Sharing Faith and Hope

Over at Episcopal Cafe there's a discussion on about whether or not gays and lesbians should debate scripture.  It's based on this article at the Religion Dispatches site, which was in response to this article on The Huffington Post.  It's an interesting discussion, and I think a great deal of it hinges on the definitions of argue, debate, and discuss, which is a post for another time.

What caught my eye was Jay Michaelson's opening paragraph in the Religion Dispatches piece:

It is tough, lonely, and occasionally dangerous to be an LGBT religious activist. Fellow queers think you’re an apologist for an oppressive system, or that you haven’t yet gotten over your guilt about being gay. Religious people think you’re nuts, or evil, or worse. And you have to be told, time and time again, that your love for your partner, lover, or friend is no different from someone’s lust for a sheep. I think our work is saving the world, but it definitely sucks at times.

From the perspective of my many years of dealing with these issues, Michaelson has hit the nail on the head. Those of us who are both LGBTQ and Christian are often scorned, chastised, and even excluded by both communities. There are times when I tire of filling the role of token LBGTQ person in my congregation. And equally, of being the token Christian in in many LGBTQ circles. Let me tell you, ardent LBGTQ activists can be as nasty and hurtful as the most right-wing fundamentalist Christian.

I do have short answers for both situations:

LBGTQ Critic:  How can you belong to such an intolerant organization? Why don't you leave?
Me: How can you live in such an intolerant country? Why don't you move to Denmark or the Netherlands?

Christian Critic: How can you so flagrantly disobey God's Law?
Me:  When you're keeping all 613 mitzvot come back, and we'll discuss it.

That usually ends the conversation. Especially since both types of folks really aren't interested in conversation.

However, I don't believe in shutting it down interaction with someone who disagrees with me simply because we disagree.

Quite frankly, I probably wouldn't be a Christian today if it weren't for one evening during my senior year of college spent sitting with a college friend on his dorm room floor as he walked me through Paul's Letter to the Romans. Tom was a member of Intervarsity Christian Fellowship, as were a number of my college friends. Occasionally, they invited me to their meetings, and I attended once or twice. Those meetings made me uncomfortable, in no small part because I was in the midst of Coming Out. I don't remember how Tom and I ended up having that particular conversation, but it probably started with my trying to explain to him just why I was uncomfortable with their meetings. I also don't remember much about our conversation except that he presented Romans 1:26-27 in a way that emphasized the sin rather than the consequences and treated the consequences presented as part of Paul's rhetoric. It was an eye opening conversation for me.

Nor would I have as great an appreciation for the Eucharist if I hadn't attended a workshop given by Bishop Jeffery Rowthorn, with whom I often disagree where LBGTQ issues are concerned. A few years later I had the opportunity to tell Bishop Rowthorn how much that workshop taught me and what it meant to me. He seemed genuinely touched. In spite of our differences.

And then there are the times when a conversation about Christianity begins with an LBGTQ person where I am called to listen. The church, in all its forms, has inflicted a great deal of pain on us. Including on me. It still does. So I listen, and if appropriate, offer the faith and hope of my own experience. Sometimes, a seed is planted.

Sometimes a seed is planted in me. 

Someday I hope I can tell Tom how much fruit our conversation bore and continues to bear in my life.