Christians and Homosexuality—Part II

Historically, Christians have lost in the public arena. That is how it all began, in fact, with the greatest loss, the death of Jesus of Nazareth. His policies were not forced or voted upon to be implemented. He did not rally like-minded people for His cause. He gave up, lost, humbled himself. He loved while still proclaiming his message.

What would it cost a Christian to love without pretense? We hear of our offenses against those whom we invited to this or that social function if only to “witness” to them. Our message is so great we belie its patience and humility through our forced “boiling down” of the message and trickery. What if we gave up this battle against homosexual unions? What would it really cost us?

We tire of “the left” preaching tolerance when it seems to have tolerance only with its like-minded constituents, which is agreement, not tolerance. Yet we pretend to accept everyone with our gospel message while declaring war on them. Are we afraid that we don’t possess enough love? That God can’t love people despite their sin? Are we so sin-free that complete repentance is demanded of everyone else before we will give them an opportunity?

I want to take things a step further. What do we lose even if homosexuality is merely a preference? What battle are we really fighting? When did the gospel—allegedly our greatest responsibility—take a backseat to the issue of American citizens’ rights to homosexual civil unions? I ask because I don’t see the stand against intoxication, which is already legal. I don’t see the stand against obesity, which is already legal.

The point is not to give up and allow anything and everything. The point is to pick our battles against the right things. We are battling sin; not homosexuals. How much greater would our message of hope and love be if we conceded all the ground we feel entitled to in order to present a humble, weakened, compassionate, understanding Gospel? What impact has the gospel had in our lives that we attribute to Jesus campaigning and dividing the country on political issues? None—we proclaim his humility, his love, his willingness to die with the sinners and become one himself.

Can we still point sinful people toward the gospel? I certainly hope so. The world is sick and Jesus is its healer. Sinful people need to be pointed toward Jesus. We don’t need any more people being pointed toward homosexuals and pretending they are the enemy. We don’t need any more bad logic that says allowing homosexual unions means not preaching truthfully about sin. Do we really need to identify everyone’s individual sins before we can feel good about preaching the gospel? We are all born into sin, into a broken system. Suppose you do “fix” that gay girl or guy, what about their pride? What about their lust? What about their anger? What about their idolatry? What about their greed? Do you also need to beat them over the head about those things? Or can you stand firm in the truth of the Gospel that all are under the power of sin and all need freedom from it?

Picture this: you support homosexual unions and can tell a gay couple that you fought for their civil rights because you believe in their humanity and dignity as such; not as trickery or a “foot in the door,” but as a true display of humble love. You then let them know that you have tried to love as Jesus did, by humbling yourself even where you weren’t sure or disagreed; not to add another church-goer but because such a message of love ought to be proclaimed. You refused to dehumanize them because you love them. That is tolerance. You might have been sure that homosexual activity was sinful, but how sure were you that you needed to oppose it like you did? How sure were you that it was “the” issue it has become? How sure were you that you spent as much time sharing the gospel or sending money to impoverished people?

How much time did Jesus spend condemning people and fighting against their public rights?

How much time did Jesus spend welcoming outcasts, feeding the hungry, proclaiming hope despite sinfulness?

Why I’m No Longer a Christian

It all started with a question.

I had been raised to accept the truth of Christianity along with my mother’s milk and father’s protection. The church taught me about the Bible, about the history of the Christian faith, and about my proper role in the Kingdom of Heaven. I eagerly read chapter and verse, seeking intimacy with God and better understanding of His divine purpose for me. Cover to cover I found myself traveling, a dozen times in my young life. And then I began to wonder about others outside my religious cocoon of certainty, people who weren’t as convinced as I thought myself to be. What kind of book is the Bible to someone who’s never read it, who’s never heard of it, who hasn’t been raised to accept it without question?

“Would I myself believe the Bible speaks truth if I hadn’t been raised from birth to think so?”

In an instant, my faith crumbled into dust, blown to the four corners of the Earth by a simple question. I didn’t have to mull it over. I didn’t even really have to answer it myself, since as soon as I asked the question I immediately knew…

…the answer was no.

Looking at my faith as an outsider would showed me what had been hidden for so long, by removing the plank in my own eye. So many assumptions had been fed to me, innocently if ignorantly enough by my parents, my family, my pastor, and my friends over the years that I hadn’t ever realized how many of my religious beliefs were built on sand.

Of course God exists, you can read about Him in the Bible. Of course the Bible is true, because it’s the Word of God. The circularity was breathtaking once I could see it for what it was.

Through it all, I resisted. I wanted Christianity to be true, not only because I didn’t want to be wrong, but also because I didn’t want to think about my parents lying to me, even unknowingly so. But my parents were not gods, they were not infallible. I knew they could make mistakes easily enough, so why should their beliefs about religion be immune from error?

I also clung to God selfishly. For years, I had taken comfort in the knowledge that I was a Special Creation, and that God had a Special Plan for my life. Whatever difficulties I had faced were insignificant, so I thought, compared to the power of the Almighty watching over me.

Losing God meant losing the person to thank for all the good things in my life, and all the fantastic wonders of His creation. But it also meant that I didn’t have to pretend that God wasn’t equally responsible for all the bad things in my life. Nor for the bad things that happened to other people that I could see in the world.

And there were lots of bad things. A shocking amount of evil is loose in a world controlled by what I had thought was an all-powerful, all-knowing, all-good God. Did I really still think that divine providence was at work when children were snatched from their homes, brutally raped, strangled, and tossed in a dumpster? Could I still conceive of a God who stood back with arms crossed while terrorists in the name of their God flew airplanes into buildings? Where was the Hand of God when office workers, desperate for a futile chance of survival, leaped hundreds of stories only to splatter on the Manhattan pavement below? And how could I acknowledge the love of a God who cursed my own grandmother before birth with a disease that slowly strangled her to death? Where was God when her family stood beside her bed as the lungs were crushed inside her chest and the life ebbed from her fragile and broken body?

The God of Love, the God that I had placed so much trust in, was a cosmic disappointment.

And yet the failure of God was a blessing in disguise. The chains of unquestioning belief fell away as I began to realize that I no longer needed to look to this false deity for moral guidance. The God who commanded Abraham to kill his only son, and who was willing to send His own Son to the sacrificial altar, was no source of what I recognized as morality. The Bible taught that the faith of Abraham was willingness to kill one’s own child at God’s command. And that this kind of faith was a good thing. This I could no longer tolerate.

The death of God was the birth of my humanity. For the first time, I began to see others as not brothers and sisters in or out of Christ, but simply as brothers and sisters. Without the dictates of an invisible deity, I began to embrace the tenets of Humanism, which regard human well-being and happiness as the greatest virtue. I came to realize that my moral instincts had pointed me in this direction naturally, and that all that was required of me was to cultivate these instincts with deeper consideration and introspection on the nature of the good.

Throughout this process I have continued to hope that my fellow religious travelers could come to appreciate my revelations about the nature of God and the importance of Humanism. The last time I received a sermon in earnest, I looked around me at the congregation during the closing prayer. I was surprised to find many pairs of open eyes catching mine, silently acknowledging the futility in the inevitability of their attendance. I was also shocked to read the desperation on the faces of those deep in prayer, seeking to force a metaphysical experience that creased their brows with expectation and exasperation.

There was a certain ironic comfort in seeing this dichotomy of doubt, which has been echoed in nearly every church I’ve since visited. Christians in America today find themselves in a precarious balance between belief and disbelief. Their families and culture demand belief, if only in tribute, for the right to pass unmolested through the patterned halls of our society. And yet every aspect of the modern world screams in support of disbelief, from the latest discoveries of science to the glaring necessity of pluralism. The average American is a Christian on Sunday, and a Humanist the other six days of the week.

I suppose the biggest benefit of giving up belief in Christianity is the ability to be the same person on Sunday that I am on Saturday.