Two nights later, we went to St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Manhattan. He insisted we’d sit in the front row, which was still empty, even though this was St. Pat’s and Mass was in less than five minutes. We then endured a wooden Sunday liturgy. The homilist, a fresh-faced young priest with very precise hair, compared holy matrimony to the sport of rock climbing, and this with the aid of several bad bullet points.
But what was remarkable, shocking, was that I felt at home again. Here is my house.
The foregoing was published at CatholicMajority.com on February 1, 2014. I no longer agree with every sentiment expressed therein. Specifically, I’m no longer part of, nor do I endorse, the progressive Catholic movement. But this piece is part of my published record, it’s an honest autobiographical account with some value (the message that you are what you are and that you should claim it, come what may, still rings true to me), and the writing isn’t bad, if I may say so. (Also see this PDF.)