I grew up in the sacred halls of the church that promised love and salvation for those who fear and believe in Him. I was a member of our Catholic primary school choir, so first Friday masses were something I’ve always looked forward to. Why wouldn’t I? Choir members were excused from the first three subjects to have time to rehearse the songs we’d sing during the mass.

On Sunday mornings, my mother would wake us early for the 8 a.m. mass at our local parish. While I hated waking up before the sun rose, I looked forward to it because it also meant our usual Sunday family trip to the mall afterward.

But more than such superficial benefits, I did all those primarily because I genuinely feared and believed in God, just like how I was taught to as a kid by sermons from the priests at the church and the lessons from our Christian teachers at school. 

“God loves everyone,” I was told. 

But it was only years later that I realized the “everyone” came with then-unspoken terms and conditions.

As a queer child, I learned early to read between the lines. Sermons about sin and morality, particularly those of loving thy neighbor, felt like they were direct messages to me. I learned to keep my mouth shut when the priest’s homily addressed homosexuality or when Christian Living Education lessons tackled love, sex and gender. I became an expert at defending the Church’s so-called Christ-like views, even as I hid my true self.

“It’s Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.”

“We love the sinner, but we do not love the sin.”

“You’re gay? That probably means Christ is absent in your life.”

These were not just words I heard; they were words I repeated as a queer child. I wanted to believe they weren’t true, yet in my heart, I feared they were. I thought God hated me solely for liking boys. And so I overcompensated with devotion, following every rule in the holy book.

I prayed endlessly for Him to turn me into a version of myself that would be easier to love, easier to forgive.

Eventually, though, the weight became unbearable. I parted ways with the church in quiet self-preservation. I stopped attending mass, withdrew from choir and let go of the idea that my worth could be measured by someone else’s interpretation of what God wanted. I wrestled with Catholic guilt as someone who grew up being a devotee. But I also discovered a freedom I had never known. 

That kind of freedom to just exist as you are. Authentically. Without hiding.

But even after that, I know my faith has not disappeared. I would often say I am a non-practicing Catholic because while I may not go to church or do the usual rituals —  just like how I used to — I still fear Him, still trust in His kindness and still believe in His presence in my life.

After so many years of not attending the mass, however, I recently found myself itching to attend one and go back to the church. The views of the Catholic Church about people like me have not changed, but what did change was my belief: the God that I know is a loving God, and I know He made me exactly like how He wanted me to be.

Maybe sometime soon, I will find the courage to go back to the church. But until then, I carry the certainty that my queerness is not a contradiction to faith. 

I am part of God’s creation, fully and unapologetically, and I can claim a space for myself in His love.

Faith, I have learned, is an act of courage. And in being courageous to live my truth, I know I am home — wherever I choose to worship and however I choose to express myself.