Yesterday was a strange day for North Carolina. In late February the city council of Charlotte, the largest city in our state and, including the greater metro area, the home of roughly a tenth of the state’s population, passed an ordinance containing a strong set of LGBT protections including public accommodations protections for transgender people.
I didn’t grow up in a tradition that observed Lent. Perhaps they found it too Catholic for their belief system. Now I minister in a church that observes Lent, Ash Wednesday and Maundy Thursday.
To say that it was a steep learning curve for me is an understatement.
Across the country, transgender people are under attack, and in my observation, logic and facts are not at a premium in the discussion.
It seems that my last 40 years has been about coming out.
And each time I come out, I’m filled with awe by the courage of those that have come before me. I’m afraid that those who have professed to love me will change their minds. I’m certain that I will again be “too much.” I also wonder if it’s even worth the trouble. I cry and I wrestle.
The sun is setting a little later in the evening, but it sure is cold out. It must be Lent.
Given that, I think that we, as LGBTQ Christians, need to take some time to examine our theology of loss.
The discomfort of being THE black guy in the room is something that I have to negotiate over and over again. Often/especially in progressive and/or queer political spaces, I am one of very few people of color—it seems that there are places where the demographic “count” to cover all bases means that there’s one of this and one of that and a whole bunch of white folks at the table.
TIME Magazine recently declared that “The Gender-Neutral Bathroom Revolution is Growing.” Earlier this month, San Francisco joined cities like Washington D.C., Philadelphia, Austin, Seattle, Santa Fe, and New York City in requiring all businesses and city buildings to designate single-stall re
On Sunday I took communion for the first time in more than a year. I hadn’t been avoiding it deliberately, but I realized just how long it had been as I approached the line to receive bread and wine (juice). I’ve heard the phrases “The body of Christ broken for you;” “The blood of Christ shed for you” hundreds of times in my life.
But this time it felt different.
I am a transgender Christian woman. This is the line I often use to begin one of my presentations about being a transgender woman of faith. Then I often follow that line with these: I like to start with that because you don't often hear the words transgender and Christian in the same sentence.