Sunday mornings make me cringe. I dread the warmth of the morning sun accompanying shock of my phone alarm. I hate the schedule reminder that would follow or the tap on my shoulder I try my hardest to ignore. Is it a sin against God to remain in bed until at least 11am or to want a mimosa and a big waffle and some light music to serenade me into forgetting that I’m a day away from finding myself back at my work desk? It’s the perfect blend of a self-satisfying fantasy and the fruition of indispensable self-care. But more often than not I find myself tired, in a pew, in a mid-atlantic mega church on Sunday mornings. And it has been that way for that last nine years.
Growing up, the stewardship of strengthening my relationship with God through Christianity permeated every facet of my daily life. From the moment I could eat solid food I was placed in a faith-based educational environment, from my Baptist preschool to my Catholic high school and university. I had read the Bible from start to finish a half-dozen times by ten years old. The Jesus free zone of my Saturdays and Sundays were a nice change of pace to mentality shift my needs inward to focus on enjoying childhood and being a child. When my mother’s common law marriage fell apart the winter my friends turned 16 she sought refuge in the Church, any church. I found the vast majority of the congregations we visited to either chaotic or eerily sterile. I gained more from observing church members than church messages. Being dismissed to go in peace was the best line of every sermon.
The first few years were fine; I didn’t feel any immediate pressure from our new Church home to change more than I was generally used to feeling at any religion class or bible study. But as the pastor grew older and the country began to move toward more progressive values, I noticed that a line was being drawn in the smooth marble tile of the main hall with an usher escorting us to the side where our pastor stood.
They say in the Church you can be a lot of things. You can be liar. You can be a cheat. You can be an adulterer or a thief, because all will be forgiven under the blood of Christ. But God help you if you are gay, especially in the Black Church.
The blatant homophobia amongst Christians is neither new concept nor a well-kept secret. And when reflecting upon this reality I always find a bit of irony in regards to worshippers of color. Discriminated groups at times openly discriminate against other parties using complementary arguments and justifications that assists in their own unfavorable treatment. Though I am in no way equating the struggles of gays and people of color I can and will continue to compare them considering the large presence of gay people throughout every facet of Black Church: parishioners, choir members, musicians, bible study teachers and even pastors.
By the tone of this post it obviously can be assumed that I’m aligned with the LGBTQIA+ community; I am, unapologetically. It is not because I identify as queer. I am not a gay person. It is not because of gay friends, although my closest friend is a gay male and a few LGBT friends and coworkers. It is because it aligns with my beliefs.
I believe that the sexuality and practices of an of-age, knowledgable and consisting adult in the privacy of their own home is none of business and that everyone has to right to live their truth and not be chastised for it. I believe in science. I believe in the science that takes my period cramps away through medication, that eased my grandmother’s cancer suffering, and gives life to infertile couples. I believe in the science that classifies homosexuality as a naturally repetitive trait in humanity and nature at large and has years upon years of well-funded and verifiable research as its support. And it is here where I find my self visibly rolling my eyes at my pastor. He can no longer go a sermon without mentioning in one way or another the sin of homosexuality and how it contributes to deterioration of this nation. Once marriage equality passed in the United States, neither he or the Church could no longer shroud itself in the guise of universal tolerance and love; a stand was made, and now I choose to make mine.
I grow tired of fire and brimstone and the threat of eternal damnation. I grow tired of Church folk screaming hallelujah to the suggestion of conversion therapy. I never want to hear another Sodom and Gomorrah comparison until the rainbow burns the stars out in the skies; it falls apart. I do not have the proper wherewithal to explain the blind eye the Church turns on rape but not homosexuality, but please reread the story of Bathsheba in 2 Samuel and the request of the men in Sodom and Gomorrah in Genesis and see a pattern; the sins not only lay with the sexual deviance but with sexual violence. It’s disheartening to know that in how we as Christians refer to the ways of the Israelites and their enemies we can ignore the assault of men and women for the desire of ownership and power and focus solely on acts between consenting adults.
And as maddening and frustrating and nonsensical as Church has been, never has my faith in God wavered. He has blessed me in ways beyond my own comprehension though I do fall short. Our relationship is close. It’s strange really. I haven’t felt anything move in my spirit for the last few months of services. I look around and everyone is falling to their needs praying for a change that they hope will come in the night, and I sit there and look around and I feel nothing. Do I need Church in my life at this moment? I get more from the small lessons God sends me each day than from any passage we decide to read before the Church announcements. How I can tell my mother that Church makes me feel so angry and empty when it has brought her so much comfort and clarity? She ignored me years when I told her that my best friend is gay. She has his graduation photo in a corner frame next to mine.
The Lord can give me the power to change the things I cannot accept, and I can start by telling her again before we step foot through the chapel’s mahogany doors and plant a seeds of change between in our pew. Amen.
SYDSUGOI SPEAKS 