A man came on campus this fall, armed with his voice, a Bible, and multiple signs.
A man who brought up old and new wounds—
who sent some students back to conversations in a dark car with their parent, to a middle school youth retreat, to a particular sermon on a Sunday morning—
who made people’s bodies tense up, in anticipation of a known hurt—
whom many people I know and love would agree with, even as they criticized his tone.
A man who declared that “homosexuals” would not inherit the kingdom of heaven.
A man who called consenting same-sex relationships worthy of eternal damnation.
A man who pursued his sincerely-held beliefs to their logical conclusion.
A man who bore fruit.
And yet, for all his fruit-bearing, I didn’t see or hear any love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, or self-control in him. I saw those in the Wesley campus minister, who promised everyone listening that absolutely nothing could separate them from the love of God. I saw those fruits in the students comforting each other, whether through laughter or anger or tears. I saw those fruits in the way my professor listened, with tissues, while I sobbed.
This man was not bearing the fruits of the Spirit. He bore discord, pain, shame, self-hatred. He bore vitriol, chaos, and fear.
I know so many people who sincerely declare they agree with his beliefs but not his tone (too crude! No need to yell!), but this is the fruit of those beliefs. He believes sexuality is a salvific issue, and he follows his beliefs to their logical conclusion. When we believe someone’s sexuality or gender or sexual choices make them a second-class citizen in the kingdom of God, this is where those beliefs take us.
Our theology is the root of our actions. What we believe about ourselves and God and others influences how we live. You cannot fully divorce belief and tone.
When you hear about someone’s kid being bi and think “what a shame they’ve left the Church,” or you deride trans people for “abandoning the gender God gave them,” (as though infinite God is confined by the modern western gender binary), or even when you see the lesbian couple in McDonald’s and think “someone should tell them to keep that in private,” you’re adding to this man’s argument. He would count you as a supporter.
I am so hurt. I am so tired. I am tired of tensing up. I am tired of watching my words. I am tired of fearing rejection. I am tired of dealing with people who refuse to listen, who present one verse that they have never researched. I am tired of people laughing at my wounds. I am tired of being awake at 2:45 in the morning, wondering if sharing these thoughts will result in me not getting certain opportunities, fearing for the upcoming decision from the highest court in the land. I am tired of people beating others up in the name of my best friend. I am tired of people taking God’s name in vain. I am tired of fear.
The scriptures say that perfect love casts out fear. This love, these moments of not-fear, happen so frequently in the people and places I was told to avoid. This freedom, this grace, consistently uncomfortably overflows its bounds. It shows up in unexpected ways, unexpected places.
The moment in my life I was most tangibly, forcibly overwhelmed by the sheer love and power of God was while I was crying out, demanding, “Would you still love me if I married a girl?” and the resurrected God said, “My daughter, there is nothing you can do that will separate you from my love.”
Your beliefs influence your tone. Your beliefs bear fruit. If you believe that members of the LGBTQ+ community are less than cherished, Beloved members of the Body of Christ, if you believe that they are estranged from God, this will bear fruit. The fruit is LGBTQ+ teenagers committing suicide because they believe they are inherently sinful. The fruit is a man coming onto a college campus to tell students that they must “fear God or die.” The fruit is the Supreme Court deciding if it is okay to fire someone solely because of their gender or sexuality. The fruit is people’s bodies physically anticipating pain when they walk into a church building.
Your polite words cut deep. Your personal “don’t ask don’t tell” policy is costing lives. Your assumption that queer people are not already part of the Body of Christ, or that they cannot be, has sent me to the bathroom in tears, fingernails biting half moons into my palms. It has left scars, seen and unseen, on the hearts and souls and bodies of beloved children of the living God.
I am asking you, begging you, please to see other people’s humanity. To see their fullness, their hopes, their joys, their fears. To listen to their pain. To love them, not in an attempt to “fix” them, but in an attempt to know them. There are many things I disagree with other Christians over, many issues I am interested in debating, many things I don’t think we can know with 100% certainty this side of heaven. The full humanity and belovedness of queer people is not one of them.
My humanity is not up for debate. My God loves me with a force stronger than the ocean.
illustration by Clara Poteet, January 2020