I had this thing I used to do with teams of short-termers when they came to Haiti, called a lifeline.
I'd hand them a length of string and encourage them to tell their story as they wrapped the string around their hand. Tell the story that you want to tell, and tell it at your own pace.
I brought the string out in 2010 when we brought our first team to Haiti from The Point, and at our first set of evening devotions, Jonathan Zila shared how he had come to faith. When it was her turn, Robin Nussbaumer told us about her childhood and some of her formative experiences.
And then one night it was Caroline's turn.
Caroline wasn't from The Point. In fact, they weren't even from New Jersey. They lived in Atlanta. Caroline had known me for about 10 years by this point, and after Jon and I had agreed the trip was strictly for members of The Point, and no one else would be invited, I'd called Caroline immediately to ask if they wanted to come with us. (Spoiler: They did.)
The team wouldn't have been complete without Caroline, but that night I knew how deeply out of place Caroline felt. They took the string, they held it, and they stared at it without saying anything.
"I can't," they finally said.
"You don't have to," I told them. "There's freedom here."
Caroline did share, later. I knew their secret, and I'd marveled the past several days as I'd watched them play the pronoun game, never referring to their ex by name or as "she," but always as "my ex" or "my significant other," sometimes coming close to the edge but always staying on the safe side of the precipice and never daring to say nor even daring to hint at the truth: "I am gay."
And when Caroline did share, it was safe, as I had been confident it would be. But they also shared something I have never forgotten: "I've always found more acceptance among the gay community for being a Christian than I have among Christians for being gay."
The words should shame us, because they are true, but they shouldn't be.
It's Pride Month, a time when gays, lesbians, bisexuals, the transgender and other queer-identifying folk celebrate their presence and survival in a society that keeps them on the margin. Every advancement in LGBTQ rights since Stonewall has been met with howls of outrage from conservative and religious leaders who want the right to discriminate.
Who don't want to recognize the emotional need to be loved and to express affection with a life partner.
Who think it's better for children to grow up without a family than to have two parents of the same sex.
Who think that "Mrs. Doubtfire," Monty Python, "La Cage aux Folles" and the plays of William Shakespeare pose a graver threat to children than a society awash with unregulated AR-15s.
It honestly disturbs me that so much of this fear, this hatred and this agitation is coming from the church. Look at the gospels and you'll see in Jesus a man who embraces the outcast, no matter who they are or what they've done.
"If he knew what sort of woman she is ..." his critics think.
Funny thing is, Jesus did know. He just didn't care. His heart belonged to the people whom religious folk were too good for. They poured expensive perfume on him, they washed his feet with their tears and then dried his feet with their hair. Jesus took it all in stride, and he got a reputation for eating and drinking with sinners.
That's what holiness does. It doesn't push people away. It doesn't tell people they're not good enough. Instead it pulls out a seat next to the campfire, tosses on another log and welcomes the newcomer to a meal and conversation, and it invites them to pitch a tent at the campsite.
And when someone makes a scene about the visitor's presence, it's not the visitor whom holiness encourages to find another place to camp.
In the past 52 years I've got to know a number of people in the LGBTQ community besides Caroline. I've seen them driven to the edge by family members, former friends and community leaders who justify mistreatment by moaning and howling like an open grave about choices, mental illness, protecting the children and a particularly toxic form of love that I never want anything to do with again.
Through it all they've taught me about resilience and forgiveness; the unexpected seas that friendship will sail through, and the islands of wonder one can visit along the journey; a long form of patience , and the integrity that draws the line that says, enough. I will take no more of this shit today, and tomorrow doesn't look good either.
It's Pride Month. They're here, they're queer. They will not disappear.
Jesus is standing with them. Will you?
