Jesus Is Not a Homophobe, and Neither Am I

Recently, a federal court in Cincinnati, OH ordered the Waynesville Local School District to change its decision not to allow a high school student, Maverick Couch, who is gay, to wear a controversial T-shirt to school. The court also ordered the district to pay Couch $20,000 plus court costs as "compensation for damages."

The shirt in question stated, "Jesus Is Not a Homophobe." Of course, this statement on face value is true. Jesus is not afraid of homosexuals, nor does he hate them. The Bible clearly indicates God’s love for all sinners, a love so intense that He put His own Son, Jesus, on the cross to eternally pay for their sins.

However, the implied message of the statement, especially when worn by a student who is open about his sexual orientation, is that anyone who worships Jesus and also takes the position that homosexuality is a sin is at least being ignorant of what Jesus actually stands for. "If Jesus loves me, then so should you" is the logical conclusion drawn from the message on the shirt. I have no problem with this conclusion. I do, however, have a great problem with the implication.

Couch’s shirt is offensive to many people. It is offensive to me. I am an imperfect but sincere worshiper of Jesus, and I know He neither fears nor hates homosexual people. But I also know His Word, the Bible, which has been the guidebook of my life for the past fifty years, in both the Old and New Testaments, clearly identifies homosexuality as a sin. It also clearly identifies Jesus’ love for sinners, a love His followers are also taught to express. But love does not endorse everything the loved one does. Love is not blind to faults and errors. The purpose of God’s love for sinners, and thus the purpose of my love for sinners, is to bring them to Jesus Christ for forgiveness and for the assistance of the Holy Spirit in dealing with and forsaking sin.

Therefore, I strongly disagree with the federal court that ordered the school district not only to allow Couch to wear his shirt, but also to pay him $20,000 for "damages." This is a waste of the school district’s resources, especially in this day of excessive taxation and the high costs of education. It is not a violation of one’s free speech rights for a school to forbid certain types of behavior on its property. Schools forbid their students from doing many things while on school property. It is not a violation of students’ rights to forbid them from attacking each other, either verbally or physically, or to forbid them from sleeping, playing video games, texting, talking to their neighbor or a wealth of other activities during class, or to forbid them from yelling obscenities at a teacher or administrator. Schools have a right and responsibility to protect their employees and their students from disruptive behavior while on school grounds.

I taught for nine years in a private school, which did not allow its students to wear any clothing that contained any message of any kind. Clothing served only the purposes of warmth and modesty; clothing was not used as a billboard. I believe this is a proper tool for schools to use to limit students’ abilities to be disruptive and divert attention away from the only reason they are in school — to receive an education.

My own education took place in Windsor, Ontario and across the Detroit River in Lincoln Park, Michigan. In both school systems, students were not allowed to express themselves freely; there were necessary restrictions placed on free speech because of the environment and the purpose for which the school existed. At Lincoln Park High School, I served as the editor of the school newspaper. However, the advisor, a teacher employed by the school district, had final say over what was published in the paper. He rejected very little of what I wanted to publish, but that is precisely because I did not attempt to publish material I knew he would be compelled by his position to reject. Was that censorship? Or just common sense.

I realize that a ban on messages on clothing in public schools would restrict Christian young people from displaying evangelistic messages on their clothing, but I am comfortable with that. A ban on such clothing on school grounds does not take away anyone’s right to wear such clothing elsewhere, or to express their beliefs with other students in private conversations while on school grounds.

Further, I do not believe that my insistence that the Bible correctly teaches that homosexuality is an aberration, a sin, an offense to God, is an instance of so-called homophobia. I am not afraid of homosexuality or of those who practice it. Neither do I have any hatred for such individuals. To accuse me of such actions because I am convinced that homosexuality is a sin is to grossly misrepresent me. I am a sinner, too. I have my own sins that I have struggled with, and continue to struggle with. I have my own sins for which Christ died. I have my own sins for which I have sought and received forgiveness from Christ. Sinners like me have nothing of which to be proud.

Couch expressed his satisfaction with the federal court’s decision saying that he was proud of who he is, and that he hoped his victory would encourage other students to be proud of who they are. We all know what pride precedes. If you have forgotten, read Proverbs 16:18.

The Morning Drive

The stairs at the front of the church building where I once talked to friends, or watched three little girls and their friends play. The post office where I frequently purchased stamps, or mailed the monthly newsletter our church published. The school where our good friend Eileen served as principal, or the little house on Second Street where Eileen and her husband Joe often entertained us and our girls. The library where my wife worked part time. The two funeral homes where I frequently conducted funerals. John's Appliance and Service Center, where "John" was not just a company name, but a name of a friendly and godly man who didn't just sell and service appliances, but loved and served God and people.

All of these scenes and more spread before me as I drove recently around LPO, the River Valley of north central Illinois where I and my family lived for twenty-one years, from 1974 to 1995. L for LaSalle, P for Peru and O for Oglesby, the three towns along the Illinois River all tied together into one community. I lived here. I served here. My wife and I raised our kids here. Oglesby was our home.

That was all more than seventeen years ago. In seventeen years, many things change. But it is surprising how many things stay the same. It was the things that are still the same that got my attention as I drove around listening to WLPO, the radio station on which our church used to have a monthly broadcast. On the station that used to broadcast my voice once a month, it is now Rush Limbaugh's voice that dominates the air waves every day. The station still sits squarely across the street from the Illinois Valley Community College where I used to teach English and Speech classes part-time.

Our church is no longer located in the old building located at Porter and Woodland. The little house next door where we lived is no longer the parsonage. It is also no longer red, a color I applied inch by inch because my wife preferred red to the yellow that was on the house when we arrived. Someone else now lives there and has painted the house a burnt orange. But the driveway where I parked our cars, and the little stairway down to the sidewalk in the front are still there, just as they were when we were the residents of the house.

The church now has a new building at the edge of town, a good modern building with plenty of parking, which we never had, and no stairways to impede people, as we had. God was good to the people in giving them this building.

But where I once was a member of the community, I was now just a visitor, an outsider, a non-resident. Many of the folks I knew are gone. Some have simply moved away; others have moved up, to Heaven.

But two things impressed me as I drove around LPO. First, I was impressed how quickly everything became familiar to me again. Streets, buildings, traffic patterns, signs, the river itself flowing through the middle of it all. Though it had been many years, it seemed like it was just another day and I was driving to pick up my kids from school, or going to do a funeral, or visit a member of the church. It was all as familiar as the routes I now regularly drive near my Columbus, Ohio home.

But the other thing that impressed me was the fact that God is still at work in LPO. There are still believers there, seeking to serve Him. There are still churches there, seeking to be a lighthouse for God in the darkness of this sin-cursed world. There is even another pastor, whose announcement I heard on WLPO, broadcasting the message of Christ to the community.

I enjoyed driving through what was once my home, triggering countless memories and pleasant experiences. But it is no longer my home, and no longer my ministry. But as it was when this was my home and ministry, it is still where God is working, and still where the Holy Spirit is ministering to bring sinners to faith in Jesus Christ. Thank God that LPO is still very much on His heart and very much the object of His love.

My Gag Reflex

I have been undergoing some treatments at my dentist’s office, treatments that have to do with dental problems that tend to come as we grow older. I am 70, so I assume I qualify to have these problems.

One of the treatments my dentist recommended involved a dental lab fabricating a partial plate to fill in the gaps age has created in my mouth. This sounds reasonable. Leave the teeth that are still in reasonably good shape and replace the bad ones with a plastic plate that has phony teeth at selected spaces. Just slide it in and, there you go, a million dollar smile is yours once again.

In order to create this plate, the lab needs to have a fairly accurate mold of the mouth of the person who is to benefit from this process. That mold is obtained, in this day of computer technology that can map the earth and show intricate detail on Google, in a rather old-fashioned way. A plastic tray filled with goop is put into the patient’s mouth and left there for two or three long, agonizing minutes while the goop hardens. The tray and the hardened goop is then removed and the resulting mold is used by the lab to make the plate.

I had already had this impression business done twice, and I didn’t like it either time. You see, I have a rather active gag reflex. Now, I don’t know exactly how this reflex can tell the difference between, say, a nice juicy steak and a plastic tray of goop, but it can. I have never, to my recollection, gagged on steak. But it was all I could do to keep from gagging on goop.

"Breath through your nose," I was told by dentist and his assistant. "Pant like a dog." "Hold your mouth open as wide as you can." Even as I write this several hours later, I can still feel that cold, mucky goop pressing against my gag reflex.

Anyway, a plate was created from the second impression that was made of my mouth earlier in the week. "Slide that in," the dentist told me. But it didn’t slide in. It didn’t fit. "Let me make a few adjustments," he said. But after several adjustments, the thing still would not go into its proper place.

"We’ll have to make another impression," he said. "Another impression?" I said. "You know those make me gag."

He then explained that the lab has to destroy the mold when they make the plate, so in order for the lab to make a better fitting plate, they would need a new mold. It was gag time again.

His assistant made another impression, and I managed to keep gagging to an unpleasant but safe minimum. But the impression the assistant made was missing an important part. "We’ll have to make another impression," he said. More gagging. More fast breathing, More wide open mouth trying to keep my insides from coming out. "I’ll make this one," the doctor said to his assistant. "Watch how I do it."

The assistant was no impressed with the doctor’s work. This impression failed as well. "Third time’s a charm," he said as he loaded the plastic tray with goop for a third try. "Do you know what they make this stuff out of?" he asked. "No, I don’t," I said. "Seaweed," he said. I could feel the gag response getting ready.

The third impression also was not up to snuff. I was beginning to think snuff might be an improvement over the seaweed goop, but I don’t really know that since I have never used snuff and at the age of 70 I am not likely to give up goop for snuff. On second thought, maybe I should!

"Let’s use a different material this time," he said. "I don’t know what this stuff tastes like," he said. "Maybe it tastes like chicken," I said.

In went the fourth tray of goop. It did not taste like chicken. Or seaweed. It certainly did not taste like steak. My gag reflex knew. This was goop, and I had all I could do to keep the reflex from spilling goop and a lot of other nasty stuff all over the good doctor. "You will notice I am standing behind the patient," he said to his assistant. Good choice, doc!

 He removed the impression and studied it closely. "Well, Tom, you make a good impression," he laughed as he proudly held up the hardened goop that now carried an accurate, I hope, impression of the old mouth seven decades of life have produced in me. I will know in a day or so if this impression results in a viable partial plate, one that fits and that my gag reflex can recognize as OK even though it does not resemble steak in any manner whatsoever. Or seaweed, either, for that matter.

Later, as I examined the bill the dentist gave me, I started to gag once again.