To the Holy See—and to all who dare to seek truth in places forbidden, forgotten, or feared—
The time has come.
The questions are no longer whispers in the shadows—they roar now, from the garden, the tomb, and the stars above.
Can you hear them?
What kind of Pope do we have now?
Is he just another guardian of marble and ritual, a man wrapped in doctrine so tight that he cannot breathe?
Or is he something more? A seer? A soul ablaze? A wild-eyed pilgrim of time, theology, and tenderness?
They say this new Pope—Leo XIV—has fire in his lineage.
That his ancestors carried Torah scrolls across burning sand, were baptized under gunpoint, or danced by candlelight in borderlands long erased by empire.
That his blood remembers exile.
That he was raised not in gilded cathedrals but in cities of wind and ashes—where the poor kneel barefoot, and saints wear drag.
He has kissed the feet of the migrant.
He has been scolded for quoting James Baldwin alongside Julian of Norwich.
And still—he kneels. He prays. He dares.
He is not innocent. Thank God.
He may be holy.
So I ask—trembling, burning with holy curiosity:
Was Jesus simply surrounded by men he loved like brothers?
Or did his love reach deeper—into the body, into the soul, into the trembling mystery of desire?
Scripture does not shout this—but it sings, if you listen closely.
A boy flees naked in the garden.
A young man lies with Christ under moonlight, clothed only in linen, yearning for the Kingdom of Heaven.
And Jesus stays with him all through the night.
Not once. Not twice. But again and again—he chooses intimacy over institution.
He breaks bread, but also boundaries.
And then there is Lazarus.
Oh, Lazarus.
The one he loved.
The one for whom he wept.
The one whose name he screamed into the mouth of death.
The one he raised before he rose himself.
Lazarus—the Beloved.
Was that not love? Was that not holy?
So I ask the Church—your Church, our Church:
Who decides which love is divine?
Which touch is pure?
Which longing belongs in the light?
The gates are cracking.
The incense is rising.
And we—your queer children, your dreaming daughters, your wounded sons—are done hiding behind silence.
We are bisexual.
We are homosexual.
We are heterosexual.
We are sacred.
We are formed in wonder, in agony, in glory—
woven together from stardust and story, from fire and softness, from flesh and God.
I follow a God—maybe not the one enshrined in Vatican vaults,
but the one who shows up in dreams,
who sings in queer voices,
who moves through transgender hands,
who dances in abandoned churches,
and whispers from the pages of gospels you burned.
That God is alive.
And that God says this:
You were never alone.
You will never be alone.
There are many mansions in our Creator’s house—
and some float among galaxies.
And this Earth—our beloved, aching Earth—is dying.
It can no longer survive a species that treats it like a toilet.
We must awaken.
Not for power.
Not for dominance.
But for love.
Not to conquer space, but to remember it.
Not to escape, but to evolve.
We are a species fractured—yes.
But also infinite.
We must sow seeds of soul across the stars,
so that one day, we will find our cousins in the light—
and recognize them not as strangers,
but as family.
He is risen.
And I say that not as a slogan,
but as a witness.
He walks with me.
He walks with you.
He lives in dreams, in visions, in the trembling of your bones when you feel Truth.
And I have seen the Others.
Yes—them.
They wait.
Not to rule us.
To welcome us.
The time has come to tear down Jericho’s walls again:
The walls of patriarchy.
The walls of racism.
The walls of queerphobia.
The walls of shame dressed in scripture.
We are our brother’s keeper.
We are our sister’s witness.
We are our nonbinary sibling’s choir.
To the Church—I beg you:
Open your eyes.
To the people—I cry out:
Climb the mountain.
Shout your truth.
Claim your mansion.
This Earth may be dying.
But our spirit?
It is not.
Let us rise—unafraid, unashamed, unalone.
For we are all, and have always been,
Children of the same universe.
Presiding Chaplain Universal Life Church Monastery
George Freeman
