From Shame to Sacred

One Man’s Journey to Catholic Missionary

I was a lonely child, even with three sisters. Growing up in Coalisland, County Tyrone, I never felt part of the crowd. I was gay, but I didn’t know how to tell anyone or how to be. I only knew how to be feminine, wearing my sister’s clothes, my mum’s heels, making up characters. That was my escape.

My dad was ultra-masculine, everything I wasn’t but he hugged me. Mum was bossy, kind, my first audience. We played games, and I performed. But Irish Catholicism loomed over us. Sexuality was taboo. My femininity? An unspoken shame. So I wore a mask.

At school, they mocked me: “Shamey Woman,” “Shamey Handbag.” By high school, it got worse. It stuck like tar. Deep down, I knew they were right, I just didn’t know how to live it. One friend helped me survive: Tony. We danced, joked, and performed. Humour became our armour.

One awful day I wet myself in science class. Everyone laughed. That’s what bullying does, it isolates and leaves you silently screaming.

The bullying continued until my early twenties. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I drank to numb it all. One night, a bully said, “You’re gay.” I was drunk. I said, “So what if I am?” It was out. Just like that.

The bullying stopped. One of them shook my hand and said I was braver than any man he knew. That felt like sunlight.

I’ve always been curious, pushing boundaries. As a kid, Mum warned me not to go beyond the footpath. I always did. That same spirit took me places, good and bad.

One night, I tried ecstasy. The rush was euphoric. But it pulled me further from myself. I was running from shame and rejection. Depression and self-hatred followed.

I ran away to Liverpool then Manchester with my best friend Deirdre. I dabbled in drugs but never injected. I studied drama; she studied public health. She helped me face myself. I found the gay scene. It felt like home. We danced, shared pills, and stories. It felt safe.

By 24, living in Manchester I was deep in the scene: ecstasy, ketamine, coke, crystal meth, every weekend. Orgies in saunas were church. I danced with fire,and loved it.

But it began to consume me. The buzz wore off. I lost jobs and homes. I even shoplifted and did runners from restaurants. At my lowest, I worked in finance, scrolling Medjugorje messages while coming down. I prayed, “If you exist, Our Lady, convert me when it’s time because I’m having too much fun.”

Eventually, I lived in a rundown house, no heating, just an electric heater. Deirdre came back, but I was too far gone. She had to walk away. That broke me.

I had to choose: stay and die, or go home and face the truth.

I told my parents everything, the drugs, the spiral. I came home with shame, stories, and a suitcase. The prodigal son but no feast.

They were supportive, but shame lingered. I spiralled again, sex, Grindr, saunas. Searching for love in the wrong places.

Then my grandmother died. We were close. She always said I’d become a priest. I’d laugh it off. But after her death, life stood still. I was at rock bottom.

Then came the breakdown. I was reading Catholic articles about gay people, harsh, condemning. I was also reading about Fatima, Medjugorje. It was all new. One day it boiled over. I went to a priest with my mum. I couldn’t understand, how can you be gay and Catholic? I was filled with fear and turmoil.

Then Mary appeared inner to me right in my heart and spoke: “You are my son. I love you.”

Everything changed.

I started praying the Rosary. It became my lifeline. Grace came. I went to Mass, then Adoration. Then Confession, and it was like I was being washed inside. My soul lit up. Shame began to lift.

But something was missing. I had to go to Medjugorje. I didn’t know how.

Medjugorje is a village in Bosnia-Herzegovina where the Virgin Mary has been appearing since 1981. Unlike Fatima or Lourdes, these apparitions are ongoing, and that stirred something in me. I felt called there.

At the same time, my sister was getting married. Our parish priest was in Medjugorje and met a woman who offered him her apartment for free in October. “If you need to bring someone, you can,” she told him. Later, he visited our home. My mum told him about my breakdown. He said, “This is how Medjugorje works.” A seed had been planted. “These things don’t happen by accident,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

That trip changed everything.

That priest helped me find a relationship with God through prayer. Through Medjugorje, I discovered renewed faith, the Father’s love, healing, and the power of the sacraments. And God’s humour. When he took me up Apparition Hill, the priest joked, “Sorry, there’s only room for one queen here, and that’s Our Lady.” I laughed and realised I could be gay, Catholic, and loved.

I was on fire. I got involved in my local parish life, missionary work in Africa. I was finding euphoria in a white substance that wasn’t a drug, it was the Eucharist.

But I was lonely. There were no young Catholics like me. I found myself in traditional circles with views like “pray the gay away” or conversion therapy. I half believed it. I thought if I wasn’t gay, it would be easier to be Catholic. That conflict returned. Old wounds resurfaced.

Then, during another Medjugorje trip, I felt a call to leave Ireland, to follow Jesus more radically. During Communion, I had a vision of Jesus beneath a cross: “Feed my sheep.” I panicked, thought it was the drugs. But later I met Michael Moloney, another gay Irish Catholic, in Medjugorje of all places. We talked over coffee.

He told me plainly: “God’s calling you to full-time ministry.” And I knew he was right. The call was confirmed.

I returned to Medjugorje, wrapped up my life in Ireland, and set out anew, following the Holy Spirit and the call of Jesus. At the Blue Cross, another apparition site, Michael and I prayed. At the same moment, we felt it: a call to radically evangelise the LGBT community.

It wouldn’t be easy. There would be crosses, suffering, misunderstandings. But the call was clear. And I said yes.

We began by travelling two by two into smaller places, Mostar, then Dubrovnik, then Sarajevo. In these places, we used Grindr and other apps that gay people use to meet, not for hookups, but for outreach. We’d chat, meet for coffee, and talk about Jesus, faith, Medjugorje, and God’s love. It started quietly, but it grew.

Eventually, we settled in Split, Croatia, for a year. That’s where we met Toni well Michael did first on Grindr a young transgender person who had survived horrific anxiety, self-harm, and suicidal depression. We both felt Jesus calling us to take him in. What would Jesus do? We knew: He would show love, mercy, and compassion. And so we did.

But that’s when the trouble really began. Lol!

Back in Medjugorje, we’d formed a strong bond with Father Leon, a priest who had quietly confided in us about his own struggles with sexuality. At first, things were peaceful.

But as soon as we were sent out two-by-two to evangelise, gossip began to spread, mostly from Irish pilgrims and locals, accusing Michael and me of being a couple. It wasn’t true, but the rumour grew legs. Some were uncomfortable with our style of evangelisation. Even Father Leon, who had once encouraged us, turned on us.

In Split, the charismatic prayer group we were with rejected Toni; they were afraid his “trans demons” would jump on them. It was cruel. It was also stressful for us, But we persevered.

We were eventually guided back to Medjugorje with Toni, seeking peace and refuge. But instead of solace, the backlash intensified.

We were labelled “sodomites,” and Father Leon began preaching against us from the pulpit, accusing us of following demons. People scrutinized our every move. The police were called. Michael was even threatened with violence and given 24 hours to leave. But we refused to leave.

A kind Irish priest saw our perseverance and pain. His support was brief but crucial. Through it all, the Holy Spirit sustained us. We had somewhere to stay that felt safe for a time. The tension grew unbearable. Yet, despite the pain, Our Lady’s light shone through. We did not give up. Eventually, she led us to London. We would even get visions of London in prayer especially Michael.

Arriving in London, we spent our first weeks in a hostel in Lewisham. I worked at McDonald’s while grappling with my own healing, confronting old wounds from past drug use. Toni struggled with dysphoria, weed addiction, and anxiety. It was a strain supporting him, but God provided.

Miraculously, Michael prayed to Padre Pio, and through his inspiration, we reached out to Westminster LGBT Catholics. There, Toni met Father Keith. To our surprise he was the Chaplin appointed by the Bishop for the Westminster dioceses. He invited us to dinner through Gods strategic brilliance, and having nowhere to stay he invited us to sleep on the floor of the parish hall. One night turned into six months. Through perseverance, we were each given a room, and this has been our base for the last four years. Then during the Pandemic our fourth member came Rayne a nurse from the Philippines.

During this time, Michael is studying theology, while Toni and I are training to be catechists. We are being equipped to guide others through the sacraments with better knowledge and understanding.

Through our work in the church, we’ve seen gay men touched by the Spirit in bars, and through our weekly prayer meetings, we evangelize with fire. Toni, having had top surgery, is now a sacristan. His story is a testimony of how God has worked through us to help him transition, and how vital our theology of love, acceptance, and pastoral care is for LGBT souls.

Pope Francis’ words, like “Who am I to judge?” resonate deeply within us. Our ministry has grown not only to those outside but to LGBT Catholics within the Church.

In these past years, I’ve witnessed firsthand the power of God’s unconditional love and the healing power of the Eucharist. And that’s where we are now: living out our faith with purpose, seeking to share Christ’s love with those who are often excluded.

We now share that message of Jesus’s transformative power, showing that God’s love can reach every soul, and that healing and transformation is possible through the Church, despite all the challenges.

We’ve come full circle from those dark days of mine in Ireland and Manchester’s gay Chemex scene to now being fully embraced by the power of Medjugorje. Our journey continues, knowing we are never alone. Healing is ongoing and its not a one trick wave with a wand.

For