The Boy in the Pew Who Hid Behind a Smile

By: Frank Marchese | Becoming Ezra Shmuel

As I continue walking this path of faith and self-discovery, I often find myself looking back—not with regret, but with understanding. My journey toward Judaism didn’t begin in a synagogue. It began in a pew, inside the Catholic Church I once called home.

For years, the Church was my world. It shaped how I saw God, how I served others, and even how I viewed myself. I wasn’t just a parishioner—I was part of the heartbeat of that community. I served as Director of Religious Education, Parish Manager, and sat on both the Finance Council and Parish Council. I poured my heart into that parish. I wanted to make it a place where everyone felt welcome, connected, and loved.

But the truth was, I never felt that way myself.

Behind every warm greeting, every faith lesson, and every church event I organized, there was a secret I carried with quiet fear—I was gay. And I believed that if anyone ever found out, everything I had built would come crashing down.

I loved my pastor and deacon dearly. We worked closely together and shared a bond that felt like family. They were mentors, friends, and people I trusted. But even with them, something inside me always twisted. There was a part of me that couldn’t rest. I had this gut feeling that they knew—that they saw the truth in me—but didn’t want to acknowledge it. And maybe I didn’t either. So we all just kept pretending, wrapped in silence that neither of us dared to break.

Every day was a balancing act—serving the Church while hiding from myself. I taught children about God’s love and acceptance, yet I couldn’t believe that same love applied to me. I prayed constantly, asking God to “fix” me, to take away the feelings that made me feel unworthy. But the more I prayed, the more I felt unseen.

The longer I stayed, the heavier the mask became. Smiling through sermons that condemned people like me. Listening to jokes that made my heart ache. Pretending not to notice when parishioners looked at me just a little too long, as if they already knew. It was like living in a house I helped build but could never truly call home.

And then one quiet Sunday, after everyone had gone, I sat in an empty pew and finally admitted the truth to myself—I couldn’t keep hiding. I had spent so long trying to fit into a version of faith that required me to disappear. I realized that if God truly made me, then He made me on purpose. And that meant I deserved to live honestly.

Leaving the Catholic Church wasn’t an act of anger or rebellion. It was an act of survival. It was me choosing to finally breathe—to stop hiding and start healing.

Now, as I stand within my temple community, surrounded by people who see all of me, I feel something sacred I never felt before: peace. My faith is no longer tied to fear or approval. It’s rooted in authenticity, truth, and love—the kind I believe God always intended.

To the boy I once was—the one who hid behind a smile—I want to say this: you were never broken. You were never wrong. You were just waiting for the right place, and the right faith, to remind you that God already loved you exactly as you are.