On Good Friday, Jenny and I went to services at a Catholic church near Jenny’s lesbian neighborhood of Andersonville in Chicago.
Jenny and I have had a lot of discussions about which denomination should be our church home. We take the decision seriously, because we both take religion seriously; Jenny grew up Catholic and went to Catholic school, and though I was baptized in that faith as well, I alternated between Mass with my dad and the liberal (and gay-welcoming) United Church of Christ with my mom. As a young adult, I briefly attended a (couldn’t-be-more-progressive) Unitarian-Universalist seminary.
We both like the “high church” ritual of Catholicism — but we want children together, and neither of us wants to raise kids in a tradition that both tells girls that no matter how faithful they may be, they can never be priests and that tells children of gay parents that our relationships and families are immoral.
“I don’t want our kids to hear one thing in church and then have us say another thing to them in the car ride home,” Jenny said.
But kids are still a few years in our future, so when we’re in the same city, we try to go to church together, and we alternate denominations.
On Good Friday, then, it was a Catholic church — though Jenny was worried about taking me somewhere we might not be welcome on such a solemn holy day.
Most Christian churches have an alternate sort of service on Good Friday, the day they commemorate the death of Jesus on the cross. In Catholic churches, this means that there is no Mass, so there is more flexibility in the service.
Even so, we were stunned to see a woman lead the service at this particular church. To see a woman standing at the altar. To see a woman holding up the Host during communion. To hear all the parts in the traditional crucifixion story — Pontius Pilate, voices in the crowd and Jesus himself — read by women.
Most of all, though, we were startled to hear the homily, which was all about social justice — and about how all should be welcome in the Catholic Church despite theological disagreements, including gays and lesbians.
Jenny grabbed my arm. “What is happening right now?” she whispered.
We were awestruck — and by awestruck, I mean that I was moved to tears.
For an hour, we had a taste of what the Catholic Church could be: a warm, welcoming, sacred home that focuses on comforting those who are suffering; on righting the situation of those who have been wronged; and on welcoming those who have been excluded.
It was revolutionary.
“If this was what the Catholic Church was everywhere, I would convert,” I told Jenny, as we left the church holding hands, the priest smiling at us.
Some might argue that a Catholic church that treats women equally and recognizes the sacredness of gay and lesbian relationships is not the Catholic Church at all — but I think it is a Catholic church that hews closer to its social-justice roots and closer to the basic principles of inclusion for all that Jesus himself espoused.
In any case, that church did a brave thing, just as it is always brave to ask people to see what could be, instead of insisting that they live with what is.
During the prayers, the women led us to pray for all who are excluded, for all who are hurt by unfair legislation. And afterward, I added my own prayer — for the worldwide Catholic Church to become more like this, to become its own best possibility.
Jennifer Vanasco is an award-winning syndicated columnist. E-mail her at [email protected].