It seems that my last 40 years has been about coming out.
And each time I come out, I’m filled with awe by the courage of those that have come before me. I’m afraid that those who have professed to love me will change their minds. I’m certain that I will again be “too much.” I also wonder if it’s even worth the trouble. I cry and I wrestle.
The sun is setting a little later in the evening, but it sure is cold out. It must be Lent.
Given that, I think that we, as LGBTQ Christians, need to take some time to examine our theology of loss.
I am a gay christian.
There are times that I say or write those words and pause. I look at them and reflect on the journey that they represent. The years of hiding, the years of shame, the years of struggle. These days, I say them with a nonchalant air.
Yet, there was a time that I couldn’t even utter them.
The discomfort of being THE black guy in the room is something that I have to negotiate over and over again. Often/especially in progressive and/or queer political spaces, I am one of very few people of color—it seems that there are places where the demographic “count” to cover all bases means that there’s one of this and one of that and a whole bunch of white folks at the table.
I wasn’t going to call him back.
I got the message off our church’s answering machine: “I want to ask you some questions,” the caller said, and he left his name and number.
But I wasn’t going to call him back.
As people who believe that Christianity has room for the LGBTQ community, we can be zealous about our efforts to win people to our side. We want people to understand that God truly does love everyone, that the Bible isn’t just a queer bashing book, and that people don’t have to throw away their faith to embrace their sexuality/gender.
Wrap yourself in the comforter and you will sweat that fever out.
I can hear these exact words echoing in my ears as an adult whenever I get sick. As a child, my mother and grandmother would offer me these words of advice to combat what ever sickness had crept up on me.
On Sunday I took communion for the first time in more than a year. I hadn’t been avoiding it deliberately, but I realized just how long it had been as I approached the line to receive bread and wine (juice). I’ve heard the phrases “The body of Christ broken for you;” “The blood of Christ shed for you” hundreds of times in my life.
But this time it felt different.
When he conducted the funerals, Tom Bonderenko tells me, he always wore his priestly garments and white stole.