Since My Last Confession: A Gay Catholic Memoir Read Online Free PDF

until I left for college.
    My brother was married at Saint John’s. My first godson was baptized there. I still have both my baptism certificate and my First Communion card.
    The spiritual hotspot, the locus of the confrontation, was up front — where the priest was, where the tabernacle and the book were, where wine changed to blood, and flatbreads became flesh, and the priest murmured sweet nothings to Jesus under his breath. The altar.
Where the Hell Am I? A Guide to Church Geography
For those who have been absent a while, finding your way around a Catholic church presents a challenge. Here’s a handy guide:
     
Narthex: The vestibule of the church — typically as far as sinful folk dare to go, and a handy place for priests to dispose of unwanted literature sent from the local bishop.
Nave: The center aisle and surrounding pews, where you can best see and be seen.
Chancel: Area at the front of the church where the altar is, typically raised a few inches to show that the priest is a much better person than you can ever hope to be.
Altar: Eucharistic dinner table located in the chancel, or sanctuary.
Reredos: Fancy backdrop behind an altar, often of stained glass.
Tabernacle: An ornate bank safe for storing consecrated hosts under lock and key. Typically located within shouting distance of the altar, so eucharistic ministers don’t have to wear their hiking boots to Mass.
Pulpit, lectern, and ambo: Names for the podium from which priests and lay ministers proclaim the Gospels and other readings.
Sacristy: Priest’s dressing room. Don’t disturb the starlets before they go on stage. Typically located adjacent to the chancel.
Ambulatory; Hall between sacristy and sanctuary; not a great place to pick up tricks.
Transept: For churches with a cross-shaped floor plan, the part to which Jesus’s arms would have been nailed,
    Just a few years after Vatican II, when I was four or five, a low rail along the chancel separated us from the altar. Parishioners kneeled on one side of the rail. The priest and altar boy moved in tandem on the other. They worked their way along the railing from the far left of the church to the far right and back again. The altar boy placed the brass plate beneath the communicant, and the priest held up a host that looked as big as the moon.
    The recipient crossed herself and returned to her pew. She did not touch the host with her soiled fingers. She did not chew. She swallowed whole, and Enforcement Nuns stood sentinel for telltale movements of the jaw. Someone new took her place and waited patiently for the priest and altar boy to make their way back from the other side of the sanctuary.
    The altar itself was forbidden territory. Only a few holies could breathe the rarefied air. Prom the altar came words like dire and grave and mortal that made it seem as if a thundercloud loomed above your head twenty-four seven. Prom the altar flowed a whole series of rules that could be broken, rules I had not known existed, but of which the parochial school kids were no doubt fully aware. I never imagined I might someday be called to speak from the altar. I never imagined myself as a priest. That, too, was reserved for parochial school kids.
    Ultimately, that sense of personal responsibility and all that scolding made me feel that whatever I did, I couldn’t possibly do right. Sure, we Catholics sound off about confession and reconciliation, but the Irish-blooded among us know certain sins lie beyond forgiveness. Hardcore priests still tell us we’re going to hell. The gentler ones assure us that God can forgive us, but because we are Irish, and we are full of sin, and our sin is colossal, we side with the hardcore priests: He could , but He wouldn’t . Best to take communion and hightail it out before lightning strikes.
    Psychologists call this phenomenon “learned helplessness.” In a famous experiment, they put a dog in a cage with a partially electrified floor. A buzzer sounded before a shock was