Dusty Seats

Yesterday’s Gospel was the parable of the Prodigal Son. This is historically interpreted in the following way: no matter how much you sin, you can always return to God, who is welcoming you with open arms. This is a nice interpretation, but I am beginning to think Jesus had something far more personal in mind.

Here’s an alternate interpretation: the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church is the Father, and the LGBTQ+ community is the prodigal son.

Until Church leadership realizes that its role is to welcome the LGBTQ+ community back with open arms, fully and completely, the Church will remain irrelevant. Unless it changes its doctrine (which has changed before and can change again) to better include, embrace, and respect the decisions, autonomy, and freedom of LGBTQ+ individuals, it will continue to contract. Why? Because everybody who loves someone in the LGBTQ+ community will eventually leave the Church unless things change. This will soon be an entire generation.

Unless doctrine changes (along with the attitudes of homophobia and transphobia), the Church will continue to wither and die, eventually shrinking to the point where the only people ministered to are wealthy, white, and straight. Just like it used to be. And if you think that’s who it should be, you have to ask yourself if Jesus dined with people on the margins or the conservative Pharisees who upheld ancient doctrine that no longer complied with the changing world.

This song should be how the Church sings to the LGBTQ+ community (source: Genius):

“There is room for you here, it don’t matter how long you’ve been gone. I will always welcome you with a smile.”

“I wanna sit down and listen to you. Take your turn and share your unrefined song.”

“There are so many dusty seats at my table, and I made this one especially for you. So I’m gonna save it even if we’re never able to have us a sit-on-down and talk this whole thing through.”

“It hurts so bad when I see how I contributed o the empty seats around me. But somehow they’re exactly as they’re supposed to be.”

There is only one path forward to the not-so-holy Roman Catholic Church, and it’s one of apology, inclusion, and embrace. There is no more room left for othering. There is only room for togetherness.

And to make people feel truly welcome, you have to change.

Generosity

What does it mean to be generous?

Does it mean to give your money? Your resources? Your attention? Your time? Your self?

Or does it mean to simply care about others. Not yourself, but others. “Others” can be anybody, but can they be everybody? Your partner and yours neighbors–those are real others in your life. But what about the others across the world? Do they count? What about across the galaxy? Can we really care when we don’t know somebody, don’t see them as a part of our community, family, team? Does our caring, our giving heart, really do anything?

Some people are generous. They volunteer. They give gifts. They donate. They care. Their life is lived in service of something other than themselves, be it a creed, an ethic, a god, their family, their partner. They devote themselves, albeit fully or partially, to something or someone not themself.

But what if they are generous because they are obligated to be? If they don’t give, it disobeys scripture, and God will judge them. Generosity becomes necessity to save from the fires of disobeying the Great Other, the one who determines what happens to you when you die by judging your actions while you live.

If generosity is compulsory, it becomes transactional–I give because it gets me something. Is that special? I mean, generous people are still givers, no matter the intention behind their generosity. But doesn’t that seem less…generous?

What if we tried to be genuine in our generosity?

The root “gene-“ means “give birth, beget.” Think “genus” and “genealogy” and “generation.”

“Genuine” means “natural, not acquired.” It’s associated with the Latin “genu” meaning “knee” because of the ancient tradition of a father resting a newborn on his knee to demonstrate paternity.

“Generous” means “of noble birth.” Nobles became people who shared their resources widely for others.

Being disingenuous in our generosity means to do something because you are supposed to, because it will get you bonus points with God (who is always watching). It comes from a rational decision, an intellectual weight coming from balancing judgements. It comes from your mind.

Being genuine in our generosity means to give from your heart. To give birth to a natural gift, one from within you. It’s generated holistically from your deepest wants, desires, and hopes–that of a better world–and from this deeply rooted desire bears the fruit of your gift. You give because you are willing the good of another from your innermost truth, not because you want anything in return.

The world needs your gift. We need your contribution. But we cannot promise you anything in return.

Rather, we can be clear about what we need, then tell a true story that moves your heart. From this movement comes the birth of genuine generosity–a self-giving, like that of a mother. Your gift, the one that only you can give.

Perhaps reflecting on the prayer of St. Ignatius might help:

Lord Jesus, teach me to be generous;
Teach me to serve you as you deserve,
To give and not to count the cost,
To fight and not to heed the wounds,
To toil and not to seek for rest,
To labor and not to seek reward,
Except that of knowing that I do your will.

Amen.

St. Ignatius’ prayer for a more just and generous world