#alright. take: 2. tangents: 12. hotel: trivago.

[queerprayers]

I’ve been following your blog for a while now, and it’s really been helping restore my relationship with faith. So firstly I want to say thank you. <3 I also wanted to ask how you learned to deal with adversity so well? I’ve seen other blogs on here that frequently invalidate queer christians and openly say they are not valid. How can one believe in a god that would “make all people in his image” but then turn around and tell his people to hate what he had created?

Welcome, beloved! I'm so glad this can be a good space for you and you're very welcome. My ability to deal with adversity is actually currently being tested because I wrote out a complete response for you and Tumblr did not save my draft!!! And yet we press on. Hopefully this second try from scratch is still helpful/relevant. Please assume any lack of genius is because I used it all up the first time around. :)

I'm honored you think I deal with adversity well—I have a long way to go but I am proud of where I am. Partially I've learned because I had to learn. My greatest wish was to continue being in faith communities as myself, and that sadly inherently puts me in adverse situations. I'm lucky to generally have experienced passive/"well-meaning" homophobia in my daily life rather than active violence or abuse, but it is of course still a hardship. In many ways I am not given a choice—if I live as I am, this is what I will experience. I wish this were not the case, but it is—which means part of fulfilling my journey (existing as I am within my faith) means dealing with adversity, and because of my beliefs, I strive always to deal with it in loving ways.

I know I am connected to generations of Christians experiencing adversity, both from within and outside the church, and, like many of them, I have decided it is worth it to not give up my allegiance. To be clear, I have immense empathy and respect for those who leave the church for these reasons, and I would never shame them or consider them cowardly/weak—for those I know it has been an act of bravery, strength, and self-preservation. I want everyone to be free to make that choice—and I have (sometimes grudgingly) chosen to stay. 

I similarly have empathy for those who attempt to repress or choose to hide/keep private their sexuality/gender—this is a very painful experience that I wish no one had to go through, but some are driven to it. There are generations of Christians (and queer people of all religions/cultures) who have experienced this, and it's often a choice between coming out or keeping your family/community/even life. Ultimately, some people do not wish to come out, not or ever. I do encourage people to be honest with themselves and God, and try their best to seek out affirming communities for their own health/well-being and ability to freely serve God, but again, this is a choice we are free to make—and I (joyfully and painfully, in an uncomfortable but safe environment) have chosen to be out.

I've had to learn how to curate my space on the Internet and generally avoid debates with strangers—my current rule when deciding whether to give someone time when they approach me with abuse is to ask, "Would answering this be useful (to me, to them, to those who might read it)?" and "Are they saying anything worth thinking about?" Often, the answer is no. Someone telling me to kill myself does not want to have a conversation, and there's nothing to respond to. But if someone shares a specific opinion, or cites a Bible verse, or criticizes a specific belief, then there's something there that could be useful to address. And then, of course, protecting myself is also relevant. It takes energy for me to write anything, but doubly so when I know the other person isn't approaching the conversation with the same love I attempt to. If I have the energy, and feel like there's something to actually say, sometimes I'll say something. 

Whether I'm responding or deleting, I am called to keep moving with prayer and love. I can't let my beliefs go out the window when I get hurt or angry (although that happens to all of us sometimes). And always always I remember that it's never about me. Homophobia comes from ignorance/fear/disgust, and although I am sometimes the one directly addressed, I am not what these people have an issue with. Problems with me living as a Christian generally come from past trauma, ideological issues with certain theologies, or ignorance/disrespect of religion generally, not me existing. Again, I'm the one being addressed, but their (often justified) anger is not about me. I'm not trying to make excuses for people, but I am making the space for my own compassion and their ability to grow, as my religion has taught me. (Obviously this doesn't include instances in which I might be the one who has made a mistake/caused harm; I'm talking about unjust adversity people experience, not consequences of actions.)

I will point out that it is much harder to deal with people like this in person. Writing involves distance and time from the aggressor. I can take a deep breath, wait a few days, choose whether to respond, and reread my words before sending them, thinking about how they might be received. But on the street? In school hallways? There is no distance and no time, and there is sometimes a lack of physical safety as well. This is when I have most often given in to anger, or meeting disgust with disgust. Obviously this has often been self-protection and survival, and I do not fault myself or anyone for not meeting oppression with perfect calm—this is impossible and not a value everyone holds. (That's a whole 'nother discussion!) When possible, though, I do try to do what I do here—if I feel safe, if I have the energy, I'm open, I ask questions. People filled with anger/fear/disgust/ignorance often can't keep it up for long. 

Why do people hate, especially when they claim to value love? I don't have definite answers, although I've provided some already. I do know that most of the homophobic people I know are not abusive/violent—they are well-meaning and put-together. They genuinely want what's best for people, and think that guiding people toward repression or conversion therapy or mandated celibacy will guide their life towards God. This is a deeply mistaken perspective, that causes real harm and is full of ignorance, but I do not experience it as hate (although there is a violence present). They think I am not whole as I am, and think that loving me involves fixing me. This is not loving, but it is something I can understand more than outright abuse. It's another kind of adversity, one that sometimes hurts more long-term, partially because I can understand it more—I can't dismiss it. And these people have a hard journey—admitting they're wrong means admitting their whole worldview is broken, but also often includes making this judgment about their family/community, and might mean losing it. Again, I do not seek excuses, but context and space.

In my life, I prove them wrong by living wholly, fully, and openly. I cannot make them see my happiness—we cannot force people to open their eyes. But we can show them light where we can. We cannot save them alone, but they can be saved, and they will be. ("Save" here meaning to fully experience love, not conversion or avoidance of a traditional Hell.) I know my patience and love (the little of it I can sometimes reach) can help people, because people have told me it has, and this an honor and a privilege and an overwhelming stress and a gift from a universe I cannot move. If the way I have chosen saves even one person, it is worth it—and if we include me, then it definitely has, but even if we don't, I have witnessed others' hearts change. Moving and writing and speaking with love will not fix everything, it is not magical, but Love will save all of us—They already have. Love (who is God) is with us, even when we cannot feel it, even when we don't have the energy to comprehend it, even when we are blinded and scared and cannot admit we are wrong.

My beliefs inherently make room for people to change, even when this truth makes me mad, even when I wish I could just give up on people. Christianity, at its best, equips us to take a deep breath and remember what we were made for. As Pentecost arrives, I hold the Spirit close—I've never spoken in tongues or been set on fire (and not to jinx it but I don't really desire to), but I've felt the wind on my face and bird-watched in my backyard and sat around a bonfire with people I love. I have so far to go, and the road rises to meet me.

In summary, TL;DR, don't mean to rant but always do: I learned to deal with adversity because I had to, and with practice, while honoring others, while figuring out a path of love in this weird and confusing life, even as I fail at what I set out to do all the time, God sees what I do in the name of survival, and gives me the strength to keep going. I know anger and fear and disgust and ignorance because they're in everyone; I know what it is to believe something and do things that go against that, because I do it all the time; I know what it is to hang on to things I've been taught even when they're harmful, because I've done that. We can only pray that they do not overtake us as they overtake those who hurt us.

Blessings to you as we move through an inhospitable world (and website). May we do all the good that we can.

Grant, O God, that your holy and life-giving spirit may move every human heart, that the barriers which divide us may crumble, suspicions disappear, and hatreds cease, and that, with our divisions healed, we might live in justice and peace; through your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. —Lutheran Book of Worship (1978)

<3 Johanna