want the Church to change only enough to accept them. In their view, women can stay in their subservient place. They just don’t make the connections.”

“You mean the connection between the different ‘isms’ - like sexism, racism, and heterosexism?”

“Yes, dear! Exactly.”

Goodness, I thought, who would have thought that a sweet old queen like Vince would be talking just like my radical queer activist friend, Jack. What a night of surprises it’s been.

Vince winked at me. “You know, I sometimes think that if those guys who walked weren’t out gay men, they’d be among our most rabid opponents. Do you know what I mean?”

And now I’m at home, reflecting on the various and surprising turns of events at Dignity. I wrote at the beginning of this journal entry that this evening’s Mass hadn’t been “traditional.” But now I’m thinking differently. And not because – as a quick search of the Internet has shown – there were indeed the equivalent of female “priests” in the early church, but because Cathie seemed to be what a priest – a pastor – should be. Not someone who lords it over others and pushes them this way and that, but a loving figure who gathers people together in a spirit of acceptance and welcome – in the spirit of Christ. Perhaps priests and bishops should be shepherds not of people, but of all the experiences and insights of the people. Perhaps then, and only then – equipped with such wisdom – should they be considered authentic teachers . . . like Cathie was tonight.

Oh, such radical thoughts, James! Just one experience of a female priest and already you’re re-imagining the Church. Yet, I wonder: is it really such a re-imagining? Or is it rather a reclaiming? I need to do some research. Perhaps Jay could direct me towards some good books on the early church and the role of those people in it whom we now call priests.

It’s late . . . after midnight! I really should go to sleep. Yet I still feel as if I’m on . . . well . . . almost a high from this evening. It’s not just Cathie’s homily, or the prospect of challenging the Courage conference and its screwed-up ideology, but the fact that I’m also feeling incredibly horny. Is there a connection? I mean, I feel spiritually aroused, and, as is often the case with me, it gets manifested – or better yet, embodied – by being sexually aroused. I’m as hard as a rock!

And, of course, whenever I’m feeling this way I think of Carlos . . . beautiful Carlos. Why? Because it’s with him that I still long to express this spiritual/sexual desire. With him such expression feels, or rather felt, so right and so very good.

But Carlos is out of the picture, and if I think about him for too long resentment rises within me and makes me angry and sad . . . and anything but horny (as I can tell already!). And what and who exactly is it that I resent? Is it ever having met him? How our relationship ended? Is it myself? Him? God? Life? All of the above? Okay, this is getting me nowhere. It’s a useless exercise. God, help me focus on more positive things.

Tomorrow I plan on attending early morning Mass at St. Aelred’s. Then at work I’ll ask Frank, my editor, if I can cover the Courage conference and Dignity’s response to it. Hopefully, Cathie will call and we can arrange to meet and talk. I feel I have so much to learn. Oh, which reminds me, I must contact Jay and get some book recommendations.

It’s strange: Cathie said she’s been on a journey, and tonight I feel like I’ve begun one. It’s a journey of consciousness, an awakening in many ways. It’s exciting, yes. But also a little scary. Yet I remember that smile of Cathie’s. She was okay with where I was at when I first saw her and reacted the way I did. I think she knew I was on a journey and that I had it in me to go beyond where it was I was at. And she was right.

I can’t help but think that this is how God works - accepting us where we’re at but always encouraging us and trusting that we can go beyond, be better yet.

So now, before I go to sleep, I light a candle before my portrait of the Sacred Heart, and I pray that God will guide me on what’s definitely feeling like a new journey in my faith life. I trust you, loving God. You love me, I know. Guide and strengthen me on my way. May it always be your Way as well.


NEXT: Carlos

See also the previous installments of The Journal of James Curtis:
• Part One: A “Bells and Smells” Kind of Guy
• Part Two: A Quiet Visit and an Exhausting Conversation

Image: Gabriel Loire