“I’m going to love you till I don’t love you no more…” So sang a song from the speakers in The Sports Connection, my gym when I lived in West Hollywood.
I spent last year teaching ethics at a community college in rural East Tennessee. I divided the semester not chronologically, but philosophically. The first half of the class posed the question, “How should I act?” The second half asked, “How should I be?” The division is one between ethics of conduct and ethics of virtue.
There are many reasons I remain Baptist, despite having to always explain myself to those who fail to see the fit between my identifications as a queer person and a Baptist minister. “Well, I’m probably not the kind of Baptist you imagine,” I say.
Everlasting, ever-loving God, today, millions of your children wait in the paradox of anxiousness and earnestness for nine human beings to make a decision about the legality of same-gender marriage. But in our fervent prayers, O God, we know that decision is really about equality and about the preciousness of all of Your children in the sight of their neighbors, one and all.
Each Sunday, clad in a bright red robe, I step into the pulpit. Before I even utter a word, my body preaches on my behalf. My gendered, queer, dancing, disordered body proclaims the Word before I ever open my mouth.
There are Sundays when a congregant might ask me, “Why do you always talk about gay stuff in worship?”
As the executive director of The Gay Christian Network (GCN), I'm often asked for advice on a situation we all face sooner or later—that uncomfortable conversation with a Christian friend or family member whose views on the LGBT community are, shall we say, less than charitable. (You know the type.)