Dear Ms Davis,
You don’t know me, but you’ve been a fixture in my life for about a decade. I remember when your story first broke: a county clerk in Kentucky who refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples. Overnight you became a household name, elevated by Mike Huckabee as a symbol of “religious freedom,” even staged into an ambush meeting with Pope Francis that was falsely spun into his imprimatur on your behavior. That moment was distorted into proof that your refusal to serve the public was somehow holy. The archbishop who arranged the meeting’s career was ended.
Then you faded from the headlines. But now you’re back again, asking the Supreme Court to overturn the marriages of countless people. People you do not know. Couples who have built homes, raised children, buried parents, weathered life together. You want to erase all of that from a distance. And that troubles me deeply.
You said you were standing up for God’s truth. But I think part of what was happening is that you confused your civic role with a religious one. A county clerk’s job is to serve the public. A pastor’s job is to form souls. You were given the first task and tried to turn it into the second.
And then there’s your own story. You’ve been married four times. I don’t mention that to score points. I mention it because it matters in the way you’ve chosen to wield Scripture and authority. If you are going to declare that other people’s marriages are invalid, then you must begin by looking honestly at your own.
Jesus had strong words about divorce and remarriage. If you truly believe civil law should mirror those words, then by your own standards you would have to stand under the same judgment you’ve put on others. And maybe that’s why it all came out sideways. Maybe the anger you aimed at same-sex couples was really the anger you’ve long carried toward yourself. Maybe the fear you projected onto them was really fear of not measuring up.
Because if you know deep down that you can’t meet your own rules, the temptation is strong to strike out at someone else, to make them the symbol of what you’re trying not to face in your own heart.
But here’s the truth: none of us meet the standard. Not me. Not you. Not anyone. If the Gospel stopped at sorting out the worthy from the unworthy, then not one of us would stand. That is why we have the Cross. The Gospel is about mercy… about God looking at us in our contradictions, our wreckage, our hypocrisies, and still choosing love.
And the Gospel also makes this plain: we are judged by the measure with which we judge, and we are forgiven by the measure with which we forgive (Matthew 7:2; Luke 6:37). Too often, especially in the Evangelical circles you were elevated into, I see tremendous zeal for Old Testament judgement, wrath, and unforgiveness when it comes to others, and yet New Testament mercy when it comes to ourselves and our allies. That isn’t how the Gospel works.
Jesus did not say, “Blessed are the merciful, except when you don’t like someone.” He did not say, “Love your neighbor, unless you think they’re your enemy.” In fact, He said the opposite: Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you, bless those who curse you (Matthew 5:44).
The Cross is not a weapon to hurl at others. It is the place where God took on our judgment so that we might extend mercy instead of wrath. If we withhold mercy, we cannot expect to receive it. If we sow judgment, we cannot expect a harvest of grace. The measure we use on others will be the measure used on us.
Kim, you had a chance to extend that mercy to people who were already carrying heavy loads. Couples came into your office trembling, not knowing if their own county would recognize their love. They walked in as children of God, and they left with another stone of rejection added to the pile. That’s not the work of the Gospel. That’s the work of fear and of pride.
Strong, theologically sound arguments can be made both for and against opening marriage to same-sex couples. But rather than letting the Holy Spirit speak to couples as the Spirit would: through their lived experiences, faith traditions, and consultations with their ministers… you chose instead to take up God’s flaming sword. As a civil servant you had no office, authority, or right to do that, and yet you struck at the children of God. You brought fame and wealth to yourself while causing untold harm to people you know nothing about.
You became both hero and victim and allowed politicians to put you into a place you never should have been. I know fame is intoxicating. One day you were a small-town official, the next you were on Fox News, a symbol, a cause. I imagine it felt like vindication, maybe even like purpose. But celebrity built on false-victimhood is a dangerous place to live. It convinces us we are righteous when we are really just wounded. It keeps us striking outward instead of facing inward.
What the Cross tells us is that we don’t need to perform, or strike, or prove our worth. We need to repent. We need to receive mercy. We need to offer mercy. We need to let God’s love cover the gaps we cannot fill ourselves.
That’s the invitation still waiting for you, Kim. To finally, after 10 long years, put down the mantle of culture war celebrity and to pick up the yoke of Christ, which is mercy. To stop living from a need for relevance and to start living from God’s radical, unearned love. To recognize that the people you hurt were never your enemies, they were your brothers and sisters.
Your Brother in Christ,
Fr. Rich
A Note to Readers
If this reflection spoke to you, I invite you to journey deeper with me. This letter is part of the work I’ve been doing to reclaim the Gospel from the culture wars and return it to its heart: mercy, justice, and radical love.
In the coming weeks, I’ll be opening a paid tier of Message from the Margins. Free subscribers will continue to receive weekly essays and reflections like this one. Paid subscribers will be invited into something more:
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