A take-charge, no-nonsense priest, whose brown robes whisked around him while he walked and whose rope sash cracked like a whip, Father Abraham had an angular face, an Abe Lincoln beard and limbs like ax handles. He was the original drill sergeant at lector boot camp--the Shrine's bi-annual training session for new lectors. Abraham had once been a drama teacher—and I don’t mean that phrase as a euphemism for “gay.” He was a professor of homiletics—the art of giving homilies, which is what Catholics call sermons—and he couldn’t resist the opportunity to show off. With exaggerated diction, he spouted great chucks of scripture, with each character therein given a different voice. Ministry volunteers wept at the hopelessness of meeting the standard of a James Earl Jones baritone like his--especially me, because I have only the gay voice that God gave me.
