Anonymous 10m 2,395
The views of this article are the perspective of the author and may not be reflective of Confessions of the Professions.
This is an absolutely true story. Please DO NOT use my name, as I still attend church at this parish.
September, 2012. A catholic church, somewhere in the state of Maryland. I was hired to work as a cook for the 6 priests who lived on the grounds of St. I. The pay was $15 per hour, and the work was for Friday evening, Saturday afternoon, Saturday evening and for one Thursday evening per month. I have worked as a cook in a four star hotel, so I had the training and they asked me to cook one meal for them, as a sort of job interview, and they loved it! So, I was hired. I thought this would be a good job, just cooking for a few hours a week at $15 per hour, for some priests. What could go wrong? ONLY EVERYTHING.
The priest who was in charge, the most senior of all of the priests, was Father J. He was 45 years old with two bad knees. He confided in me that he never knew his father and he was allowed a salary and a stipend, which he used to take care of his mother. Turns out that his mother lived in a hotel-like elder care home, at a cost of $50,000 per year, which the parishioners, even though they didn’t know it, were paying for.
Father J. was extremely overweight, and could eat chicken every day, every meal, for the rest of his life. He didn’t care how it was prepared, as long as it was chicken. For my “job interview” I prepared a baked chicken with chestnut and celery and herb stuffing. Even though there were a total of six priests who all ate together, Father J. almost ate the entire chicken by himself, not even thinking about the other five priests who were sitting at the table. I later figured out that when I did the cooking, to shop as though I am preparing a meal for ten people and not just six, because Father J, a.k.a. Father Fatty, ate four times the amount of food that the other priests ate. This man would eat as if he was a wood chipper!
Father J. was also an alcoholic, and not the kind who becomes friendly and talks a lot after a few drinks, he was a mean drunk. He started drinking an hour before dinner, enjoying a tall 20 ounce tumbler of Bombay Gin. He would consume an entire bottle of very nice wine, all by himself during dinner. Afterwards, he would sit out on his $12,000 new redwood deck, killing two six packs of Grolsh or Heinekin beer – every night. His bar bill for one month could easily pay my rent for two months!
The next priest who I cooked for, was retired. This was Father K. He was 80 years old, but he had a very young attitude. Out of all of them, he was my favorite person. He never pretended to be a very holy man, like the others. In fact, this guy was so down to earth and so sweet, I wondered how he could tolerate the others, who were mostly jerks. Father K. purchased a three wheel motor tricycle ($45,000) and would take off, full speed, driving around the back country roads. I used to take my hp touchpad with me while I was cooking and set it up in the kitchen. Father K. liked to watch the History Channel and the Cooking Network with me. I really liked this man, and if I had still been working there, would have thought of him as a friend. The only thing that I didn’t like about this person, was that he didn’t like animals and kept trying to convince me that they didn’t have souls. We would get into discussions about this, and sometimes I doubted he was even a REAL priest, because he didn’t know the whole story about St. Francis of Assisi and the wolf. Oh well. No one is perfect (especially this group of psycho church men). Each priest actually received a salary and Father K. liked to spend his money when he received Kohl’s cash and discount coupons in the mail. He loved going through the 3 Kohl’s stores that was in the area, and figuring out how to best use his Kohl’s discounts, to get the most merchandise, for the least amount of money. He also had this very strange habit of collecting empty egg cartons (I never knew why he did this.)
The next priest was Father HA. He was from Kenya and used to tell me about how the Catholic Sisters were responsible for his early education and that is one of the reasons he decided to become a priest. He also confided in me one evening that the economy where he grew up was so terrible, he thought that if he became a priest he would have job security and be able to come to the United States. So much for receiving the calling based on faith, but none of these men seemed to be real priests to me, they were just a bunch of phonies. But, after Father K., Father HA. was my favorite out of all of them.
Other than Father K. and Father HA., I did not like the other four priests. I hope they couldn’t detect my distaste for them, I tried to hide it as this was a good job for me at the time.
Father HE. was a real son of a bitch, lying, trouble making, closet gay man who I really, really hated. He actually ordered all of his priestly robes from a Chinese Lady who was a seamstress. He was too special to wear the robes that the other priests wore. Father HE’s robes had to have gold lame fabric with beading. He was a total peacock. When he ate at the table, I had to use his special silverware which, like everything else, was more special than what the other priests used.
Father HE told me that before he became a priest, he worked as the personal chef for some South American politicians. He was always telling me that he was a professional chef first, and a priest second. This made no sense to me at all and I was always wondering why he kept telling me this. I do know that he had an extensive collection of cookbooks and kitchen gadgets. He also had over 500 DVDs featuring celebrity chefs. His favorite chef to watch was Gordon Ramsay from Hell’s Kitchen.
I soon found out that in addition to the salary these priests receive, they are also allow to raise money by other means. In order to pay for all of his special things Father HE posted a notice each week in the church newsletter, where he advertised a celebrity chef auction.
Father HE’s celebrity chef auctions worked like this: Parishioners would bid on the chance to have Father HE prepare a five-star meal in their home, complete with all of his professional culinary skills and his pretty, shiny cooking toys. Most of the time the bidding stopped at $5,000. Whoever bid the most money, winning the celebrity auction, would have Father HE come into their home for one evening, to cook a six course meal, for four hours, at a cost of no less than $5,000. Yes, that’s right, a priest could work as a chef in a private home, for $5,000 — none of which went to the church; Father HE was allowed to keep all of that money. The parishes never asked and just assumed, like any normal person, that the money was going to the church and not to Father HE’s fund for beautiful things.
Priest number five was married. He converted from a Baptist Church, where he had his own “church” set up in a parking lot/store front, until the city’s economy got so bad, he was no longer profitable and had to either quit the Jesus business, or convert to Catholicism. Well, he didn’t quit the Jesus business, and lived with his wife in a separate house on the property. His wife always reminded me of a female impersonator, because she must have taken cosmetology course work from the Tammy Fay Baker School of Cosmetics and Fashion.
The last priest for who lived here was Father Invisible. Of course this wasn’t his real name, but that is how I referred to him behind his back, when I wasn’t working. Father Invisible could have been a poker player. He had the skill of staying out of everyone’s way and not getting involved in the church gossip or the most recent petty politics that was going on – and believe me, those nasty/bitchy church ladies were always starting some rumor or hatching some scheme to do each other in.
Father Invisible would always meet with them in the dining room, and he would listen to their petty complaints about someone else who worked there, but he never committed himself to them, just lightly joking with them, and then asking me to fix a pot of tea with some cookies or cake. He would oh so gently change the subject to something else, tell a funny joke, and stand up and walk to the door while he was still talking, so the church ladies had to get up to hear him, and he surreptitiously lead them outside, where they finally got into their cars and drove away. He was the master at his game. He never got them angry with him, and he was able to diffuse the situation, which was always imagined on their end – I can tell you for sure that church ladies are a nasty gaggle of bitches who engage in gossip to the extreme.
Well, that was the six priests:
- Father J. who was in charge
- Father K. was was retired and collected empty egg boxes
- Father HA from Kenya
- Father HE who was in love with pretty, shiny things
- The married priest who used to have a parking lot Baptist church
- Father Invisible
Here is why I no longer work there: Father HE invited a “guest” to the house for a one week stay. He explained that his friend is from the country of Columbia, and speaks no English. Father HE also stated that his “friend” is thinking of becoming a priest, so he is going to stay for a week to find out more about what a priest’s job is all about. Sounded a little suspicious, but what did I care? I was just there to cook for them. What they did on their own free time was none of my business.
For one entire week, Father HE’s friend spoke no English. Father HE who was from South America was fluent in Spanish, so he translated for this guest, for a whole week.
It was a Friday night, dinner was almost ready. I had set the table for seven (the six priests and Father HE’s guest). I went downstairs to the cellar to bring up the four bottles of wine. Father J. always told me what wine he wanted with dinner, and I always opened four bottles for them.
The wine cellar was a cold room, built especially for their collection. I opened the door with my key (this room was always kept locked), and there was Father HE and his “guest” both were speaking perfect English. For one entire week, this man pretended to not know any English, and here he was, speaking in English kissing, with Father HE.
THESE TWO MEN WERE GAY! ! ! Living a lie ! ! !
I was dumbfounded. I just backed up, pulled the door shut, and went back upstairs without the wine. I stood in the kitchen, and just kept checking on the food, which was about to be served. Now, I did not know what to do because Father J. told me to make sure that the wine is the first item to be served, even before the soup. How was I supposed to get the wine, without going back to Father HE and his “guest” who clearly was NOT visiting to find out about becoming a priest.
Five minutes went by. The priests were starting to come into the dining room, waiting to be served. Ten minutes went by. I wanted to serve the soup, but without the wine, I didn’t know what I should do. So, I served the warm bread with the special butter, and they started snacking on that. Fifteen minutes… finally Father HE comes up the steps (alone, thank goodness), carrying four bottles of wine. He announced (more like lied) to everyone that he had to assist me with finding this particular bottle, and that is the reason he was coming up from the cellar.
Father HE’s friend was gone. No one ever saw him again. If Father HE provided an explanation, I never knew it.
Two weeks after discovering Father HE’s secret, I got a phone call from Father J., the big cheese/priest in charge. He told me that I was being terminated. When I asked him for a reason, he just kept replying, “We no longer require your services.” I was relieved, because I had a hard time looking at Father HE, not because he was gay, but because he was such a liar, and a very good liar at that.
Father K. sent me a Thanksgiving card and a Christmas Card. I still go to Sunday services there, but I no longer donate any money or give in the offetory basket. Now that I know what booze hounds they are, all of the pretty things they buy, and how much money they REALLY get in, I decided to give my money instead, to a local soup kitchen, where the money truly goes to help the poor (I know, because I volunteer there).
I was shocked about how they live. Not because of the gay friend, I don’t care so much about that. But I was troubled about the large amount of money they receive, and how they abuse it. I thought they were supposed to take vows of poverty?
You can check out Father Hector’s food auctions if you like. Here is just one of his websites:
This priest finances his own websites, he is not at all shy!