“They tried to bury us; they didn’t know we were seeds” —Mexican Proverb
Advent is that particular liturgical season in the Church when there is a focus on the coming of God, incarnate. For many LGBTQIA folks, the Church is not the place where they come for hope or participate in the anticipation of God becoming human.
Advent is the great liturgical season of waiting. We yearn, we search, and we reach out, and we dream of Immanuel who will walk amoung us. We spend much time preparing our homes and our churches for the holiday, and we wait.
Every year, I try my damnedest to get excited for the holidays. I really do. I listen to holiday music for .5 seconds, consider buying the packaged eggnog at the local grocery, and panic about the gifts I haven't bought—usually to no avail.
The season of Advent guides us on a journey from darkness to light, from recognizing our great need for God to finding God’s love born in a manger.
I’m a strong believer in the value of a journey. Whether it be literal (like a road trip), figurative (like learning a skill), or emotional (like overcoming trauma), a journey gives us a chance to move towards something, prepare for what comes next, and anticipate a new world for ourselves.
When I decided at the beginning of the year to finally return to the Catholic Church, I had no idea what a momentous year it would be—not only for myself, but for all Catholics. I had been working for Believe Out Loud for a year and realized it was not only important for me to "believe out loud" at work, but in my own personal life as well.
It’s only days until Christmas, and I, like many LGBT people, spent much of the day alternately dodging and engaging yet another "gays vs. Christians" media firestorm.
Even if you’ve never heard of him before, by now you’ve probably heard about Phil Robertson.
Each Thanksgiving and Christmas during college, I returned to the home of my childhood, the stable-turned-summer-cottage where my parents had begun their family together. My first chore on arriving would be to empty the Tupperware of refrigerated fuzz and discard the rolled oats webbed with meal moth larvae.
When I was a child, the run-up to Christmas was much more churchy than it is today. Every year we started an Advent calendar on December 1 with a picture of the holy family, the shepherds, the kings on camels, the star with glitter glued to it. We opened the doors day by day, so slowly, slowly, slowly from my child’s sense of time, revealing the messages and pictures behind the doors.