As a Christian and pastor (and former Catholic) who affirms the full equality of LGBTQ people, I’ll be honest: this one stings.
The revelation that Pope Francis secretly met with defiantly anti-gay Kentucky courthouse clerk Kim Davis during his recent US visit, was a real punch to the gut. (Truth be told, it was closer to a swift kick in the crotch.)
This was uniquely true for me, as I had only days ago published this piece, lauding the Pope’s seemingly fresh approach to ministry and the great things his trip here had appeared to yield in the name of religion.
(Impending facepalm in 3…2…1…)
When news of the clandestine chat broke, people who love and support the gay community (and of course many within the community itself) as well as anti-religious folks all unsurprisingly moved immediately into full-blown social media freak out mode—and I don’t blame them a bit. After building up such a tremendous amount of goodwill and garnering such vocal support from those who have historically been horribly discriminated against by the Catholic Church, this move by Pope Francis felt like a profound, brazen betrayal. For gay people it turned out to be yet another painful Groundhog Day; more injury sustained at the hands of a powerful person representing organized religion.
it felt like the bully was once again being encouraged, congratulated, and rewarded.
I started to freak out too. Sideswiped with a disorienting swirl of rage and disbelief and with the feeling that I’d just been royally had, I felt the blood collecting in my cheeks and growing hot. A rising hopelessness came crashing in with the relentless waves of angry Tweets and raw-throated status updates and “F-it all” blogs that filled my timeline and phone.
In seconds I could feel it: My soul was hyperventilating.
Then something surprising happened: I remembered Jesus and breathed—and my freak out fizzled out. I immediately felt the solid ground beneath my feet and I got my bearings again. It was like a sudden clearing in the haze.
This isn’t one of those rah-rah, sugar-coated, “just trust Jesus and everything will be dandy” sermon platitudes, but it is a reminder of how the very one whose name my faith bears, lived and taught and to the very walk I’m called to walk because of that. It’s a straight-up gut check for my religion.
You see friends, as a person of faith, right now Jesus’ command to “love my enemies and pray for those who curse me” is sitting there directly in the center of my heart, challenging me to practice what is so easy to preach to the other side. As he said, “even those living without God, love only those who love them”. The real beautiful stuff of spirituality shows up when you can love when it’s tough—and it sure as heck is tough right now.
But I am fully accepting this challenge because I refuse to become the blind hatred that I felt compelled to move against in the first place.
I don’t want to be as reactionary and inflammatory and vicious and quick to incite as I often see religious folks being toward the LGBTQ community.
I will not treat those who disagree with me with the same contempt they often show me.
I will not lazily vilify or caricaturize a person or a people group because I know how wasteful and unhealthy that is when directed toward me or those I love.
I will not follow the lead of the perpetual alarmists, and scream now that the sky is falling—because I know well Who holds up the sky.
Yes, I have all of the conflicting emotions many have expressed to me, but I refuse to let this fifteen minute meeting between two individuals distract me and move me from the greater task of fighting for the inherent value and dignity of all people. I will not let this single sad revelation suck me into the kind of war rhetoric and viciousness and all-or-nothing ultimatums that I see the LGBT community receive so often from those who disapprove of them.
People, our calling is much higher than that, our purpose far greater, our model much better. We have far more to aspire to than simply the worst behavior of those who oppose us. We aspire to the kind of radical, counterintuitive love that makes mean people strangely uncomfortable being mean.
The real and deep pain that this event triggered for you and for me can’t be gasoline we dump on the fire of vitriol. It has to become jet fuel for the glorious flight we are making together; a trip one person or one denomination or one faith tradition can’t own or direct or derail. The Church For All People is in lift-off mode and it ain’t gonna be stopped unless we stop ourselves by meeting hatred with hatred and fear for fear.
The only thing for compassionate, loving people committed to equality to do right now in response to what looked like Kim Davis’ sanctified pat on the back, is to get on in earnest with the work we’re here to do. This isn’t a time to shrink into knee-jerk reactions and name-calling and baby-and-bath water dumping.
This is a time to get the freakin’ love thing more right than ever.
I will continue to speak boldly and clearly for the inherent value of all people and directly into the contorted, spitting face of bigotry, but I will not be poisoned by anyone else’s bad choices and I will not respond in kind, but in kindness. I will be fully nourished by a faith that calls me to turn the cheek, to carry the cross, to bless the cursers, and to love as I desire to be loved.
As best as I can, I will do that and I’m inviting any good people out there to join me in it.
And while we might never learn the details or the circumstances around it, The Pope met with Kim Davis. I am disappointed, but I am not going to use this as an occasion to generate more hatred. The Pope is human, Kim Davis is human, and I am too. May I always strive to give the Grace I seek for myself.
To bottom line it all: Love is my theology and I refuse to lose my religion now.
Don’t lose yours.
Be greatly encouraged.
