Tag Archives: friendship

Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

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A reflection by Lindsey

I’m sorry it’s taking a bit for Sarah and me to get back in the writing saddle. I’ve been working on some major projects that demand a lot of my attention. I’m not exceptionally good at writing for public consumption, but I try.

I feel an overwhelming sense of relief that Sarah’s health has stabilized considerably after this summer’s surgeries, and I’ve been trying to reclaim space for my own self-care. In some ways, this season feels like a strategic initiative to get my life back. When I started feeling the strain of increasing caregiving demands, it was easy for me to put my professional projects and personal health on the back burner. Over the past three weeks, I’ve connected with some old friends from high school online trying to develop some healthy eating and exercise habits. Because of that, I’ve been thinking a lot about how I experienced friendship and community in high school.

In some ways, my experience isn’t that unique. I was an awkward nerd who was always willing to help out in the science lab and would help other students with their math. But also I was terrified of being known by other people. I struggled to feel like I fit anywhere. I always felt like I was trying to fit into an existing set of expectations. Years ago when I took the Myers-Briggs inventory with fellow summer camp staff, I felt obligated to answer the questions such that I appeared to be well-suited to working at summer camp. Questions like “Do you like being at the center of attention in a party?” felt loaded where the only right answer was “Yes.” It didn’t matter where I was. I knew that other people had an opinion about who I should be, and I did my best to check all of the right boxes. This approach worked out okay when I was playing my part, but it actively got in the way of building friendships. After all, I was constantly swapping out masks. I didn’t know how to be myself.

I started to fear friendships. I thought that revealing anything about my true self would spell certain death. My throat would tighten before any big reveal. I constantly wondered, “How much longer will this friend put up with me? Is this going to be the straw that breaks the camel’s back?” I met my best friend in high school working at camp together. We’ve been friends for nearly 20 years. We have had hundreds of conversations where I was honestly prepared to hear, “I think it would be best if you didn’t contact me again.” About 5 years ago, I clued into the fact that my friend was always going to be my friend. But it took 15 years of consistently good outcomes when I took the risk of opening up about my life to come to a place of being able to trust her. Incidentally, once I finally crossed the threshold of being able to trust my friend in my heart, it became so much easier to risk friendships with other people.

Friendships are the stuff that intimacy is made of. You can’t have intimacy if it’s not safe to share yourself vulnerably. Letting yourself be known as you are right now is a risky endeavor. I never quite expected middle school students to be able to get it right. After all, everyone in middle school is actively trying to figure themselves out. However, the Church ought to be the place that models friendship, intimacy, risk, care, community, and relationships. After all, the Church exists because Christ Himself has come to dwell in our midst. He took on our flesh, He lived a human life, and He subjected Himself willingly to every limitation associated with being human. Christ’s willingness to identify Himself with our humanity makes Christianity possible.

But, instead, I find myself wondering how many people attend churches where they’re constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. It doesn’t take much as a Christian who is somewhere along the LGBTQ spectrum to feel like you’re inches away from being excluded. I’ve spent the better part of 3 years almost afraid to breathe in the Orthodox Church lest the expansion of my chest cause me to go outside of the boundaries of what is permissible. The lumps rise in my throat, and I have no idea who I can actually talk to about what’s going on for me. Counsel of “You shouldn’t let it get to you” only gets one so far. Incidentally, it also suggests that my anxieties are exclusively my problem.

This summer, I kept vigil beside Sarah’s ICU bed for 13 days. I was working two jobs to try to keep everything together financially. We’re still getting notices from our insurance company as they process the claims. I don’t know the exact tally right now, but Sarah told me that it’s summed up to over a million dollars of medical care. It’s still climbing. The only reason why I can breathe at all is that I know we have fantastic health insurance… simply because my now-former employer was generous with extending benefits to domestic partners of employees. If I remember the dates rightly, I had picked Sarah up from the hospital on July 31. I went to pick up our dog from boarding on August 1. I successfully fought to be able to resume my PhD dissertation on August 21. I took the risk of releasing air from my lungs and began to dream again about what God would call Sarah and me to do together given an exceptionally positive surgical outcome.

And, then on August 27 or 28, I honestly don’t remember which, I read the words “the Orthodox Church cannot and will not condone or bless ‘same-sex unions’ of any degree.” That last phrase if huge: of any degree. And no matter how much others have tried to tell me that the statement in question is not talking about people in my situation, I can’t believe that. The other shoe finally dropped, and I couldn’t see a way to continue communing in good conscience. The conscience is a tricky thing. It belongs to us, and only we know what will give us comfort.

As I read those words, my head started reeling back to every single conversation I’ve ever had with an Orthodox Christian about trying to find my way in the church as an LGBTQ person. I felt the crashing feeling that I’ve been trying to sort so many of these questions alone. A person’s spiritual father can be a great resource, but I didn’t start following Jesus because I wanted only one friend to walk alongside of me as I did so. The services of the church are great, but I believe that prayer lives in the hearts of people who commit their lives to following Christ. I have never doubted the need for patient discernment during different and challenging circumstances. But the engineer in me says, “Let’s join forces and come up with a solution.” And really, I started following Jesus in large part because I believe that if we’re going to have any hope of stemming widespread injustice in our world, we’re going to need to carry the light of Christ courageously into every darkness.

The only thing I could see bringing comfort and consolation was a community of people who could affirm God’s love for me, see Christ’s work in my life, and step up to the plate to try to clear a pathway forward. I realized that I personally had a way of seeing the tradition through Christ-centered glasses, and maybe that approach to Orthodoxy wasn’t nearly as common as I had thought, believed, and hoped it could be. I love the Orthodox Church, but I reached a point of questioning if I could really thrive in a place where I felt the only way forward involved silently imploring priests and bishops to simply overlook my way of life. I need to be able to breathe without fear while risking connections in community. I’m a person who finds community by actively trying to do things together; it doesn’t make sense to try to go to war with my own temperament.

The simple truth of the matter is that I want, and I need, the joy that comes by pursuing Jesus in the company of friends. I want, and I need, to devote myself wholly to living out my vocation to see if God will allow bits of His kingdom to be manifest on earth. I want, and I need, to know that God says, “I know you, and I have formed you. There is no need for you to wear a mask when you are around me.” I want, and I need, to be a part of the Body of Christ that hears the cries of people suffering injustices and responds. I had so desperately wanted to see the Orthodox Church living out the fullness of evangelical zeal. I think there are some Orthodox parishes that manage to do this well, but I also think that it’s extremely unlikely that Orthodox bishops will consider it a priority to advocate for justice on issues that disproportionally affect LGBTQ people. It’s also not simply about me and issues that impact my life directly. It’s easier to have hope when those around you are trying to be a force for good. It’s easier to have faith when communities stir up each other on towards love and good works. And I believe that it’s often easier to love when you’re not first concerned with verifying that those gathered with you first pass an ideological purity test.

I took a lot of time discerning how to enter the Orthodox Church. I certainly know what would need to transpire to separate myself absolutely from the broader communion, and I do know how to walk back through the door should I decide that’s necessary. But I want, and I need, to be in a place where I’m not afraid to be known by Christ and the people gathered in community. I want, and I need, to be somewhere that I don’t feel like I’m absolutely on the edge of falling off into the abyss. I want, and I need, to be surrounded with people who will help me discern how to bloom where I’m planted. And so, I’m out. I’m out on an adventure, trusting that Christ has His ways of finding me. I’m out exploring while not knowing exactly where I’ll wind up again.  I’m out searching in the highways and byways because sometimes we best find Christ when we look on the margins. I’m out seeking Christ 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year… or at least that’s what I want to try. As I see it, the other shoe has dropped where the only way to appease my conscience is to put my shoes on and start walking.

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.

Sexual Abuse and the Dynamics of Disclosure

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This is part four in our series on sexual abuse. Be sure to check out parts one, two, and three.

When we decided to write this series on sexual abuse, we made a conscious choice to write it together. Mutual disclosure of the hard life stuff has characterized our relationship almost from the beginning. Our relationship unfolded for us because in the other, each of us found a person who could look into our lives naturally with compassion, grace, and mercy. So many survivors of sexual abuse need to have places where they can have open, honest, and safe conversations about their experiences. Unfortunately, those safe spaces seem rare to the point of being precious.

It’s these kind of observations that make Lindsey’s head spin. Before we started having candid conversations about Sarah’s sexual abuse, Lindsey thought that virtually everyone healing from sexual abuse had companions on the journey. After all, don’t abuse survivors share their stories with their closest friends, get help, and move forward in life? Isn’t that what we are led to believe? Lindsey has sat through dozen of trainings on sexual abuse for mandatory reporters, but theory only gets you so far. The simple truth of the matter is that disclosure is risky, especially when it comes to disclosing to one’s closest friends. Who wants to share his or her story with a trusted friend only to be met with disbelief, dismissal, blame, and even an aggressive to command to “forgive” and get over it already? Often, survivors have more experience with such responses than non-survivors may imagine.

Abuse depends on a culture of silence. It’s more than one’s abuser saying, “Never tell anyone what happened.” It’s more than one person’s bad reaction. Survivors of sexual abuse have to climb a mountain of cultural misconceptions about what counts as real abuse, what justice ought to look like, and what one is asking for when he or she discloses instances of abuse. Sexual abuse survivors who share their stories are often shunned for airing dirty laundry and refusing to let private matters remain private. Every time an abuse survivor tries to break the silence, he or she can run into a cultural wall of, “You know, you really need to talk about this with a therapist. I’m not trained to help you deal with your problem.” When we say that, we think we are giving good advice and doing what is best for the person. But we aren’t. Sexual abuse is a huge problem. We’ve stopped looking at statistics because it seems like the numbers keep growing. What can a friend do to help bring about real and enduring healing in cases of sexual abuse?

Listen.

It seems too simplistic that listening would be the most critical action in helping another person heal from sexual abuse. However, note that listening breaks silence. Abuse silences the victim. Listening gives space to be heard. Often, abuse shoves the story deep within a survivor. Survivors have learned never, ever, ever to tell their stories because speaking comes with costs that are too high. Imagine a survivor who has had the courage to write her story of molestation on a t-shirt for a Take Back the Night event. She goes with a close friend to look at the shirts, all while observing whether this friend has ears to listen. Walking through the t-shirts, the friend comments appropriately on some messages left. The survivor’s hope builds as her shirt is approaching. 3 steps, 2 steps, 1 step, BREATHE, linger, wait. Her friend is another 2 steps away… “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe someone put that shirt in the display. Who cares if your brother touched you? That’s totally normal. Hasn’t she ever heard of kids playing doctor?” Sometimes, both direct and indirect ways people tell a survivor to shut up can be even more painful than the abuse itself. The silencing continues, and the survivor needs to gather herself before moving forward. She can’t find a voice even in anonymity.

It can be easy for people who haven’t been sexually abused to say, “Okay, I get it. Some people react badly. But I would never react in that way. I know to listen.” Here’s a pin for popping that balloon. It doesn’t work that way. If a survivor has tried to share his or her story with 24 other good and trustworthy people, you’re simply the 25th person in that line. Survivors aren’t stupid. A culture of silence means that survivors are attempting to fly to a safe haven with no navigation aids. In a culture saturated by social media, some survivors have decided to throw caution to the wind and say something on a public platform: why risk systemically testing your friends one by one to see if any among them know how to listen? Isn’t it better to get it all out at once and see who is still standing by you when the dust settles? But even then, a survivor encounters the demands of a culture of silence that shames him or her for “oversharing” and asserts that certain things are best handled through “proper channels.”

Although it’s well-intentioned, discussing the “proper channels” shows a deep misunderstanding of how trauma from sexual abuse work. So much of what non-survivors know assumes that the abuse is actively occurring right now and is principally a legal matter that needs to be addressed by the police. Have you filed a police report? Do you need to go to the hospital? Are you going to press charges? What evidence do you have? Unfortunately, this kind of “support” is limited and assumes that there is a standard, simple path that all survivors need to take after being abused. Non-survivors can be absolutely clueless in knowing how to listen to a survivor sharing about events from years ago. If a survivor is still processing sexual trauma from over 5 years ago, far too many non-survivors will gaze at the survivor with disgust and say, “Look, I’m not your therapist. If it’s still on your mind that much, then you need to get help…serious help.” Trauma is never simply erased. As survivors heal, they get better at dealing with the various kinds of memories that surface, even if these memories remain unexpected and intrusive. Anyone can listen. Some topics can certainly be difficult for non-survivors to hear. It’s great to say things like, “I’m so glad you trusted me with this story. Thank you for letting me listen. It sounds like you might benefit from talking about this with some more people besides me as well. Do you have a therapist that you’re talking with now? Would you like help in finding someone?” Because disclosures can be exceptionally difficult for listeners it’s okay to seek out support for yourself when a disclosure hits you particularly hard.

With it being so hard to find people who are willing to listen, many survivors catch the memo that there’s no place for their stories to be heard. Often, they stuff the hurt, the pain, the anger, the betrayal, everything, all inside. It’s a futile exercise as inevitably our body revolts. The silence becomes crushing, and survivors seek balm for the pain that cannot be shared safely with others. Sarah has heard more disclosures of sexual abuse while drinking heavily with other people or during eating disorder treatment than either one of us care to count. Survivors will self-medicate in a number of ways, many of which are self-destructive. If there is no one willing to listen, there is no other way to deal with the pain than numb it. Even then, people in their lives tend to see the destructive behavior as coming from a place of resentment and lack of forgiveness rather than a place of incredible hurt.

As hard as it is to talk about sexual abuse, it’s possible to make a difference by becoming someone who is able to listen. Sarah finds that listening well comes rather organically after having done so much healing work over time. As a non-survivor, Lindsey has tried to cultivate active listening strategies.  It’s hard to listen if you’re doing the talking. Lindsey believes that “Stop talking” is the First Rule of Listening. Some of us are cursed with a tendency to yammer when talking about difficult topics. Watching for your own tendencies can be helpful. It’s also good to practice asking open-ended questions. Think about difficult experiences in your own life where you really needed someone to listen. Who among your friends have been good listeners for you? What do they do that makes them effective listeners? When you speak, express gratitude that a person has trusted you with his or her story. Acknowledge that sharing can be difficult. Lindsey makes an active point of rehearsing how Lindsey wants to respond when a survivor opts to disclose. As of this writing, Lindsey’s immediate response goes something like: “Thank you so much for trusting me with your story. I’m incredibly sorry that you’re having to deal with this. I am willing to listen as you want to tell me more. Are you safe?”

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.

“Is sexual attraction a requirement for a relationship to be more than friendship?”

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Today, we are responding to another thoughtful question from a reader:

“I’ve seen the stuff written about celibate same-sex relationships recently and I have questions for you two. When people get married they are usually attracted to each other. When people are in relationships and aren’t married, aren’t they also attracted to each other? Why be in a relationship with someone if you aren’t sexually attracted? Wouldn’t that be more of a friendship? Is sexual attraction a requirement for a relationship to be more than friendship? It sounds like you don’t think so.”

We’ve been responding to this question and others like it for months now in comments, so it’s probably the right time to address this in a full post.

First, it’s important to clarify what a person means when asserting that a particular relationship is “more than friendship.” This phrase could be interpreted in at least two ways: either as “greater or more significant than friendship” or “more than the reductionist understanding of ‘friendship’ that has come to determine the word’s meaning for most modern westerners.” The two of us would not say that our relationship is greater or more significant than friendship. After all, our relationship began as we grew closer in friendship to one another, and we still consider ourselves friends. However, we prefer not to use the friendship model for describing our relationship. Both of us have a strong distaste for categorizing things that involve a high degree of mystery, and we don’t see any need to define our relationship using one word in particular to the exclusion of all others. We tend to stay away from friendship language in general because neither of us feels that it suits our situation, and we do not sense, as some other celibates do, that reclaiming the term “friendship” is part of our vocation. While our relationship is not greater than friendship, we understand it as different from friendship. It’s difficult to discuss exactly how if most people focus on whether we are “just friends” or a “sexless marriage” as though those are the only two ways of describing an arrangement between two celibate people who share life and have made lifelong personal commitments to each other. The phrase “just friends” contributes not only to the devaluing of friendship, but also to the devaluing of alternate approaches for discussing relationships outside the marriage/friendship binary.

Now to an assumption present in this reader’s question. The claim that people who are married are usually attracted to their partners is probably not testable considering cross-cultural differences in what leads people to marry. The fact that levels of sexual attraction to one’s partner can vary throughout the course of a relationship leads us to question the idea that all people in paired relationships experience sexual attraction to one another. Why be in a relationship with someone if there isn’t sexual attraction? There are many possible reasons: spiritual growth, intellectual attraction, the desire for non-sexual companionship that reaches beyond what western society considers “friendship,” financial stability, learning how to be less selfish and more compassionate, and so on. We consider it a problem that so many people today have made sexual attraction the ideal focus for seeking a partner. This mindset devalues other parts of the mystery of attraction. If you replaced “sexual” in the title of this post with “intellectual,” “spiritual,” “emotional,” or just plain “mysterious,” would you be inclined to ask the same question?

Attraction is mysterious and has a various dimensions. Who could possibly identify all of the reasons why one feels compelled to strike up conversations with a stranger or deepen relationships with specific people? People are relational. But it’s rather uncommon to find any person with whom one falls into an organic pattern of relating. These people really stand out in one’s relational circle, and it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly who, what, why, when, where, and how. As we’ve thought about our closest relationships, we have seen that some defy categorization to the point of being almost laughable. As an experiment, try thinking about your best friend. We would wager that you thought of several people from many different places across your lifespan. Now try thinking about people with whom you have a commitment to be present through thick and thin. Once again, it’s likely you called to mind several people from different spheres in your life. Who would you talk to at work if you were facing a crisis? Where would you hang out to enjoy your Friday night? Who has your back whenever you need your support? How have you kept up with people even as life circumstances have changed? One of the reasons why we’re generally averse to taking the approach of reclaiming “friendship” is that we consider many of our friends in this category as a part of our “family of choice.” When people commit to being present in all things, they change the character of their friendships. 

Some readers might say, “But being present through thick and thin is a vow that married people make to one another.” We say, “Yes, that’s true. We would hate for any two people to get married without committing to sharing life together earnestly. Nonetheless, marriage isn’t the only relationship defined by commitment.” People make all sorts of commitments. We commit to working in particular workplaces and gathering with specific groups of people. Local churches exist because Christians commit to gathering as a community. One of the ways we can tell if a person is truly committed to a particular local church is if that person remains even after times of significant change. Attraction precedes any question of commitment. How can we make an authentic commitment to anything unless we first take notice of it? There’s a point at which we connect so deeply to other people and places that it’s difficult to see ourselves as simply “two individuals.” That’s why we can speak of becoming a “member” (quite literally, a body part) of a church. And sometimes the word “friendship” fails to capture the beauty and mystery of particular relationships.

Ultimately, using the word “friendship” to describe every close relationship that isn’t marriage or a genetic or adoptive relation devalues both the concept of friendship and the idea that there are possibly more kinds of close relationships. We’re generally agreeable to thinking about how close relationships take on the character of being family. Yet trying to force fit so much into the friendship box seems more an effort to satisfy those disquieted by celibate partnerships than to have meaningful conversation about the mysterious gift of human relationships.

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.

The Church I long for

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A reflection by Lindsey

It is now the Wednesday after the Gay Christian Network Conference. I love this weekend when I gather with people so obviously different from me and so eerily similar to me at exactly the same time. Call it what you will, but I can’t help experiencing it as a feast of humanity that warrants its own octave of reflection.

Mostly I reflect because I’m angry and frustrated almost immediately after I get home. It doesn’t take long before leaving the protective bubble of GCN Conference before I get that cold cup of water to my face that puts me back squarely in reality. It doesn’t take long to remember that GCN Conference is a special place, simply because the GCN community has learned to say, “I’m so glad you’re with us,” to every single person who decides to come join us. I get frustrated and angry that few local congregations know how to extend that welcome.

Leaving conference is always hard for me because I catch a vision for what local churches could be… and what I think local churches should be. Don’t hear me wrong: the GCN conference community could be a complete farce; people could be on their best behavior for a weekend before returning home to say the things they wish they really could have said. I’ve come to believe otherwise though since I attended my first conference in 2008. The connections I’ve made through GCN have been shockingly supportive, loving, and amazing during some of my most trying times. GCN has been there for me as God has guided me along arguably one of the most counterintuitive spiritual journeys known to humankind. I wish that more local congregations encouraged people to be children of the Church where people could ask really hard questions within a community of faith. I wish churches were the kind of places where people could wonder aloud, learn how their Christian tradition approaches theological inquiry, and grow in wisdom and in strength. I mostly wish that more churches embodied Jeff Chu’s hopes and dreams for Christian community:

The table I long for—the church I hope for—is a place where we let others see where the spirit meets the bone and help heal the wounds. The table I long for—the church I hope for—has the grace of the Gospel as its magnificent centerpiece. The table I long for—the church I hope for—is where we care more about our companions than about winning our arguments with them, where we set aside the condescension that accompanies our notion that we need to bring them our truth. The table I long for—the church I hope for—has each of you sitting around it, struggling to hold the knowledge that you, vulnerable you and courageous you, are beloved by God, not just welcome but desperately, fiercely wanted.

It’s a bit odd for me to be writing this post because I belong to a closed-communion Christian tradition that I love incredibly. I strive every day to live into the fullness of what my Christian tradition teaches, however short I fall. Within my Christian tradition, I was able to find the space necessary to discern my own vocation. It’s certainly never been easy, but I’m so appreciative of the ways this tradition helps me look at God, Christ, myself, other people, and the world at large. And it’s hard for me to know that many people in my own tradition wouldn’t touch a space like GCN Conference with a 10-foot pole. Sometimes, I think that if my fellow parishioners spoke about GCN, their words would be dripping with contempt. That makes me sad because I wonder if people unintentionally close doors to others genuinely seeking Christ because they’re just different enough where it’s impossible for them to blend in with the woodwork.

Chu’s vision of the conversation table is marvelous, compelling, and inspiring in so many ways. But this vision only partially captures Christ’s radical welcome to the table. Consider what we read in Luke’s gospel:

When one of those who reclined at table with him heard these things, he said to him, “Blessed is everyone who will eat bread in the kingdom of God!” But he said to him, “A man once gave a great banquet and invited many. And at the time for the banquet he sent his servant to say to those who had been invited, ‘Come, for everything is now ready.’ But they all alike began to make excuses. The first said to him, ‘I have bought a field, and I must go out and see it. Please have me excused.’ And another said, ‘I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to examine them. Please have me excused.’ And another said, ‘I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.’ So the servant came and reported these things to his master. Then the master of the house became angry and said to his servant, ‘Go out quickly to the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in the poor and crippled and blind and lame.’ And the servant said, ‘Sir, what you commanded has been done, and still there is room.’ And the master said to the servant, ‘Go out to the highways and hedges and compel people to come in, that my house may be filled. For I tell you, none of those men who were invited shall taste my banquet.’”

This is one of those parables where I catch a glimpse of the radical welcome of Christ. I see Christ going out to the ends of the earth to bring every type of person who will permit themselves to be invited. I’m struck that Christ’s welcome goes far beyond the sea of humanity I see on any given Sunday, including the Sunday I spend attending the GCN Conference. I know that this parable also appears in Matthew’s gospel specifically as a wedding banquet, and I’m grateful for the way my Christian tradition has called my attention to the importance of a wedding garment. Nonetheless, the table I long for and the church I hope for is filled to the brim with the poor, the crippled, the blind, the lame, the near, and the far off. The table I long for and the Church I hope for constantly bursts at the seams because of the people already inside while simultaneously expands itself to add more seats at the banquet. The table I long for and the Church I hope for is full of people who consider themselves the luckiest people alive to be present at such a feast and so refrain from judging anyone else present.

And I can name that vision and ache because I can’t think of a single venue where we’ve managed to be this kind of community. I wonder if this kind of community can only exist at the end of time when Christ has come to restore all things. So many communities seem preoccupied with what people are wearing. In Matthew’s record, the king realized a man wasn’t wearing a wedding garment. The king exercised the judgment. Making decisions in the here and now about who can participate fully in the sacramental life is a fearsome task, and I pray daily for all those entrusted with this power to use it for spiritual good. I don’t want that job for an instant.

I find myself wondering how to live into how Christ has extravagantly welcomed me. I wonder if it’s right to view myself as still walking towards the feast, coming into the door, or sitting at the table. Perhaps I’m doing multiple things at once. I can’t help but wonder if it’s gratitude that compels banquet guests to throw on their wedding garments with glee. I can’t help but wonder if it’s gratitude that compels guests to squeeze just that much tighter to create room for more people. I can’t help but wonder if it’s gratitude that brings out the very best of human behavior.

How can we be a grateful and welcoming community? What needs to happen such that no surface-level qualification keeps people out of our local churches? How can we put on Christ who is Light, Love, and Truth? What can we do so that the Holy Spirit has room to guide, comfort, encourage, and convict us all as necessary? How do we create that much more room for others to join in the feast?

And so I continue to wonder…

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.

“Jesus is not a frying pan” and other notable moments from #GCNConf

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We’ve literally just returned home after an amazing weekend at the Gay Christian Network Conference in Portland. We’re sure to write some more reflections in the coming week, but we wanted to share some highlights for now.

First of all, all of the keynote speakers were incredible. We’re so glad that they were broadcast on live stream. For a limited time, you can watch them here. Jeff Chu kicked off conference with one of the most poignant, compelling, and thoughtful addresses we’ve ever heard. He has graciously provided a transcript on his blog. He modeled vulnerability, graciousness, and generousness. The love Jeff feels for his mother was palpable in the room as all those gathered listened with rapt attention to Jeff discussing showing love across differences. We’re still processing Jeff’s address ourselves. What we do know is that both Jeff and Tristan would be very welcome in our home; we, too, eat family-style. We’d also be sure to find some sweet tea to put on our table for Vicky Beeching. Vicky opened her story to us with humor, grace, and authenticity. Anyone who thinks that LGBT Christians have a superficial appreciation for their Christian tradition and shy away from earnest theological inquiry would be well-served by sitting down to listen to Vicky’s address. By God’s grace, may we all continue to wonder at a loving God who rejoices in four-year-olds who want to reach up and share a cookie.

Second, there were so many people. We’ve never gone to GCN Conference with the intention of counting chairs, but this was the first conference where “I’ll see you in the General Session” was much easier said than done. When two-thirds of the room stood up after Conference Director Trey Weaver called for first-times, we knew something had happened. As conference veterans, we did whatever we could to make connections with people who really need the GCN community. We connected with so many people who aren’t out to their parents, who don’t know which letter of the LGBTQ-alphabet-soup works for them, and who feel torn by worry that they have to choose between their faith and their sexual orientations. We also met first-timers who are straight allies committed to doing whatever they can do to make the church a safer place to wrestle with questions of sexual orientation and gender identity, who are parents committed to loving their kids who came out to them over the holidays, who are LGBTQ Christians from Open and Affirming traditions trying to understand experiences of other queer Christians, and who are seeking to converse with authors and speakers who have done so much work to help them reconcile their faith and sexual orientations/gender identities. The rich tapestry of humanity was on full display.

Third, there was love. Honestly, we don’t remember the last time we were wrapped in day after day of love. It was something else to walk around and see scores of parents wearing “Free Mom Hugs” and “Free Dad Hugs” buttons. People constantly checked in with one another to see how things were going. We saw so many people taking the 5 minutes, 10 minutes, hour, and hours to talk, hug, pray, and cry things out when another person was hurting. People loved without asking permission. It was a beautiful thing. We can’t remember the last time we heard so many earnest questions of “Do you need any help?” People got creative when it came to showing love, including dear friends who helped us out by livetweeting our workshop.

This year, we presented a workshop on Celibacy and the Church. We wanted to support dialogue about celibate vocations in general while helping people living and discerning celibacy access quality pastoral care. We shared about our own journeys into our celibate vocations and identified various dimensions of helpful pastoral care. One way to talk about helpful pastoral care is to talk about distinctly unhelpful approaches. The title of this reflection came as Lindsey was giving some suggestions about how to re-frame a particularly difficult and unhelpful approach: the celibacy mandate. When pastors think the only thing they need to say to an LGBT person is “Gay sex is a sin! Just be celibate,” they have embraced the celibacy mandate.

We regard the celibacy mandate as akin to hitting LGBT people over the head with a frying pan. It’s dangerous, dehumanizing, and destructive. Lindsey has been on the receiving end of many different pastors wielding the celibacy mandate and eventually got better at dodging the frying pan. Eventually, Lindsey realized that the message “Gay sex is a sin! Just be celibate.” is not the Gospel. Lindsey’s pastors who were delivering this message were not preaching Jesus. The frying pan approach excuses pastors of their pastoral responsibilities and cheapens the beauty of celibate vocations. We earnestly believe that LGBT Christians who experience a call to celibacy should be free to cultivate that vocation and have support in doing so. Choosing to follow a calling is choosing freedom in Christ. While Jesus calls us in ways that are challenging and not always immediately apparent, he also journeys alongside of us every step of the way. The Incarnation tells us a lot about how Jesus views the role of pastoral care. And Jesus is not a frying pan.

[For those interested in a more complete summary of our workshop, we’ll be posting one reasonably soon. If you’re interested in seeing our notes from our Celibacy Involves Family workshop from Chicago’s conference, feel free to take a look.]

We left Portland feeling refreshed, renewed, and revitalized. So many people we met took time to hear our stories about the difficult parts of this past year, to pray with us, to encourage us, to cry with us, and to hug us. GCN is truly a family for us. We’re so grateful for everyone at the conference.

It didn’t take much web browsing today to realize that we still have significant work to do such that all LGBTQ Christians know that they are fiercely and wholly loved by God. We know that there are LGBT Christians returning to congregations that post this article (that honestly needs to come with a content warning for extreme homophobia) front and center on their notice boards. Attending GCN Conference gives us the courage to keep sharing our stories, to press on towards Christ, and shine Christ’s light to all. And when we see intolerance and bigotry, we’ll choose to remember the love, the life, and the colors of #GCNConf in Portland while doing what we can to make a difference. When words escape us, we’ll warm up with the heavenly choir singing LA LA LA in rhythm and glorious harmonies.

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