Murmurs and Antagonisms

Orthodoxy via Heresy

Month: September, 2014

Stop Being Nice

Kind words aren’t enough. They never are.

Being nice is not the answer. It never has been.

Wanting justice, demanding justice, demanding fairness, these are good and right. And I get that in some contexts peacefulness may be the better part of valor, but nothing significant has changed by being nice and saying kind words. Christianity is no different.

Christians, me included, are guilty of making the bible soft. And, no, I refuse to argue that we make the bible soft by cushioning its’ truths. We soften the bible’s demands for justice and love. We soften the God who has a preferential option for the marginalized. Christians are too nice.

We tell people they’re loved by God even though they’re gay.

We tell people all will be made well in the end and racism will die the death that death died.

We tell transgender/gender non-conforming folks that they are loved and we’ll pray for them to love their bodies.

We tell these marginalized groups in America all these nice, trite, gentle words. But we ignore the bible.

Let’s recap for a second what the bible states regarding the oppressed:

From Amos 5: “There are those who oppress the innocent and take bribes
    and deprive the poor of justice in the courts.”

From Acts 8 a gender minority says: “See, here is water! What prevents me from being baptized?”

I need to listen to the voice of the prophets, demanding justice. I need to listen to a God who will cast down those in power because of God’s love for the oppressed. I need to listen to the God who sides with prostitutes, lepers, queers, ethnic minorities, and immigrants.

I need to listen for God’s voice in the cries of those the United States bombs.

I need to listen for God in the voice of trans women who are murdered for being women.

I need to listen for God in the voice of persons of colour who suffer violence against their bodies by the powers that be.

I need to listen.

And stop softening the bible.

If God loves trans folks: I need to  fight for them. Fight the misgendering, fight the violence, fight for their recognition.

If God loves ethnic minorities: I need to fight racism, fight the structures of racism in communities, in my church. And shut up.

If God loves those we bomb: I need to stop simply praying, do something. Write my senator. Protest. Change how I think, vote, if I vote at all.

If God loves gay people: I need to fight for their rights as citizens of a country. Fight for their acceptance.

I’m convinced heaven will be full of queers and persons of colour teaching us what grace and beauty looks like. Heaven isn’t just for white, straight, cisgender people. Remember this.

 

Flesh Sack

Just walking skins, sacks of flesh wandering the streets ignoring each other day in and out. This is who we unavoidably are. Spouting sentimental phrases – “You are a Soul, you have a Body” – mean little. In fact, I’d contend mean nothing whatsoever. Embodied flesh sacks that we are, we can only know what we feel/sense/experience/think but what then is a soul?

[Soul: a metaphor for our identity.]

I don’t think I want a soul to be anything more than a metaphor. At least I possess my own created body. And I can make my body better. I can’t make my soul better. Mainly since I have no clue in hell what a soul is or how I have one?

So, metaphor it is.

If “soul” just means my identity then I can add to my identity, subtract from it, an understand it better. Mostly since what makes me me – identity – can be found in body or thought form.

I can’t experience my soul. I can experience my thoughts. My identity can be experienced.

So, do I have a soul?

No.

Not in the way most folks think of souls, at least. I am walking flesh, a sack of skin and bones clattering along my merry way. I am not an embodied soul, as if I existed previously and my soul put on a dress. I am a body. I am flesh. I choose how I am being made and I shape my identity.

Flesh sack walking.

“Listening to the Old Bray of my Heart…”

[Trigger Warning: suicide, self-harm, homophobia, transphobia, Christianity]

“I feel the ground moving beneath my feet/all I know is where I don’t belong,” –

“One By One” by Against Me!

“Gay boy.”

“Faggot.”

Words among phrases thrown at me by twelfth graders when I was a first grader. In first grade, on a bus, sitting next to a third grade girl who liked me and I was shy around, while twelfth graders berated me from the backseat and the driver didn’t give a shit. First grade, when I had no clue regarding the weight of the word “faggot” and felt only the sting of harsh words because I was too sensitive. First grade.

Second grade, I was pulled out of school mid-year for a variety of reasons. Chief of which, in my memory, the poor handling of my class. Chief of the poorly handled incidents was when I threatened to kill my friend over Go-Fish and the teacher failed miserably at dealing with the incident. Second grade.

Third grade, I was homeschooled and remember very little. I do recall at one point asking my female babysitter if we could change shirts. But she went into the bathroom anyways and I nervously stood outside waiting. She handed out her shirt and I gave her the one I had. And it was good. Third grade.

In fourth grade I went back to school for a single year because my family had just moved to Tennessee. I had a teacher whose great love for stories and literature wore off on me. Her influence went beyond simply reading a certain series. She taught me to appreciate the power of stories spoken aloud. At day’s end she would read Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events to us. The cynicism, the different-ness, and beauty of that series still moves me. I wanted to be like her. I wanted to find as much joy in literature as she did. Fourth grade.

From fifth grade till about seventh grade not too much occurred, leastways not that I recall. I still had a temper to rival the wind and played with Barbies when I could. And when my family went to the resort we’ve always gone to I asked the kids leader to tie the sash/scarf thing we were given with a girly knot. Fifth grade to seventh grade.

By eighth grade I had started doing speech and debate. I went, for the first of three times, to Worldview Academy. Basically, I fell in love with apologetics, theology, politics, and every goddamn thing under the sun that feeds mental stimulation. Worldview was good for me. It taught me more about how to think critically at a time when I was bringing forth latent beliefs. And debate provided me confidence and a sense of belonging, a community of other people who didn’t mind arguing about theological topics. It felt good. Of course debates raged and poured forth, internally as well as externally. By this time I was pretty heavily involved in self-harm and to some extent suicidal ideation. Also, I remember beginning to wonder who I was. I was involved with Relevant Magazine’s forum and encountered a post about transgender experience, dysphoria, and the like. I didn’t know what to do or say. But after that summer I became less active on the forum and slowly let it all die down. I suppressed whatever thoughts and experience of disaffection with the idea of being “male” that I had and lived on. Eighth grade.

Tenth grade was my third year of speech and debate; third, and final, time attending Worldview, and when I began at long last to actually “get” things about Jesus. But I also hit a new low. That fall I started having serious problems with my faith. Real disenchantment began to occur and it started falling through the roof (yes, I messed up the analogy, who cares?). Sitting on a toilet I cut my thigh forty-five times. A month later: thirty-six times. It was the lowest I’d hit. Suicidal ideation began to spring forth and by the time December came around I felt like shit. And then my friend told me they had started self-harming and I blamed myself for that. Mix into this thoughts about my sexuality and it was simply a mess. Not that I had ever had too many thoughts about my sexuality but I knew I wasn’t “normal” like the rest of the kids. I didn’t fantasize about the same shit other guys did or were supposed to, nothing in my suddenly apparent sexual life seemed normal. I told my best friend I thought I might be bi but that I was still thinking about it. Tenth grade.

Eleventh grade. Before my junior year started officially I went to Summit, a two week intensive Christian worldview camp. Had tons of fun and great speakers and met some amazing people. But I dreaded – cynically, sarcastically – the night Mike Haley would speak. He was speaking on homosexuality and I knew enough about Summit and it’s ties to Focus on the Family that it wasn’t gonna be a pro-gay talk. I went in knowing I was struggling with my own sexuality and I left right after in tears. Throughout the talk he kept mentioning gender identity disorder, now known as gender dysphoria, and I freaked out. Because, as he stated: 70% of kids who display any of the five general traits of dysphoria are likely to turn out gay and/or transgender. And, see, I knew two things. Stats weren’t set in stone, determinism was still a crock of shit. But, and this is key, I also knew I met all five criteria in varying degrees. I left that talk crying and sat in the dark as the rain drizzled. Finally, some staff found me by the building and got my small group leader who I told, at least in part, what was occurring in my mind at the time. I couldn’t manage that summer thinking about dating and having female friends. By the time school started I had tried to relax some, to breathe easy. Through it all I still had an issue with self-harm. Eventually, at some point, a friend asked me if I was bi. And I told her, no, in fact, I think I’m gay. By the second semester I decided to come out to my theology teacher who responded with total grace and nothing less. Soon after, I learned my family and I were moving to Ohio. While in Ohio, I told my dad, in a Jeep on a highway, that I thought I was gay. Eleventh grade.

Twelfth grade. Now in a Catholic school in Ohio. I have a Twitter. I tweet a lot, and openly, about sexuality. I stupidly don’t turn on private tweets and eventually larger portions of the school find out, including the administration with their unfounded concerns for my safety. Twelfth grade.

Where am I now, though? I’m graduated from high school, attending a much more open and accepting college (or, as accepting and open as Christian, evangelical schools go, which is pretty accepting).

Why now? Because I need to be open about my journey from here on out. I need to stop hiding behind the facade of being an ally when half my Facebook friends, my dearest friends, Twitter friends, all know about my struggles. It demands honesty and openness. And I’m tired of hiding and suppressing myself.

All this . . . this drama, shit, worries me. I’m worried about where it could lead. Worried about social acceptance since, though I try, I can’t say fuck you to society entirely. I worry that my parents might be right, that I’ve simply been unduly influenced. Maybe I’m empathizing too much. Maybe I’m trying too hard to just “get it.” Maybe like Will Graham in the show Hannibal I empathize too deeply and cannot know where I end and another person begins. And I’m scared that maybe this is all a lie. Maybe I am so subsumed in understanding the Other to the point that I no longer know myself, in part or in full.

Take away from all this, if anything?

I’m here now saying I’m trans and genderqueer, loving Jesus horribly, desperately, and trying to figure my shit out. If you’ve got a problem with that keep it to yourself. I don’t want to hear your comments on Romans 1 or your questions about my body. I just want to be open and real for once in my life. I have no clue about how half this works. I have no idea what it all means. I can’t even see myself aright most days. And maybe some of this is melodramatic bullshit but I haven’t been able to shed the feeling of not being me. I’m also here saying how fucking scared I am. I’m scared of all this. And I want to feel safe. And I feel unsafe too often. Closets were nice but closets have their own problems. So.

I’m done hiding and repressing myself. And God knows I’ve tried and failed to keep silent. I’ve made being an ally to LGBTQ people a political and theological goal. But, that was a charade. It was an easy way to hide truths about myself. Hell, saying I’m gay might be an easier way to embrace gender non-conformity.

I just don’t know what I am. I only know what I am not.

Not straight.

Not male.

Not anything of note, just a waste of God’s good space, but still graced enough to dwell here.

But here I am.

I am.

Take from this what you will. I experience God in brokenness and I can’t let go of Jesus as much as I try. So, here I am, open, raw, confused and waiting on Jesus to come through.

 

*Title: Taken from a Sylvia Plath quote, modified.

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Queer Theology Synchroblog 2014

Other synchroblog contributions:

* Fr. Shay Kearns Coming Into My Own

* Schrodinger’s Triceratops Coming/Going

* Mackenzian Coming Back To Prayer

* Wally Coming Out

* Andrew/Amanda A Journey of Coming and Going

* Rev. Liz Edman Coming and Going in the Wilderness

* The Fugitive Minister You’re Right

* A Queer Calling In Which We Decide To Go To Church

* Wall Of Illusion Coming, Going, Staying

* Holy Ghost Heretic Coming/Going

* Jonas Weaver Listening to the Old Bray of My Heart

* Mark Dixon Welcome Home

* Peterson Toscano Coming Out for Climate in Weird Religious Ways

* P Synchroblog Entry

* Jamie S Hill Dancing With My Shadow

* Seamus D Coming and Going

* Maggie Starr Synchroblog Entry

* Crumbs at the Feast Good To Come, Better to Go

* Sarah Moon And Though I Find Here No Permanent Dwelling…

* Delfin Bautista The Struggle of Rebirth: A Catholic Coming Out

* Mike Shipley Synchrocast (Audio Post)

* Kate Rowley Coming As We Are

* Billy Flood Coming Home

* Brian Gerald Murphy Be Gentle