Help Me Get to the Holy Land!

HEY Y’ALL, I have this crazy opportunity.

People who know me well might remember the year of college when I studied Hebrew (read: Biblical Hebrew consumed my every waking thought and hour). Since learning Hebrew and becoming more aware of justice issues surrounding the Holy Land, I’ve wanted to be able to experience it for myself.

I’m so excited that I have the opportunity to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with the Episcopal Diocese of Olympia! From November 24th to December 5th, I’ll be traveling with a group from the diocese that includes the priest from my church and the bishop of the diocese.

We’re going during Advent, the time in the church to prepare the way for Jesus, and we’ll be visiting the significant places in Jesus’s life, from Bethlehem to Nazareth to the Sea of Galilee. I’ll also get to tour the St. Vincent Creche/Orphanage, which is offering Christian love and compassion to over forty abandoned babies and small children. It is the only facility of its kind in the West Bank.

But the only way I’ll be able to experience the Holy Land- from the Dead Sea to the Western (Wailing) Wall- is with your help.

This September, I’m entering my second year as a youth minister at an Episcopal church. I also started grad school this fall. As part of the Episcopal Service Corps, I made a commitment to living in community and intentional simplicity. This means I simply don’t have the budget to pay for transatlantic flights, room and board, and transportation in the Holy Land.

Your support would mean the world to me. It is an investment in not only my faith but my ministry, because this pilgrimage will not only affect me. I truly believe that God works in powerful and mysterious ways, and I hope that this pilgrimage to the Holy Land will inform how I continue in my youth ministry, how I interact with my community, and how I write about my faith.

I will be forever grateful for your love and support. I will pray for you by name every day until the end of the trip, and I will hold you in my prayers long after that. In Hebrew, “shalom” means not just peace, but a deep flourishing. I will be praying that you flourish.

Check out my gofundme to support my trip to the Holy Land! 

Advertisements

The Seattle Statement: A Litany For Anxious Lesbians

Just this week, a hurricane has hit my home state, a virulent racist who committed terrible crimes was pardoned from receiving any consequences, transgender people were banned from the military, and North Korea launched a missile. Then, in the face of this, a huge (if unsurprising) list of evangelical leaders released the Nashville Statement, a horrific, homophobic statement that is the antithesis of the gospel of Jesus.

It’s been a year since I got home from the Race, moved across the country, and thought my life might get a little more normal. I thought this would be the year of staying still. The year of doing dishes.

But there’s too much to hold in my arms.

Instead I have been wandering through the borderlands between doubt and faith, wondering if the space in my chest I call Christianity can be reconciled with justice, truth, love. Gospel.

//

The last time I went to the dentist, he asked if I bite my cheek. On the inside of my lip there is a calloused place, a worry stone where I clamp my teeth when I get nervous, which is often. If I don’t stop biting there, it will harden and never heal.

//

This is not the blog I should be writing today. I should have something intelligent to say about the Nashville Statement. I should write about the very real consequences of homophobic theology on the lives of queer people.

But it feels like there is nothing else I can say that will change anyone’s mind.

If you can’t affirm the humanity of LGBT people, you can’t see how homophobia and racism go hand in hand, and you can’t see how white supremacy leads to neglect of the poor, and the orphan, and the widow, and the refugee, and you can’t see how theology kills in myriad ways but from the same demonic root. Start from anywhere you want: a labyrinth always leads to the same place.

Instead, I can only talk about what I learned. This year I learned just how fragile my arms are, how a still body doesn’t make a wandering heart any better.

//

I worry about a lot of things.

I worry about whether any of The Youths hear me. I worry about being a lesbian in leadership at a church I don’t know very well, in a place I don’t very well. I worry about my car flying off the I-90 bridge into Lake Washington.

I worry about my appearance, especially in the South, especially that I look too gay. I worry about what I’m going to do, after this new year is over. I worry that I’m called to ministry and I’m doing the wrong thing by getting an MFA instead of an MDiv right now. I worry that I’ll never change the mind of a single person I love, someone who might love me but not what they think is my sin.

//

Texas is a place that fits so strangely now: when I’m home a strip of me feels exposed, a tender place I’m used to keeping covered.

In August I drove up and down the highway with the people who know me best, the bright gold sunset streaking orange across the sky, my body rolling over the blacktop somewhere between our Texas towns, somewhere between who I used to be and who I am still becoming. My friends’ cars smell like plants, like leather, like motor oil, like the decade’s worth of memories we have between us. Like home.

This is what I miss, in Seattle where the air never smells like mesquite smoke.

What did I learn this year, that I never did in Texas? How to dress in what I like. How to drive a car while crying. How to make good coffee. How to kiss. How to cook for sixteen. How to talk to one very specific group of teenagers, maybe, on a good day.

In this year, I lived with three other people and left our town only a handful of times. From the bed I slept in almost every night, I memorized the sound of Jon and Timothy’s doors closing, and how Hilary breathes when she sleeps. I drove to the same place every Sunday with two dozen donuts, rain or shine, and tried to listen as much as I talked.

What else did I learn? The tender place that feels so vulnerable in Texas is who I am when I feel comfortable in my own soul.

//

Here’s the good news of the gospel: Jesus has still died and been resurrected, for me and for many. God is still God, not John Piper. And God is love. God’s very essence is love.

This is a lesson all the travel in the world has taught me, from sunrise over Victoria Falls, to Peruvian mountain tops, to cold, salty seawater in the Pacific off the Olympic Peninsula, to the night sky over Texas after a storm clears, when it feels like the whole universe is close enough to touch.

So my queer body, my anxious mind, my wandering soul: I am holding on to that one bright hope.

God is a seed, I wrote around this time last year. I still believe that. I learned how to nurture the soil this year. I learned how to let my heart be a garden in which God can grow.

I will water my garden with the tears I shed for my LGBTQ siblings, and I will wait for the Spirit to move. This year I will reap what I sow.

IMG_1639

How to Live In A Burning House: On the One-Year Anniversary of Pulse

IMG_1336

There’s a vague entry in my journal on June 13th, 2016. “I haven’t cried since Colombia,” it starts, “and I’ve been holding on to numbness like a lifeline, but today everything broke through.”

I woke up to the news of the Pulse shooting in a small room in Peru, my teammates asleep next to me, and I cried like I hadn’t in months. My journal doesn’t mention Pulse or that 49 (mostly Latinx) LGBTQ people lost their lives. Just a dam bursting inside me, something radically different than the day before.

//

On June 12th, 2016, 49 people were murdered because they were gay. It was the largest act of terrorism on American soil since 9/11 and it was perpetrated against LGBTQ people who dared to unapologetically dance and laugh and love.

I wanted Christians to lament. I wanted my friends at home to name this act for what it was: homophobia, and hatred. Somehow, the prayers I saw on Facebook ended up blaming gay people for being in a gay bar in the first place, praying for our deliverance from sin just as much as our deliverance from violence.

Before Pulse, I could argue the academics of human sexuality, and affirm my gay friends, and pretend I had crushes on attractive men all day. But after Pulse, crying in a sleeping bag in a cold room in Peru, a part of me knew that I could not pretend for much longer, and that there would be a cost, and I was so afraid that I couldn’t even write the words down.

//

On June 13th, I tweeted a Tennessee Williams quote: “We live in a perpetually burning building and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”

This year I was reminded of the flames of Pentecost, only a week before the anniversary of the Pulse shooting. The flames of Pentecost are different: they are not violent; they do not burn your flesh like the hot iron of a machine gun fired into a dancing crowd. These flames heal where a violent world has broken us. They bring a common language where before there was none.

I am privileged by my skin color, my geographic location, and my upper-middle-class upbringing, and yet the common language I share with the victims of the Pulse massacre is our queerness.

Pentecost came almost a year after Pulse and promised the Spirit was with us, is with us, will always be with us; even in the deepest of griefs, even in the threat of death, even in the burning building where we are desperately trying to save love.

//

I don’t know where I’m going this with post. I wanted to say that Pentecost gives common language to people who are willing to hear. I wanted to say I’m a lesbian, and a Christian, and I was torn in two after the Orlando massacre. I want to say that sometimes the church feels like a burning building.

I wanted to say that Pulse changed me profoundly. I wanted to say that homophobia kills people, and it doesn’t just do it with guns at nightclubs, but with depression, and suicide, and families kicking their LGBTQ children out of the house. I wanted to say that I have hope even in the face of an act of terror which was meant to instill fear. I wanted to say that LGBT people will thrive no matter how many times we are forced to rebuild our safe spaces.

I came out six months after Pulse. The first time I went dancing at a gay bar, a man patted me down before I could go in, his hands moving over my tight jeans and crop-top-clad torso, and I felt a shiver of fear. But then I went inside and danced with my friends, and I was not afraid.

///

These were the victims of the massacre at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Please take a moment to say their names, pray for their families, and remember.

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34
Stanley Almodovar III, 23
Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20
Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22
Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36
Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22
Luis S. Vielma, 22
Kimberly Morris, 37
Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30
Darryl Roman Burt II, 29
Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32
Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21
Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25
Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35
Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50
Amanda Alvear, 25
Martin Benitez Torres, 33
Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37
Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26
Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35
Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25
Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31
Oscar A. Aracena-Montero, 26
Enrique L. Rios Jr., 25
Miguel Angel Honorato, 30
Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40
Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32
Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19
Cory James Connell, 21
Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37
Luis Daniel Conde, 39
Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33
Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25
Jerald Arthur Wright, 31
Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25
Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25
Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24
Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27
Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33
Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49
Yilmary Rodriguez Sulivan, 24
Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32
Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28
Frank Hernandez, 27
Paul Terrell Henry, 41
Antonio Davon Brown, 29
Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24
Akyra Monet Murray, 18
Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25

Practice Resurrection (Sermon from Youth Sunday, 4/23)

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the Jews, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, “Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.”

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, “We have seen the Lord.” But he said to them, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.”

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Peace be with you.” Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.” Thomas answered him, “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said to him, “Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name. -John 20:19-31

//

            On the evening of Easter, the disciples were still in darkness. Even after Mary Magdalene had told them that she had seen the risen Jesus, the male disciples were still locked inside their house in fear of the Jewish and Roman authorities. The gospel passage today is a continuation of the gospel on Easter: it’s not a new chapter but rather the epilogue to Mary Magdalene finding Jesus in the garden and being called by name. It seems intentional to me that the disciples’ fear is not really the beginning of the story, but rather right in the middle, after all possible assurances have been made that Jesus is alive.

A friend of mine said this week that usually by Easter Sunday they are pulled out of the funk that Holy Week puts them in, but that this year it has been harder to leave behind that feeling of darkness. The journey through Jesus’s death and resurrection remind us who we are, and sometimes that is a hard reminder. We are a fearful people, even in the face of our greatest joy. The disciples were promised eternal life, and sundown on Easter found them in a room locked from the inside, afraid of death.

Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest and university professor, writes about her search for “real life” in her book Leaving Church. She writes, “You do not have to [literally] die in order to discover the truth… You only need to lose track of who you are, or who you thought you were supposed to be, so that you end up lying flat on the dirt floor basement of your heart. Do this, Jesus says, and you will live.”

If Lent is a reminder of our humanity, of the ashes that we came from and shall return to, then the Easter season is the perfect time to lose track of who we are. It’s a time to forget that we are fearful, and doubtful, and probably not listening to the women trying to tell us something. Easter is time to let Jesus into our locked rooms, whatever they may be, and rejoice. Easter is a time to lose track of who we think we are and remember that God has made us a resurrection people.

Of course, that is often easier said than done.

Last year for Easter I was in Johannesburg, South Africa, having just spent a month in a tiny village in Swaziland. Swaziland is a landlocked country inside of South Africa. Some fun facts: it’s the last absolute monarchy in the world. It’s population is almost 100% ethnically Swazi. It is one of the youngest countries in the world, with over 35% of the population age 14 or younger, and at the current rate of HIV and AIDS infection, the WHO has predicted that by 2050 Swaziland will most likely cease to exist.

Nsoko, the town where I lived, was less of a town and more of a collection of army barracks, mud huts, a couple of small shops, and a bus stop where 18-passenger vans called koombees would pick you up and, for about 25 U.S. cents, take you 30 kilometers down the road to Matata, a town with a grocery store. If you took a koombee to Matata, you drove through endless fields that were mostly dry and brown. The entirety of southern Africa was—and still is— in the middle of a decade-long drought, and Swaziland is among the countries hardest hit both physically and economically, because it’s main export is sugar cane.

I was in Swaziland for most of Lent, and it was easy to remember that we came from dust, because I was constantly dusty. Orange dirt stained everything, including but not limited to: my clothes, my tent, my journal, and the entire book of Proverbs in my Bible. All month, I helped with feeding programs and taught kindergarten lessons to children who came to a care point run by local grandmothers. Most of the kids were AIDS orphans, being raised by an older sibling or some other relative. In many cases, the food the kids got at the care point was the only meal they would have that day. It was easy to remember that we came from dust.

We left Swaziland for Johannesburg on Good Friday, which, as a metaphor for coming out of Lent, was a little too on-the-nose for me. It was a hard month to leave behind. There are a lot of clichés that I could say about my month in Swaziland (or my mission program in general), but the truth is harder to get a handle on. I did not grow in my own spiritual life because of the poverty I saw around me, although it would be easy to say that. I did not learn to trust God in everything because of the faith of the Swazi people, although it would also be easy to say that. The truth is that on Easter last year, I was still in a locked room. As much as I wanted to believe in the resurrection of Jesus, in his blood poured out for me and for many for the forgiveness of sins, and in his emptying of the tomb, I was fearful. I doubted that the kingdom of God could ever come to earth in such a powerful way that these vast inequalities would be righted.

The doubt and fear might look different for you. I spent a year on an international mission trip. Maybe you spent a year trying to get pregnant, or trying to get sober, or trying to get a handle on your depression or anxiety. Maybe whatever’s inside your locked room is so private, so tender, that you haven’t even said the words out loud. It is easier to lock the doors than to believe against all hope that joy is coming. Clutching tight to all the threads we’re afraid of unraveling is sometimes easier than lying down on that dirt floor basement and waiting to see who we really are.

But I’m mixing metaphors. All of this is to say, this year I have a new sympathy for Thomas.

We don’t know where Thomas was when Jesus appeared to the rest of the disciples, and this is the only story where Thomas plays a starring role, and it’s one of the most embarrassing moments of his life (to put it lightly). The other disciples had seen Jesus together. They had already touched his hands and side, and felt Jesus’s breath on them. And while all the rest of the disciples had finally moved out of the grimness of Holy Week, Thomas would not be moved until he saw proof with his own eyes.

In my study Bible, the note on this verse says, “Thomas refused the apostles’ ‘gospel’ about Jesus.” He refused the good news. I once gave a sermon on this same story and compared Thomas’s reaction to Mary Magdalene’s, how neither of them actually believed that Jesus would do what he said he was going to do. Neither of them believed in the resurrection until they saw it, the difference is how they reacted when they were faced with the truth. We don’t know exactly why Thomas didn’t believe his closest friends, the people he had been living with for three years. It’s easy to say that he doubted God’s abilities.

But I think beyond disbelief, there was hurt. I think a part of Thomas said, “Why would Jesus appear to my friends and not to me? Was I not good enough? Did I not also give everything up to follow him? If this is true, why wouldn’t Jesus wait for me?”

I am very good at holding on to hurt. Like Thomas, I stubbornly refuse the good news of the resurrection, because I want proof. The easiest way to win an argument is to provide evidence, right? There is so much evidence of suffering and of need in the world that it can be hard to listen to people telling us good news. My impulse is to trace the scars of the world before I talk about the joy there is to be grasped.

But ultimately the point of today’s gospel story is that Jesus comes to us in our locked room, in our demands for proof, in our newsfeeds inundated with bad news, and says, “Reach out your hand. Do not doubt, but believe.”

Jesus says, “This is my body broken for you. This is my blood poured out for you. This is the Holy Spirit, who is always with you.”

When Thomas touched Jesus’s wounds, he cried out “My Lord and my God!” It doesn’t say what his posture was, but I like to believe he fell to his knees. Christian tradition holds that later Thomas travelled widely, and died in India while preaching the Gospel.

In a poem called “Manifesto,” Wendell Berry says, “Be like the fox / who makes more tracks than necessary, some in the wrong direction. Practice resurrection.”

I pray we should all be so bold, as the disciples were, to let Jesus into the locked room. Lie down on the dirt floor. Like Thomas, make tracks in the wrong direction, and come back again. In this Easter season, may we be so bold as to practice resurrection.

White Christians, We Need To Get Out Of The Way

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

A year ago today, I jumped into the Zambezi River and swam to the edge of Victoria Falls.

This time last year, I was living in a 3-room house in Zambia with 12 other people and sharing a twin mattress with a teammate. I stood in a dirt-floored church and prayed for people who lived in a slum with only one water spigot. I stood in a church that met in a classroom and cried as a woman named Juliet sang with the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard, a voice that filled me up, that is still echoing somewhere inside my heart.

I’m telling you this because I want you to know where I come from.

//

This year, I called my senators about Betsy DeVos’s nomination for Secretary of Education. I got a nasty virus and didn’t get out of bed for a week. I watched my roommate and my youth and my friends and family march in Women’s Marches across the nation, and I was so freaking proud. They posted pictures of their signs and the thousands of people marching around them.

Some of my other friends posted pictures of women, too. The women in these pictures were not marching. Sometimes they had faces, but mostly their backs were turned. They were doing laundry, cooking, turned away from the camera, immersed in the vital work of everyday life.

I don’t know the names of the women in the pictures, nor their stories or hometowns. They live in developing countries around the world- somewhere vaguely South Asian, somewhere vaguely South American. Their house and clothes, you are supposed to understand from the picture, means they are not rich, not privileged, actually oppressed.

It’s the words that went along with the pictures that made me cry. Stop whining, they said. Stop marching for equality when someone else has it so much worse off than you. We are so blessed in America. You’re forgetting the women in other countries who have problems that actually matter. Don’t forget about real oppression.

//

An American is sexually assaulted every 98 seconds. 1 out of 6 American women have been the victim of attempted or completed rape in their lifetime. Native American women are assaulted or raped at even higher rates- 1 out of 3 Native women will be assaulted in their lifetime. Out of every 1,000 rapes, 6 rapists will be incarcerated.

But, America is the ideal to strive for.

White women earn 79 cents on the dollar of what white men earn. African-American women earn 60 cents on every white man’s dollar, Latina women 55 cents. That means for every $5 earned by a white man, at best a woman can earn less than $4 for the exact same work.

But, we’re not oppressed, we’re blessed.

In 2015, 13.5% of Americans were in poverty according the U.S. Census Bureau. 14.5 million of those in poverty were children under the age of 18. That’s 19.7% of American children, or 1 of out of every 5.

But, we have nothing to march for.

When Christians go on mission trips, they do it because they are trying to heal a deep brokenness they see in the world. But these same Christians who claim to be for women, who want to make disciples of all nations, will post pictures of women without even asking their permission, and use them to prove a political point.

Stop doing this.

Stop using poor women as political capital to silence other women.

The women who marched on Washington did it for the women in those photos- the ones who don’t get the dignity of names or stories or being more than a stereotypically impoverished background to some crappy theology. The feminist movement is not perfect, but it is for equality, even if the struggle for equality looks wildly different in every country, in every race, in every class, in every life.

Our liberation is bound up together.

While we may need a new theology of missions to go along with it, we can improve both America and the world, if we are willing to do the slow work of excavating our privilege and listening to the voiceless we so often like to speak for. We, as in: white feminists. We, as in: white evangelical Christians. We, as in: those ready to spit in the face of empire, and weed out the colonial tendencies in our own hearts.

But we can’t do it divided. We can’t do it while we are colonizing certain women’s narratives, and using them to shut down the stories of others. We can’t do it while we are only using poor women in developing nations as props, and imposing a single, convenient, impoverished story onto countries with thousands of years of history and hundreds of years of colonialism running deep in the soil.

We can speak truth to power. We can give a platform to the voices of the powerless. But we, the powerful, the white, have to get out of the way.

//

This time last year, I was trying to tell a good story about the women I met. I don’t know if I ever did a good enough job. I’m telling you this because I want you to know I am part of the problem.

But Juliet’s voice is still echoing inside my heart, singing a hymn of praise in Bemba, and somewhere in God’s expansive universe I am still at the edge of the world with one hand stretched out into the open sky, the current rushing around me, and I am praying.

Letting the Light In

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” -Leonard Cohen

I realized I was queer in a church. Which is incredibly on-brand for me.

Actually, what I realized was that I couldn’t hide anymore.

In my head, I’d been planning on quietly dating whoever I wanted and never telling anyone, and I’d changed the settings on my dating app accordingly. But standing and listening to the liturgy of the Table, something inside me cracked. I realized that I couldn’t come to the table to receive Christ’s body and blood as anyone other than myself- whole, complete.

When I was little, I had an illustrated children’s Bible. In the story of Jonah, it depicted Jonah trying to hide from God in the hold of the ship- but God finds him there, as the light that shines through the small porthole into the dark room. On that page, the Bible simply said, “But God found him there.”

One Sunday, the choir was singing my favorite hymn, and my new community was moving forward to receive the Eucharist. And I sat in a pew shaking, because God had found me there.

//

I’m bisexual. That’s the “B” in “LGBTQIA,” and it means that I’m attracted to both women and men. (There’s no percentage system here, like I’m 50% lesbian now- I am all bi, and always attracted to both men and women, all the time.)

I could tell you how I’ve always known this, deep down. I could tell you how hard I fought to pretend I was only attracted to men for twenty-one years, trying to fool myself more than anyone. I could tell you how the first time I said the words, “I think I’m bisexual,” I was drunk in my friend’s kitchen, scared to death because I was leaving on the World Race in a week, scared of who I was and what even saying those words meant. I could tell you about my gay friends whose nice, Christian families rejected them, and how terrified their stories made me of ever acknowledging my sexuality.

I could tell you how I came out to my roommate, and his face cracked into the widest smile, and I knew things would be okay.

I could tell you about the stacks of books and articles I read and hours of conversations I had in college, rethinking my theology, re-learning what it means to love LGBT people, going back and forth around Scripture and context and the original Greek and Hebrew.

I could tell you about the shame I carried for so long, convinced that there was a part of me that God would never quite love.

But in all of these things I could tell you, there was the light trying to get through.

//

I didn’t want to come out on the internet. On top of the fact that it’s super cliche, and literally anyone can read this post anytime, and it’s attached to my name forever- on top of all of this, my sexuality should be none of your business. Should be.

But existing as a queer woman is a political act. Like existing as a a woman, as a person of color, a trans person, a disabled person, is a political act. Our very lives are a threat to the powerful, and our freedom is bound up together.

So, as a queer, female Christian, I felt the need to publicly come out to my communities.

Most of my communities are in the South, the region Flannery O’Connor called “Christ-haunted”; and this Christ-haunted Southern spirituality is woven into who I am and how I understand Jesus and the Bible. Several of my communities are in the Methodist church, and the UMC is currently struggling with how to fully accept LGBT people- people like me. The people and churches who shaped me with their love, their presence, and their faith deserve to know me in the fullness of who God created me to be.

These communities always taught me the mission of the church is bound up with freedom for the downtrodden. Where there is brokenness and cries for healing, there is the Spirit.

And when our response to the cries of the LGBT community is rejection, or silence, we are complicit in their suffering.

Sharing our stories, living together in the wholeness, breaks open the darkness.

Hatred, fear, anything other than love and acceptance- it flees at the light that finds us in the darkness, even the darkness we make ourselves. And so I am trying to push the door open a little wider, let a little more light in, exist in spaces I have not been welcomed to.

//

I didn’t want to write this post, because this shouldn’t be anyone’s business.

But I needed to write this, because I cannot come to the table as anything other than who I am. And this is me- bisexual, feminist, left-handed, semi-Episcopalian, Gryffindor. Child of God. Loved, as I am.

Over and over, God has found me hiding, and claimed me yet again.

Re-Entry is Hard and I’m Not Okay

It’s been two months since I got home from the Race.

For the first month, I swear, I was fine. I was surrounded by my best friends and my family. Bless the Lord, oh my soul, I ate Chik-fil-a probably four times a week. I preached in church without crying.

To be honest, I didn’t cry at all in that first month. I was caught up in the familiarity of home, soaking in all the love my newly-retired parents and my friends on summer break could give me. Not every Racer is so lucky, I know, to have a place to come back to that fits so well.

This second month has been… different.

For example: I’m standing outside the largest REI in the country. There was a mix-up with my account, and I was embarrassed in front of the cashier and Hilary, my new roommate. Outside, I’m trying not to cry and also calling my mom, ostensibly to figure out the mix-up with the REI membership but mostly because I need to hear her voice right then, so that I don’t cry in front of all the rest of my new roommates, who are now gathered and ready to go. Like a child, I need my mom to tell me everything is going to be okay.

That was the moment I realized I wasn’t doing okay.

//

Lately, my journal entries have been strings of questions.

Is it okay that I cry so much now? Should I have moved to Seattle? Am I a coward for being so scared?

I have struggled to find language to explain how God communicates for a long time. It’s easiest to say “and then God spoke,” but God does not speak to me. God is not silent; God is also not audible, and hardly ever like fire or rushing wind or immediate answers, like I and others have tried to make God out to be.

In this season, God is like a seed. Like something small and surprising, nestled in damp soil. God is a thing to be nourished, the point of all my hopes.

So in the silence that always follows my list of questions, I sense the presence of the Spirit: because my faith feels like a field lying fallow, and I hope there is something beneath the surface, waiting to emerge.

//

In this second month after the Race, I moved into a new community with five total strangers. (A weirdly familiar experience.)

Barbara Brown Taylor once wrote about being asked to speak, and when she asked what she should speak on, her friend replied, “Tell us what’s saving your life right now.”

Right now, what’s saving my life is these five strangers.

I have one roommate who says profound, deeply-felt words with a gentle voice. One is the most brilliant and passionate person I’ve ever met, and another one is wise and caring beyond his years. One entrusts his story to others with insane courage. And another carries his family history, his life story, and his passions like the sacred things they are.

They are so beautiful. They are so different from me, and they are what’s saving my life right now.

I’m not okay right now. I’m overwhelmed by a lot of things, like REI and my community’s monthly grocery budget and not having to constantly be in the same room with someone. What I’m learning from my roommates is how okay this is, to not be okay. I get to come home anyway.

God is like this, too. God can be a seed and a home, all at once.

Probably, in the next couple of weeks (or months), I will call my mom again just because I need to hear her voice. I might cry in the grocery store (but I really hope I don’t). I will probably have another moment where I am confronted with how hard the Race was, and all the ways it is still affecting me.

But I still to get to come home. And I get to make a home, with the people who are currently saving my life, so that someday I might do the same for them.