| UNFAIR PARK | Keeping the Faith Progressive pastors in North Texas must navigate politics and money. BY TYLER HICKS K eri Lynn Lucas swears the story is true. While driving one day, a vi- sion came to the pastor: She would start a support group for LGBTQ teens in Collin County, a conserva- tive enclave that desperately needed such a group. She didn’t yet know the details, let alone how to navigate the politics of North Texas, but she trusted the vision. It was, in her words, “something worth doing.” She called a friend to ask for help with the group. “Oh my God,” the friend said. “That’s my dream job.” Lucas says it’s her calling to help other people “figure out how they can serve God’s kingdom.” “It gives me life,” she says. So, it was the perfect setup: With her friend’s help, Lucas, a veteran pastor in the Methodist church, would counsel LGBTQ teens as they face tri- als such as coming out to their parents. Lu- cas would handle the logistics and theological conversations, and her friend would help love and support the kids. But there’s a catch. Lucas has been lead- ing the support group for over a year, and while some members of her congregation chip in with financial support, her church doesn’t know. “I am the community orga- nizer,” she says. “That’s the way I see it. And I happen to be a pastor.” Amid the decline in church attendance, the overturning of Roe v. Wade and the rise of Christian nationalism, faith leaders like Lucas are doing what they can to care for their congregants and wrest control of the common narrative that “Christian” is synon- ymous with “conservative.” These leaders believe theology can be a source of healing and comfort, but they want to meet people — particularly kids — where they are. “Young people see no place for them- selves in what they’ve been told God blesses,” says Pepa Paniagua, the founding pastor and executive director of kin•dom community. “If they are not white and they are not cisgender and they are not upper- middle class or affluent, if they’re not the things American Christianity has lifted up and said are blessed, then where do they find hope?” Thus, the work these pastors do often 4 4 takes them far outside the literal confines of the church and the traditional boundaries of a pastoral role. It also involves the occa- sional private meeting or event. “We’re very Unsplash private about what we do, and that’s for the sake of the kids,” says Paniagua. “There was a camp on the Today Show that does similar work, and someone asked me why we don’t do that. I said it’s because we’re not in a state where it’s safe to do.” kin•dom community is inspired by Ada María Isasi-Díaz, a dissident theologian The New York Times says “spoke for those she considered the neglected spiritual core of the church’s membership: Hispanic women like herself.” The community’s signature event is a camp open to LGBTQIA+ youth ages 12 to 17. All religions are welcome, and all faith activities are opt-in only. Campers zipline, do archery, play music and are re- minded that they are loved for who they are. “We are proud of the work we do,” Pani- agua adds, “and [we] rely on a lot of word of mouth to get the word out about the work we do. But we are keenly aware that the world, especially Texas, is not a safe place for the LBGTQIA+ community. So, we take extra care to do what we can to make sure we don’t unintentionally put people in danger.” Paniagua, her campers and the folks who help her lead kin•dom have yet to be physi- cally endangered at the camp itself, but they’ve witnessed enough hateful activity — some of it under the banner of Christianity — to know they should prepare for the worst. They’ve seen armed protesters and far- right Proud Boys at Pride parades, and they’ve experienced their fair share of hate speech too. As Paniagua says, “being a queer woman in this state is not easy, and it doesn’t feel safe. This work is made even more com- plicated when my own personhood has been legislated against, and there is a real chance I am breaking the law by offering gender-af- firming care when I tell people they’re safe.” Therefore, each event they throw is accom- panied by ample security plans and proto- cols, and some events have included personnel hired specifically to keep Pani- agua’s campers safe. Their work is also still evolving. The first camp happened this past summer, and in the Progressive congregations supporting LGBTQ teens have seen fierce pushback. future, Paniagua says she may include a queer Bible study — a conversation wherein she and her campers redefine “parts of the Bible that have been used for harm.” This is a common theme espoused by the Texas faith leaders interviewed for this story. The way the Bible has been taught has been a significant instrument of harm, they say, so to undo that harm, they must go to the source. That was the driver behind “Bible Bullshit,” the discussion group launched by Macie Liptoi last year. From Sodom and Go- morrah to every weaponized quote and pas- sage in between, the group tackled and untangled a different part of the Bible each week. “The whole idea was to take the bullshit out of the Bible,” Liptoi told the Ob- server. “The Bible is sacred to me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t question it.” Liptoi recently left the Dallas church where she started these discussions, and her work continues in Collin County. As a pastor at First United Methodist Church in McKin- ney, the unabashed progressive makes prog- ress where she can. For instance, at an annual North Texas conference for Method- ist leaders, Liptoi helped pass a resolution that declares gender-affirming care is not child abuse. Much of the time, though, the work of progressive faith leaders happens behind closed doors. “I see progressive Christians as people who are doing work that isn’t nec- essarily demonstrative,” she says. “When I look at the progressive Christians I know, I see people hosting anonymous groups for queer youth that allow them to come to church without being outed. You don’t see that work. It’s in the background; it doesn’t get explosive and it’s not dramatic.” Liptoi’s mentor is one such leader, a pas- tor who, in Liptoi’s word, “is not someone you would look at and identify with radical- ism.” She says, “I joke with him, ‘You’re playing the long game, but it’s effective.’” But is the long game inherently flawed because, by nature, it takes a while? The pas- tors themselves grapple with that question, even as they bristle at the notion that pro- gressive Christians and conservative Chris- tians are locked in a bitter conflict: The point of faith and the church is to offer guid- ance and love, they say, not gain political ter- ritory. Still, they expressed some degree of concern that the public at large is losing faith in Christianity because of its ties to conservatism. The data backs them up: Re- cent Pew Research Center numbers show Christians made up 90% of the U.S. popula- tion 50 years ago. Now, that figure is down to roughly 64%. “I do worry about losing ground,” says Josh Esparza, a pastor who recently moved from a Dallas church to one in Allen. “I’m not sure the church as it exists today is going to exist 20 or 30 years from now.” F ox News and QAnon have a 24/7 hold on many churchgoers, while most pastors see their flock only for a cou- ple hours once a week. This isn’t a new problem, but the tacit imprimatur of Donald Trump has helped public supporters of Christian Nationalism ascend to power in Washington. Take, for instance, U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene, R-Ga., who recently said, “I’m a Christian, and I say it proudly, we should be Christian nationalists.” Or consider Pennsylvania gubernatorial candidate Doug Mastriano, who called the separation of church and state “a myth.” But these are only the loudest examples. There are also signs that Christian national- ism — the belief that America is a Christian nation blessed by God and the government should keep it that way — is gaining more of a foothold in everyday life. Researchers and authors Allyson F. Shortle, Eric L. McDaniel and Irfan Nooruddin recently discovered that strong adherents to this idea of “Ameri- can religious exceptionalism” stayed stable between 2008 and 2018, while “moderate support” climbed from 26% in 2008 to around 50% by 2018. The biggest change in this time period was a decrease in strong op- position. In other words, there is a diminish- ing number of Americans who oppose the idea that their country is blessed by God and should remain a “Christian nation.” This decrease in strong opposition has fueled a growing divide among progressive faith leaders: Some people want to leave the church as we knew it in the past, and others still believe the church can be a source of good. Often, faith leaders like Josh Esparza are caught in the middle, with likeminded liberals on one side and more conservative parishioners on the other. And the middle can be a lonely place. “It does definitely feel like an island out here,” he tells the Observer. “It often feels like I’m the person trying to push too far, and sometimes I question if I’m even pushing far enough.” Esparza previously worked at Owen- wood Farm and Neighbor Space, a church in East Dallas that is intentional about building a trans-inclusive community. 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