Nearly 40 years ago, I began my ministry at Gethsemane Lutheran Church in Seattle, Wash., known then as Greyhound Lutheran for its location across from the bus station. I was young, inexperienced and hardly the profile of a traditional pastor. Yet it was there, in the late 1980s, at the height of the AIDS crisis, that I learned what ministry truly demands – and what it must resist.
People arrived in Seattle seeking medical care, hope or simply a place where no one would turn them away. Many who entered our doors came carrying not only a virus but also a crushing weight of shame – shame so often handed to them by religious communities. While hospitals worked to ease physical suffering, churches, tragically, deepened spiritual wounds. Sanctuary doors were open, yet compassion was locked away.
One man, Michael, became my quiet teacher. His body weakened as his spirit endured the indignities of stigma. Neighbors who didn’t ask, congregants who recoiled and a society quick to moralize his illness. His presence in the back pew exposed not only the vulnerability of those suffering but also the fragility of our compassion. When he disappeared, another uncounted loss, I understood how devastating judgment masquerading as theology can be.
We have made extraordinary advances in HIV treatment, transforming the diagnosis from a death sentence into a livable condition. But we have not cured the spiritual disease of prejudice. What we can prescribe is compassion. Compassion is the antiretroviral therapy for fear. It slows the spread of cruelty and restores dignity.
As we observe World AIDS Day Dec. 1, 2025, I remember Michael and countless others who taught us that love withheld is a form of violence. The work ahead is immense, but every act of compassion is a step toward a community of faith, and a world that chooses healing over harm, hope over fear and love over judgment.


















































