The Sacred Heart of Jesus Belongs to Queer People, Too
Illustration by Dani of @andhersaints
June brings the hope of liberation. New beginnings, new life breathed upon Earth. There come tithings of community, love, fellowship, awareness, and dignity. June is the month of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. It’s also Pride Month.
For years, Catholic reactionaries have moaned and wept, online and in the news, about the LGBTQIA+ community “kidnapping” the month of June. Last year, tired of the nonsense, I took the first religious illustration I’d ever painted, placed a rainbow background on it, and wrote: “The Sacred Heart of Jesus comforts Queer People too.”
I was 18 when I first painted this religious figure, unprompted, steered entirely by religious fervor. I painted what I knew, what I had seen, and what made me feel safe. I painted the devotion my grandmother loved so dearly. Kind black eyes and brown skin. The gentle hands of God Himself pointing to a crown of light surrounding His flaming heart. A representation of His boundless, endless love. It was made for me, and for no other eyes to see.
As a lesbian, born and raised in Central America, my relationship with Catholicism has long been complex. My reconciliation with God took years. I spent most —if not all— of my adolescence convinced there was something fundamentally wrong with me. Even as a kid, I believed I was inherently evil for being queer. I feared acting as the (bigoted) stereotype of the “predatory lesbian.” I lowered my gaze among other girls and viewed my female friendships as transient—pieces of life I would certainly lose once my secret was out. I walked on thin ice each day, dreading conversion therapy, backlash from my conservative school, and ostracism from my peers.
I’d always loved spirituality, though. It’d always been so easy for me. I’d accepted the comforting fact that everyone was loved, imperfect as humanity was, in some transcendental way. I hadn’t always believed I was evil, I hadn’t always hated myself—I had been innocent, once. It wasn’t until my 18th birthday that I began to feel that way again.
I’d just begun painting digitally. I took a great amount of inspiration from Bas Uterwijk’s work depicting Jesus through AI. (I now wish I had created a Jesus face entirely on my own, but that’s another conversation.) The Sacred Heart of Jesus illustration came to me in 2020, but it would be another year before I shared it with another person.
In 2021, I went to my first Confession in eight years. As an appreciation gift to the priest, who spoke to me so kindly and offered me a book to read on God’s mercy, I printed a copy of my illustration and gave it to him.
“You know, this is how I like to picture Jesus, too. This is how he was, not the whitewashed version we see all the time. Although,” the priest said, examining the illustration, “I do think he had longer hair.”
Not long after this experience, I shared my Sacred Heart of Jesus print with members of Vine & Fig, an international community of Queer Catholics who gather online to discuss our shared experiences, our love of God, and the Consolations and Desolations each day brings. I immediately received countless praise and support. Still, I had nowhere online to post my illustration.
One night, I lay awake in confusion over God’s mission for my life. I was a queer closeted Latin American teenager, afraid of being visible. “I am nobody,” I thought. I tried falling asleep once more, for the fifth time that night. A voice seemed to answer, then. “You are nobody, yet, God and His saints are there alongside you.” I was nobody. I was simply a girl and her saints.
And so, I made my Tumblr blog.
It bloomed like a garden overnight. I started sharing my art, and eventually, mustered up the bravery to make an Instagram account exclusively for my art alongside my blog. I have always, since the very beginning, been very clear in my stances, which have matured over time. I have never tricked anyone with my heterodox beliefs on LGBTQ+ issues, abortion, women’s Ordination, and reparations. However, until last June, I had never received much retaliation.
When I shared my Sacred Heart of Jesus illustration online, I wasn’t prepared for the whirlwind that followed. I had just turned 20, and I was scared. I never told anyone about the threats of doxxing and violence that appeared on my account or in my DMs.
Some of the responses were disappointing, yet expected. “Heretic,” a few read. Others were more inflammatory: “Pile of SHIT. Remind me again, how are you catholic??”
Other responses were at best confusing, and at worst, racist. “Jesus didn’t look like that. That’s BBC propaganda,” read the tamest of these responses.
As I read through my notifications, they grew more violent. “Wanting to mutilate your genitals and have fruitless degenerate sex is not holy and will never be holy.”
And more graphic: “THE ANUS IS NOT A SEX ORGAN.”
And, finally, downright cruel: “GAY PEOPLE MAKE ME WANT TO THROW UP THEY ARE SO VICIOUSLY DISGUSTING AND ATROCIOUS THEY REJECT ALL NATURE AND EMBRACE SATANIC LEFTIST CULTURE GO TO HELL.”
Were these truly my brothers and sisters in Christ? Is this part of the “love the sinner, hate the sin,” charade they like to spin?
The simple idea that Jesus could comfort Queer people sent these Catholics down such a vicious, hateful spiral. Even if I bought into the idea that queerness is sinful (it is not), does God not comfort the sinner? (He does.) Isn’t that His whole point? (It is.) Or is it that they are not sinners? (they are) Or are they so righteous they need no comfort? (they aren’t, they do).
Here’s the thing: There is only something to reclaim if you believe God can be stolen from you so freely. I truly think these people believe in a weak God—a God that needs defending when truly, God’s message has always been that the weak on Earth need defending. “Christ has no hands on Earth but yours,” St. Teresa of Ávila wrote. “Yours are the hands through which He does good.”
How dare you presume your hands should not be in alliance with one of history’s most mistreated communities. How dare you presume there is anything to be “won back.” There is no LGBTQIA+ mob. We’re merely all people trying to reclaim safety. Safety from laws that harm our trans siblings, that criminalize parents and guardians trying to seek life-saving gender-affirming care. Safety for our Black and Brown trans sisters, the group most affected by bigotry. Safety from the threat police has posed—and still poses—to Queer people of color, and especially gender non-conforming Black Queer people. Safety for every single Queer person living in the Global South, where colonialism and imperialism have placed their livelihoods at stake. Pride Month is about revolution, love, and the dignity of those pushed to the margins. Jesus’ message is entirely coherent and compatible with this reclamation.
Queer lives are holy and sacred. This is the message of Pride. We have always been here, and we will always be here. The Sacred Heart of Jesus hears our pleas and comforts Queer Christians all the same. For The Sacred Heart of Jesus bled for us, too, upon that Cross. This Heart is an extension of the God of the Oppressed. God relishes in each and every LGBTQIA+ person He has made. God dwells in their soul, in their relationships, in their sex, and in their joy.
The Sacred Heart of Jesus belongs to us, too.
Image courtesy of Dani
Dani is a writer and illustrator from Costa Rica.
You can find more of her artwork at her Etsy store and Instagram account, @andhersaints.