In his last post, Jason told you about a conversation he had with one of the protestors at PrideFest—a young woman who was touched by our music when we shared at a Christian coffeehouse not too long ago, but who refuses to acknowledge our ministry (and behaved in an undeniably un-christ-like manner toward Jason) now that she knows we’re gay.

We had a chance last night after rehearsal to talk about that experience—I had the “pleasure” of many such conversations during my years as an MCC pastor (and in fact I had a similar conversation online yesterday with a clergy person who entered an online forum on Homosexuality and Religion), so I could sympathize.

Unfortunately, “sympathize” is about all I can do for people who’ve been caught in one of those conversations.  I certainly can’t offer any “magic bullet” (though, especially in the wake of the Knoxville shootings, I hate to use that metaphor).  The Silent Witness program, in its wisdom, exists solely to stand between protestors and their victims at PrideFests and other targeted events (warning: that last link takes you to a pretty disturbing site).  The Silent Witness program recognizes that no one ever wins these conversations, and that more often than not they escalate with frightening speed into unfortunate, emotional situations.  The safest—and probably the only spiritually mature—response is to say “God loves you” and walk away from those confrontations.

I wish there were another way.

I wish the “God Hates Fags” signs meant as much to the people holding them as they do to me.  I wish they could have the experience, just once, of getting in the car to go home at the end of the day and being unable to get the key in the ignition because you’re suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed, and sobbing uncontrollably at all of it:

The prayers and prayers and God-how-many-more-prayers—“Change me, God”—as puberty hit and you realized that you weren’t like the other guys, and that you might actually be one of those people folks talk about behind their backs, or—which is worse?—right in front of their faces.

The years of loneliness you spent trying to forget what you’d been taught, to reject the stereotypes, to learn to love yourself as you know God does, so that you might finally be able to tell your parents, your siblings, your family, your friends, who you really are.  So that you might be able finally to have a healthy relationship with a special other person.

The soul-wrenching, unquenchable thirst for a community of faith—you know God loves you; you’ve felt it too many times to ignore it.  But why do people pretend they know better than you who God created you to be?  Why does “all are welcome” come with so many strings attached?

The years you’ve put into your life with your partner—the sickness and health, the richer and poorer, the paying bills and mowing lawns and repairing toilets and cooking meals and washing dishes and cleaning up after the cats and cleaning up after each other and compromising and compromising and compromising, all in the name of love.  Love that those signs pretend is an illusion, something less than what the sign-holders feel for their spouses, children, and friends.

I wish I could take off my 3.12 shirt at the end of the Unity Parade, put on a nice comfy robe (and maybe a few tassels), sink into a cozy recliner of self-righteousness, and know in my heart that I’m closer to God than those people I ran into today.  I wish I could hang up the shirt, put the signs in the closet for next year, and go on living my life without worrying that someone was going to walk into my church and start shooting because I don’t hate enough people.

Dang it.  I’m starting to get emotional again—it happens every time I talk about this stuff.

I wish…  I wish it didn’t hurt so much sometimes.

Resting in grace,