Losing My Religion
What I had to walk away from to accept being queer and what that means for the Catholic Church
It’s been close to ten years since I’ve been in catechism, five years since I’ve been to church, but only a year since I’ve allowed myself to be queer. Childhood memories, returning like visions, have been surfacing and colliding after hearing Pope Francis’s endorsement of civil unions in his new documentary, Francesco.
One: I’m sitting at the dining room table somewhere around nine years-old, learning Catholic catechism and the value of the family. Family means a man and a woman, having children together.
Two: I’m a little older, coming home from a Christmas dinner with my Dad. Later, when my parents talk about how Dad’s sibling doesn’t have a partner, there’s a knowing look between them I don’t understand.
Three: I’m an early teenager now. My mother and I are standing on the deck of our house on Prince Edward Island in the summer sun and she tells me, “You know, it’s okay if you’re gay.” I sputter and stare at the leaves shaking on the trees, then say I’m not.
“Homosexual people have the right to be in a family. They are children of God,” Francis said in an interview that appeared in the film. “You can’t kick someone out of a family, nor make their life miserable for this. What we have to have is a civil union law; that way they are legally covered.”
I haven’t identified as a Catholic Christian in years but hearing that stopped me; I’d never heard such a thing from a Catholic leader before. It sounded too good to be true.
So, I turned to the Chair in Catholic Studies at St. Thomas University — the small, liberal arts school I attend that was founded as a Catholic institution a century ago — to ask about the meaning and significance of what Pope Francis said.
Today, you wouldn’t know STU has Catholic roots unless you visited Holy Cross House, where the chapel is. What is now a mixture of offices, classrooms and a student residence used to be a home for priests who taught there. Although STU is no longer officially Catholic, signs of its past show up through the Catholic Chair and Campus Ministry.
I find myself nervous when I call the Catholic Studies Chair, not sure what he’ll say. Waiting for the Microsoft Call to kick in, I stare at my reflection in video call window and try to smooth out the worry between my eyebrows.
When Dr. Andrew Klein picks up, he laughs and apologizes for the noise of his four kids. Right away, it puts me at ease. We talk about school during COVID-19 for a few minutes before I ask him about what Pope Francis said.
“In some ways, it’s almost a conservative approach on Pope Francis’ part,” Klein says. “He’s not really looking to change how the Catholic church understands marriage, but he is in accordance with the Church’s assertion that all people are deserving of dignity as God’s children.”
Klein has been the Chair for two years now. While his research focuses on Medieval literary history, he says that “if you study the Middle Ages, you inevitably develop a pretty deep understanding of Catholic history.”
While the statement Francis gave isn’t “meaningless,” Klein says he doesn’t want people to become too hopeful — or upset, depending on their position on marriage. He views Pope Francis’s comments as the start of a new dialogue but doesn’t want people to think it means Catholic marriage is on the table for discussion.
“It’s a really fine line that he’s walking because it’s a necessary thing to open this dialogue up,” Klein says. “But he doesn’t want to move too fast, and the Church never moves fast on anything.”
So, while this is a historic moment, Klein said it’s a shift in rhetoric — not in any Catholic teachings because marriage is, and will remain, between a cisgender man and woman in the Church’s eyes.
After that interview, I thought about my Catholic family and how they’d be taking the news. My Mum and Dad have known that I’m queer for about six months now, and it wasn’t catastrophic news to them.
This is because Mum isn’t religious, and Dad — the one who raised me Catholic — measures character differently. I think he’d be more upset if I told him I never wanted to fix a car with him again, or that I was done helping him renovate the house.
But then I thought about my paternal grandmother who strongly identifies as Catholic. She didn’t know I was queer, and I wasn’t sure how she’d be handling this historic moment. So, I got her number from my father to call her.
Some background: I’ve never been that close with my grandmother. Although she lives 45 minutes away from my parents in Charlottetown, PEI, I can count on one hand how often I’ve seen her in the past five years. When I mention her to my Mum or Dad, I usually just call her Helen.
I sit on the couch in the living room, watching the cars go by as I hold my phone. After a few minutes, I call and explain I am writing a journalism story about the Pope’s comments. I’m careful to choose my words carefully, to not sway — or judge her — too quickly.
There’s a long pause. I study the yellow blanket on my lap, noticing the weave of the wool beneath the fuzz balls that have accumulated over the years. I wait.
I remember three years ago, when my cousin came out as transgender and Helen refused to use his new pronouns. It was a tense Christmas dinner. I haven’t been to one since.
“Oh, I’m all for it. I would accept this,” Helen says.
I can’t disguise the shock in my voice. “Really, why’s that?”
“I think there’s a lot we have to look at within the church.” Helen uses the example of celibate men becoming priests, explaining that she believes women should be allowed to be priests. She then talks about how much she’s researched since her grandchild came out as trans, and that she’s learning to be accepting.
We talk for a little while, then I ask her whether this will change anything in the Catholic church. Like Klein, Helen doesn’t think this announcement will lead to any dogmatic change.
“It’s a starting point, you know, in the dialogue,” she says. “The church just doesn’t change that fast — and with good reason. Things need to be thought out carefully.”
When I hung up the phone, I stared out the window for ten minutes. I’d grown up with the idea that the Catholic community shunned queer people, and I was seeing signs of change.
Of course, I just happened upon the right people. While I’m relieved my grandmother has become accepting, I know many church communities are riling against this.
“I hope that queer people and Christian people aren’t out there clasping their hands together going, ‘oh great! The pope said this, and my life feels so free now’,” said Delaney Crawford, a fourth year St. Thomas University student. “It doesn’t forgive centuries of abuse or anything, and I don’t want people to get confused by that.”
Crawford, a “Capital-L Lesbian,” was raised in a Christian family. Despite having non-homophobic parents, she said Christianity was lost on her years ago because of its misogyny.
“There’s no question in my mind that if you read the Bible, it absolutely sets up that men are on a higher level than women,” Crawford said. “Your typical Christian life as a heterosexual woman was a big yikes to me and I didn’t know there were any other options yet.”
Crawford said learning about heterosexual sex was a “disturbing moment.”
“I didn’t immediately realize I was gay, but I did immediately feel suffocated by the future, not knowing yet that lesbianism was a thing,” Crawford said.
I remember the first time I heard some of the wrongs of the Catholic Church. I was in grade 10, watching the film Spotlight for a creative writing class. Spotlight tells the true story of how the Boston Globe uncovered a massive scandal of child molestation and cover-up within the local Catholic Archdiocese.
I went home to research more, and I found too much to ignore: thousands of sexual assault allegations, mistreatment of 2SLGBTQIA+ people, the religious crusades throughout history and so much more. I went to bed that night unsure of my religion for the first time in my life.
I rejected Catholicism in late high school, but I identified as Christian until just a few years ago. Now, I’d say I’m spiritual. I no longer believe in a heavenly father watching over me, but I have beliefs in some higher power — I just haven’t defined them.
It wasn’t until I let go of my Christian identity that I felt free to become queer. Letting go of Christianity meant letting go of the belief I needed to be straight to be accepted. To me, they’re connected, despite the words of Pope Francis that are at once reassuring and a reminder that the Catholic Church still has a long way to go.
I didn’t know St. Thomas University had Catholic roots when I applied four years ago. When I came to campus, I saw crosses on the tops of buildings and portraits of priests who not so long ago presided over this community. I even lived in Holy Cross House in my second year, opening my window each weekend to hear the psalms in the chapel across the courtyard, unwilling to enter those doors but letting the familiarity of the music comfort me while I studied.
When I walk past those portraits of priests, I don’t feel threatened anymore. They can’t reach me now. I know this because here I found a new home where I can be queer without feeling that the Catholic Church is watching me. What I’m still trying to understand is whether this is despite — or because of — its Catholic roots.
Fiona Steele is a fourth-year St. Thomas University student, double majoring in Journalism and Communications & Public Policy. While she’s originally from Summerside, Prince Edward Island, Fiona moved to Fredericton and considers it a second home — although nothing can come close to Island beaches. In her free time, she writes poetry, reads, and explores New Brunswick’s hiking trails. This story was written for the Senior Seminar in Journalism.
