By Aidyn Fitzpatrick
“God does not make mistakes. I am genderqueer. Therefore, God made me genderqueer [and did not make a mistake].” It took me 55 years of my life—and many long periods of discernment and meditation—to accept that very simple syllogism.
When I finally did so, my spiritual and emotional life levelled up. My anger and depression abated. My sobriety was reinforced. I felt closer to God than I ever did—and, ironically, less certain of my place in the Catholic Church than I ever had before, especially on the Sundays when my parish priest would rail against transgender and genderqueer people.
We are not visible in chancery notices or pastoral plans. We rarely appear in Catholic discourse, except perhaps as an abstract “issue.” Yet we kneel at the same consecration, stand in the same communion line, and pray to the same Lord. The difference is that while others can take their belonging for granted, we are never quite sure whether we are welcome as who we are.
Headlines and silences
In recent years, global Catholic news has been full of stories touching LGBTQ lives. There have been sharp statements against socalled “gender ideology,” but also quieter developments that surprised many observers: Vatican clarifications that transgender people can be baptised, can serve as godparents or witnesses at weddings; cautious approvals of blessings for couples whose situations do not fit neatly into older categories.
The difference is that while others can take their belonging for granted, we are never quite sure whether we are welcome as who we ar
To the average reader, these might sound like technical points. To someone like me, they land close to the heart. When Rome says, in effect, “Yes, this person can be fully initiated; yes, this person can stand at the font,” it signals that, at least in principle, we are not outside the sacramental life of the Church.
But that is the big picture. On the ground, things feel different. Here, genderqueer Catholics do not appear on parish councils. Our experiences are not part of the parish conversation. If we are mentioned at all, it is usually in passing, folded into broader warnings about decadent secular culture or threats to family life.
There is a gap, in other words, between what the Vatican is starting to say about us and whether the parishes are willing to listen.
A local Church that does not know we’re here
Hong Kong’s Catholic community prides itself, rightly, on its schools, its social services, its care for migrants, prisoners, and the poor. We are accustomed to thinking of ourselves as a Church that engages the margins.
Yet there is one margin we almost never name. In all my years here, I have never seen transgender or genderdiverse Catholics acknowledged as part of the flock. We are more likely to be treated as a theoretical problem to be solved [or ignored] than as baptised persons already in the pews.
In all my years here, I have never seen transgender or genderdiverse Catholics acknowledged as part of the flock. We are more likely to be treated as a theoretical problem to be solved [or ignored] than as baptised persons already in the pews
The thing is, we aren’t that rare. I am far from being the only LGBT Catholic in a diocese as large and diverse as Hong Kong. I know this because I have met others—one of them at an LGBT-affirming Protestant church in Kowloon, where we had both sought sanctuary as “Catholic refugees.” I spent a year worshipping in Protestant churches before deciding to return to the Catholic faith that I was born into.
It is not surprising that gender-diverse Catholics feel excluded by a Church that seems to speak about them only in the language of ideology and disorder. They drift away from Mass or walk out altogether—not because they have stopped believing in Christ, but because they can no longer survive in an environment where their existence is either denied or denounced.
When that happens, the Church loses not only a “case” in a culture war, but a real person: someone with gifts, a vocation, a capacity to love and serve, now alienated from the sacramental life that might have sustained them.
What is at stake
The Church has every right to uphold a coherent vision of the human person, including a conviction that sex and gender are not infinitely malleable. But when language about “gender ideology” slips into treating genderdiverse people themselves as threats—something that I have been told I am by one of my own parish priests—then we cross a line from defending doctrine into wounding members of Christ’s Body.
For those of us who remain, the cost is not theoretical. It is felt in the confessional where we hesitate to speak honestly, fearing that one word will change how we are seen. It is felt after Mass where jokes about “confused genders” draw easy laughter, or in conversations where the assumption is that one cannot be both transgender and a faithful Catholic.
The result is a particular kind of spiritual dissonance: being physically present in the community while constantly wondering if you are even allowed to stay.
For those of us who remain, the cost is not theoretical. It is felt in the confessional where we hesitate to speak honestly, fearing that one word will change how we are seen
A different starting point
What might a more truly Catholic response look like? It would not require abandoning Church teaching or ignoring difficult questions. It would require a different starting point.
Instead of beginning with suspicion [“Are you part of this ideology I keep hearing about?”], we could begin with the sacrament: “You are baptised; therefore you are my sister or brother in Christ.” Instead of assuming that anyone who uses words like “transgender” has rejected the faith, we could assume that they are wrestling, perhaps painfully, to hold together what they know of themselves and what they have been taught.
From that starting point, the questions change. Instead of, “How do we get rid of this problem?” we might ask, “How can we accompany this person in truth and charity? What does holiness look like for them, concretely, in this city, in this family, with this history?” That kind of accompaniment is not soft or sentimental. It may well include frank conversations about Church teaching, moral choices, and limits. But it refuses to treat a person’s mere existence as an offence.
At the parish level, it might mean that homilies about sexuality and gender are preached with the awareness that someone in the pews is directly affected—and that the goal is to build up, not to score points. It might mean that at least one priest in each deanery becomes known, quietly, as someone safe to approach with complicated situations, including matters of gender identity.
The question is whether the Church will insist on talking only about us, or whether it is ready to listen to those of us who are already trying, however imperfectly, to follow Christ at the margins
It might mean a willingness to let LGBTQ Catholics speak in their own voices—not as spokespeople for a cause, but as ordinary believers trying to live faithfully. That is why the Sunday Examiner’s decision to publish this reflection matters. It does not settle any debates. But it does something more basic: it acknowledges that someone like me exists here, in this local Church. It says, implicitly, that our experiences are not beneath notice.
The question is not whether genderqueer Catholics exist. The question is whether the Church will insist on talking only about us, or whether it is ready to listen to those of us who are already trying, however imperfectly, to follow Christ at the margins.
I cannot speak for every transgender person, nor for every LGBTQ Catholic. I can only say this: I am here. I am not outside the fold looking in. I am inside, in the pew next to yours.
If the Church truly believes that “nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus,” then surely there is room, even in our disagreements, to make that love a little more visible to those of us who have spent years hiding in the shadows of the sanctuary.
