2001 CONFESSIONS
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Contents © 2001
by Jim Holman.
All rights reserved.

OCTOBER 2001 CONFESSIONS

THE DEVIL ATTENDS MASS

At first blush, it might seem that a church is a sanctuary from the devil. Jesus Christ resides within; surely Satan cannot enter the house of God? But I think the devil does enter churches, all the time. I think I bring him in. I think he dances about in my soul even as I stand in line to receive the Eucharist. That's an awful lot of flesh she's showing. Spaghetti straps; tight shirt; tight, short skirt.... Is this blank-eyed, shuffling punk even thinking about where he is, what he's doing?.... Shorts? T-shirts? People dress better than this to go to parties! All the while, I am not looking at the crucified Christ hanging behind the altar, thanking him for the blessing of His Body and Blood. I am not begging God to overlook my own sins, so that the sacrament may bring me "not condemnation, but health." Instead, I am committing sin, sullying my soul even as I carry it forward to meet its maker. I raise my eyes, bent on repentance, but they drop again to behold my imperfect neighbor. I am to blame, I know, but surely the devil is tugging at my retinas.

Consider last Sunday: as the opening hymn entered into its final verse, a group came in near the side entrance just in front of us. I always choose a place near the side entrance so I can leave unobtrusively if one of my children becomes too much of a distraction for others. But I have learned that I should sit one or two rows in front of said entrances, so as not to be tempted to wonder about latecomers. We're already to the Gospel. Don't these people care about offenses against the priest? The Mass? Our Lord? Astounding, especially since I myself sometimes enter after the opening hymn has begun. Who knows what caused their tardiness? Who knows their souls? Not me.

This particular group consisted of a boy -- I'd put his age at around two -- and two women, both of whom looked to be in their mid-fifties. I was instantly struck by the impression that they were a homosexual couple, and that they had adopted this wan little redhead.

Though I accept the Church's teaching that homosexual sex is fundamentally disordered and sinful, I do not experience the same moral horror in the face of homosexuality as some people I know. (It is not that I am necessarily more virtuous than these people -- virtue would consist more in the soul's response to the horror -- it just doesn't hit me in the same way.) Nor do I have any kind of objection to a homosexual person being Catholic -- Christ came to call sinners, myself included. Every Catholic promises to reject sin when they renew their baptismal vows, and I have to believe that the homosexual Catholic makes the same promise.

I did not even know that these women were gay. It was just a feeling, gathered from the way they looked at one another, from one woman's short-on-the-sides, tight-curls-on-top-and-behind haircut, and from whatever unnamable factors tend to trigger that thought. I scolded myself for jumping to conclusions, and for even considering the matter during Mass. Charity demanded I think the best of them, whatever their status. Charity demanded that their status not even be an issue at that point. I put the thought out of my head. As if on cue, one woman reached over and began tracing circles with her hand on the other woman's back. I sensed an intimacy in her touch that seemed to indicate an easy familiarity with the body she was touching. So I was right! Ah-ha!

Of course, it was no proof that I was right, and it did not change the fact that I ought not to be thinking ill of anyone, or about the matter at all. I did not know the road they walked. I did not know their relation to Christ. I was tempted by the thought that I was only curious and defensive for His sake, that I didn't want Him to be dishonored by an unrepentant sinner's communion. If known adulterers tried to receive, they could rightly be denied communion, couldn't they? Was this similar? Stop! You don't know! You receive with a host of sins on your soul, and probably more that you don't even know about. You don't know how they stand with God! You don't even know if they're homosexuals, if they're practicing homosexuals, if they even know the Church's teaching! You don't know! Stop looking at them! Look at the priest! Look at the cross! Look at your own soul!

I wrestled the question and my reaction back down, steeling myself against the temptation to wonder. I tried not to look at the boy, even as he looked back at me, tried not to think of the consequences of his growing up with "two mommies." I tried not to wonder about their reaction to Father's sermon on the Gospel, the one in which Christ says that "he who will not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me," and that "whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." I tried not to insert, "Or lesbian lover!" It was awful. I beg forgiveness.

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