“Here was a community where race apparently didn’t matter, because we were all humans, made in the image of God. Where a pacifist, sensitive, caring Jesus was the primary male role model. I finally felt at home. I was promised complete acceptance and understanding, and all I had to give was… well, everything.”
It’s nothing new, but that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.
“I loved the Church, and I loved the gospel. I was the kind of Mormon who politely dismissed myself from classrooms when teachers showed R-rated movies. At my first and only high school rager, I texted my mother to pick me up because I felt out of place amidst the drinking and smoking. That was me, Straight-Edge Dera, except apparently I wasn’t so straight.”
I can’t make every passage better. There are some passages that are still, even after months of study, hard to accept. But I try to remind myself that it’s okay to be critical of what’s written and that questions can help my faith grow.
Seventh-Day Adventist pastor Alicia Johnston knew she would lose leadership of her congregation when she came out as bisexual, but did it anyway. She talked with Autostraddle about her hopes to the future, and how she wants to continue ministering to queer people of faith.
On Easter Sunday, I didn’t go to a church, but I quietly praised God at brunch in community with friends and strangers and so many carbs and those tiny Cadbury chocolate eggs.
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.
“There is one thing that everyone has, even in rural Africa, and that’s a phone,” she said, recalling what she saw when she visited Kenya. “I created this so we can come together as a community, and so we can sit down and meditate or worship without being berated by someone else’s beliefs.”
When I read poetry, including the Psalms, it messes with my alignment. It forces me to sit up straighter and recognize words and ideas that pluck at the sinewy parts of myself I ignore. I hope in these few weeks we can all try to read some things that scare us.
A black lesbian made a devotional app, 20 queer illustrators you can follow on IG, a bisexual southern woman is ready to talk, queer artists, so much Hellmouth, actual Buffy too, and so much more!
Fighting the Christofascist uprising on our doorstep will take getting out of our complacency and belief that people can’t possibly be as bad as they seem.
As homophobic Christians dominate more of the national discourse, and as Religious Freedom acts of various permutations strip rights from queer and trans people across the U.S., reclaiming the Gospel has begun to feel urgent.
After I wrote “I Was Trained for the Culture Wars in Home School, Awaiting Someone Like Mike Pence as a Messiah,” readers had a lot of questions for me. While I’m working on follow up pieces, I wanted to answer some of the most common questions and provide some explanation.
To take back the country for Christ, we needed to outbreed, outvote and outactivate the other side, thus saith The Lord.
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.
Julien Baker’s artistry is about making the best out of nothing — making light out of the darkest times, carving faith out of doubt, building connections with strangers.
“I put “they/she” on a pronoun button for the first time and countless people — moms, older gay and lesbian folks, and my peers — asked me to share what that meant and what genderqueer identity is because they genuinely wanted to understand ideas that were foreign and difficult for them so they could love me better.”
Sometimes the only way to remember the good times is to recreate them yourself.
“Now more than ever, I think it’s important to say alabanza to those who were slain, to lift their names up in prayer and to remind those of us still living that Black lives do matter — they’ve always mattered and will always matter.”
“Whatever our beliefs, whatever our traditions, we must seek to be instruments of peace, and bringing light where there is darkness, and sowing love where there is hatred.”