Narrator: In the summer of 2016, a gunman opened fire inside the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, a space celebrated as a sanctuary for the local LGBT community. In the aftermath of what was then the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history, a wave of grief and solidarity swept the nation. Yet, as Jesuit priest James Martin watched the public response, he noticed a profound and unsettling silence. While many Catholic bishops offered condolences, very few explicitly named the victims as members of the LGBT community. It was as if the very people targeted were invisible to their own Church, even in death. This painful invisibility revealed a deep chasm between the institutional Catholic Church and the LGBT faithful. How could the work of the Gospel be accomplished if one part of the church was so separated from another?

This question is the driving force behind Father Martin’s book, Building a Bridge: How the Catholic Church and the LGBT Community Can Enter into a Relationship of Respect, Compassion, and Sensitivity. It is not a book about changing doctrine, but about changing relationships. It proposes a clear, practical, and challenging path toward reconciliation, a path built not on argument, but on a simple yet radical idea: a two-way bridge.

Narrator: At the heart of Martin’s proposal is the metaphor of a two-way bridge. For too long, the relationship between the institutional Church and the LGBT community has been defined by a deep and often bitter divide. Martin argues that bridging this gap requires a reciprocal effort, a journey that both sides must be willing to take. The foundation for this bridge, he points out, already exists within the Church’s own teachings. The Catechism of the Catholic Church states that homosexual persons "must be accepted with respect, compassion, and sensitivity."

Martin takes these three virtues—respect, compassion, and sensitivity—and presents them as the foundational pillars for the bridge. However, he makes a crucial turn. This call is not just a one-way directive for the Church hierarchy. For a true relationship to form, the virtues must flow in both directions. The institutional Church is called to treat LGBT people with these virtues, and in turn, LGBT Catholics are called to show the same respect, compassion, and sensitivity to the institutional Church, including its bishops and clergy. This mutual exchange is the only way to move from a state of cold distance or outright hostility to one of genuine encounter and dialogue.

Narrator: While the bridge is two-way, Martin is clear that the onus to begin construction falls on the institutional Church. Because the Church has historically been the source of marginalization, it must take the first, decisive steps. The first plank in this bridge is respect, which begins with simple acknowledgment. Martin returns to the Orlando tragedy to illustrate this point. The failure of many bishops to even say the words "gay" or "LGBT" was a failure of basic respect, rendering a whole community invisible. Respect means calling people by the name they use for themselves.

Beyond names, respect means seeing LGBT people as Jesus did. Martin points to the story of Zacchaeus, the despised tax collector. When Jesus entered Jericho, he didn't demand that Zacchaeus repent before speaking to him. He offered community first, inviting himself to the man’s home. It was only after this radical act of acceptance that Zacchaeus had a conversion of heart. For Martin, this is a model for the Church. The call is to welcome LGBT Catholics into the community as they are, recognizing their gifts and inherent dignity, rather than demanding they change as a prerequisite for entry.

Narrator: The second pillar of the Church’s side of the bridge is compassion, a word that literally means "to suffer with." This requires more than just pity; it demands a willingness to listen to and stand with the LGBT community in their pain. It means hearing the stories of rejection from families, of being fired from church jobs, and of the profound spiritual wounds inflicted by condemning language.

Martin highlights the powerful example of Bishop Robert Lynch, who, after the Pulse shooting, wrote a blog post acknowledging that religion—including his own—has often bred contempt for LGBT people. This was a rare and profound act of compassion, an admission of institutional failing and a step toward shared suffering. This virtue calls the Church to act like the Good Samaritan in the parable. The priest and the Levite, the religious figures, saw the beaten man on the road and passed by. It was the Samaritan, the outsider, who stopped to care for him. The Church, Martin argues, is called to stop passing by and to instead bind the wounds of the marginalized.

Narrator: The second lane of the bridge requires a difficult but necessary journey for many LGBT Catholics and their allies. It is a call to engage the hierarchy with the same virtues of respect, compassion, and sensitivity. Martin acknowledges the deep hurt and frustration that makes this difficult, but he argues it is essential for true dialogue.

For respect, he tells the story of a father whose gay son felt unwelcome in their diocese. The local bishop was known to be resistant to LGBT outreach. Instead of protesting angrily, the father began meeting with the bishop once a month. He spoke gently and respectfully, sharing his perspective as a parent. Over time, the bishop’s heart began to soften. This, Martin suggests, is a more effective strategy than mockery or contempt, such as labeling all bishops as being "locked in their ivory towers."

For compassion, Martin asks the LGBT community to see the humanity of the bishops. He describes the immense burdens they carry: managing dioceses with fewer priests, dealing with the fallout of the abuse crisis, closing beloved schools, and handling endless complaints. He also shares the insight of novelist Colm Toíbín, who noted that for generations, the priesthood was a refuge for gay men who had no other way to live a celibate life without suspicion. Understanding these complex personal and professional struggles can foster compassion, a recognition of a shared, struggling humanity.

Finally, for sensitivity, Martin points to the global nature of the Church. When Pope Francis wrote that LGBT people should be treated with dignity, many in the West found the statement too mild. But in countries where being gay is punishable by death, that same statement was a life-saving act of courage. Sensitivity requires understanding this global context and offering the Church what Martin’s spiritual director once advised him to give his parents: the "gift of time" to understand and adapt.

Narrator: Ultimately, the goal of the bridge is to lead both groups to a place where they no longer see each other as "us" and "them," but as a unified "we." The foundation for this unity is a shared identity as beloved children of God. Martin turns to Psalm 139, which proclaims, "I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made." He applies this powerful affirmation directly to LGBT people, asserting that their identity is not a mistake or a disorder, but a part of God's deliberate and beautiful creation.

This shared identity is also one of imperfection. Martin uses the story of Jesus calling Peter. After witnessing the miraculous catch of fish, Peter is overwhelmed by his own unworthiness and cries out, "Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!" But Jesus doesn't turn away. He calls Peter precisely in his imperfection. This, Martin concludes, is the reality of the Church. It is not a museum for saints, but a hospital for sinners. Everyone—from the Pope to the local bishop to the layperson in the pew, whether straight or gay—is an imperfect pilgrim, struggling to follow God's call.

Narrator: The single most important takeaway from Building a Bridge is that reconciliation between the Catholic Church and the LGBT community is not a liberal fantasy or a conservative nightmare; it is a Gospel mandate. This reconciliation hinges on the mutual practice of three basic Christian virtues: respect, compassion, and sensitivity. While the journey must be a shared one, the book makes it clear that the greater responsibility to lay the first stones of the bridge lies with the institutional Church, which has for so long been the source of the community's pain.

In the end, Father Martin’s work poses a profound challenge that transcends debates over doctrine. It asks whether two groups, so often defined by their differences, can learn to see each other not as political adversaries or theological problems, but as fellow travelers on the same path. The book leaves us with an inspiring and difficult question: Can we all stand together on that bridge—the bridge that is the Church itself—and finally recognize that every single person on it is, without exception, "wonderfully made"?