I wasn’t into any kind of kinky lifestyle, but I was informed about a few of the basic practices in the world of BDSM. Letting my mind wander, I found myself thinking about the relationship between a dominant and submissive. In a committed D/s relationship, a Dom might collar their submissive as a visible expression of their dedication and loyalty. The custom was similar in meaning to that of displaying a clerical collar. And although I shuddered at the number of Christian followers who would castigate me for daring to find a parallel between submitting to a human or submitting to God, I thought of them as equal regarding a person’s natural tendencies.
For several years I had been trying to figure out why wearing the collar made me feel as if my life energy was being sucked out of me. I now pondered how a submissive might feel if they were forced to wear a collar and submit to a person that they didn’t have strong feelings for. It would be a sacrifice. That was the nugget of the problem for me. I didn’t want to sacrifice my life to God. I lacked the passion.
I closed my eyes to the image of kneeling in front of the crucifix behind the altar in church. I felt compassion for Christ’s life taken prematurely. An all-consuming sadness for the cruelty people were capable of, then and now. But that was it. The crucifix no longer made me want to prostrate in submission.
In retrospect, I believed what I thought had been a calling were the outside voices I’d heard since becoming an altar boy at the tender age of ten that had made me deaf to my inner voice. Those of the pastor at the church where I grew up, my parents, and of the Jesuits at the school I’d attended. All reiterating that I had a natural vocation.
Closing my eyes, I brought up my early school days, my incessant need to be obedient. To make all the people who were the authority figures in my life proud of me. I never got dirty playing in the yard and came home at the end of a schoolday with my uniform as pristine as it was when I’d left in the morning. I’d been such a nerd. And then a sorry-ass coward when in high school, I’d broken my friendship with Finn because he was going to come out to his parents, and I refused.
God, I closed my eyes and pressed my palms against them. Apparently, I dozed off and woke when my phone rang. Springing up, I scrubbed my face to come fully awake. The screen showed the snapshot of my mother, calling to have a video chat. I pressed Accept, even though the last thing I wanted was to face her indignation. However, if I didn’t answer, she’d just keep trying until I did.
Madeline Donlan was an Irish grenade with the tenacity of a Belgian Malinois. Although she loved her children, she also liked to get her own way when she was certain that she knew what was best for us. She always believed she was on the right side. My dad, Patrick, agreed with whatever his wife said. A strategy that seemed to work, since they’d been married for over forty years. But their united front had always been to the detriment of me. And I wasn’t sure how he was going to handle my mother’s certain emotional outburst.
The phone stopped ringing and I immediately called back. I had to get this over with. But when her tortured expression appeared with fat tears staining her pale alabaster skin—the same tone as mine—she looked as if she’d just gotten news of my death. For her, me leaving the priesthood was akin to my demise. I didn’t know how to greet her. A mere “hello” seemed callous considering she’d been apprised of my plans. “Mom, since you’re so upset, did you want to talk later today?”
“No,” she squealed. “I want to talk now while Father Matthew’s words are swirling in my head. I need you to confirm that what he told us is true.”
“I can’t unless I know what he said,” I said flatly. “All I know is that he contacted you without my permission.”
Her tone was haughty despite her eyes filling with fresh tears. “When were you planning to tell us?”
I sighed heavily. “After I received a formal notice that the bishop approved my petition and forwarded it to the Vatican. If the bishop decides my reasons to laicize are not valid, then I have to consider my next steps.”
She screeched so loud that my father scolded her, which was rare. I felt bad for my dad, who must’ve been listening to his wife rant for the last twenty-four hours. “Madeline, you’re going to make him hang up the way you’re carrying on.”
She batted my father’s hand away from her arm. “What next step? You’d still have the audacity to leave?”
My father said calmly, “Let me have the phone, Madeline. I’ll give it back to you. Just let me have a word. Okay?”
“Fine,” she said, shrugging.
“Hello, son. You have to understand that it made your mother and I uneasy hearing the news from Father Matthew instead of you. But I understand why you wanted to wait for the process to take its course.”
Fuck, I hadn’t expected any kind of reprieve from his father. “Thank you, Dad. I’m so sorry that Father Matthew took the call upon himself. I met with him this morning and he told me what he’d done. Otherwise, I would’ve phoned you last night.” Addressing my mother, I said, “I am sorry, Mom.”
Off to the side, I saw Mom press her hands to the sides of her face, contorting her appearance further by then raking her fingers through her hair. Looking over my father’s shoulder, she yelled, “For which part? Failing to be loyal to your vows? Or keeping us in the dark?”
“Madeline,” my father said, shaking his head, his eyes downcast, “Berating him isn’t helping.”
She poked my father in the back with her finger. “It’s your fault he’s not sticking at it. Always taking his side. Giving himan easy ride. Life isn’t easy and there’s no job on this earth that doesn’t demand sacrifice at times.”
As far back as I recollected, my mother had been heavy-handed in her approach to life whether it was her children, her husband, or her job as a store manager for a grocery chain store. In contrast, my father had a kinder way of facing issues. They were so dissimilar that I often wondered how my father withstood her constant rants.
“I’m not taking sides,” my father retorted. “I was as overjoyed when he entered the seminary as you were. His ordination was a thrill that I’ll never forget.”
Right, I intoned to myself. My father didn’t scream but he had a way of laying on the guilt. “Dad, let’s not get off track. I apologize for not telling you and Mom sooner. But my mind is made up. I’m not happy.” Then in regard to my mother’s earlier comment, I added, “I’ve never been disloyal to my vows. Not once. Having lost my devotion to serve in the role of a cleric is another matter.”
My father’s eyes, the same dark brown as mine, filled with concern. “In what way are you unhappy, son?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose right below where my headache had spread to my temples, which were throbbing like the steady beat of a drum. Grimacing, I said, “Dad, I’m really not feeling well. And I will explain to the best of my ability. But please…” I looked imploringly at him. “Just not now.”
My mother demanded, “Then when?”
“On Sunday evening at our usual time. I’ll FaceTime you.” I felt bad for their dreams dissipating despite the misery that my mother had yet to put me through. So, I offered them a couple of assurances that I knew they’d be wondering about. “I want you to know that I didn’t do anything wrong. I haven’t broken any rules. There’s no drama around my decision, and I’ve remained diligent about my responsibilities towards the congregation.”
“Yourcongregation,” she inserted. “You’re the living proof of Jesus leading his sheep. Every single parishioner is family next to your father and me.”
And that’s exactly why I’m not a good pastor. I didn’t even realize that I’d hadn’t personalized my association with the churchgoers. Mostly because I didn’t see them as family. The sad part of this whole fucked-up situation was that I was distancing myself from my biological family as well. They refused to allow me to learn who I really was, and at thirty-four-years old, I deserved to find out.
