The last time I went to midnight mass was in 2001. I was living in San Francisco and still shell-shocked from the events of 9/11.
There were three of us: a Druid; a Muslim; and myself, a recovering Catholic.
Mass was my idea, under the auspices of “You can’t call yourself a San Franciscan until you’ve done midnight mass at Mission Dolores.” The truth being, I was afraid this might be the end of times, and like any “sinner” confronting his mortality, I was secretly bargaining with God.
Somewhere between the angel appearing to Mary and the Three Kings, the Muslim fell into a K-Hole.
As we carried him through the capacity crowd, I asked the Druid, “Why can’t we have nice things?”
“Because Jesus hates fags,” he said.
Jesus Christ has scared the hell out of me since I was a kid.
Growing up, there was a foot-tall statue of him on my dresser, gushing enough blood to give Mel Gibson a hard-on. He was my mother’s surrogate eyes —a security camera of the soul —staring at me savant-like when I masturbated.
I once got in trouble for covering his face with a picture of Lee Majors.
One Christmas, my mother’s favourite son —my cousin, The Priest —sent me a fetus-sized ceramic baby Jesus.
“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” I asked a friend.
“Use it for a door stop.”
“I can’t. He’s just a baby.”
For years, I arranged my collection of South Park piggy banks around him, creating a sort of Nativity for the New Millennium. It never ceased to amuse and was the subject of the most profound meditation on religion and pop culture I’ve ever heard.
Nonetheless, I experienced a pang of Catholic guilt for warping the spirit in which the gift was offered; guilt that was remedied by another brandy.
After my parent’s house was sold my sister asked if there was anything I wanted.
“I’ll take Jesus.”
“Which one? There’s so many.”
“The one on my dresser.”
It didn’t occur to me Jesus had since moved to greener pastures; as a result my sister sent me every Jesus but.
Now whenever I bring someone back to my apartment I feel compelled to explain, “Don’t be frightened by Jesus; it’s only Portuguese kitsch.”
Cavalier though I may be, my faith in agnosticism is often questioned; I’ll panic and wonder, “What if the Catholics are right? What if I’m going straight to hell?”
“For what?” I’ll remind myself.
The last time I saw Jesus he was sitting on the dresser in my mother’s room at the nursing home.
He still gives me the willies. But he would look fabulous in my apartment.
Why you can trust Xtra
