Growing up in the church, in the 80s and 90s, there was zero visible representation from the *queer community. At least not in any of the half dozen churches I called home during those years. That, combined with the shudders and grimaces that would accompany any discussion of the gay community, I always assumed they were way out there somewhere. In fact, I subconsciously believed that it was impossible for a queer person to be a Christian.

Imagine my surprise when I woke up to the fact that my husband is bi…and my brother is gay.

*not all members of the LGBTQ community identify as “queer” but I use it here because Austin self identifies as queer. It was originally used as a derogatory epithet, so it’s usage should never be assumed.

an impossible reality

The impossible had just become a very real reality.

And it shook me. To the core. The startling reality I suddenly found myself in caused me to question everything. On the one hand, I was dealing with the very real issues of my self-worth and my personal journey through profound brokenness towards wholeness. On the other, there was a crisis of faith that simmered slowly on the back burner. I had to relegate that one to the back burner because suddenly discovering I wasn’t married to a straight person took a lot of energy to process. Many of my early posts share a glimpse into that portion of the journey.

So on the back burner, this pot simmered and brewed. Like the foam that rises to the top of a pot of lentils, the untruths slowly rose to the top where they could be seen and scooped away. Washed down the drain.

the church didn’t prepare me to love

What I found after years of brewing and scooping, of stirring and waiting, was that the church has done a pretty pitiful job of actually loving others. In fact, I will dare to say that the church is pretty good at creating “others”, fine-tuning the art of other-izing. The church didn’t prepare me to love, it prepared me to judge. Us vs. them. It legalized pride, barriers, and condescension. What breaks my heart the most is that it caused people to hide God-given parts of themselves in shame and try to be someone they are not.

It strikes me as odd that the very institution designed to represent the one who died because he loved those on the margins, is often responsible for creating those margins.

Think about it.

The ones who followed all the religious laws perfectly couldn’t stand the teacher from the backwoods town who constantly broke the religious laws.

This teacher seemed to relish sitting in the margins the religious leaders had created.

He became “other” himself rather than other-ize.

The folks on the margins, the ones who weren’t welcomed into the religious establishment, they felt comfortable hanging out with him. Margins disappeared and everyone shared in the experience of being uniquely human.

Beautiful.

Loved.

Worthy.

Us.

Imagine the hope for the world if we could see all of humanity as us.

Just us.

The church didn’t prepare me to love, but Jesus did. As my previously held beliefs collided with my reality, a new way of seeing things was born. As the world slowly softened around the edges once again, I discovered some beautiful things.

Man-made things like borders and margins, they can go away. They are self-protective mechanisms. Only love is ancient and inclusive.

And yes, there are queer Christians. Many of them. I am incredibly blessed to know a few of them. They have shown me a space that is lovely and inclusive.

And yet I also know there are many more who are still in the closet. Hiding. Dying a bit on the inside. Wishing it would be safe to come out. Longing to live authentically. They are your sons and daughters. Brothers and sisters. Your neighbors. Choir directors. Sunday School Teachers. They are us.

The pandemic has given us the gift of pausing our crazy schedules and the mad rush about life. While we long for life to return to normal, maybe there are some “normals” that should never be returned to. Maybe it’s time to replace the need to be right and “holy” with the more urgent need to love.

Maybe we could be a little more like the One we say we follow. The one who didn’t think twice about breaking ancient religious law but was passionate about welcoming everyone to the table.

Everyone.

Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.