Wednesday, June 17, 2026: In 2021 I went on leave from the Society of Jesus, after 31 years in the order. And for the first time in my life, I started to go to gay bars. 

In 2021 I went on leave from the Society of Jesus, after 31 years in the order. And for the first time in my life, I started to go to gay bars. 

It was kind of terrifying. I’d spent so much of my life avoiding not only gay bars but the parts of town they were found in, as though simply being in the vicinity of a gay bar might get me in trouble with my order or church authorities.  In part, my decision to go on leave had emerged from the realization that any time I met openly gay men, I instinctively avoided them, because I was afraid they would see me for who I am. 

So simply walking into a place which would identify me as gay was a big, scary step.

Once inside I found myself over my head in so many other ways. What was I to say that I did for a living? I could say truthfully that I had been a writer for 20 years. But even so, the normal questions you ask in conversation— What do you write about? Where can I find your stuff?—would always lead eventually toward my background. 

Stonewall Inn: historic gay bar in New York City In part, I didn’t want to have to explain all that right from the word go. But it also felt wrong that people who have come to this place to relax, flirt, and above all feel at home should suddenly have to deal with a representative of an organization that over the years has done so much damage to queer people. 

If I was ever going to come to some kind of deeper acceptance with myself as a gay man, I needed the kind of community I might find in bars, a group of people who had the life experiences and wisdom I didn’t. But I constantly worried my presence might do harm. 

But no matter how hard I worked to avoid anything that might give away my background, religion would almost always eventually come up. Since I live in a big East coast city, so many men that I met came from Jewish or Catholic backgrounds. And to my surprise, most spoke about their experiences with religion positively. The Catholic men would tell me stories about the priests and brothers they’d met over the years that were good guys, people they admired, even had a drink with. A few even still went to Mass on Sunday. 

The first time someone told me that, I was dumbfounded. “With all that the Church has done to gay people, why would you be going to Mass?” I asked. The guy stared back at me with a politely bemused look, like he respected the feelings behind my question, but also, why wouldn’t he go to Mass?

When I finally started admitting to people that I had been a priest, it was much the same. Rather than outrage, most people responded with curiosity or a wry amusement. (I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told, “Honey, you’re not my first priest.”) And usually coming out as a priest led to meaningful conversations about religion, family, and life. 

I started going to gay bars to try and accept myself as a gay man. Little did I realize that gay men would also help me accept myself as a Catholic, and my past as a priest. 

It makes me wonder what freedom queer people might actually be able to offer the broader Church, as well. Think about how much energy the Church has put into rejecting queer people over so many years, how often Catholic leaders have reimagined us as the adversary they need us to be, the snake in the garden, the devil that wants to bring them down. 

I expected to find a similar kind of hostility going to gay bars, a  rage or dismissiveness that seemed  more than justified as a response. But the queer people I’ve met have been largely able to separate whatever negative experiences they’ve had with the Church from Catholicism more broadly, and to find value and spiritual meaning in the faith or in Catholic people they have known. 

Many of the people I have met at gay bars have also spent their lives working in the kinds of service-based careers that the Church calls us to. They are teachers and counselors, health care workers and artists. Listening to their stories, I’ve come to recognize that many of them have actually served as the priests for their communities, too, the people that others turn to for solace, advice, and compassion.

Rather than enemies of the faith, or The Enemy writ large, these people embody what the Church hopes we will each become: committed individuals who are mature of faith and invested in helping others, people who can see beyond the Church’s flaws, even forgive it for some of its cruelties. Over and over, my friends teach me that to be queer, ultimately, is to refuse the easy impulse to judgment and try to accept people as the unique and beautiful messes that we each are. 

If those in the Church who fight so hard to condemn homosexuality would put aside the imaginary adversaries they’ve created out of us and simply come sit and have a drink or a ginger ale,  I think they’d be surprised at what they might find: Not monsters, but mercy, queer people ready to offer them a bar stool, swap stories, and welcome them home. 

Today’s essay is from Jim McDermott, who is a freelance writer in New York and a regular contributor to Bondings 2.0.

--Jim McDermott, June 16, 2026