The banners are visible to thousands of cars that pass by the church each day on Interstate 5 near downtown and are placed there to remind all who see them that the parish seeks to be a community of belonging. This is especially important because most of the over 2,000 weekly churchgoers at Our Lady of Guadalupe are affected in some way by current immigration discourse, which often paints immigrants as problematic and unwanted.
However, this message of radical welcoming goes beyond the countless parishioners who are immigrants, or sons and daughters of immigrants. It really is meant to include absolutely all people who seek Christ with a sincere heart.
This message of radical belonging is deeply significant to the members of the parish’s Puentes ministry, which, for the last eight years, has found a way to minister to LGBTQ Catholics and their families in this Jesuit parish that has existed for over 100 years. Puentes—“bridges” in Spanish—is the only Spanish-speaking Catholic LGBTQ ministry in San Diego. (Its name drew inspiration from James Martin, S.J.’s book Building a Bridge.) The ministry seeks to be a place where being LGBTQ and being Catholic are not seen in contrast, but instead as two identities that can be embraced and integrated into one’s journey as a follower of Christ.
The group began as a small effort between the Jesuits of Our Lady of Guadalupe (including myself, while still a Jesuit in formation) and Casa Kino, a Spanish-language Ignatian Spirituality ministry based in San Diego. The first meeting, on October 23, 2017 was by invitation only. It was a space for people to authentically share their stories and to lean into God’s embrace through Ignatian prayer. It has consistently met once a month ever since then.
For its first several years, Puentes continued in this way—not widely known by the entire community and only advertised by word of mouth. There was reluctance to make Puentes more widely known, as there are certain unique challenges of discussing LGBTQ issues in Latino Catholic circles, such as the predominance of rigid rules-based religiosity and machismo, as was described in Ish Ruiz in an Outreach article.
Three years ago, I was re-assigned to Our Lady of Guadalupe as
associate pastor. When I was reunited with the Puentes community, they
told me that they felt their numbers were dwindling and that they wanted
to have a more active role in the parish.
Over the past three years, poco a poco,
little by little, this has changed. For example, the meetings are
periodically announced in the parish bulletin, and a flier about Puentes
hangs in the vestibule of the parish. Puentes members process into the
parish on the feast day of St. Ignatius Loyola, along with other parish
ministries. In the annual parish festival, members of Puentes proudly
sell esquites (corn in a cup) to raise money for the parish,
right alongside other long-standing parish ministries that dish out a
variety of mouth-watering Mexican antojitos.
Lluvia Jimenez, one of the leaders of the Puentes ministry, and a member since the beginning, put it this way:
“Initially, I felt scared about being ‘out there.’ Others in our group thought we were not ready, ‘there is too much machismo’ people would say, or ‘some people won’t understand.’ It seemed like a daunting task, to be among our fellow conservative churchgoers and openly discuss our diverse identities. I felt that we would be coming out over and over again. Except it wasn’t anything like that. Our parish community members have been nothing but loving, welcoming, warm and supportive, much like Jesus Christ himself. Many have expressed gratitude for our mere presence, and we continue being included in most, if not all, parish events.”
In the annual Good Friday Stations of the Cross, a true-to-life reenactment of Jesus’ crucifixion that processes through the streets of the barrio, various parishioners often give personal testimonies of how they have come to feel Jesus walking with them in their struggles. People often speak of being undocumented, struggling with mental illness or experiencing personal tragedy. Several years ago, among these testimonies was Rocio Rodriguez, a Puentes member and mother of a transgender child. In front of hundreds of people, Rocio shared how she has come to know God’s unconditional love despite the pain she once felt about her child’s identity, and how He walks with her and her child as they are.
The overwhelming support parishioners gave to Rocio shows that bridges are indeed built by hearing the faith-filled stories of other people. In Rocio’s words, “I want to make this Puentes ministry a true bridge. Although it has been a very narrow door, I will continue to give my best effort so that this ministry may continue, and we can open our arms to every person who needs our understanding.”
Although the overwhelming response I get from people is one of support, it can be difficult for some people to understand why the ministry exists. For example, I have had people question why this ideología (ideology) is allowed in a Catholic parish, often emphatically pointing out certain Bible passages, often called the “clobber passages.” These responses are not a surprise to me; rather, they are an expected repercussion of trying to live the Gospel, of including the marginalized in the way Jesus sought to.
The Puentes members themselves are a reminder to me of how to best respond to such comments: I don’t argue, but I politely offer to share the story of Puentes and why it began. The banners that hang from the façade of the parish also help dispel this criticism. We all belong under the manto of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Documented or undocumented. Mexican, Chicano, Latino or gringo. Old or young. Gay, straight, bisexual or transgender. Whatever our gender, whatever the color of our skin. We all belong. No asterisk. No exceptions.
The story of Our Lady of Guadalupe’s apparition also lends itself well to justifying the existence of Puentes. Mother Mary could have chosen to appear to anybody 500 years ago. Rather than the cultural or ecclesial elites of the Spanish empire, she appeared to a campesino, a poor farmer named Juan Diego. It was to him that she proclaimed the message: “Am I not here, who am your mother?”
A mother’s warm, embracing love is not held back from any of her children, and she often goes to great lengths to make that love known to her children who are struggling or marginalized. This was the case with Juan Diego. It is also the case for many Latino LGBTQ Catholics: the harsh, religiously fueled stigma and sense of unworthiness many feel is real and often results in depression, confusion and a perpetual sense of not being good enough for God. This is a struggle, and it only makes sense that Jesus’ mother would want, in a special way, to draw close to them and embrace them. To help them know that they belong in her son’s Sacred Heart and that nothing can ever change this. The t-shirt of the Puentes ministry proclaims this truth: “Nada puede seperarnos del amor de Dios”—nothing can ever separate us from God’s love.
I believe that the key for Puentes’ success is in the authenticity of its mission: “To help the Catholic Church to be a place where LGBTQ people and their family members know God’s unconditional love.” It’s about helping human beings draw closer to God. Puentes’ only “ideology” is Jesus Christ. Puentes often has to walk a fine line and discern deeply in order to stay true to this mission. Returning to people’s stories and examples of how LGBTQ Catholics and their parents have encountered God’s healing love through Puentes helps us accomplish this. Ultimately, any decision the ministry takes is most effective when it is pointed at Christ.
I can say with humble certainty that walking with Puentes has given deeper meaning to my priesthood. Through Puentes I feel united to Christ’s mission: to witness hope, healing and deep faith amid people who have known exclusion by the church, yet whose hearts are firmly planted in the reality that God’s love is greater and all-embracing. This faith, to me, is what Jesus meant by the “pearl of great price” (Mt 13: 45-46).