Pope Leo XIV offers an uplifting message urging seminarians to be joyful and honest
ROME — Pope Leo XIV kicked off a weeklong celebration of Catholic clergy Tuesday by encouraging seminarians to be joyful and honest, offering an uplifting message after Pope Francis frequently castigated priests and decried what he called the sin of 'clericalism.'
History's first American pope presided over a rollicking encounter with thousands of young men who were in Rome for a special Jubilee week celebrating seminarians, priests and bishops.
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Boston Globe
9 hours ago
- Boston Globe
Boston Archbishop received vestment blessed by Pope Leo in a Rome ceremony
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Yahoo
13 hours ago
- Yahoo
Coming out to my religious parents was terrifying. I never expected a miracle
I had been rehearsing my coming-out speech to my parents for over a year. 'Hey, mom and dad, I think I'm gay.' Or, 'I believe I'm a lesbian.' Or, 'I'm pretty sure I'm queer.' But those approaches would be too provocative, an invitation to discuss. I needed to be more direct. My fantasy was to hear them say, 'Of course, honey, we've been waiting for you to tell us. we've known you're gay since you were a toddler.' I thought my dad might step up. He had always been my ally. As a kid, we bonded over Radio Mystery Theater. Once a week, we sat in the car eating chocolate-covered raisins, listening to that week's murder mystery. I flew to Wisconsin from NYC for a long weekend to reveal my secret. I was 25 and had been hiding it for six years. It was time to reclaim my crown of sovereignty. Time to stop living a lie. My parents, smiling proudly and dressed in polyester, greeted me at the Madison airport with hugs and kisses. We spent the drive to a nearby restaurant discussing their retirement plans, sharing news about my sisters and their kids, and priming me for a conversation about a man in my life. Dad was an ordained deacon with the Milwaukee Diocese. My parents were always devoted Catholics, but after my brother's suicide, they'd become charismatic Catholics who spoke in tongues. Good for them, I thought. They seemed happier, but I never bought into the ceremonial facade of the church. I waited till dinner was over and, after a few bites into my cherry cheesecake, blurted out, 'I need to tell you something.' 'What's that honey?' my dad asked. 'So, I'm gay.' Silence filled the restaurant. It seemed every clink of dishes and chatter from the servers stopped on cue when I spoke the word gay. My parents looked at each other, then averted their gazes. I tried to stuff another bite of my dessert out of anxiety, but the taste of shame soured the cheese. I had committed a carnal sin…unforgivable. Dad pushed away his rice pudding, gesturing for the check. Mom looked down at her Jello and said, 'How can you do this to us? We've been through so much.' I sank into my chair, wanting to slip under the table and through the earth to be back in New York, in the arms of Diane. I tried to muster a response, 'Well, I've been through a lot too, Mom, but I can't keep this a secret any longer.' Dad grabbed his jacket and said, 'Let's go. We'll talk about this at home.' When I was at my most vulnerable, he still prioritized his ego. He didn't want any of the strangers around us to know what I'd said. He worried about what they would think of us as a family. Of him as a father. At that moment, I was certain I had lost their love forever by the look on their faces. We spent the rest of the weekend in silence. Avoiding all topics related to relationships. A visit to my sister was redeeming when she let me know she was aware of it and was okay with it. So, I left Wisconsin, figuring that my relationship with the most important people in my life, especially my dad, was now over. I returned to New York sad, lonely, and confused. Was this worth it? My girlfriend was president of the Sirens, the NYC women's motorcycle club. We were a conspicuous couple. Usually sporting black leather jackets and chaps, spiked hair, combat boots – kinky, dark, 80s style—attending drag night at the Copacabana, leading the Pride Parade with the Sirens, and making appearances at downtown performance art venues. My drug use escalated. I'd ride my motorcycle across 9th Street in Manhattan doing 60 MPH, high on coke, catching all the lights—a lethal gamble. Whether I lived or died was of no concern. I was already dead to my parents. A year after I came out to them, they came to visit NY and stayed with my aunt, who lived nearby. They reluctantly agreed to meet Diane. That was a disaster. They were cordial but cold. She was tough looking, I'll give them that—but so was I. The only redeeming quality in their eyes is she came from a catholic family. I drove them to Laguardia to catch their flight back home and stayed with them at the gate until their plane departed. I was complaining of wrist pain from an old dance injury that wouldn't heal, saying, 'I haven't been able to lift anything with my right hand for the past year.' They asked, 'Why don't you let us pray over it?' I thought, are you Frickin' kidding me? And said, 'Oh, you don't have to do that.' But they pressed, and finally, I said, 'Ah, okay, I guess,' as I internally rolled my eyes. We found a quiet corner near the gate. I felt embarrassed—I was too cool in my leather jacket, but it was my parents. I couldn't refuse; I never could. Maybe this was their way of saying they still loved me, or perhaps they were really praying for me to be straight. Speaking in a language I had never heard, they held their hands over my wristband. While they said it, I repeated it in silence; I believe, I believe, I think as I scanned the airport for anyone I might know. The verbiage I heard from them sounded like a mishmash of Scandinavian, French, and Portuguese with the guttural sounds of German. It lasted about five minutes. I said thanks and watched them fly into the sky, wondering if I'd ever see them again. Two days later, I tested the pain in my wrist. Nothing changed. It was still there. A day later, I grabbed my bag off the floor, lifted it to my shoulder, and realized the pain was gone. I froze in awe. I didn't tell anyone about the airport scene except my roommate, who said, 'Huh, that's wild.' It stirred something inside that made me question the world, life, spirits, and God. I continued to numb myself with pot and fuel myself with coke. I eventually broke up with Diane and started going to AA meetings. Alcohol wasn't my thing, really, just what I used to cure cottonmouth and temper the effects of coke, but it was all a means of checking out. A year of sobriety led me to graduate school, where I pursued a career as a therapist, thinking that my experiences would benefit others. I was napping during winter break of my second year when a voice awakened me, saying, 'Dad's going to die.' I jumped up off the couch, looked at my pillow, and thought, 'What the fuck was that? Have I gone crazy? Holy shit, now I'm hearing voices. No way.' I paced the apartment and called a friend. I thought, should I call him? Nah, Dad is fine. It was just a bad dream. What would I say if I called him? I heard a voice that said you're going to die? The next day, my oldest sister called sobbing. She said Dad had died while taking a nap on the couch that afternoon. I tried to tell her about my apparition from the day before, but she couldn't take it in. We just cried together. I flew to Wisconsin the next day. It was mid-January when we celebrated his life. I stayed with my mom and slept with her instead of on Dad's waterbed in the next room. I'm not sure why they slept in separate rooms, and I didn't ask; I didn't want to know. The night before his wake, I woke to a cool breeze streaming through the room. The heat was blaring; Mom was asleep, and no windows or doors were open. I sat up and thought, Dad, is that you? I was sure he came to visit to remind me of our connection. He was only sixty-eight years old, mostly healthy, a bit overweight, and just taking an afternoon nap, just like I had the day before. Two hundred deacons attended his funeral from the Milwaukee diocese. I felt a mix of awe and doubt about this religion as I watched the ceremonial flow of robes entering the church. A little Irish priest came up to me after the funeral and said, 'I know you're sad and it's hard to say goodbye, but I think he can do more for you now than he could when he was alive.' I returned to New York, to grad school, to my life without my dad. That spring, we had a substitute professor for a few of our classes. The relief instructor who walked through the doors of my classroom is the woman I married and have been with for thirty-two years. I'd like to think that Dad was behind our meeting. That he posthumously accepted me for who I was. Voices is dedicated to featuring a wide range of inspiring personal stories and impactful opinions from the LGBTQ+ community and its allies. Visit to learn more about submission guidelines. Views expressed in Voices stories are those of the guest writers, columnists, and editors, and do not directly represent the views of The Advocate or our parent company, equalpride. This article originally appeared on Advocate: Coming out to my religious parents was terrifying. I never expected a miracle
Associated Press
2 days ago
- Associated Press
At 100, this globetrotting Catholic priest still bakes pies, enjoys opera and performs daily Mass
BLUE BELL, Pa. (AP) — Throughout his remarkable lifetime, the Rev. James Kelly has baptized thousands of people, married thousands more, ministered to the sick in hospitals, and traveled the world extensively. He became friends with an opera superstar and, yes, even with a saint. The longest-serving priest in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia recently celebrated the 75th anniversary of his ordination and his 100th birthday. He's grateful to have reached these milestones, but nearly didn't after experiencing a health challenge last year that required life-saving surgery. He feels God gave him some extra time and tries to make each day count. 'The Lord was wonderful to me to give me the health and the strength and the energy to travel, to meet beautiful things — God was always giving me surprises,' Kelly says. Born on Jan. 7, 1925, in the Philadelphia neighborhood of Roxborough to a devoutly Catholic family, Kelly's path to the priesthood seems ordained from the start. He loved attending church. Other children dreamt of becoming athletes, doctors, firefighters. He wanted to be a priest. 'When I was 4 or 5 years old, I'd play Mass,' he says, laughing, as he recalls that his parents were his first congregants. 'I always had a little altar in my room, and I'd have a glass, and some flowers in there, and I'd make a vestment, put a scarf on, and have some candy, and give Communion to everybody.' Kelly wakes up at dawn to celebrate Mass at the retirement living community that he now calls home. He listens to opera. He bakes pies. Memories, parachute jumps and climbing a bridge to save a life Sitting in his room, Kelly flips through a photo album detailing his journey. He smiles with every page turn, pointing to black-and-white photos of him as a toddler and milestones as a Catholic — his baptism, confirmation and ordination as a priest. 'I turned down Hollywood!' he says, laughing as he points to the portrait of a dapper, young priest, his hair slicked and flashing a wide smile. He also points to the photo published by a Philadelphia newspaper of the time when he climbed in his Roman collar to the top of a bridge and dissuaded a man from jumping to his death. 'Nobody would climb there, so I climbed up — it was 400 feet high. It was a bitter cold day,' he says. 'I was able to talk to him and break him down emotionally, so he wouldn't jump. I told him, 'What's your grandchild going to say one day: Papa, why didn't you take me fishing?'' He points to other photos of the many ceremonies he proudly led during his 19 years as pastor of Saint Pius X Parish in Broomall, Pennsylvania, about 10 miles (16 kilometers) west of Philadelphia. There are images of him during a vacation in Mexico when he made a parachute jump. Or that one time, when he visited the majestic Iguazu Falls on the border between Argentina and Brazil, which he recalls as one of the most beautiful sights of his life. 'Everywhere you turned, there was a rainbow, there was a mist … the water gushing forth and spray and the colors,' he says. 'It was, as the kids would say, awesome.' Imagination, friends and being grateful for the simple pleasures Imagination, he says, is one of his favorite words, recalling that he wrote his college thesis on it. 'Jesus used his imagination to teach,' he says, in what became an example when he prepared his own sermons. He treasures other memories, such as traveling to more than 100 countries and meeting Saint Teresa of Kolkata, also known as Mother Theresa. Kelly says the two became friends over the years after meeting in Philadelphia and running into each other at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. The centenarian also shared the time when he took a group of blind children to a live performance of his friend, acclaimed soprano Joan Sutherland. 'I've been fortunate to meet some of the most magnificent, good people in this world, and they've been most generous and gracious to me,' Kelly says. These days, he enjoys simple pleasures: the taste of cherries, a beautiful song, or his favorite meal — roast chicken with mashed potatoes, fresh string beans, and corn on the cob. He loves learning and often attends lectures on music, art history and Egyptology at the Normandy Farms Estates retirement community where he resides in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania. His apartment is decorated with a painting of the Virgin Mary that he drew with chalk, a portrait of his mother, and a note signed by the late Pope Francis. On his bedside table, he keeps an image of Carlo Acutis, the Catholic Church's first millennial-era saint. Kelly is inspired by Acutis, who died at 15 in 2006. Especially Acutis' devotion and how he used his computer skills to create an online exhibit about scores of eucharistic miracles recognized by the church over centuries. The ritual of a humble daily Mass and the secret to a long life Every morning, he wakes up without the need of an alarm clock and says the same prayer: 'Lord, what surprise do you have for me today?' 'I hope it'll be a nice one that I'll love and enjoy. I never know, but I want to thank you for whatever happens today.' After a cup of coffee, he celebrates Mass in his apartment for a few residents of his community. 'When I moved here, I never thought I was going to have a private chapel!' Kathleen Quigley, a retired nurse, quipped after a recent service. 'I just love my faith, and he's such a stronghold of faith that it's wonderful for me to have. I just come right downstairs, have Mass, we talk, he shares his food.' Kelly once ministered to large congregations, but he feels the daily Mass in his living room is as important. 'It's not in a beautiful chapel or church. But it's here that I can offer my love and efforts to the Heavenly Father,' he says. After the final prayer, he always remembers to be grateful. 'That's all I can say — two words: thank you. It's wonderful that I have another day, and I might be able to eat some delicious cherries today, and meet people, new friends,' he says. 'God knows what surprises I'll encounter today.' His secret to longevity? 'I drink lots of milk,' he says, laughing. 'And I say lots of prayers.' __ Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
