James Longman on Being Gay in a Catholic World

If there’s anyone who can attest to the complex intersection of identity, faith, and family, it’s ABC News reporter James Longman. His journey is one of exploration, not just of the world’s newsworthy events, but of his own identity, the legacy of his grandmother, and the often tricky relationship between being gay and being Catholic. But as we all know, no story is ever as simple as it seems—and Longman’s has all the twists and turns you’d expect.

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James Longman’s memories of his Lebanese grandmother, “Grandmaman,” are a mixture of culture, tradition, and the relentless force of faith. “My grandmother always wore blue in May, for the Virgin Mary,” he recalls, detailing the essence of a woman who lived a life full of Catholic rituals, devotion, and the unmistakable scent of rosewater eau de toilette. “She never missed Mass on a Sunday, and prayed the rosary most of the rest of the time.” For Longman, this was his first encounter with faith—one that would shape his understanding of spirituality for years to come.

His family’s religious background is a mosaic in itself: Catholicism on his mother’s side and a smattering of quieter Protestantism on his father’s. But despite this balance, the overpowering force of his mother’s Catholic faith was undeniable, wrapping him in its embrace—at least until he came to terms with his own sexual identity.

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Growing up gay in a world of deeply rooted Catholicism presented a dilemma Longman was only too familiar with. “As I grew up, and I realized I was gay, my feelings about being Catholic grew more ambivalent,” he admits. “I wanted to be part of the club. I just wasn’t sure I could be.” This tension between the world he grew up in and the world he was trying to navigate as an adult resonates deeply with many LGBTQ Catholics who still yearn for a connection to their faith despite its often contradictory teachings.

In a moment of reflection, Longman sums up the intersection of these worlds perfectly: “I’ve always considered myself culturally Catholic, if that’s a thing. I light candles for my Grandmaman whenever I’m in a church. I do the sign of the cross when I walk in. But it has never gone further than that.” It’s a sentiment shared by many who find themselves holding onto the cultural rituals of their upbringing, even when the church’s official stance doesn’t exactly make room for who they are.

Enter Pope Francis.

As the first pontiff in recent memory to offer a more inclusive approach to gay Catholics, Pope Francis’s words “Who am I to judge” sparked a glimmer of hope in Longman. For the first time, he felt seen, if only through a small window opened by Francis’s inclusivity. But when the Pope passed away, so too did that window, and Longman found himself once again questioning whether his place within the church was a temporary gift, or something far more fleeting.

“Five simple words, ‘Who am I to judge,’ seemed to offer me a chance again,” Longman says. But the death of Pope Francis left him wondering: “Would the door that had been opened ajar to me be closed once more?”

In a twist that only a good story could provide, Longman’s journey toward reconciling his faith took an unexpected turn when he met Father James Martin, a prominent Jesuit priest and advocate for LGBTQ Catholics. The two met on the roof of the St. Augustine seminary in Rome, where Longman was covering the Pope’s funeral. Their conversations were an antidote to Longman’s years of ambivalence, offering him a kind of solace that he hadn’t found in years.

“I was so moved by our conversations, I used my few seconds with Pope Leo to tell him, ‘Fr. Jim says hi.’” This was more than just a casual greeting. It was a quiet reclaiming of the faith that had always been intertwined with his sense of self, even if he had to fight to find space for it. And, in that moment, Longman felt Catholic again—not because of the pomp or ritual, but because of the relationships, the compassion, and the gentle acknowledgement that, yes, he too had a place.

The unexpected synchronicity in his life continued when he learned that his husband, Alex, had been attending the very same Catholic church that Father Martin had recommended, just around the corner from their home. It’s a moment that feels almost ordained, a subtle sign that maybe, just maybe, faith—and love—have a way of working things out in ways we can’t predict.

“I immediately text Fr. Martin. Of all the churches in all of London, this was the one Alex had already been visiting,” Longman recounts. “I couldn’t believe it.” And in that moment of surprise and connection, Father Martin’s words, “I hope you see God’s hand in all of this,” offered a sense of peace that had long eluded him.

Perhaps that’s the point of Longman’s story: faith, like love, isn’t always linear. It doesn’t always fit within neat boxes or easy categories. But in the end, it’s about finding your own path, reconciling your history with your present, and allowing space for grace—however you find it.

So whether it’s through the rosary beads your grandmother once held or the quiet solace of a church that welcomed you in without question, Longman’s journey is a reminder that faith, like identity, is not something to be handed to you—it’s something you find on your own terms. And sometimes, when you least expect it, the world offers you a few small miracles along the way.

In the end, James Longman finds solace in the idea that God, or at least the divine, has a funny way of guiding us, even when we’re not sure we’re welcome.

Source: James Longman’s Substack