Priests, Queers, and Bridges

Last week, as I stewed in a sticky, stinking, sad hospital bed at St. Vincent's Hospital, a priest appeared and broke through my morphine haze.

"Would you like to receive the sacraments of communion or healing?" the priest asked.

"No honey, I'm gay."

"I can still offer you an anointment for healing."

"No, thanks."

"I will keep your health and recovery in my prayers," he said, pityingly, then checked a box on his clipboard and retreated to the nurses' station.