Dear Human:

Dear Human: You’ve got it allllll wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That is where you came from and where you’ll return. You came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love. Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of… messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect. You already are. You came here to be gorgeously human. Flawed and fabulous. And then to rise again into remembering. But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love, in truth, doesn’t need ANY other adjectives. It doesn’t require modifiers. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up. And do your best. That you stay present and feel fully. That you shine and fly and laugh and cry and hurt and heal and fall and get back up and play and work and live and die as YOU. It’s enough. It’s Plenty.

Quote by Courtney Walsh

Coming Out as Affirming

I know I have already talked about how incredible my support system is and, to be honest, I will probably talk about it roughly one million more times. Because I am super duper lucky and I don’t ever want to forget. Or fail to give credit where credit is due.

So this is one of those posts where I focus on my straight allies.

They have it pretty rough. Let’s be honest.

I am queer and so there’s an obvious reason why I am personally invested in the cause of the lgbtq community. It directly effects my life and so I have no option but to feel the wide range of emotions that come with living in a non-affirming culture.

But there’s something really incredible about allies, I think. They make a very difficult choice to stand up for those they love even when they could blend into a heteronormative background and spare themselves the backlash.

My best friend has to “come out” as affirming on a regular basis. She talked about feeling an anxiety but not being able to be silent about her support of me.

“This is personal for me,” she says.

People believe that my soul/blood is on the hands of anyone who condones my “lifestyle choice.” What a heavy charge.

But allies stick it out. They get just as pissed and indignant about oppression because for them it directly correlates with someone they love.

And I am very well loved.

So I want to express the type of gratitude that feels inadequate when framed into words. My survival has hinged on the type of support that I have been freely given and I know that no meaningful journey is meant to be walked alone.

I acknowledge that it is difficult for you at times and I hope that I never fail to recognized that.

All your musterings of the courageous kind.

All the times you normalize and reaffirm.

All the times you cultivate safe spaces.

The questions you ask.

Understanding that you can’t understand it fully, but trying.

Allowing me moments for anger and moments for celebration.

Modeling unconditional grace.

Standing up when you could have sat down.

The times you get more indignant than I do.

Coming out of the closet with me and helping me to board it up when it feels impossible.

Making me feel loved so profoundly at every turn.

For all of these things and more, I am thankful.

 

Still a Christian…

I have been having this conversation with a fellow queer Lee alumn. Our stories aren’t all that different in terms of our personal struggle with understanding who we are and feeling different from our peers. She grew up in the church, I grew up in the church. She was a student leader and so was I. We both tried to model compassion and understanding to the students we served. We both felt inadequate in our service to God. Both couldn’t attain perfection. Both struggled and fought against our faith of origin, coming to a crossroads.

But our paths diverge at a very crucial point- she isn’t a Christian anymore and I am still an absolute sucker for the Gospel.

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My most vivid memories of childhood center around a church sanctuary with blue carpet and orange pews. A wooden pulpit. The bulky Texan transplanted to our mid-western town to serve as a pastor. A message of repentance, calling for admissions of guilt, surrendering to the guy in the sky who startled easily at the purview of our total human depravity. Sometimes a nice guy who one time reluctantly permitted us to slaughter his porcelain skinned, silky bearded son and then told us to never say he didn’t do anything nice for us. Old Testament schmold schmestament. A new law with some old law undertones. Yes, love you neighbor. But also don’t be a faggot. Or a Baptist.

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I was raised in the church- a  woman empowered within a specified radius of male authority. Scripturally rebuked into a closet I built in between the bones of my rib cage and underneath the beds of my fingernails.

But my faith was planted into the marrow of my bones, sewn up into every muscular fiber, and coded into the circulation of my blood stream. Open me up and my heart pumps to the rhythm of “Come Thou Fount,” my lungs expand and contract in time with the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer.

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I almost walked away completely once. Once every day for three years. A desert season. A sputtering disconnection. An act of surrendering myself over to the doubts, giving precedence to the anger and frustration.

Southern drawls oozing convictions I couldn’t bring myself to accept. Standing in a crowd of people lifting their hands and singing words about grace that they didn’t care to even whisper when the music had faded and it was them and their opinions to be heard.

I was a lost cause. A sordid soul. A discarded thing.

A crumpled, greasy laundry list of depravity, abandonment, baseness, contamination, criminality, debasement, debauchery, degeneracy, degradation, depravation, evil, iniquity, lewdness, licentiousness, perversion, profligacy, sinfulness, vice, viciousness, vitiation, wickedness, etc.

And when you have such a low opinion of yourself, how can you begin to grasp something composed of infinite goodness? How can you close your eyes and ask to talk to Love?

And why should I want to? I was always a misrepresentation of the Gospel away from losing my mind. Why should I want to join the ranks of those who named my “sin” as greatest of all? My kind of love didn’t mix with their pristine chapels and the husband God was waiting for me to get pure enough for before he was placed into a headship over my life.

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I remember our conversations being one-sided for a very long time. I was a mumble and nod kind of gal and she was an eloquent, thought-provoking force. Unafraid of the silence, she sat with one leg tucked under the other and a head tilted in a way that I imagine they teach in therapy classes. Lower the chin just enough, gaze softly, fold and unfold your hands slowly, etc. It wasn’t the rehearsed thing I am making it out to be. It was genuine and loving and exactly what I needed to be brought back to myself.

When I started that therapeutic journey to accepting my sexuality, I also began a process of rediscovering my faith. It was no longer the hostile entity from which I needed to protect my vulnerable spots or otherwise submit to with sacked cloth and ashy cheeks. That laundry list of depraved adjectives no longer applied when I thought of a Savior slaughtered in the name of ripping up such lists and renaming/reclaiming me for a good and perfect will.

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Even in talking with my friend who no longer identifies as Christian, I have a difficult time fully articulating why I abide in my faith. It is difficult to name something that feels like a second skin.

All that I can tell her is that there are these moments when it swells up inside of me and I am overwhelmed by something wholly other. That I stay amazed even after 28 years of ups and downs. That when I strip away everything that has gone wrong with the Church and I am just contemplating the Gospel, I can’t imagine not wanting to be a part of that story. And for me that is enough to keep engaging/struggling/dialoguing.

That I may identify as many things, but none of them will ever hold the weight of identifying as follower of Christ.

And that suits a queer gal like myself.

Fags-Mobile

 

The Equality Ride came to my school in March 2006. The Equality Ride is a group of lgbt and affirming people who drive across the country to non-affirming collegiate institutions in  hopes of starting a conversation about discriminatory policies.

I remember praying for wisdom. That God would grant me the perfectly formulated words. That they would come to know the redeeming power of God’s plan for their lives. I remember going to training seminar after training seminar, meeting as a Resident Assistant to formulate plans-of-action, helping the residents on my hall to formulate plans-of-action. Going to on-campus panels and chapels about homosexuality.

I remember the Equality Riders asking us to take communion with them and when it came time to partake of the body, an Administrator standing next to me quietly slipped the bread in her pocket so she wouldn’t be seen sharing the sacrament with these most unholy and unwelcome persons.

I did the same thing.

Because I was afraid to participate. Because I imagined the bread to be an admission of guilt. Because my fears about who I actually was were raw from all the exposure and I wanted the campus to stop talking about homosexuality so that I could recover and reassure myself that I was not one of them.

Ironically, that week was also the first time that I ever told anyone I might be gay. I had been holding it in and it was starting to feel explosive. With every conversation, I could feel it pushing against the walls of my stomach, making my heart beat too fast. I thought if I didn’t tell someone I might accidentally stand up and scream it out in a crowded room. So I told a person who was (and still is) a trusted friend.

And then we didn’t speak of it again until almost six years later.

At the time, Equality Ride scared the shit out of me for many reasons. But now I am incredibly grateful they came. What happened before and during their time on our small Christian campus was a catalyst in my life that moved me forward- even though it took many years.

A friend of mine recently mentioned a particular experience of Equality Ride’s time on our campus in his blog. A couple of community members not affiliated with our school, spray painted their bus in the middle of the night with the phrase “FAGS-MOBILE.”

Image

When I heard that a group of student leaders from our school were going to clean the bus I remember knowing that I had to help. I didn’t really know why then, but I just really wanted to be a part of it. The stuff they gave us to clean off the bus was strong-smelling and after scrubbing for only a few minutes, we were able to get the markings off of the plastic surface. A local TV crew filmed us and at the end of it, I embraced members of the Equality Ride.

The implications of that ten minute period were huge for me- helping to move me towards an acceptance of the lgbt community and eventually of myself. It took a lot of time and a lot of work, but I am thankful for a little seed planted over 7 years ago that struggled through some pretty impossible conditions to take root and grow.

And for the piece of bread that I removed from my pocket when I was alone in my dorm room, eating it with a silent prayer.

“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” Luke 22:19

 

A Self-Apology

I’m sorry I tried to change you. You had already been through so much trauma and all I wanted to do was to spare you from any more pain and rejection. It was foolish, but I was raised to believe that you were a sinful notion, a path straight to the depths of hell.

I’m sorry I called you a freak and punished you when you allowed yourself to feel brief moments of attraction to people of the same sex. I wanted to keep you under control so that people wouldn’t find a reason to judge or mistrust you. You can’t help how people respond, but if you change a factor in the equation-like your sexuality- it might soften the blow.

I’m sorry that I told you I hated you, that I put you down and tried to keep you hidden away. I’m sorry for the false public persona, for the times I asked you to be what you weren’t.

I’m sorry for the times I made you wear clothes and makeup that you weren’t comfortable with to trick people into gushing over your femininity. I have learned a lot about what true femininity is and it is much more powerful and sacred than outside appearances.

I’ve also learned that authenticity is a sacrament that you share with those who fully understand the grace and love of God.

I’ve learned that the way you talk to yourself should be taken as seriously as the way you talk to others, that the milk of positive self-speak is the nourishment you need to endure whatever things come your way.

I’ve learned that how you feel, how you love is as part of you as anything else. Trying to change the nature of who you love in a world filled with hate is counterproductive. Love wins no matter how hard you try to force it to fail.

I have learned about the ever-expanding depths and widths and heights of Divine Love and the power of a Sacrificial Lamb to defeat death and turn our hearts towards redemption and healing.

So, here’s to learning to love you more fully and forgiving myself for the times I wasn’t able to. We’ve got a long way to go, but I’m growing more and more thankful for this journey we are on.

 

 

 

The Things That Matter…

Here’s what matters:

The way we love each other. How we show care.

Hoping. Always hoping. Even in pitch black, starless night seasons. We hold to the belief that hope begins in the dark.

Taking uncalculated, foolish risks because everything worth doing was once thought to be a foolish risk. We don’t wait for people to understand or we will end up standing around with our hands in our pockets until unnecessary approval is dispensed.

Forgiving even when their anger turns to violence. Even when they only show a profound hatred towards us. We forgive. Because forgiveness is a cleansing water that keeps our souls from hardening and a soap that keeps our hearts from collecting the grime and grit of repeated rejection.

Being places of refuge, spaces for healing. Fighting against injustice, not because we are obligated but because our liberation is bound up with theirs.

Moving slowly even when our society demands that we go-go-go, accomplish, achieve, never stop and let it sink into your skin. Taking time to value things for their present goodness, good presence.

Living in community. Deeply rooted. Wholly emersed. Selfessness.

Grace. Peace. Joy. Patience. Fruits of the Spirit abounding. Christ revealed.

These are the things that matter.

Benediction

I can’t get myself to commit to publishing a post. Writer’s block is no match for draft insecurity.

But this month is the big month- the month the Supreme Court let’s us know their decision regarding DOMA and Prop 8. Landmark cases.

I’m anxious. I feel vulernable. Like so many other lgbt folks and straight allies.

I am praying…

Grace and peace be multiplied.

Hope abounding.

Love of God and the communion of the Holy Spirit guide us.

Sacrificial Lamb, pleasing you with word and deed.

Give us opened hearts and purified minds.

Guard our tongues, reveal to us the power of our words.

Illuminate Your good and perfect will.

For thine is the Kingdom-here-and-now, the merciful power, and ever-present glory forever.

Amen.