Australia 1 February 2026 – – By Fr C.B.
I speak as a priest who reached 50 this year, but first as a human being who has learned, often painfully, that faith is not a refuge from struggle, but a place where struggle is allowed to speak. I come from a land marked by devotion, tradition, and suffering, where faith is woven into daily life and where God is named often, sometimes easily, sometimes fearfully. From my earliest years, I felt drawn to God, not to power or certainty, but to presence and liturgy. I wanted to be near the mystery, to serve it, to give my life to something greater than myself.
My priesthood was born from that desire: to stand with people where life is fragile, to bless joy, to name grief, to listen when words collapse. Over the years, my ministry has taken many forms: pastoral care, teaching, accompaniment, quiet conversations that never make it into sermons. What motivates my work is simple, though never easy: I believe God is already at work in every human life, and my task is not to judge that work but to reverence it.
Yet alongside this call, there has always been another journey, more hidden, more complex. I have lived with the tension of identifying as part of the LGBT community while also carrying the identity and responsibility of priesthood. This started when I embraced a new open culture in Australia, a culture that I find myself drawn to and venerate human dignity and respect. For a long time, I tried to keep these worlds separate: one public and structured, the other interior and unnamed. Silence felt safer. Not because I was ashamed of God, but because I feared losing belonging, credibility, and trust.
What I have learned slowly, is that silence can protect, but it can also wound. When a person of faith feels compelled to divide their heart, something essential begins to ache. Many of the people I have accompanied over the years, especially LGBT people, have mirrored this same struggle back to me: the pain of loving God deeply while feeling unseen, misunderstood, or conditionally welcomed by the very communities that taught them to pray.
I want to say this clearly: your longing for God is not a contradiction. Your faith is not a mistake. The questions you carry are not signs of failure, but of depth. If you have been told, explicitly or subtly, that you must choose between honesty and holiness, I want you to know that God never asked that of you.
My own faith has been purified not by answers, but by prayer and patience. Not by resolving every tension, but by remaining in relationship with God within the tension. I have come to believe that God meets us not after we have figured ourselves out, but precisely while we are still becoming. The Gospel I try to live and proclaim is not one of exclusion, but of encounter: where Christ looks first, listens deeply, and calls gently.
There are days I am strong in hope, and days I am tired of carrying complexity. There are moments of clarity, and long seasons of waiting. But what sustains me is this: God has never withdrawn presence from me because of my questions or my identity. God has remained quietly faithful, patiently near.
If you are an LGBT person of faith, perhaps wounded by the Church yet still yearning for God, I walk with you in spirit. You are not alone on this road. Your story matters. Your prayer matters. And your life, in all its truth, is held by God more tenderly than you may dare to believe. You are held by God while becoming whole.
And so, like you, I pray the following prayer that I wrote on 20 January 2026:
“I speak to You”
I speak to You, O God,
not because I am strong, but because I am in need.
I speak to You in the morning as I begin my journey,
and in the evening when the day has weighed me down.
I speak to You in joy that surpasses my feelings,
and in silence when my words fail.
I speak to You along my path,
as I learn to walk rather than to own the road,
to rely on You rather than to control,
to trust You when I do not understand.
In my wandering, be my guiding light;
in my confusion, be my wisdom;
in my fear, be my peace;
in my weakness, be my strength.
In my pain, be my healer;
in my wounds, be my balm;
in my tears, be my comfort;
in my silent cry, be the One who hears me.
When the ways grow narrow, be my path;
when questions multiply, be my answer;
when I fail, be my hope;
when I fall, be the hand that lifts me up.
In my loneliness, be my companion;
in my exile, be my home;
in my long waiting, be my hope.
Teach me, Lord,
to speak to You not only when I am in need,
but because You are the life by which I live,
the light by which I see,
and the love by which I endure.
I speak to You and entrust You with my journey:
my past that has been wounded,
my present that grows weary,
and my future that I sometimes fear.
I speak to You and I trust
that You are present at all times,
going before me with Your grace,
walking with me in Your mercy,
and waiting for me with Your love
to embrace me as I speak to You.
Amen.