“I’ve had countless hushed conversations with friends about this anxiety, and how it has led us to refrain from participation in activist events, conversations, and spaces because we feel inadequately radical.”

I grew up hearing stories from elders about how integral the black church was to their lives during the Civil Rights era. Being a queer woman, I never quite felt that same sense of camaraderie in the church. So I found my sanctuary on Twitter.

When my parents told me I was being “rebellious,” that my character was “ungodly” and that I was “going down the path to hell” for not doing the laundry that day or being a good caretaker in general, what they communicated to me was: I was not fulfilling my role properly, to continue to fail would mean more punishment, more isolation, unless I followed “God’s will.”

When faith, spirituality, and cultural practice feel complicated and contradictory, it can help to have a physical object to hold onto and reflect upon. These items can root us to our histories of faith — or they may simply be a symbol of old memories.

The question of homophobia in historically Black churches is way more nuanced than conversations about Christianity and queerness often take into account. If the Black church and LGBTQ movements joined forces, they would be a force to reckon with.