Finding common ground in ordinary places

A priest without clerical ambition is either a slothful miscreant, odd, holy in his detachment, or somewhere on that continuum. Regardless, he is a free man. Making fun of pesky politically correct social conventions becomes an enjoyable vocational hobby.

As we grow older, we reach the peak of holy obscurity. We are less self-conscious and increasingly hold many newfangled ideas in contempt—or at least appropriate scorn. A Roman collar is peculiar enough. Why not take advantage of the peculiarity using evangelical, ahem, zeal? What will they say about a given priest they do not already suspect?

My dentist is a pleasant, competent, and honest fellow. But he must play by the Woke rules of the modern medical insurance establishment. A now-routine question reads, “How would you like the doctor to address you?” I scribbled, “Admiral.” The receptionist found the response hilarious. Encouraged, I addressed her, “Your Highness.” (Just as my mother sardonically referred to my dad in their spats.) The banter continued in subsequent visits.

Years ago, as I registered for emergency medical care, I filled out one of those endless medical affidavits. One question read, “What was your sex at birth?” I scribbled, “I don’t remember.” Later, during an informative conversation, a nurse told me that trying to determine the sex of patients has become a challenge. She reported a few examples of medical mistakes due to the refusal of patients to distinguish XY chromosomes from XX counterparts.

I recently entered an online portal to make a medical appointment. Although it took me some time to appreciate the convenience of the contraption, I gained confidence the arrangement communicates well. I answered many timesaving questions. All I need to do is present my insurance card and photo ID at the front desk. But I’m worried about whether the doctor follows the science, as they say in the trade. Among the litany of requests for information were these items: sex on the birth certificate, preferred pronouns, and gender identification. I plan to tell the doctor I was a male trapped in a woman’s body—until I was born.

My non-Catholic cardiologist, a while back, was curious about Confession. His curiosity was like King Herod’s fixation with John the Baptist (as I grasped for a holy comparison). I was happy to discuss the details, but it soon became clear that the good doctor was hostile to the Catholic Faith, although I never feared that I would lose my head (my heart, maybe). I asked him, “What do you think about abortion?” Although ambivalent, he favored a “woman’s choice.” I responded, “Catholics follow the science.” That was my last encounter with him. And I’m still alive.

My dog needed her teeth brushed (it is another one of those modern things). So, I took her to the vet. As I concluded the conversation at the desk, I asked, “Why didn’t you ask me for my preferred pronouns?” The attendant looked stunned. So did the two young ladies in the background, all three gazing at me in anticipation of an unpleasant encounter. The young fellow haltingly said, “We don’t ask that question.” I responded, “Good! It’s a stupid question. If you did, I would have to go to another veterinarian to brush my dog’s teeth.” Embarrassed silence. I doubt if I added to my priestly image.

Every year, the priests of my diocese meet at a hotel resort for a series of conferences, fellowship, and golfing—but mostly healthy fellowship. The facilities are comfortable and, in my view, appropriate. Last year, a sign on a restroom door appeared, reading, “All Gender Restroom,” with a half-man/half-woman stick image, like a 1950’s sci-fi radiation mutant. As I checked out, I showed a phone picture of the sign to a young man behind the desk and asked, “What’s that all about?” The fellow sheepishly explained, “Corporate requires the new signs.” Recognizing a friend when I see one, I briefly commiserated with him.

Next year—at the same place—the “transgender” sign remained, and another appeared in rainbow colors: “You Belong Here—Vail Resorts.” This time, I approached the front desk and asked for the manager on duty. I showed the pictures to a young lady and asked whether the resort was a “gay Mecca.” I added I am an older priest, and I might not catch on to these things, but if the resort has gone gay, maybe everyone—except me—knows about it. You undoubtedly realize what many people think of celibate (unmarried) priests. Should I report my attendance to parishioners, they may conclude the entire batch of priests is gay. (We spoke off to the side in private.)

The young lady was firm in her response. “We want to be inclusive,” she said. Defeated, I responded, “Well, I feel excluded.” I get it. The most inclusive welcoming sign would simply say, “Don’t give me love, give me money.”

Departing, I saw the manager talking with a few young employees behind the front desk. They looked concerned. Playing an elderly eccentric is a great conversation ice-breaker. I want to be a fly on the wall at their next staff meeting. Maybe I stirred the pot to good effect.

Recently, a plumber came to the rectory to install a utility sink. The business conversation was friendly, and the young fellow was polite and professional. I got the sense that he had religious moorings. It was just a suspicion, but it proved true. After the conversation, I said, “You never asked me about my preferred pronouns.” Without missing a beat, he responded, “Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior, and I don’t talk like that!” (Don’t worry, he got the humor.)

“Where should I sign that contract?” I should have added, “Do you want to represent my parish at the Synod? The Synod could use an unabashed Bible-believing evangelical.”

Wise as a serpent and innocent as a dove? Or foolhardy with a dash of repressed anger? Only the Holy Spirit knows for sure.