I am sick of Transgender Awareness.
November is a month that has become riddled with our religious allies checking off the box for transgender "issues"—often with a special service that turns the death of transgender women of color into a sort of morbid pageant.
In the current political climate, many claim that LGBTQ folks have achieved full equality since same-sex marriage was dubbed legal in 2015.
Return, return, the Shulamite.
Return, return, and let us gaze on you.
How will you gaze on Shulamite in the dance of the two camps?
How beautiful are your sandaled feet, O prince’s daughter.
The curves of your (quivering) thighs are like jewels crafted by artist hands.
“If you can’t see it, you can’t be it.”
LGBTQ persons of faith know well the importance of seeing reflections of ourselves in the pulpit, pew, and podium. There is life-changing power in seeing a person who looks and loves like you affirmed, ordained, degreed. Because not all persons of faith are straight, white, cisgender men.
Recently, two people–one queer and neurotypical, and one straight and mentally ill–confided similarly troubling worries to me. The first told me his mother had disowned him because he is gay, and, as he said, “to her that meant rejection of, and rejection by, God.”
The New Testament records Jesus performing a staggering number of miracles for the benefit of those around Him. He fed a multitude with a paltry quantity of food, walked on water, calmed storms, and changed water to wine.
But the majority of Jesus’ miracles have to do with curing the sick.
Each morning, the first time I rise the sky is still inky blue and outside still smells like night time. I brush my teeth and sit in my meditation corner. I pray in love for peace and preparation. I ask our Creator that if lives must be sacrificed for change, that this change is forever and we never have to repeat this moment in history.