I was 33 years old and I was speaking with the first man I dated. At the time, I was the editor of The Tidings, then the official newspaper for the Archdiocese of Los Angeles. To say that I was not even remotely ready to come out of the closet would be understatement. I was clutching every hanger I could find.
I said to this wonderful man, I was fearful about my coming-out process ahead because if I were really gay—yes, I used a conditional phrase—I would have to write about being gay because that was what I did. I wrote about what was real and authentic in my life.
My time in Los Angeles was limited. The archdiocese was not a fit and I went on to be the editor of one more Catholic weekly, The New Catholic Explorer, for the Diocese of Joliet. It was a remarkable fit for four years.
For clarity, because I am now a senior, elder or just plain old, this was all before the horrific revelations of sexual abuse by members of the clergy. This was the early 1990s and the struggle for gay Catholics during the AIDS pandemic was amplified by ACT UP.
If I were really gay…I would have to write about being gay because…I wrote about what was real and authentic in my life.
At the time, I was not a fan of what they did and how they did it. Decades later, I am still troubled by some of their disruptive tactics, such as disrupting Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral during a protest against Cardinal John O’Connor, but I understand why they needed to do what they did. They angered many people, but they also pushed people out of their comfort zones to advocate in ways less incendiary and less disrespectful.
In retrospect, I was one of those people in his comfort zone. My journey into Catholic media, which lasted a decade, was, when it began, a fluke. I had been working for a group of free weekly newspapers on Long Island that had been bought out by a larger organization and I realized I needed to leave. I noticed an advertisement for the editor of The Michigan Catholic in Detroit. I was active in music ministry at that time and the idea of writing and working within the church intrigued me. I found great joy singing in church. I had turned 30 and I knew I needed to make a radical change in my life. So, I applied. I was hired. Looking back, I think it was a key part of my coming out—something I was supposed to do.
While in Detroit, I became good friends with many priests and also with some men close to my age who were entering seminary. I took undergraduate theology courses to beef up my “CCD Catholic” upbringing. And the more I understood Catholic theology, the more I realized that denying who I was increasingly aware of who I am inside, was the sinful act. Some Catholics will argue about how gay and straight people live out their sexual lives, but authenticity is about the soul not about the reproductive organs.
Perhaps that sounds crass or trite, but it was a key revelation for me in my coming out process. I needed to be not only the best version of me, but the most honest version of me.
The more I understood Catholic theology, the more I realized that denying who I was increasingly aware of who I am inside, was the sinful act.
So, my eventual journey from Catholic media to mainstream newspapers was inevitable because as I became truly comfortable with being a gay man, I needed to live authentically as a gay man. And while I still believe you can do that and be Catholic, I could not do that and be a high-profile employee of a Catholic diocese. At some point, I would become the story and that was not what I wanted then or now.
Decades passed and I carved out a niche for myself in newspapers. I wrote about many things, including gay issues. While I was most definitely out, I did not advertise it in my columns.
Now, as I am moving into a new chapter, I find I can write about nothing but being gay—being a gay senior, elder, or just plain old. My debut book, Tales of the Lavender Twilight, is a collection of 11 short stories focused on older gay men. Some are Catholic. I cannot leave Catholicism at the closet door. And for me that Catholic part—despite that I am not a regular at Mass anymore—remains under the surface. It calls me to be authentic and it calls me to create characters that are struggling with issues of faith and identity as they move through their “lavender twilight” of life.
The opening story in the collection, “Holy Communion,” is set inside a neighborhood bar in the West Village. The regulars are remembering a friend who has died, who died alone in his apartment and was found several days afterwards. There are jokes and gay banter. But there are hard questions about how we form families, how, as we age, we face the inevitable, and whether at that last moment, we are alone regardless of whether someone is at our side.
The characters in my fiction are flawed. Many do and say things that would not go over well with some of the people I worked with in Catholic dioceses. Some get their comeuppance. But almost all of them are driven by an understanding that people matter. That relationships matter. That kindness and community matter.
That Catholic part…calls me to create characters that are struggling with issues of faith and identity as they move through their “lavender twilight” of life.
All people tell stories. Writers tell stories with punctuation added. And gay writers—formed for better or worse in Catholic teachings—tell stories punctuated with the struggle for truth and the everlasting need to find love and form communities.
I am not what would be defined as a “practicing” Catholic, but I still am Catholic. It really is like they teach you—the sacraments have marked you for life. They cannot be undone. And rather than rail against what is wrong with the institutional church—and there is much that is wrong—at this stage of my life, it’s more important to integrate Catholicism—the faith, not the institution—into what I write. Not all my stories are faith-based. Hardly. But most of the people in the stories cannot deny their search for community and fellowship. And I believe it is important to let them speak up. Let them shout out when necessary and even, in lower case, let them act up.
When I was a young man, it was hard to imagine that the Catholic Church would welcome me. And often it still does not. But Catholicism is neither a building nor the Roman Curia. It is something bigger and something simpler. Perhaps a paradox. But if we, LGBTQ Catholics, do not want to be tropes, we must speak out that we are here, as imperfect and as perfect as anyone else.
When I was 33, I was fearful that if I were “really” gay that I would have to write about it. In the end, there was nothing fearful about either—being gay or writing about it. The lavender twilight is a glorious time of day.
