Religion and sexuality have always been closely linked in my life, and my struggle to integrate the two has sometimes generated turmoil. I first realized I was gay on a church retreat, when I developed a mad crush on Father Bill. He was my first “love,” and he was also the first person I ever came out to. I was 16 years old, sitting in a face-to-face confessional with him—desperate to kiss him—but even more ashamed and afraid of going to hell for being gay. Father Bill—a Roman Catholic priest—told me it wasn’t a sin to be gay…but then he sheepishly added that it was technically a sin to act on it. Though I found this idea confusing at the time, I was so grateful to receive forgiveness and absolution that I didn’t much question it. And so, the fear and shame remained.
But I did in fact begin to “act on it,” when I went to college, and later moved to San Francisco. And despite my friendships with many lesbians and gay men, and despite knowing in my head that being gay was not wrong, a sense of shame had taken root in a corner of my heart, and it would not be dislodged. So…I went to confession again, at age 29. I was on another church retreat, feeling soft and vulnerable, so I stepped into a small room for another face-to-face confession. “I’m gay,” I said, “and I don’t think it’s a sin, but I feel a need to confess it anyway…and I do sometimes act on it.” The priest looked at me and said, “Why are you telling me this? If you don’t think it’s a sin to be gay, why are you confessing it?” “I guess I’m just not sure,” I stammered, “and I want to be forgiven just in case.” The priest seemed upset. “Well, you’re putting me in a very awkward position—because I’m bound by church doctrine to exhort you to sin no more before I can grant you absolution. Really,” he concluded, “you shouldn’t be bringing this up at all.” Flustered and embarrassed, I apologized, and we somehow got through the rest of it. I like to call this my “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” confession.
So here I was, feeling shamed because of church teachings, and allowing myself to be defined by what others said was acceptable. The same was true in Paul’s day, as we heard in the second reading this morning. Here were these Gentile Christians in Galatia, being told by the Jewish Christians—who were in the majority—that they weren’t good enoughbecause they had not conformed to Jewish laws and practices, including circumcision. But Paul radically brushes aside all such distinctions when he proclaims, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” And I would like to add to this list “gay or straight.” There are no outcasts: we are all children of God. Loud, religious voices are still trying to define who is acceptable to God, while we are struggling to accept that we are already children of God no matter who we are.
My final confession story takes place in 1998. I was 32 years old, strolling through the Castro on a Sunday morning, and I stopped in at a Roman Catholic church to make my confession. I can’t honestly say why I did this. Probably because, deep down, I was still concerned that being gay was sinful. Also, I may have thought it would be a cinch to get absolution at a church in the Castro. And so, I walked into my third face-to-face confessional. “I’m gay,” I said to the priest. “And I have sex on occasion, and I know it’s not a sin, but there’s a small part of me that can’t let go of the possibility that it is.” “Oh, but it is a sin,” the priest said. “The Bible clearly states, in both the Old and New Testaments, that practicing homosexuality is an abomination before God. And unless you repent of your sin and resolve to commit this sin no more, I can’t in good conscience absolve you.” “What?!” I cried. He said, “I’m sorry, but the church has always been consistent on this. Only a man and woman married to one another are allowed to have sex with each other; it is a sin to have sex under any other circumstances.” “What?!” I cried. “Look,” he said, “you really need to talk with the pastor of this church, I’m just visiting from out of town and helping out with Confessions today. I know things may be different in this parish because of its location, so you should talk to him. Even so, I don’t see how he could argue anything other than what I’ve told you.” “Wait a minute!” I said. “So, are you saying that I could be a man who has been in an absolutely loving, monogamous relationship with another man for over 25 years, and that love would mean nothing to God; but if I were drunk and in Las Vegas and married a woman on a whim and we had sex, that that would be considered holy?” “Well,” he replied, “I would counsel the married couple to help them understand the seriousness of their hasty decision. But yes, the long-term male couple would have to lead celibate lives in order to refrain from sinning before God.” “Really?” “Yes, really,” he countered. “Look, you need to talk to the pastor here about this.” “And you won’t absolve me unless I promise to never have sex with another man again?” The priest was adamant: “I cannot in good conscience absolve you unless you repent of your sin and resolve to sin no more.” “Well then,” I said, “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your time.” And I got up and left.
While this may sound strange, I’m grateful to that priest in the Castro. He spoke from his own place of integrity, and he clearly stated church doctrine. In doing so, his words spoke out loud my worst fears about being gay and unloved by God. And confronting those fears in the light of day finally revealed how profoundly untrue they were to my experience in the world. How could I believe those words when I had known love? How could I follow such doctrine when I had witnessed deep commitment in same-sex couples? And how could I have allowed—for so long—the beliefs and rules of others to supersede my own visceral intuition of God’s love for me? I don’t know why I was drawn to that confessional on the very day a visiting priest came to the Castro—but it was the best absolution I never had.
In today’s gospel reading, Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?” How do we answer that question? Do we say he is a stern and unyielding judge who might very well reject us? Or do we say that Jesus is a unique revelation of God’s love for us as we are, and of God’s longing for us to be reconciled to him?
It can be hard to believe that you are a child of God, beloved exactly for who you are—trans-gendered or bisexual, gay or lesbian or straight. As you step out into Pride Sunday, you might feel lonely at the sight of couples holding hands, or angry at the homophobic political agenda in this country, or unattractive when you see those ideal physiques celebrated on the passing floats, or bitter because you don’t feel yourself worthy of love. But loved you are, by the God who created you and calls you into the fullness of your potential.
In the words of Marianne Williamson, a spiritual writer and activist,
Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate,
but that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.
We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,
gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.
It is not just in some; it is in everyone.
Amen.