A few years ago, on a trip to visit my parents in New Hampshire, my husband and I were searching for a Mass to attend on Christmas Eve. Since I’m not familiar with the area’s liturgical offerings, I asked my mother, who suggested we check out a small church in another seaside town about 10 minutes down the street.
The word “church” is perhaps too generous.
When we arrived, we realized that the building was actually a small chapel. Specifically, a seasonal beach chapel in a town that was decidedly off-season. The chapel, aptly named Star of the Sea, had been closed for the winter and was reopened only to handle the overflow Christmas crowd—and to welcome Catholics who did not want to endure, I mean, enjoy, the children’s Mass at the main church in town.
We walked inside, keeping our coats buttoned tight, and chose a pew. I noticed a few space heaters, offering an illusion of warmth but in reality no match for the frosty air howling in through the uninsulated walls. The large windows seemed designed to welcome plenty of sunlight—in the summer. In the dark winter, not so much. A few lightbulbs suspended from the ceiling did their best.
I was skeptical.
But as Mass began, I loosened my red Christmas scarf a bit and I joined in the singing of “O Come All Ye Faithful” with the rest of the congregation, the motley choir composed of an aging guitarist and a handful of dedicated church ladies leading us in song.
Christmas at Saint Peter’s Basilica this was not. But there was something comforting about being in a place that wasn’t quite right yet still feeling perfectly at home.
That’s sort of been my experience more broadly as a gay Catholic. On the one hand, I understand those who say that belonging to an institution that sometimes seems not to believe in the equality of LGBTQ people, especially when other denominations are decidedly more affirming, doesn’t make much sense. On the other hand, even if it sometimes doesn’t feel quite right, more often than not, I still feel perfectly at home.
I experienced this feeling of being home earlier this month, when Outreach partnered with a parish to welcome about 25 people from Rhode Island and Massachusetts for an Advent prayer service and Christmas celebration. As we gathered in the church, things didn’t feel quite right. We weren’t sure who was going to show up. We had forgotten to unlock the front doors of the church. And because there isn’t a rubric for an Advent prayer service for LGBTQ people, I wasn’t sure what the pastor had in store for us.
But sure enough, as the musician led us in a singing of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel,” I began once again to feel at home. We sang. We prayed. And then we built community over sandwiches and cocktails, in the glow of a manger and several Christmas trees.
I know that Christmas for some LGBTQ Catholics can be fraught with conflicting emotions. There’s the reality that some families aren’t all that welcoming and that some parishes might not offer that same warm feeling I’ve been lucky to find. The stress of the holiday season might lead to unhealthy behaviors or feelings of loneliness or isolation. There’s something about this time of year that can be both beautiful and challenging.
For me, I’ve tried over the years to create holiday traditions that create a sense of peace and home. This year, my husband and I picked out a tree on a coastal tree farm and then decked it with a dizzying number of colored lights and angel ornaments from the Vatican museum, before topping it all off with a star given to us as a wedding gift by a Jesuit friend. We traveled to Chicago and then to Vermont to be with friends and family, the journeys long but always worth it. Each week, we light another candle in our homemade Advent wreath, made with the extra boughs from our tree and candles I bought during the particularly dark Advent of 2020 from a Catholic church supply store.
Each of these things help me feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be.
Next week, on Christmas Eve, we’ll once again don heavy sweaters underneath our winter coats and spend an hour inside a drafty, dimly-lit summer chapel to recall Jesus’s entry into a world that I’m sure wasn’t quite right but where he nonetheless felt at home.
