Dialogue between Catholics and Those IDentifying as LGB
This article has required a great deal of thought. Having watched people talk past each other vacillating between mutual accusations, mutual acceptance, mutual anger and, most importantly, misunderstanding. I invite all people to read this and put aside emotions and read it for the purpose of mutual understanding. Only through mutual understanding can actual dialogue and resolution potentially be had.
What is often presented today as a clash between “love and hate” is, in truth, a far older and more intricate disagreement about the nature of the human person, the meaning of freedom, and the purpose of moral law. Reductionist slogans—on either side—misunderstands both Catholic tradition as well as the lived experience of those who feel themselves opposed by it. A more careful account is needed, not to erase disagreement, but to situate it properly.
I. The Question Beneath the Conflict
At the heart of the tension between what, for purposes of this article, I will call the contemporary LGB movement and Catholic moral teaching lies a prior philosophical divide:
Is human identity fundamentally self-defined or received?
Modern Western culture, shaped in large part by Enlightenment currents, tends to affirm that an individual is the primary author of his own identity, including his moral framework. Catholic tradition, by contrast, holds that human nature is not self-defined but given and ordered toward intelligible ends that precede personal preference.
This difference is not incidental. It governs how each side understands concepts such as dignity, freedom, and personal fulfillment. For Catholicism, dignity is rooted in the Imago Dei—the belief, articulated in Genesis 1:27, that man is created in the image of God. From this follows a moral structure: human faculties, including sexuality, have purposes that are not arbitrarily assigned but intrinsic. Freedom, therefore, is not the ability to redefine these purposes, but the capacity to live in accordance with them.
To someone formed within a modern framework, this can seem restrictive or even hostile. Yet within the 5000 year Judeo-Catholic tradition—from Augustine through Aquinas to the modern magisterium—it is understood as operating within reality itself, not an act of animus toward persons.
II. “Intrinsic Disorder” and the Catholic Moral Framework
Catholic teaching on sexual ethics is neither isolated nor uniquely targeted. It is part of a broader, internally consistent moral vision grounded in natural law and divine revelation. In contemporary discussions, few words generate more immediate misunderstanding than the term “disorder” as used in Catholic moral theology.
In ordinary usage, “disorder” suggests psychological instability, personal defect, or even an insult directed at an individual. Within the Catholic intellectual tradition, however, the term carries a far more precise and technical meaning—one rooted in the philosophical framework of natural law and teleology.
To understand this properly, one must begin not with modern connotations, but with how Catholic moral reasoning itself operates.
A. Aquinas and the Natural Law
At its foundation, Catholic ethics—especially as articulated by St. Thomas Aquinas—is teleological. That is, it evaluates human actions in light of their ends (telos). Every faculty of the human person is understood to have a purpose. The eye is ordered toward sight, the intellect toward Truth, the will toward the good, and the sexual faculty toward both the generation of life and the union of the sexes. These ends are not arbitrarily imposed; they are discerned through reason by reflecting on the structure and operation of human nature itself.
This is what is meant by natural law: the participation of rational creatures in the eternal law (Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I–II, q. 91). Human beings are not merely subjects of law imposed from without; they are capable of recognizing, through reason, patterns of order within themselves and the world. Moral reasoning, therefore, is not reducible to preference or command. It is an inquiry into what human faculties are for, and whether particular actions align with or frustrate those purposes.
Natural law operates through a set of basic principles. First, it recognizes fundamental human goods—life, truth, sociality, procreation—that are not chosen but discovered. Second, it observes that human faculties are structured toward these goods. Third, it evaluates actions based on whether they respect or undermine that structure. In this sense, natural law reasoning resembles legal reasoning: one examines the “facts” (the nature of the faculty) and applies the “law” (its proper end) to determine whether an act is rightly ordered.
Within this framework, the term “order” refers to alignment with these intelligible ends. An act is “ordered” when it operates in accordance with the purpose inherent to the faculty it employs. Conversely, an act is “disordered” when it deviates from or frustrates that purpose.
Crucially, this terminology is descriptive before it is evaluative. It identifies a relationship between an act and its natural end. It does not, in the first instance, function as a judgment about the person.
A simple analogy clarifies the point. If one uses the faculty of speech—which is ordered toward the communication of truth—to deliberately deceive, the act can be described as “disordered” with respect to that faculty. This does not mean the speaker is devoid of dignity or ontologically defective. It means that the act does not align with the natural purpose of speech. The judgment concerns the act, not the worth of the person.
B. Historical Continuity and Civilizational Context
It is sometimes suggested that Catholic teaching on sexuality is an arbitrary imposition or a relic of prejudice. Yet historically, the moral framework it articulates was not unique to Christianity. Variations of natural law reasoning can be found in pre-Christian philosophy, particularly in the works of Aristotle and the Stoics, who understood human faculties as ordered toward specific ends.
The Judeo-Christian tradition deepened and clarified this framework. The Hebrew Scriptures consistently situate sexual morality within a covenantal understanding of life and community (e.g., Leviticus 18), while the New Testament reaffirms and elevates these teachings within a Christological vision of the body (Romans 1:26–27; 1 Corinthians 6:9–20). The body is not merely instrumental but sacramental—capable of expressing divine truths.
Across centuries, this vision shaped not only ecclesial teaching but broader civilizational norms concerning marriage, family, and social order. One may argue that modern developments represent progress; one may also argue they represent rupture. But it is historically inaccurate to treat Catholic teaching as a novel or isolated stance. It is, rather, a continuity of a long-standing anthropological and moral tradition.
C. Application to Sexual Ethics
The same structure of reasoning is applied in Catholic sexual ethics. The Church does not treat sexuality as a purely expressive or subjective domain, but as a faculty with intelligible ends. These ends have historically been identified as procreative (the generation of new life) and unitive (the bodily union of male and female in a comprehensive, complementary relationship). These are not arbitrary categories but arise from biological, relational, and anthropological realities.
Sexual acts, therefore, are evaluated according to whether they correspond to or diverge from these ends. When the Church describes certain acts as “disordered,” it is making a claim about their relationship to the natural ends of the sexual faculty—namely, that they do not operate within the procreative-unitive structure that defines that faculty.
From the Catholic perspective, to describe an act as “disordered” is not to condemn a person but to locate that act within a broader moral and anthropological framework. It is to say something about what a human faculty is ordered toward, and whether a given use of that faculty accords with its intelligible purpose and the downstream effects of such acts on human flourishing.
To misinterpret “disorder” as an insult directed at persons is to import modern psychological and emotive meanings into a classical philosophical vocabulary where they do not belong. Within the Catholic tradition, the term belongs to the language of moral analysis, not personal denunciation. It is not a statement about who a person is, but about whether a particular act aligns with what a human faculty is for.
One may reject the premises of natural law. One may dispute its conclusions. But to engage Catholic teaching seriously, one must first understand the conceptual world in which terms like “order” and “disorder” have their meaning. Without that, disagreement risks becoming not a debate about truth, but a misunderstanding of language itself.
III. An Ignored Symmetry
There is a certain moral argument that has become familiar in modern discourse: that sexual desire is not chosen and that to demand its suppression or renunciation is therefore unjust. However one chooses to ground that claim—whether in biology, psychology, or lived experience—it carries a moral weight. It insists that what is deeply felt and not freely selected ought not to be condemned or constrained by external authority.
That argument has a kind of clarity. But it is rarely examined alongside another, quieter reality—one that operates with equal seriousness, though it is often dismissed or misunderstood. There exists a symmetry, not in content but in structure, between those who identify within the LGB framework and those who live as serious, traditional Catholics. Both lay claim to something interior, something experienced as given rather than chosen, something that binds the person at a level deeper than preference.
To see the symmetry, one must first distinguish between two VERY different kinds of Catholic: the cultural Catholic and the serious one.
A. The CulTural “Catholic”
The cultural Catholic is a familiar figure. He retains the name, the affiliation, and perhaps a few visible customs. He may attend Mass on major feast days—Christmas, Easter, perhaps Ash Wednesday—and may still observe certain external practices, like abstaining from meat during Lent. He may even attend Mass on most, if not all Sundays. Catholicism, for him, is part of his background, like a family name or a regional accent. It is something he “is,” but NOT something that fundamentally governs how he lives.
His relationship to doctrine is selective. Those teachings that align with his existing views will be affirmed; those that do not are ignored or reinterpreted. The Sacrament of Penance has largely faded into memory. The structure of daily prayer is absent. The liturgical life of the Church—its seasons, fasts, feasts, and disciplines—has little influence on his routine. Moral teaching, when considered at all, is filtered through the lens of contemporary norms, personal comfort, and/or political alignment.
This kind of Catholic is often highly visible in public life. He invokes the identity when it serves a rhetorical purpose, but resists its demands when they become inconvenient. Think Joe Biden, Nancy Pelosi, Gavin Newsom, Dick Durbin ane even Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez. Yes, they all call themselves Catholic. The result, outside the Church, is a version of Catholicism that appears flexible, negotiable, and easily harmonized with whatever prevailing cultural framework one happens to inhabit.
But this is not the Catholicism that the Church itself claims to be.
B. The ACTUAL Catholic
The actual Catholic stands in a fundamentally different position. For him, the faith is not a cultural accessory but a binding commitment. It is not something he shapes; it is something that shapes him. Catholicism, in this sense, is not merely an identity but an authority—one that claims jurisdiction over belief, conduct, and ultimate destiny.
This Catholic believes that truth is objective and has been revealed. He believes that the moral teachings of the Church are not provisional guidelines or suggestions but reflections of that truth. He understands that his response to these teachings carries consequences, not only in this life but eternally.
This conviction expresses itself in concrete ways. The sacraments are approached with seriousness. The Eucharist is not treated as a symbolic gesture of inclusion but as the real presence of Christ, to be received worthily, cautiously and with preparation. Confession is not optional but necessary, a regular encounter with divine mercy. The rhythms of prayer—morning, midday, evening—structure the day. The distinctions within the liturgical calendar are not trivial details but part of a larger pattern that orders time itself.
Even the small things reveal the difference. The casual Catholic approaches the communion line as a matter of routine, scarcely reflecting on what is being received. The serious Catholic, by contrast, may hesitate, examine his conscience, even refrain, aware of the gravity involved. One moves through a ritual; the other submits to a divine command.
From the outside, the serious Catholic may appear excessive, even strange. But from within, it is simply coherence. If one truly believes that God has spoken, that the Church preserves and teaches that revelation, and that eternal destiny hinges on one’s response, then a certain seriousness and conviction follows naturally.
Now, it is precisely here that the symmetry emerges.
For the LGB individual, the claim is that desire—particularly sexual desire—is not chosen and cannot be willed away. It is experienced as part of one’s identity, something deeply embedded, not subject to simple alteration. From this follows the moral argument: that to demand suppression of desire is to demand a kind of self-denial that is unreasonable, even harmful.
For the serious Catholic, the claim is different in content but similar in structure. His obligation to moral truth is binding, not chosen in the sense of being freely constructed. His conscience, formed by divine revelation, does not present him with a menu of options. It presents him with a demand.
To ask him to act against that demand is not to ask for a minor accommodation. It is to ask him to violate what is true at the deepest level. It is to ask him to risk not merely social disapproval, but eternal consequence.
This is not a rhetorical exaggeration. It is the internal logic of the belief system itself.
And so the symmetry is difficult to ignore. On one side, a person says: “I cannot change what I experience as intrinsic to who I am.” On the other, a person says: “I cannot deny what is objectively true.” Both claims resist external pressure. Both appeal to something deeper than preference. Both carry, for the individual, non-negotiability.
Yet in contemporary discourse, only one of these is typically granted legitimacy.
The language of dignity, authenticity, and integrity is readily extended to the first claim. It is recognized as a serious matter, one that demands respect and accommodation. But the second claim is often treated as negotiable—as though religious conviction were simply a matter of habit or preference, easily set aside when it conflicts with prevailing norms.
This asymmetry in recognition leads to a kind of persistent misunderstanding. When the serious Catholic refuses to affirm certain moral positions, his stance is interpreted as hostility or prejudice. But from his perspective, there is no animus. There is fidelity to what is true and to the authority that has the right to command his obedience.
One may disagree with him. One may reject the premises of his belief entirely. But it is a mistake to treat his position as if it were lightly held, or easily revised.
Part of the difficulty, again, lies in the confusion between cultural and serious Catholicism. When the two are collapsed into a single category, it becomes easy to assume that all Catholics relate to their faith in the same flexible way that the cultural Catholic does. And from that assumption, it follows that doctrinal commitments are optional, that they can be adjusted in response to social expectations.
But this is not the case for the serious adherent.
The serious Catholic doesn’t have a Catholic light switch. He cannot turn off Catholicism in one area of life and flip the switch for another area. The coherence of the system does not allow it. To attempt such compartmentalization fractures the very foundation of the authority governing his life.
And so the conflict persists—not because one side is uniquely unreasonable, but because both are operating from premises that they experience as binding.
The modern instinct is to resolve such conflicts through compromise. But compromise is only possible where the underlying commitments are negotiable. Where they are not—where they are experienced as given, as fixed, as authoritative—the space for compromise narrows considerably.
This is not a comfortable conclusion. It does not lend itself to easy resolution or rhetorical victory. But it does suggest a more honest starting point: that there are, in fact, two kinds of claims in tension, each grounded in a different understanding of what it means to be bound—by desire, or by truth.
And, let’s be clear. To acknowledge such symmetry is not to equate the two or declare them equally valid. It simply recognizes that both operate at depths that resist superficial treatment.
C. Regarding the Charge of Hate
The accusation that Catholic teaching constitutes “hate” is understandable at an emotional level, particularly for those who experience its moral claims as personally difficult or even painful. That reaction should not be dismissed lightly. But as an analytical claim—as a judgment about what Catholic doctrine is—it requires careful scrutiny. And, more importantly, to charge the serious Catholic as “hateful” is dangerous. It is a charge that is false, sophomoric and needs to stop.
“Hate,” properly understood, is not merely disagreement or disapproval. It involves a will directed toward harm, exclusion, or diminishment of another person. It is personal in its object and destructive in its intention. To accuse a system of thought of “hate,” therefore, is to assert not only that it disagrees, but that it intends harm or denies the fundamental worth of those to whom it is directed.
That is a serious claim. And it deserves evaluation with equal seriousness.
Catholic doctrine, even in its most demanding moral formulations, does not advocate harm toward ANY class of persons. On the contrary, it begins from a premise that is both theological and philosophical: that every human being possesses inherent dignity by virtue of being created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27). This dignity is not contingent upon moral performance, inclination, or social status. It is not earned, and it cannot be lost.
From this follows a consistent moral obligation: to treat every person with respect, compassion, and charity. The Catechism of the Catholic Church makes this explicit, stating that individuals experiencing same-sex attraction “must be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity” and that “every sign of unjust discrimination…should be avoided” (§2358).
This is not a marginal or optional teaching. It is central.
At the same time, Catholic moral reasoning maintains that not every human action is morally equivalent. It distinguishes between acts that align with human flourishing and those that do not. This distinction applies universally—to all persons, across all areas of moral life. It is not uniquely directed at any one group.
Here, a critical distinction must be preserved: the difference between the evaluation of acts and the dignity of persons.
Catholic teaching does not claim that individuals are reducible to their inclinations or behaviors. It does not claim that moral disagreement justifies contempt, exclusion, or hostility. Rather, it asserts that human actions can be evaluated in light of reason, natural law, and revelation, while the person remains deserving of dignity and love.
To collapse this distinction—to equate disagreement about actions with hatred of persons—is to fundamentally misunderstand the structure of the argument.
It also introduces a troubling implication: that respect requires affirmation, and that any dissent is inherently oppressive. In such a framework, moral disagreement is no longer permissible. It becomes, by definition, a form of harm.
But this is not how moral reasoning has traditionally operated—whether in religious or secular contexts.
The idea that disagreement equals hatred is not a universal moral principle. It is a relatively recent development in cultural discourse—one that collapses categories that have historically been kept distinct.
The consequences of this collapse are significant.
If moral disagreement is redefined as harm, then genuine dialogue becomes impossible. One cannot argue with what is already condemned as malicious. One cannot reason with a position that has been dismissed as inherently oppressive. The space for intellectual exchange is replaced by moral denunciation.
This affects not only religious communities but the broader structure of pluralistic society.
A society committed to pluralism must allow for the coexistence of differing moral frameworks, even when they are in tension. It must make room for convictions that are deeply held and sincerely believed, even when they are contested. This does not mean that all views are equally valid, but it does mean that disagreement cannot be preemptively categorized as hatred without undermining the very possibility of coexistence.
For Catholics, adherence to moral teaching is not an act of hostility but an act of fidelity—fidelity to what they believe to be true about the human person, about the nature of love, and about the path to human flourishing. It is not directed against individuals but toward a vision of the good that they understand as binding.
To characterize that fidelity as “hate” is to misidentify its object and its intention.
This does not mean that Catholics always express their beliefs perfectly. Like all human beings, they are capable of speaking harshly, acting unjustly, or failing to embody the charity they profess. Such failures should be acknowledged and corrected.
But the existence of imperfect adherents does not invalidate the principles themselves.
The question, then, is not whether one agrees with Catholic teaching. Reasonable people may—and do—disagree. The question is whether that teaching, as a system of thought, constitutes hatred.
When examined on its own terms—grounded in natural law, articulated in theological tradition, and consistently paired with an affirmation of human dignity—it does not.
To say that Catholic teaching is not hateful is not to demand agreement. It is to insist on accuracy.
It is to recognize that moral disagreement, even when profound, is not identical with malice. That conviction, even when unwelcome, is not inherently oppressive. And that a society capable of sustaining real differences must resist the temptation to reduce its opponents to caricatures of hostility.
Without that distinction, disagreement cannot endure—and neither can the possibility of living together in anything resembling peace..
A Proposed Solution
The conclusion, if it is to be honest, cannot pretend to dissolve what is, at bottom, a real and enduring disagreement. The divide described throughout this discussion is not merely rhetorical or emotional; it is philosophical and, in many respects, irreducible. Yet irreducibility does not mean impossibility of coexistence. It simply means that any path forward must be built on clarity rather than illusion.
The first step toward such a path is a disciplined refusal to mischaracterize one another. The serious Catholic will resist the temptation to reduce the LGB individual to a set of moral propositions, forgetting the lived reality, the interior struggles, and the genuine desire for coherence and dignity that often underlie those positions. Likewise, the LGB advocate must resist the increasingly common impulse to interpret all moral dissent as animus, or to treat religious conviction as a superficial preference that can be set aside without cost.
Both errors collapse the person into a caricature.
Second, there must be a recovery of intellectual honesty about what is, and is not, negotiable. Dialogue cannot proceed on the assumption that one side will eventually concede its foundational principles. The Catholic cannot and will not redefine truth to accommodate desire. And, the LGB individual likely cannot simply will desire into nonexistence. Recognizing this does not end the conversation—it clarifies its terms. It allows each side to understand that what is being asked of the other is not minor adjustment, but a profound and impossible concession.
From that clarity, a more modest but more realistic solution emerges: not agreement, but ordered coexistence. This requires a shared commitment to the distinction between persons and positions—protecting the dignity, civil rights, and safety of individuals, while permitting genuine moral disagreement to remain intact. It requires legal and cultural frameworks that do not coerce conscience, and a social ethos that does not punish dissent as though it were violence.
Finally, it requires something less tangible but more essential: restraint. The willingness to speak precisely, to listen carefully, and to recognize that not every conflict can be resolved through force—whether social, legal, or rhetorical.
Such a solution does not satisfy the desire for victory. But it preserves the possibility of peace. And, given the depth of the disagreement, that is no small achievement.
