They say God works in mysterious ways.

I’m gonna co-sign that sentiment.

Our decidedly purple North Carolina town recently held its third Pride festival.

The first two incarnations were, by any metric, glorious successes, with residents pouring in for a celebration of diversity, inclusion, and community. Thousands of people supported local businesses, enjoyed amazing entertainment, and met their neighbors.

But as joyous as they were, the events were both marred by a predictable, now ubiquitous ugliness…

A group of the usual “Christian” suspects descended on the gathering: a bullhorn-wielding, sign-waving, joyless mob drafted from local Evangelical churches, the nearby Southern Baptist seminary, and outside agitators from neighboring towns.

As with all such assemblies of these miserable self-appointed soldiers in the army of a homophobic Lord, they came with the sole intent of harassing, condemning, and intimidating the LGBTQIA+ community—and we were having none of it.

Those first two years, dozens of us counterprotested passionately, confronting them with the very scriptures they weaponized; we overpowered their instigative hymns with Lady Gaga singalongs; we drowned out their condescending shouts with a thunderous drum line.

It was an effective, albeit cacophonous response, and we felt we’d succeeded in neutralizing their intrusive presence.

This year, however, as Pride grew closer, my heart said something else was called for; something requiring no such volume, something that was not a refutation of a grotesque thing but a declaration of something beautiful.

An idea floated into my consciousness, something that I had neither expected nor initially took seriously.

It said, ” In the presence of unloving people bastardizing the namesake of my faith tradition, I could incarnate it… I could literally be Jesus.”

Yes, initially the alarms of blasphemy and heresy clanged like midday steeple bells in my head, and the muscle memory of a thousand brimstone sermons forecasted certain lightning strikes and eternal damnation, but then I thought, “To hell with that.”

The more I sat with the idea, the better it felt in my spirit. This was the right way to go:

I would literally stand between those self-righteous bullies and the disparate assembly of humanity whose space and safety they sought to invade.

I would be a physical barrier to the self-sanctified stone-throwers.

I would embody the love for my neighbors at the center of the faith story I was raised in and make it visible.

I would make a rebuttal of their hateful exclusion with an expression of effusive welcome.

In a matter of seconds, a quick Google search and a handful of clicks, and my costume was on its way…

I arrived at the festival, ran into a nearby restaurant, and excitedly changed into a robe, beard, and wig, augmented with rainbow leis and sunglasses, just to make my affiliations clear and avoid triggering attendees with post-Church PTSD.

I grabbed the signs I’d made to denounce the protestors:
I’m not with them.
Ignore Them. Enjoy Pride.
This Ain’t Loving Your Neighbor, Kids.

And the ones affirming attendees:
God Is Proud of You.
You Are Loved As You Are.
My Dad Things You’re Beautiful.

And from the very second I stepped out into the street, I knew I’d made an inspired, perhaps even anointed choice.

“Jesus!” two teenage girls shouted almost immediately, running toward me, their eyes beaming.

“Can we take a selfie?!” They asked.

Of course, I obliged.

They fist-bumped me and left cheering, “Way to go, Jesus!”

This happened hundreds of times during the day, and sure, some were responding to what they saw as the kitsch factor, others relishing the chance to reclaim some measure of joy from a tradition that has harmed them.

But so many of them were like a middle-aged woman with a thick Southern drawl, who curled the back of my neck with her hand and pulled me close enough to whisper in my ear, “Thank you for representing the Jesus I grew up believing in, but never found in my church.”

When she pulled away, she smiled widely, tears streaming down her face.

A group of high school students asked if they could stand with me, holding signs, and handing out leis, and they were nearby most of the day, as were scores of moms, grandparents, teachers, business owners, and progressive ministers whose churches had come to be visible allies.

Over the next six hours, thousands of people passed by and smiled involuntarily, threw me a peace sign, or nodded in approval.

Then there were the protestors, who, as I hoped, were brought to a kind of stunned silence, seeing a physical manifestation of a “Jesus” whose tangible love for his neighbors spoke louder than any shame-throwing histrionics or finger-wagging judgement they came armed with.

They tried to hurl hellfire and damnation at me, but the optics of screaming at their boss in front of the gays clearly made them uncomfortable, and most of them ended up crestfallen and defeated—and the beautiful part is that I didn’t have to make a sound.

One of them did approach me, saying with mocking concern, “Can I give you a Gospel tract?”

”No thanks,” I replied, smiling. “…I wrote it.”

I swear that asphalt was holy ground.

I was a local church pastor for nearly thirty years, and I’ve spent over a decade serving as virtual pastor to people all over the country. Along the way, I’ve been blessed with countless moments when I felt I was in the sweet spot of my calling; caring for people, advocating for those under duress, and standing against the scripture-wielding bullies.

But it’s been a long time since I had a day like this, doing my best to step figuratively and literally step into the feet of Jesus and remind people that they are loved without caveat or condition.

It was one of the best sermons I’ve ever preached—and I didn’t have to say a word.

I’m sure this will give the Bible-thumpers and stone-throwers fits, and they’ll double down on predictions of my scalding, torturous eternity, but I think my and Jesus are cool.

I think this is right where he’d be.

And I think I was pretty chill, all things considered.

I mean, it’s not like I turned tables over or anything…