Today I told my confessor that I’d rather not talk about homosexuality every single time I’m in the confessional. If I say I looked too long at an attractive person, he doesn’t need to ask whether it was a woman or a man. A sin is a sin, and the gay ones aren’t special.
I said it gently and I hope I said it humbly, but my stomach still turned over slightly at the feeling of telling a priest his job, telling him: No thank you, it’s fine, I don’t want your help. Yes, it’s a cross; No, you don’t have to tell me that there are therapies available.
I vastly prefer the approach of Father T, who first asked me in the Confessional, fifteen years ago — not “Are you seeing a therapist” or “Have you ever dated a woman” — but just: Do you want to talk about it?
Oh boy, I sure did, then. Now, I’d rather think about more important things. That has always been the point.