Grace Cathedral was packed, standing room only, for José Sarria’s funeral last Friday. The Episcopal bishop presided at the service, scriptures were read, politicians spoke and friends gave moving tributes to Sarria’s amazing life and accomplishments.

But this was no ordinary memorial—drag queens in floor-length black gowns with heads covered in mantillas walked in the procession and shared pews with men in leather, gay teens, mourners of all genders in business suits and in discreet charcoal dresses. Hair styles ranged from elaborate wigs to pink mohawks to professional coifs to buzzcuts. A baby crawled in the back and a few dogs wandered around, yet the place was permeated with an air of great dignity and respect.

This was the celebration of a full life writ large.

Sarria was the first openly gay person to run for public office in the United States, as well as the founder of important early gay political and civic organizations—but his funeral was also a vibrant theological statement about the truly radical nature of inclusion. All of these people had a place in the house of God, sitting under the shimmering rainbow ribbons descending from the Cathedral’s vaulted ceilings, which seemed to be constantly bestowing blessings from above. Everyone had a right to be there, everyone belonged, whoever they were and however they were dressed—this was the celebration of a life and of the God-given right to be ourselves. And all of us had the right to seek shelter in a house of worship at a time of mourning and loss.

At the close of drag shows at the Black Cat club in San Francisco of the 1950s, Sarria would lead the audience in singing, “God save us nelly queens,” a statement of defiance to a society that ostracized and condemned those whose gender expressions and sexual orientation were different.

While somewhat quaint now, think how radical this proclamation was then. Through his song, Sarria claimed and created sacred ground for himself as a gay man and led others to do the same. We can read Sarria’s actions through a theological lens, asserting a right to divine grace and a bestowing of a holy blessing on the outcasts, not in the hopes that they will fit in, but in outrageous celebration of the fact that they don’t.

God neither demands nor wants our fitting in—God seeks our authenticity. 

At the funeral, Tony Ross, a long time friend of Sarria’s read from Jeremiah 1:4-8,

Now the word of God came to me saying, “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations.” Then I said, “Ah, God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” But God said to me, “Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’; for you shall go to all to whom I send you, and you shall speak whatever I command you, Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you, says God.”

With these well-chosen words, the funeral also honored the truly prophetic nature of those who dare to be themselves. Jeremiah didn’t speak the easy words that everyone wanted to hear; Jeremiah told what he knew to be true, what had been given to him since before his birth. In the context of Sarria’s funeral, this passage reminds us to tell the truth about ourselves, even when it is radically different from those around us. It means wearing the clothes that make our hearts sing, performing on table tops, defying harassment, talking back to an oppressive system, and speaking up about who we are.

Sarria was a prophet in his political witness, demanding an end to police harassment and lost jobs, and in his unwavering desire to express his sexuality and his gender according to his wishes and needs. We need a reminder from time to time of how free we can be—and his life was a testimony to that. There is a holiness to lives lived in deep concord with their inner voices, expressing their unique personhood as Sarria did.

The funeral was also a powerful statement about how far we have come since Sarria was a young man.

Thanks to his activism and the work of other courageous LGBT people—city leaders came to honor, not to denounce; the police ensured the safe passage of the funeral procession, rather than arresting the gathered queers; Rt. Rev. Marc Handley Andrus, the Bishop of San Francisco, led the commendation of Sarria’s soul into the hands of a loving God, blessing instead of condemning; and the mourners gathered just as they are, rather than hiding any part of who they are. It was a fitting honor for Sarria and it was, I believe, precisely the kind of change in our world that God rejoices at.

On their memorial tribute page, the Imperial Court closes with Sarria’s words, “You don’t have to conform, you are what you are and that’s it. I am what I am, and that’s it.” Amen to that.

Photo by Liz Highleyman