Between altar and rainbow. Serenely discovering yourself as gay and Catholic

Justin Estoque's testimony published on the website The G&LR (United States) On January 21, 2021, freely translated innocenzo Pontillo

I grew up steeped in Filipino Catholic traditions, with two deeply devout parents. In the 1950s, when I was seven, my father dutifully took us to mass every Sunday morning at St. Joseph's Church. Being a very devoted son, it wasn't long before I became an altar boy.

Before the start of the mass, my companion and I, with whom I would serve at the alate, entered the sacristy to put on the crimson chasubles and the white surplices, they were solemn and wonderful liturgical vestments. Once the celebration began, we moved solemnly, following the priest towards the altar, kneeling with him as the parishioners sang the hymn “Hail Holy Queen Enthroned Above”.

We participated in the ritual by bringing the bread and wine to the altar and shaking a cluster of bells as the priest miraculously transformed the bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ.

Being admitted into those sacred spaces reserved only for men, and having the privilege of walking up the altar, strengthened my self-esteem. It wasn't an honor given to everyone, not even adults. This role became a source of great pride for me and also for my parents.

Years later, as an adult and openly gay man, I looked back on those moments with different eyes. Being an altar boy also meant wearing clothes that flowed like a gown every week and forming secret, intense friendships with other altar boys, which sometimes bordered on an almost erotic connection. But at that time, my mind did nothing but follow a path of “great righteousness.”

Even elsewhere in the Church, my religious and sexual identities might have conflicted, but they didn't. I was surrounded by images and statues depicting half-naked saints such as the crucified Christ, but none seemed to hint at the eroticism such representations could evoke.

Many years later, I read the book “Sanctity And Male Desire: A Gay Reading Of Saints” by Donald L. Boisvert, where the author spoke openly about his youthful fantasies as a seminarian, evoking the implicit eroticism of figures such as Saint Michael, with his powerful male wings, or transmitted by the depictions that the half-naked martyrs suggested with their veiled hints of sadomasochism. These same elements in Boisvert strengthened both his sexual awareness and his faith in God.

Growing up, no priest or parent ever talked to me about same-sex attraction. Perhaps you would expect this to be instilled in me as an evil from an early age, but in my religious upbringing this theme was simply absent. For me, religion was a set of rules to follow, prayers to recite and beliefs to blindly adhere to. As long as you confessed your sins, went to mass and didn't get a girl pregnant, heaven was guaranteed.

With this simplified view of faith, my gay and religious identities flowed alongside each other without ever colliding, like two fish who never met in a great sea.

Perhaps this was due to the context in which we lived: a 1960s Catholic Filipino family with no images to demonize.

There were no magazines with half-naked men that my parents could point to as a symbol of evil. We lived in a suburb of Miami (United States), far from the “sexual inequities” of the city. The newspapers we had at home were harmless familiar weeklies like: Newsweek, Readers Digest, Liguorian.

My parents were awkwardly ignorant of the American culture of their time, knowing nothing about LSD, the Doors or the movie “The Graduate” with Dustin Hoffman. I remember when my mother, finding a sachet of green leaves in my brother's trouser pockets, asked: "What is Arturo doing with oregano in his pocket?". (It was Marijuana)

In Tagalog, phrases like “he loves her” and “she loves her” are expressed the same way. This linguistic ambiguity, combined with my parents' simplicity, explains why we never talked about same-sex attraction. We never discussed “queer” uncles, spinster aunts or colorful (and LGBT+) personalities like Paul Lynde or Liberace. … Talking about gay love or sex was as rare as discussing Ptolemaic astronomy.

Yet, this “emptiness” had a positive side. I never had to face internal conflicts between my gay instincts and the religious morality that had been passed on to me. Unlike many gay men, I didn't experience the pain of parents or pastors who made me feel guilty about who I was. Same-sex attraction wasn't immoral to me, it was just invisible. This means that I have never experienced painful coming out stories. My life has moved beyond that rite of passage.

Many years later, my gay, Filipino-American, and religious sides have found a friendly, if not always peaceful, relationship with God.

At the beginning of my faith journey, I imagined God as the best version of myself. Now, however, God is a mystery that inspires wonder and comfort in me. Now he is truly a traveling friend.

*Justin Estoque, co-Chair of the National Advisory Council of the Stonewall National Museum and Archives and board member of VOX Femina LA, also sings with the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles.

Original text: Coming Out Catholic, Without the Drama