Monthly Archives: May 2014

When We Grow Up… to 100 Posts

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Hello Readers, and Happy Friday! We’ve been so blessed by getting to know you all. We love sharing our thoughts with you and are excited to note that today marks our 100th post on the blog. In honor of the occasion, we decided to take a break from serious discussion and write a just-for-fun post about our recent trip to New York City.

On the drive to New York, we had a great conversation about how we don’t see our relationship as being principally romantic. We conceive of our relationship more as an absolute commitment to sharing life together through thick and thin. Both of us can’t wait to spend time just being in each other’s presence, but those times of togetherness have been few and far between during the last several months. Lindsey has been between jobs, so we’ve both been working as many hours as we can muster in order to make sure all our needs are met. Part of the reason we try to write so faithfully on this blog is that it’s one of the most meaningful ways we’ve found for spending quality time together during this incredibly stressful season.  We hadn’t been making any travel plans for the foreseeable future, but like most things we’ve experienced together, the logistics of this trip fell into place organically. Through a series of unlikely events, we had received some AirBnB travel credit on the same day as Lindsey recovered an email from the spam folder announcing that one of our all-time favorite musicals, Matilda, was on spring pricing.

Taking a vacation to recover feelings of connectedness, no matter how a couple understands their relationship, can be tricky. We’ve learned that establishing connection involves creating space for the other simply to be. Travelers to any city can easily lose time to relax and reconnect because they are busy trying to take in all of the sights. We deliberately scheduled ourselves such that the only place we had to be at a certain time was the theater, and the rest of the time was free. Since we had seen the show on Broadway once before, we had a reasonably good handle on what kinds of things we might consider doing while still managing to get to the show on time.

One reason we find so much joy in cultivating a shared way of life is that our natural ways of relating to one another mesh quite well. Sometimes without even noticing, within the same activity we manage to meet both Sarah’s need for unpredictability and Lindsey’s need for downtime off the beaten path. We’re able to be spontaneous and sometimes happen upon places and experiences that others might overlook, all while seeking a space where peace and quiet oddly coexists with the chaotic. On the way to an ice cream shop, we got derailed by what we think are the world’s best cookies at the Cookie Jar, a small business tucked away on Staten Island. We were delighted to discover that the cookies were both inexpensive and scrumptious. The raspberry hazelnut thumbprints, cannoli creams, and chocolate chip pecans were some of our favorites. It’s a good thing this store ships cookies because we’re not sure we can wait until our next New York trip to enjoy some again. Somehow, spending our Saturday afternoon relaxing on Staten Island was exactly what both of us needed.

Various antique cookie jars sit in cubbies along one wall of the Cookie Jar

Various antique cookie jars sit in cubbies along one wall of the Cookie Jar

Unsure of how many delays we might experience along our trek back into Manhattan, we said goodbye to the Cookie Jar and made our way back toward the ferry. Did we mention that the (free) Staten Island Ferry also serves as a great poor man’s/introvert’s Statue of Liberty tour?

A view of the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry

A view of the Statue of Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry

As it turned out, we were able to make our way to the Shubert Theater far more lackadaisically than expected. Arriving at the theater with nearly perfect timing felt like the Holy Grail of visits to New York City: we had to wait only 10 minutes before people began taking their seats. Once the show began, we were soon enchanted by Gabriella Pizzolo’s outstanding performance in the show’s titular role.

Holding our Playbills in front of the Matilda stage

Holding our Playbills in front of the Matilda stage

To give you a taste of the American iteration of Matilda, check out this medley from the Tony Awards that features “Naughty,” “Revolting Children,” and “When I Grow Up.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A06-8IWjFSE

… and just because Lindsey loves to share all things Matilda, here’s a fuller version of “When I Grow Up” performed by the London cast:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e0tRDhEmdO4

Upon leaving New York the next day, we took our time driving home. The long drive offered ample opportunities for us to critique the Americanizations of the show (which were even more pronounced than the first time we saw it) and to share stories with one another. This weekend was the first opportunity we’d had in months (well, at least outside of blogging) to engage each other in meaningful discussion. Being able to spend some time talking just with each other was reinvigorating. This time helped us to feel even more deeply connected not only to each other, but also to the broader dialogue we are privileged to hold with all of you. Today as our little blog grows up to its 100th post, we are especially hopeful that A Queer Calling will continue to be a place of safe, productive, and fun interactions.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Every “Scandal” Has Its Story

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As a celibate, LGBT, Christian couple, frequently we receive caution that we should avoid inciting scandal. People have all sorts of advice: we should not refer to ourselves as a couple and instead choose the more neutral language of friend or roommate, we should avoid describing ourselves as LGBT, we should constantly stress our commitment to celibacy, etc. We take significant time to reflect on how we’re being received by other people even as we simply try to live our lives. We do not pretend for an instant that we’re above having our way of life challenged, but we often wonder if, in a number of situations, people allege scandal rather than inviting conversations about how we’ve offended their sensibilities.

Let us be perfectly clear about something from the outset: we tend to be incredibly discreet. There are certain environments where we’d never introduce ourselves as a couple. We’re not people who have LGBT pride symbols plastered all over our cars or our clothing. We like having low profiles. Even on this blog, we do take some steps to protect our comparative anonymity by not disclosing our last names, specific Christian tradition, parish, priest, location, employers, and other highly identifiable information. We don’t mind being discreet because we see this as an essential part of being safe in a world that can be all too hostile to LGBT people.

However, at the same time, we find ourselves ready to spit nails when people constantly exhort us to be even more discreet in an effort to avoid scandal. We’d like to spend some time reflecting on what people mean when they tell us we should avoid scandalizing others. We know that our presence in many church communities is challenging, and some might say that it borders on scandal. Yet, we have to wonder about the degree to which we are actually stepping near scandal’s boundary. Because of the different ways we’ve been accused, we wonder if people are quick to cry “Scandal!” every time they see something that offends their personal sensibilities or varies from how they would attempt to navigate sensitive intersections of doctrine, morality, and shifting social norms.

One basic assumption many people make is that no one knows we are LGBT unless we tell them. Unfortunately, this assumption is completely false. We’ve talked a bit about this assumption when we asked if we are protected by celibacy. For example, people nearly always assume that Lindsey is a member of the LGBT community because of Lindsey’s physical appearance. It doesn’t matter that Lindsey has perfected different versions of pronoun games, is comfortable avoiding discussing anything related to LGBT concerns in church settings, and works extremely hard to focus on growing spiritually. Lindsey knows that cultivating close friendships with people in a local church can lead to accusations of sexual misconduct, even if all Lindsey has done is talk excitedly with a fellow parishioner in a private conversation observed from a distance by other parishioners. Lindsey has gotten so accustomed to protecting information about LGBT status that we haven’t even disclosed on this blog how Lindsey prefers to identify — a trend that will be continuing for the foreseeable future.

Often, we wonder what people are thinking when they tell us that we have a propensity toward scandal. Are they really concerned that seeing a couple like us will lead others into sin? Are they worried for their own souls, the souls of other parishioners, and the souls of people who see us each day? Are they concerned that we’re a kind of “sleeper cell” that is waiting until the time is right to advocate for radical shifts in how our Christian tradition understands marriage, sexuality, gender, and other human relationships? Do they think we’ll lead other people to confusion about what our Christian tradition teaches relative to marriage and sexuality? If so, wouldn’t they have an obligation to raise these concerns with us directly or with our priest?

We can, and do, appreciate that these concerns have some merit when considered exclusively against the backdrop of a Church besieged by the culture wars. Unfortunately, the emphasis many churches place on the current political and social climate frames the conversation in terms of LGBT issues rather than LGBT people. Focusing on the culture wars places all the responsibility on LGBT people to address the fears of cisgender, heterosexual people. When a person perceives himself or herself on the “right” side, that individual can fall into a pattern of avoiding questions about his or her own discomfort. It seems to us that many cisgender, heterosexual Christians think they deserve a free pass on these questions because they aren’t actively doing anything that violates their sense of orthodoxy.

Many Christian traditions have written or unwritten sets of “standard minimum expectations” for people who are members of those specific traditions. In our own lives, we’ve found it all too easy to be judge, jury, and executioner when it comes to people who seemingly disregard these expectations. To illustrate how we’ve had to navigate our own senses of being scandalized by others, we’re going to highlight two examples. The first will likely resonate with our readers from a more generally evangelical background, and the second will likely resonate with our readers from liturgical backgrounds.

We’ve both belonged to local churches where it was the norm, presented almost as a requirement, that all members of the community participate in some midweek ministries. These midweek ministries might be anything from Bible studies to service ministries to prayer groups. Once after Lindsey had joined a community that required all members to attend a weekly small group, Lindsey learned that an administrator paid by the church who had been a long-standing member had never been involved in a small group. This person had been around the church for years and surely knew better. Lindsey was completely shocked and appalled that the church would knowingly employ such a person who made it crystal clear that one could regard small groups as optional. Other people Lindsey approached were equally flabbergasted by the situation. Later, Lindsey learned that there was much more to the story: this person was busily attending to parents who were battling some very serious illnesses. To say Lindsey was crestfallen upon realizing how quickly Lindsey had rushed to judgement is an understatement. One never knows when there’s more than meets the eye.

Switching gears to discuss an example that might be reasonably common in liturgical traditions, in Catholic and Orthodox churches a person might encounter a situation like this one that Sarah remembers: At one of Sarah’s past parishes, a family that regularly attended consisted of a single mother and her three small children. The family would leave immediately after service every Sunday so the mother could get to work. One day, a friend of Sarah’s invited this family to stay after the service to enjoy lunch. The mother declined the invitation, commenting, “Thank you, but I have to get to work. I had enough to eat at breakfast.” In liturgical traditions where there is some type of fasting requirement before receiving the Eucharist, this sort of comment might seem curious, especially if the person making the comment had communed earlier that morning. Sarah’s friend who had invited the mother to lunch wondered aloud, “Didn’t she receive the Eucharist the morning? Doesn’t she keep the fast at all?” After getting to know this mother better, Sarah and Sarah’s friend found out that on Sundays the mother had to work two shifts at two separate jobs. Sunday breakfast was the only time she had to eat a decent meal all day, which was necessary because both jobs required her to be on her feet for hours at a time. Once again, one never knows when there’s more than meets the eye.

When we consider the question of scandal in these contexts, it seems natural to reflect also on the question of gossip. Is the person caring for elderly parents obligated to disclose the gory details of her struggle to ensure her parents had what they needed? Is the person preparing to work two 8-hour shifts required to explain to everyone why she needs to eat breakfast and forgo the Eucharistic fast? To be sure, it seems reasonable that a person might discuss with a pastor or priest how he or she believes it is best to navigate these difficult situations. However, is it really up to members of the congregation to assume that they know exactly what’s happening? There are instances in which allegations of scandal are misplaced, sometimes even leading the accuser unwittingly toward gossip and other forms of uncharitable speech and action.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

All Are Welcome! (Some Conditions May Apply)

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A reflection by Sarah

It’s not really a secret that many LGBT people struggle to feel welcome at church. However, as I think on my own experiences, I can’t help but conclude that we often misdiagnose exactly what makes people feel unwelcome in faith communities. When trying to find a community where I can come fully alive in Christ as an LGBT person with somewhat traditionalist sensibilities regarding theology and liturgical life, I’ve frequently felt like a square peg trying to fit into a round hole. As I’ve gotten to know other people walking in similar spaces, I’ve noted that it is rare for a person to be free to discuss openly his or her sexual orientation or gender identity, preference for historic patterns of worship, and appreciation for traditional theology all within the same faith community. Thus, folks at this particular intersection can find themselves fitting in nowhere.

To help readers grasp what life in the midst of this tension feels like, I want to share my experience of searching for a church home once after I had moved to a new city. I encountered two parishes full of people who were passionately committed to Christ. The one I’ll refer to as “St. Andrew’s” had a visible desire to engage in social justice work, and parishioners were entirely committed to living life at the front lines of loving their neighbors as themselves. The one I’ll call “St. John’s” valued forming people of all ages in the faith, providing ample opportunities for parishioners to tap into traditional prayers and spiritual practices. However, as a person attracted to life at both parishes, I soon realized that parishioners saw these two communities as being a bit at the extremes. The communities were so distinct from one another that most people I got to know at one couldn’t see how a person might find value in the activities and pursuits of the other. My own sense of self – a lesbian seeking deep spiritual formation within traditional Christianity – prevented people at both parishes from recognizing me as “one of them” no matter how much I participated in parish life.

When I first moved to the city, I was in a spiritual and emotional space that left me with an acute need for love and acceptance. Because of this, I searched out parishes known for welcoming absolutely everyone. My search brought me very conveniently to St. Andrew’s, a parish less than two blocks away from my apartment. From the moment I set foot in a Sunday service, it was clear that St. Andrew’s welcomed every kind of human diversity present under the sun. As soon as people found out I was new, they peppered me with helpful tips for adapting to life in my new city. Immediately, I had recommendations for local grocery stores, fun free things to do, parish ministries in which I could become involved, and the best place to go for frozen custard. Over time, I realized that St. Andrew’s folks would do just about anything to love their neighbors. Parishioners visited families living in poverty to discern their needs, held regular fundraising events to help people rebuild homes and meet basic needs after disaster struck, delivered first-aid kits to homes that would otherwise lack band-aids and antiseptics, and constantly referred people to social services organizations if and when the parish wasn’t able to help more directly. St. Andrew’s proclaimed a loving acceptance for all people because, according to its members, St. Andrews “welcomed everyone, no matter what.” All signs pointed to a thriving parish.

I was quick to get involved even though I had concerns about how St. Andrew’s seemingly failed to promote the observance of disciplines I found essential to my spiritual growth and wellbeing. I thought that surely as I shared my life within the parish, I’d find at least some people who would resonate with how I valued traditional devotions and approaches to liturgical worship. Within the first month, I was able to disclose a good deal about my own life. The congregation accepted me completely as a lesbian, and I found many people willing to discuss certain practical theological topics with me. However, after I had been at the parish for about six months, I realized that the only theological topics people were very interested in talking about centered on social justice and concerns that there needed to be “updates” to teachings on women’s ordination and gay marriage. Mentioning that I was considering a non-monastic celibate vocation resulted in questions such as, “Don’t you accept yourself as you are?” and, “Why are you letting the Church get to you so much?” Though I found myself irked by these queries, especially because this Christian tradition recognizes celibacy as a vocational option, I could handle them. I had much more difficulty when I began to see that that every conversation I attempted to start about the Church fathers, liturgy, official Church documents, or traditional spiritual practices would fall on deaf ears. One person even went so far as to tell me, “God hears what you have to say from your heart so you don’t need any scripted prayer.” I found it exceptionally odd that a person within a liturgical Christian tradition would have such a disparaging attitude regarding the prayers that have shaped this tradition.

It didn’t help that I had these conversations when I felt like I was floundering spiritually. I had an incredibly full schedule, and I found it difficult in that season of life to connect with the still, small voice of God. St. Andrew’s seemingly expected people to connect with God through serving the poor. Yet, even though I was actively conducting home visits and sorting baby clothes for new mothers living in the city’s poorest neighborhoods, I perceived a real need for more contemplative spirituality. As I sought counsel from my priest, he told me that I just needed to get more involved in the parish’s ministries than I was already. I thought his prescription failed to address my main concerns. Not seeing any alternatives within the St. Andrew’s community, I began to look elsewhere in an effort to meet my spiritual needs.

I had heard about another parish, St. John’s, and decided to investigate further. I chose to try this parish for a number of reasons: it was geographically close to my apartment, I’d heard it had a beautiful liturgy that was much more traditional than contemporary, and I’d determined after a bit of research that it had several parish ministries aimed at fostering spiritual growth. As I met with the priest, he seemed excited to welcome me as a prospective parishioner. He showed me different events on the church calendar where people would gather to pray traditional prayers and support each other in a shared prayer life. When I mentioned the interest I’d expressed previously in starting a discussion group at St. Andrew’s on a Church document, he met me with enthusiasm and indicated that many people at St. John’s might also be interested. After that meeting, I rejoiced because I thought I had finally found a place where I could grow spiritually. When I went to Sunday liturgy, I felt a profound sense of connection to God and to my Christian tradition. This parish saw that adults were continuously learning about their faith; members of the parish placed a high value on scripture, tradition, and Church history. But because St. John’s had relatively few opportunities to do social justice ministry, I continued to volunteer with people from St. Andrew’s.

I experienced excellent formation in my time at St. John’s, but still did not gain a sense of feeling completely at home. Almost immediately, I caught on to the fact that St. John’s was not a safe place to be LGBT, as demonstrated through a number of clues. One Sunday in a homily, the priest emphasized how homosexuals would not inherit the kingdom of God. As I listened to him preach, I realized that I had not mentioned to him that I was a lesbian during our initial meeting. Another hint was that one long-time member of the parish was easier to identify by appearance as being a member of the LGBT community, and the lack of acceptance for this man was abundantly clear. Many parishioners talked about him behind his back, saying things like: I don’t know why Tom comes to church every Sunday if he’s not going to try to be normal, and Tom’s been here for years, but I would never let him around my children. The things those people do are abominable. I tried my best to foster conversations about any number of non-sexuality-related topics with other parishioners, and I perceived the people at St. John’s to be genuine folks who were doing their best to serve God. Though I discussed many diverse topics and built relationships with them, it seemed that no amount of relationship building could influence their perceptions of LGBT people. The moment that I took the plunge and revealed to one trusted person in that parish that I was a lesbian, I realized the gravity of my mistake. She responded immediately with, “Are you trying to get yourself healed so you can marry a man some day?” When I said, “No…” she cut me off before I could even mention my exploration of celibacy and asked, “Well then, why are you here? Why don’t you go to a denomination that’s more liberal and accepts people like you?”

I felt caught in an inescapable tension between these two parishes, electing to try and attend both for the next year and a half. I had never ended my involvement in the social justice ministries at St. Andrew’s. Most Sundays, I elected to go to St. John’s for worship and simply not stay to socialize with anyone afterward. Occasionally, I’d continue to pop in at different traditional prayer and study groups. Independent of my best efforts to do church with both communities, I realized I was constantly being forced to choose between being known and being loved. To be loved at St. Andrew’s, I couldn’t be known as a liturgical and theological traditionalist. To be loved at St. John’s, I couldn’t be known as a member of the LGBT community. As a result, neither parish afforded me a place to be me.

Summoning every bit of internal strength possible and giving one’s all to being church with others has an added level of challenge when you’re LGBT. I’d go so far as to say that sometimes, this feels impossible if you’re LGBT and at least somewhat of a traditionalist. Throughout my twenties, I continually experienced the St. Andrew’s and St. John’s scenarios playing out in my life every time I moved to a new place. They played out with greatest reliability when I was a part of my former Christian tradition. In my current Christian tradition, parishes are generally small, separated by long geographic distances, or both. Everyone who is a part of this tradition in a certain area organically ends up in the same church community, and that reality creates its own set of unique challenges. For my part as an LGBT person with traditionalist sensibilities, I experience a double-silencing. I feel as though I’m constantly being told to seek a church where “my kind of people” go. Depending on the context, “my kind of people” can have a host of different meanings. Generally, I don’t have trouble figuring out the implications of that phrase within a specific church community. Yet each time the issue arises, I find myself wondering: who are “my kind of people”? Folks within the LGBT community, or Christians with traditionalist sensibilities? I’m tired of being informed that my people fit neatly within any category narrower than “the Body of Christ.”

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Stumbling towards Celibacy

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A reflection by Lindsey

We’ve been talking a good bit here about how celibacy is a mature adult vocation. One needs to enter into celibacy rather than waiting for it to appear like magic. I’d go so far as to say that it helps when there’s a decided choice — a distinct, discrete moment of decision — to become a celibate. However, this past weekend I realized that particular frame is a bit too easy. It’s too neat, it’s too packaged, and it’s honestly a bit sterile. I’ve found my own celibate vocation by stumbling in the darkness, taking on a metric ton of risks along the way, and hoping that someday soon the broader Christian church would wise up in how it supports lay people discern celibate ways of life.

My journey towards celibacy is strange. I began it in the context of a romantic relationship. Neither one of us had a strong framework for what it meant to be celibate. We spent our time trying to draw good boundaries that were simultaneously appropriate for a dating relationship and effective at helping us avoid encountering undue sexual temptation. As I have reflected upon elsewhere, the practice of drawing boundaries to separate “right” from “wrong” wound up pulling the two of us apart. After that particular relationship ended, I started being more intentional about exploring a celibate vocation.

I’ve always had a bit of monastic envy. I remember being a little kid vaguely enthralled by the nuns who worked at the local Catholic school. Who were these teachers? And how did they managed to be so noticed in the community that people from other schools knew their names? Why did they seem so exotic? After my relationship had ended, I remember feeling the whole gamut of emotions as my spiritual directors encouraged me to start visiting monasteries. Every interaction I’ve had with monastics since has been truly inspiring. There’s something about the simple “monk food” that provides sustenance in a monastery that transcends the basic nutritional offerings of the plate. However, no matter how many communities I visited, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t likely to spend my life living in a monastery.

At one point approximately four years ago, I found myself thinking about vocation alone in my apartment. I was absolutely confident that I wanted to live a celibate way of life, equally convinced that I had no clue what exactly living a celibate life entailed, and reasonably sure my local church family wasn’t going to be a good place to help me learn about growing into a celibate vocation. I did the only thing I knew: I told God about my intentions and sought help from the Holy Spirit.

I received some helpful counsel from one abbess when I inquired about exploring a celibate vocation. She told me something to the effect of, “Whatever you see the nuns doing, do your best to live it out in your immediate context. Put into practice whatever bits of the monastic life as you can.” (I promise, she was much more eloquent than I’m remembering.) I did my best to adopt a pattern of prayer while also trying to connect meaningfully to the people around me. Getting to know monastics showed me that we’re not supposed to live our lives completely detached from other people.

In my stumbling towards celibacy, I refused to prohibit myself from exploring the full array of human relationships. I consider it slightly odd that I’ve been in more romantic/dating relationships after I had told God I wanted help in finding a celibate vocation. Sometimes I think I turned over some strange possibilities. I can think of at least two relationships where I knew that if they went anywhere, then those relationships would be very much directed towards marriage. On one hand, I trusted God to show me whether a marriage relationship would be aligned with my personal vocational pathway. On the other hand, I hoped that God would guide and direct me out of certain relationships I wasn’t supposed to be in at all. I definitely learned a lot about myself, grace, vocation, and other people because I allowed myself to be open to being wrong about my own vocational pathway.

Yet I find myself absolutely grateful I stumbled along towards celibacy. I rejoice that God impressed the need to share life with other people as this need compelled me to consider how I could be in meaningful relationships. I had opportunities to practice (again and again) how a celibate vocation might look and feel if it was not defined legalistically. And, I still find myself hoping and praying that in sharing my story, the Church might see a greater need to help lay celibates find their way.

Comment Policy: Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.

Queering Celibacy amid Fixation on Sex

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We live in a time and place when people are more comfortable with talking about sex than perhaps ever before. As for our own experiences in talking about sex, we’ve realized that we come from very different backgrounds. Lindsey grew up in a home that fully acknowledged and embraced sex as a gloriously fun activity shared by two adults who loved each other. Sarah could always approach Sarah’s parents for information about sex, but Sarah understood that information would be conveyed more along the lines of biological processes. It was clear that Sarah’s parents viewed sex outside a husband/wife relationship as inappropriate. The cultures around us also gave us messages about how to approach conversations about sex. For Lindsey, that message was, “Ask your parents.” For Sarah, it was, “Polite people don’t talk about sex with anyone other than perhaps their spouses in private, and maybe not even then.” However, with all this talk about sex, both of us have rarely encountered anyone saying anything positive about celibacy apart from some isolated conversations about religious life.

Blogging about our lives together as a celibate couple is interesting. We’ve met several people who wish we would simply disappear from the blogosphere, another group that seems oddly enthralled by our way of life despite themselves, and still another group of people who have appreciated being challenged to question their assumptions about companionship, sexuality, and faith. In the first group, it seems that a number of these individuals feel threatened by the fact that we live celibate lives as LGBT Christians. We want to spend some time in this post unpacking some of the dominant cultural assumptions that can leave people feeling confused, perplexed, or even appalled that another person, particularly an LGBT person, might openly discuss his or her celibacy. We’ve previously discussed some of these misconceptions in our 7 Misconceptions about Celibacy post, but we wanted to spend some time talking about how these they can be problematic when trying to help guide people towards their vocations.

It’s inappropriate to talk about celibacy because it is unnatural or abnormal. Many people who are appalled by our choice to live celibate lives want to know if we think that sex is a natural part of human experience. The reasoning goes something like this: if sex is a natural part of human experience and it feels good, then who in their right mind would pass up an opportunity to enjoy this activity? Whether a person is sexually active also plays a role in how others view him or her socially. People frequently use sexual innuendo to cast judgment on another’s personality: He’s so uptight. He really needs to get laid; or Gosh, she’s just a killjoy. When did she become such a prude? Clearly, she’s not getting any. If you are a reader who has been reading the comments on our blog regularly, then you might have also noticed trends where some commenters try to diagnose why we’re celibate. In the comparatively brief life of this blog so far, we’ve had people suggest the following mechanisms: we’re oppressed by religion, we’ve had bad sexual experiences in the past, we have had no sexual experience so we have no idea what we’re missing, we haven’t yet come to accept our sexual orientations, we are impressively asexual, and many more.

When the “unnatural or abnormal” assumption comes into play when seeking spiritual direction, a person trying to discern whether God might be calling him or her towards celibacy is having to sort through the questions, “Am I freak? Am I only exploring celibacy because I don’t have an appreciable sex drive? Would it make more sense to do the ‘normal’ thing of finding a spouse to whom I’m sexually drawn? How do I know if I’m one of the very few people who actually has the spiritual gift of celibacy?” Equally, this assumption can cause people to limit their discernment to the vocation of marriage. If marriage is the only natural vocation and celibacy is only for the abnormal, then how can a person be afforded any space to discern differently? Who wants to be known by his or her family, friends, and acquaintances as ridiculously stunted and out of touch with natural bodily functions?

Openly discussing celibacy is undesirable because marriage and sex are rites of passage. We’ve encountered people who have suggested that we just haven’t grown up, that we’re late bloomers, or that we haven’t explored our sexual potential. These people allege that in choosing celibacy, we are avoiding growing up and are dangerous because we encourage people to shake off adult forms of responsibility. We do acknowledge that sex has plays a role in many different cultural rites of passages, especially as it relates to various marriage customs around the world. However, we note that scholars and journalists who write on American culture frequently lament the lack of coming-of-age rituals for adults, especially as more and more college graduates find themselves struggling to find work and move back in with their parents. Amid this economic uncertainty, one might argue that marriage, and its requisite parts of entering into a consensual sexual relationship and founding an independent family life, seems to be the last stable form of marking the transition from child to adult.

For people discerning celibacy, especially outside of religious life, the emphasis on sex and marriage as essential rites of passage deprives them of the opportunity to explore celibacy as a meaningful way of life. Celibacy is often seen as a default option for the young, the weird, or the otherwise undesirable. According to most people we know, the only folks above a certain age who aren’t having sex are those who lack the coordination and the resources to ask for sex. When communicating with discerners of celibate vocations, family and friends can start to turn up the pressure with questions like: “Don’t you want to have a family? Aren’t you going to settle down? When are you going to start acting like an adult? Why hasn’t your wanderlust begun to quiet down so you can live a normal life?” And when having a family and children is a part of being a “normal” adult, celibate people can encounter an additional barrage of shaming: “You don’t know what it’s like to be stressed out. You’ve never had to deal with the stress of tending to a sick child before a major deadline at work or having your in-laws in town to critique your housekeeping (feel free to insert family stressors of your choosing).” The assertions assume that since a person has chosen a celibate way of life, that person has gotten off easy in life, and is perhaps lazy with no sense of difficulty in living out a mature adult vocation.

As a result of the “marriage and sex as rites of passage” assumption, many people chose to limit their vocational discernment to marriage alone. If marriage alone can be an identifiable ritual where a person creates a family with a sexual partner of his or her choosing, then why would a person consider forgoing this opportunity in exchange for accusations that he or she has never grown up and is irresponsible?

It’s not okay for an LGBT person to talk about celibacy because mandated celibacy has been and is still used to harm LGBT people. To be honest, we prefer dialoguing with people holding the first two assumptions because we think they might be interested in hearing more about our story if we can get past their initial perception that celibacy is just weird. This last assumption is particularly hurtful because we hear people telling us that we should just shut up about our story altogether. Sometimes people, most  often Christians holding a progressive sexual ethic, assume that because we’re celibate, we have no idea how different Christian attitudes about celibacy have hurt the LGBT community. Quite honestly, we started this blog from a deep and abiding awareness that few Christian churches (much less full on Christian traditions) care to consider how to point all people towards vocations in healthy ways. We are profoundly aware of the harms produced when a church wags a finger and tells an LGBT person “You have to be celibate and there’s nothing else to say about it,” even in instances when that LGBT person has already decided to pursue a celibate vocation. Collectively, the two of us have over a decade of experience walking alongside a plethora of LGBT people trying to find their way through a confusing, shifting landscape of sexuality, gender, and faith. Without LGBT voices talking about celibacy, it is impossible for straight, cisgender voices to capture the full diversity of celibate vocations and of LGBT people.

The “it’s wrong to talk about celibacy because it has been used to hurt others” assumption effectively shoves socks into our mouths. It silences and limits the theological exploration we have done to sort through the noise we have encountered living life were rubber meets the road. We have already eaten enough shoes, so please cut us a break when we share our stories. We are talking about LGBT experiences of celibacy because these experiences are our lived experiences.

This assumption also limits vocational pathways available to LGBT people, viewing celibates as victims of fundamentalist religion who have missed the memo that the “gift” of celibacy should not be celebrated, but kept shut away within one’s private life. Ultimately, it creates a lack of safety for LGBT folks who are interested in exploring celibacy. In our experience, those who hold this assumption have strong initial reactions upon meeting celibate LGBT Christians. The vast majority of time we try to interact with folks of this mindset who are involved in the LGBT Christian discussion, we are met with suspicion and hostility because it is assumed that we have some covert agenda in talking openly about our celibacy. From what we have experienced, it does not matter how or why we came to the decision to pursue this vocation: in the eyes of many, the only possible reasons an LGBT person might speak openly of celibacy are self-loathing and the desire to proselytize for internalized homophobia. Knowing that at least some people are likely to react to discussions of LGBT celibacy in this way, we ask, why would any LGBT person who thinks he or she might have the gift of celibacy want to explore it further?

In order to create spaces that affirm diverse vocational pathways for Christians, people from many Christian traditions would do well to reflect on the unwitting assumption that every Christian is called to marriage. We believe that the Church can do better in affording people called to celibacy an opportunity to commit to a celibate way of life and explore possibilities for such outside of monastic vocations. We also hope that discussing celibacy as a queer calling encourages more thoughtfulness of how to affirm celibate vocations in diverse Christian traditions. It’s important for LGBT people to be able to share their stories of life at the front lines. There are LGBT people who have done impressive theological work to reclaim celibacy as a vocation, even if some began these theoretical explorations by realizing that they didn’t see their vocational desires manifest in how their Christian traditions define marriage.

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