“See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut.”
— Revelation 3:8, NIV
I have been in more prayer and contemplation lately.
And for the first time in a long time, my inner being feels calm.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
Not free of questions.
But calm.
Less stressed.
More focused.
More able to stand before the door and not only pound on it, rage at it, or collapse outside of it.
Now I feel like I am trying to open it as wide as I can and step through.
Something has changed.
I feel it in my attitude toward almost everything.
The chains are still there in some ways, but they do not feel as heavy. They do not feel as many. They feel movable. Like something that once pinned me down is beginning to loosen.
There is still constraint.
The big hurdle now is ministry.
How do I build something fruitful?
How do I make a ministry live?
How do I find the people I am called to serve?
How do I take this priesthood, this calling, this dark night, this devotion, this hunger for the Eucharist, this care for the dead and the wounded, and turn it into something that actually helps people?
That part still feels like a mountain.
But the mountain does not feel quite as impossible today.
The free part is this: I am beginning to see more clearly where my heart is.
My understanding of love is changing.
For so long, I think part of me still longed for romantic love, for a partner, for someone beside me in that way. I would still love that, if it were in the cards. But I do not think it is anymore, or at least I cannot build my life around waiting for it.
Something in me is shifting.
Love is becoming less about finding someone to complete my life and more about caring for souls.
The soul in passing.
The soul after death.
The souls of the forgotten.
The souls of those who have no one praying for them.
The souls of the queer, the wounded, the spiritually homeless, the frightened, the dying, the dead.
That is where my love is going.
Toward prayer.
Toward Eucharist.
Toward the care of souls.
Toward the work of blessing what the world forgets.
I am even beginning to think I may want to write my own Eucharistic prayers for this work. Prayers shaped for the dead, for the grieving, for the exiled, for the ones who cannot enter a church without flinching, for the ones who still miss Christ but have been wounded by Christians.
That feels important.
That feels like part of the door.
And the Mother of Sorrows has come all the way forward.
I do not know how else to say it.
She has made it clear to me, in no uncertain terms, that I am one of her children.
Not in a sentimental way.
Not in a soft religious-card way.
In a real way.
She is matron.
She is covering.
She is the Mother standing at the threshold.
She is the one who has been with me since the first call, since the roses, since the water, since the honey, since the moment I knew I was loved and needed.
And now I understand more deeply that she is leading me to Jesus.
Not replacing Him.
Never replacing Him.
She is bringing me to Him.
She is teaching me how to approach Him through sorrow, tenderness, strength, and trust.
She knows the way through the veil.
She knows how to stand near suffering without surrendering to despair.
She knows how to hold the wounded body of Christ and still believe resurrection is possible.
I may need to speak with the Bishop about the name of the chapter I am trying to form.
Because something is clarifying.
Something about the Sorrowful Mother.
Something about care for souls.
Something about Eucharist, death, grief, queer holiness, and those abandoned by the Church.
Something about a ministry that does not begin with noise, but with prayer.
I am beginning to believe now that everything will change for the better.
That sentence feels strange in my mouth.
For so long, belief has been hard.
Hope has been hard.
Trust has been hard.
But I am beginning to believe that I am finally on the right path.
Where I belong.
Where my heart is.
Where my being is.
Where Christ has been slowly, painfully, patiently leading me.
And still, there is work to do inside me.
One of the biggest things I need to overcome is my constant self-deprecation.
That voice that says I do not know enough.
That I am not effective enough.
That I sound like a bumbling idiot.
That I stumble through conversations.
That I am not ready.
That I am not enough.
But then another voice rises in me and says:
No.
You went to seminary.
You went through formation.
You had at least five years of preparation.
You studied.
You prayed.
You discerned.
You were formed.
The Bishop would not have ordained you unless he believed you were called, ready, and able to do the work.
That matters.
I need to let that matter.
I need to stop acting like my calling is fake just because I am afraid.
I need to stop treating humility like self-destruction.
I can be humble without despising myself.
I can be honest about what I do not know without pretending I know nothing.
I can still learn and still be a priest.
I can stumble through conversations and still be useful.
I can be awkward and still be called.
I can be wounded and still bless.
I can be afraid and still step through the door.
I am lonely too.
Not only romantically, though that is there in its own way.
I am lonely for community.
I am lonely for the people I am called to find.
Here, the area is so conservative. Everyone feels hidden. Secretive. Careful. The women seem more daring than the men in some ways. The queer people are here, but many of them are cautious, and I understand why.
So I have begun wearing a gay flag pin.
That feels small, but it is not small.
It says:
Yes, I am a priest.
And yes, I am gay.
And yes, you are safe with me.
It lets people know that the collar does not mean danger.
That the habit does not mean hatred.
That the cross does not mean condemnation.
That there is at least one priest in this place who will not look at queer people as a debate, a problem, or a sin with a pulse.
That matters to me.
I have thought about a chat site or some way to connect with people, but then I get twisted up about it. I do not want to be misunderstood. I do not want the reputation or identity of a priest searching for sex. That is not what this is.
This is about community.
Connection.
Safety.
Ministry.
Finding the ones who need to know they are not alone.
But I have to be wise.
I have to be careful.
I have to protect the work, the Order, the Bishop, my brothers, and myself.
I do not want to bring shame upon my brothers.
I do not want to bring shame upon myself.
That fear is always there.
But I am beginning to trust that the Sorrowful Mother has me covered.
Not covered so I can be careless.
Covered so I can move forward without being paralyzed.
Covered so I can stop mistaking fear for discernment.
Covered so I can remember that ministry requires courage, not perfect conditions.
I miss my brothers in community.
I miss being fully present with them.
I miss that sense of belonging.
But I also know this part has had to be walked alone.
I hate that.
It sucks.
But it has been necessary.
There are some doors no one else can open for you.
There are some thresholds where even the people who love you have to stand back and pray while you step forward.
I have no control over what the Lord sees fit for me.
That is hard.
But today it feels less like punishment and more like surrender.
Maybe the dark night has been teaching me that I cannot control the road.
I can only walk it.
I cannot manufacture the ministry.
I can only prepare the altar.
I cannot force the community to appear.
I can only become visible, safe, prayerful, and ready.
I cannot make the door open by panic.
I can only keep turning the key as grace allows.
And I think the key is turning.
I really do.
The Mother of Sorrows is near.
Christ feels closer.
The inner room is calmer.
The chains are lighter.
The door is beginning to open.
I am not through it yet.
But I am no longer only outside in the cold.
I am standing at the threshold.
And for the first time in a long time, I believe there may actually be a path on the other side.