A Place for Catholics and Christians Struggling with Homosexuality
This morning I got up early to go to Confession. Its been a long week full of struggle, temptation, sin, and failure. The first parish I went to, the priest was late, and I was sixth in line and he was taking about ten minutes with each penitent, so I knew that there was no way that I was going to get in to confess before Mass began. So I left and went to the only other parish in town that has Saturday morning Mass an hour after the first parish. The same thing happened, the priest didn’t show up on time, so I left and decided to get my oil changed, but I was pretty distressed. I just wanted this sin out of my life, I wanted my soul to be cleansed in the gift of Confession that Jesus Christ bestowed upon the leaders of the Church after his Resurrection in the Gospel of John. I wanted it. I needed it.
As I waited in the waiting room for my car to be finished, I couldn’t help but to notice this guy. He was so attractive and he was with his wife. He was probably my age, and I just felt that feeling in my belly: lust. Pure and unadulterated lust. All I wanted was him in the most inappropriate ways. I didn’t care about his soul or his wife or his life, I just wanted him physically. As quickly as the lust kicked in, the despair soon followed with jealousy in tow. The feeling that I would never get to be with that handsome dude, and that his wife got him all to herself just killed me inside. Hopelessness. Just like last week at the burger joint, I felt this loneliness creep into my soul.
“What are you doing?! Stop!” I began to remind myself that these feelings were lying to me. I don’t have to be controlled by my passions and desires. I looked down and closed my eyes and remembered why I was even here: because I had gotten up early to go to Confession. That I was here because I am changing my heart, that standing still, and constant, and quietly persistent beneath my hyperactive sexual drive is a voice asking me to love God more than myself. I was here because I had desired the grace of God in my weakness and that though I had not received the fullness of the grace in the Sacrament yet, it had already begun to work. I remembered that this morning I put on two extra articles of clothing: my brown and my red scapulars.
I said a quick mental prayer to Mary: help me. What good mother would ignore her child who is under duress from the forces of God’s enemy? Wearing the brown scapular and devoting myself to Mary is a sure way to be protected by her graces. Then I considered the red scapular of our Lord’s Passion and offered up my own cross and passion to him, to unite my soul with the soul of the God-Man.
I would by lying if I said that my whole attitude changed into one of joyous exultation in that moment, but the truth is that I felt a tad bit stronger and a little more hopeful.