Gay wedding planners had held out extraordinary hope for this Pope. After all, he came out in favor of gay civil unions a while back, and he’s shown extraordinary theological flexibility in the past by letting Jews and atheists into Heaven.
A lot of atheists have turned down the Pope’s eternal offer, saying huffily that they prefer to molder in the ground instead, but I’m going, if for no other reason than to see the looks on the faces of all the blessed souls that confidently expected, and have even told me, to go to Hell.
But I digress. A lot of gay people are Catholic, although I cannot tell you what for. There are way more gay Catholics than black white supremacists (None. All right, Dave Chappelle, but that was satire) or Jewish Nazis (only Stephen Miller). Probably most of them were hanging on just to have a Catholic wedding, because Catholic weddings are the gayest. The clothes! The incense! The music! The men in dresses! It’s to die for, but, unfortunately, it will have to wait for the next Pope, if not longer.
The irony, of course, is that the Church has been a refuge for gay for millennia. Gay might not even have survived the Dark Ages without its cold stone monasteries to huddle in, and to this day, when a devout Catholic family suspects one of its boy children to be on the verge of turning out “that way,” a rush to send him off to the seminary, where he can frolic within other young gay Catholic men, is considered a perfect solution to the problem. This has inevitably led to the Church’s main problem, persistent pederasty, with too many priests holding the Communion wafer high on Sunday with fingers reeking of altar boy ass.
The Church has always promoted this idea of a God with an intense interest in human genitals and what their owners are doing with them, a Creator of All Things who spends every minute on His throne, scrutinizing the Earth closely and deciding, “This boner good! That boner bad!” and arranging sanctity or punishment for each erection. This doesn’t seem likely to me. I left the Church when I began to experience my first boyish hard-ons, and realized that I had no choice what to do about them.
Yes, I became a rationalist rather than go to Hell for an act I committed two or even three times a day, some days, with nothing more than the bra and panty ads in the Sears catalogue for stimulation. I definitely didn’t want to talk to a priest about that. Whether that was pleasing in the eyes of God I can’t say.
I’ll let you know when I get to Heaven.