Do You Love Yourself?

                This is the question that leapt into my mind this morning as I laid aside my reading. It startled me, though it was simple enough to see where it had stemmed from. I had just finished reading From Sin to Amazing Grace (Cheng, 2012) and the chapter I had skimmed the fastest was “The Self-Loving Christ”. It was a difficult to read about how Christ’s self-love provided a way to persist in his ministry, even in the face of adversity at a time when my own reserves of self-affection feel depleted after my work at General Convention.

                I woke up this morning to a nightmare. I was running frantically though the Salt Palace convention center, trying to figure out if “255C” was up or down stairs, terrified that I would miss my chance to speak. I don’t usually place a lot of weight on dreams, but the connection between that nightmare, the challenges I’ve faced in the early stages of healing, and the resounding question of this morning made me feel this was worth exploring.

                I think the root of that dream is a fear of not being heard. I went to General Convention with the realization that my ministry would likely be centered on demonstrating that people like me exist. It was work I thought I’d prepared for, but it turns out no amount of preparation can make you ready to feel as though your very existence is a lot of work, or at the very least an inconvenience. Most conversations about transgender people, and nearly all of the ones that cover non-binary gender identities often start with a disclaimer “we know this is hard, but it’s worth it”, or more often “this is too hard you need to accept that we can’t get it”. Even simple things like correcting people’s misuse of my pronouns often leads to me being told that “there’s not need to be nasty” or “short”*.

                This sense of existence as imposition is compounded by the lack of restful places to escape being gendered or hearing that people like me aren’t real. I picked up three books at Convention, one (“Salvation on the Small Screen”) was meant to be a silly way to decompress, another (“Where God Hides Holiness”) was a favorite that kept me in the church even as I initiated a Title IV process for discrimination based on my gender, and the third was From “Sin to Amazing Grace”. On Monday, I turned to this trove and found binary language within the first chapter of each of them. Setting each of them aside, and growing more and more hurt I began to wonder if I had lost reading as a way to relax.

                 I’ve often felt that each new thing I develop language around to describe myself often pushes me further and further into exile. As soon as I reach a place where I can articulate where I am, I am challenged to explore a new part of my experience. With each new injustice I discover, the less able I am to participate in the restful activities I once loved as I grow keenly aware of how in them I am told not to be.

                This transition of places of life becoming places of fear and burden cannot be better demonstrated by the manner in which I once approached the Eucharist, and the preparation I now must undergo. In the podcast the Collect Call I spoke of my initial experiences realizing the limitations of binary language in the liturgy. After more than a week of attending daily worship at General Convention, and hearing people like me aren’t a part of the church in every single service, that sense of alienation has been accentuated. I left convention with a sense that I must first prove my realness before I can partake and truly enter into the body.  Yet even when I do take action to draw attention to the gaps in our liturgy, there are always things I miss.

                Take this past Sunday for instance. Exhausted from convention, worn thin by repeated explanations and spiritually ready to hide from the world for an extended period, I chose to push myself to still attend the service mostly due to the face that I had volunteered to set up for coffee hour. Concerned about the language of the service as I knew we would have a supply priest, when I went over on Saturday night to prepare the treats, I also glanced over the bulletin. Seeing the words “Eucharistic Prayer B” I immediately went into damage control mode, debating options, gauging my emotional spoons, and trying to decide which course of action was simultaneously both Christian and healthy.

                This apparent conflict between my baptismal duty to “continue in the apostle’s teaching and fellowship, in the breaking of bread, and in the prayers” and my obligation to love this life I’ve been given, and to honor God’s work in creating me as I am has continued to escalate as I encounter more and more spaces in the Episcopal church that ask me to choose one over the other. That Sunday I decided to arrive early and to speak with the priest about my concerns. He listened attentively and said he would try to remember. During the Eucharist he did use “the everlasting heritage of your descendants” as I’d requested. This was a change that I almost missed because I’d forgotten that we’d be using the preface for baptism and “received us as your sons and daughters” was still echoing through me. The added burden of coming early, starting a nerve-wrecking conversation, and explaining its importance led to one change, providing hope, but the service still left me feeling hollow due to what I’d missed.

                Do you love yourself? On the surface it seems like a simple question with an obvious “right” answer (yes). But as it tumbles through me I couldn’t help but ask a question in return, how? How can I love myself when everything around me tells me I’m a burden, an oddity, an exception or simply not there? How can I find this “inner core” that people tell me to rely on when I have yet to find a space where I’m not expected to defend as real those parts of myself I haven’t yet come to accept, let alone love.

                Sitting with this question I finally found an answer I can live with. I can’t say “yes” or “no” for at this moment both would be untruthful. What I can say is this, I commit myself to the work of self-love. I can acknowledge that I have been corrupted by the sin of a world that doesn’t want me alive and by the grace of God I can and I will resist that message. I give myself permission to read what I can, when I can without judgment for the knowledge I can’t obtain in my infirmity. I promise to celebrate the victories I’ve already achieved in simply living to see this day. Above all, whether in church or outside it, I offer myself to Love, not only love for my neighbor but also for the God who made this body, this spirit so determined to keep going long past the point it made rational sense.

*Both of these phrases were used when I gave blood yesterday. The technician who was handing me off to her supervisor said “he…umm she” and then got very upset when I stepped in and said “they”. I was told by them that I should feel guilty for not just “going along” with the needed questions, which are actually needlessly invasive as I was only changing my name and not my gender marker on my Red Cross records. 

**This post is also shared on the Episcopal Peace Fellowships Young Adult Delegation blog as it wraps up some of the lessons I've carried home from General Convention. If you'd like to see more about what it was like to do this work while there I'd recommend checking them out.

Finding Resurrection in Despair (Acts 8 Moment BLOGFORCE)

Alleluia Christ is Risen!

The world has changed, the power of the tomb defeated. This the season of celebration and transformation. All that is old is being made new, our chains our broken and life reigns triumphant. These strains of joy and hope have been difficult for me to hear this year. For at the beginning of the Easter feast I was confronted with a reminder of worldly death, at the heart of the Eucharist.

I watched delighted as the new fire was kindled, joined the hymns as we processed into the darkened nave. At first it was business as usual, as the now familiar words fell easily from my lips. Then as the Paschal homily of St. Chrysostom was read the service was transformed from a routine affirmation of faith, to an intense encounter of hope. As he spoke through the through the centuries of people being called in at the 6th, 9th and even 11th hour I found myself on the brink of tears. This year has been a particularly painful one for me, as I've wrestled with the way the Episcopal Church often ignores those of us who don't fit into the gender binary. Within our church I’ve been told so many times that my pronouns are an inconvenience, that my presence is a burden. As I listened to Chrysostom's words I could hear myself being called back, invited in to the feast that I have so often been turned away from due to a truth that I cannot deny. With those words falling through the centuries I was ready, yet again, to turn away from the pain and hurt. I was excited and eager to trust that love is working in even the darkest moments of my life.

Then we reached the Eucharist, that precious gateway to Mystery. Opened by the lessons I had heard I was eager for this celebration, this Thanksgiving. So lost was I, wrapped tightly in the love that held me close, that I didn’t notice which Eucharistic prayer we were using. Then out of the warmth and light a single phrase cut me to the quick, from Eucharist prayer B the words "everlasting heritage of your sons and daughters" echoed through the room. In that moment it felt as though the invitation I had been issued just moments before was stripped away. In an instant I cast from the joy of being a beloved person invited to the greatest feast of all time, into the role of an outsider, a freak, a mistake. With the life I have lived I no longer feel as though I am a son or a daughter, gendered words that have repeatedly asked me to lie about myself. On my most daring days I believe that I could be a child of God, yet there are times such daring feels more like self-delusion than the whisper of truth.

Yet I believe that it is from the seed of that delusion that the truth of resurrection can be spoken. For even though I remain plagued by doubt, the fact that I can even consider believing that I am a child of God is nothing less than miraculous.

I was never meant to survive. Every time I turn on the news and hear about another trans youth committing suicide I am reminded that was supposed to me. A psychiatric survivor who was drugged in adolescence to enforce conformity, I was never supposed to speak. Isolated from my people, cut off from the history of gender-benders from across time, I was never supposed to learn.  Condemned as demon possessed, and cast out of the church of my youth, I was never supposed to believe.

And yet, I do. For I have tasted of the resurrection. I’ve felt the resurrection in the arms of those who have held me as I’ve cried. I’ve seen the living Christ in the communities who’ve claimed me, even when I wouldn’t claim myself. I lived a resurrected life, in the triumphant act of getting up each and every morning.

This year I don’t have the strength to try and take in the enormity of the resurrection. I have no energy for debates about the nature of the resurrected body, nor a desire to tease out the complicated traditions that have formed this season. At this moment, for me, entering the resurrection simply means living under the incredible belief that even my broken body, my battered soul, is in the process of being made holy and whole. 

Killing with Kindness: The Meaning Behind the Words

Through my work in campus ministry I am blessed with wonderful opportunities to listen to students from a wide variety of backgrounds explore the possibilities faith and religion have in their lives. As an openly transgender Christian I am also invited to participate in on-campus conversations about the effects of identity erasure, oppression and transphobia. These discussions are both liberating and painful. There is a remarkable sensation of belonging and community as the pain of bias is divided among a crowd. Yet this release is tempered by hurt, as the reminders of past harm blur with the sharp reminder that forces of oppression are still very active within the world and within our church today.

When I listen to the students describe the anti-trans statements they’ve* heard, the loss they experience when they are told they don’t belong, and reflect on my own experiences of being misgendered at church I’ve detected a common theme. The vast majority of the time the intention behind the comments that are most devastating is innocent. People say things in an effort to build bridges without realizing the devastating effects their statements have on the human being in front of them. As such I’d like to look at the hidden meaning behind the most common things I am told in the Episcopal Church when I invite people to share in my genderful experience by using my pronouns, they/them/theirs. 

·         Silence/ Continuing to Use the Wrong Pronouns

 Effect: This is by far the most common reaction I have encountered, along with being the most painful. Silence constructs a fortified wall, leaving me with the expectation that my efforts to connect will be treated as a painful intrusion. When the pleas for my dignity to be honored fall on deaf ears I am left in isolation, with the God gift of my identity recast as a limitation. The continued use of the incorrect pronouns for an individual adds razor wire to the barrier between us, as it sets up the person using the wrong pronouns as a judge to whom I must justify my existence. 

Try Instead: “Thank you”. When someone tells you their pronouns they have invited you to share in their journey, to be a part of their life. If someone corrects your use of their pronouns it is your responsibility to act on it. By restating your sentence and incorporating the right pronouns you will demonstrate that you have heard them and respect them as another human being. 

Best Option: Be preemptive. When introducing yourself offer your pronouns, even if you feel they are obvious.  The phrase “Hi I’m so & so and I use _____ pronouns” goes a long way toward creating a space where all of God’s children can share who they are.  

·         “You’ll need to be patient with me.”

Effect: This situation furthers a power dynamic which disenfranchises the transgender individual. Rather than building a relationship it strips the transgender person of their right to be uncomfortable or hurt when they are misgendered. After this statement has been made anything the transgender person does or says to reflect their discomfort can (and often has) been used as proof of their “impatience”. 

Try Instead: “Please correct me if I make a mistake”. This statement works toward building a relationship and acknowledging one’s discomfort and fear about making a mistake without making the other person responsible for your discomfort. It also creates a space for deeper conversation about why a particular word or phrasing was painful.

Best Option: You do not need to wait until you meet someone who uses gender neutral pronouns to add them to your vocabulary. Imagine conversations with and about transgender people using a variety of pronouns, write stories (they can be silly) using characters with different pronouns. You can also start using the singular “they” to smooth out your speech instead of the clunky (and erasing phrase) “he or she”. The opportunities to integrate gender affirming language are numerous.

·         “You’re the first person I’ve met that ____________” / “This is such a new concept”

Effect: This statement clearly marks the individual being spoken to as different and unexpected. It creates an environment where the person this is addressed to should expect to be misunderstood, misgendered and mistreated because the speaker “can’t be expected to know any better”. It also has the effect of tokenizing the transgender individual, putting them in a place where they are responsible for representing the entire trans* community, an impossible task.

Try Instead: “It’s wonderful to meet you” or “I’m glad you’re here”. Remember you are always meeting an individual, a human being, made in the image of God, who has a story to tell that goes far deeper than their gender.

Best Option: Seek out and learn the stories of gender non-conforming individuals throughout history. While our particular understanding of gender identity is new, there is a rich tradition of gender non-conforming individuals in the Bible and throughout time. I encourage you to take some time to reflect on the lives of Georgia Black, Jim McHarris, and the many others who demonstrate gender diversity is anything but a new concept.

·         “You’re so courageous”

Effect: This compliment always makes me uneasy. When I am thanked for my “courage” I am reminded that I am presently denied the privilege of simply living my life. Because my gender is not sanctioned by society my every breath and action is often interpreted through the lens of activism. Thus I view courage as the default position to stay alive rather than a virtue I’ve chose to nourish. When people focus on thanking me for my courage, they are reinforcing an expectation that my life is centered around my gender, rather than allowing me to bring the rest of my identity to our common work.

Try Instead: “Thank you for your openness”, “It’s an honor to know you”. Focus on compliments that remind the person you are speaking to that you see them as more than a gender or a fight for inclusion.

Best Option: Take steps to ensure that transgender people in your church and community are not expected to be courageous.  Simple things like ensure there are gender-inclusive restrooms, being proactive about using people’s pronouns and lobbying for gender identity protections in law and practice go a long way in ensuring the burden of courage doesn’t fall only on those who are transgender.

·         “I’m doing so much better at remembering your pronouns”

Effect: This statement only serves as a reminder that who I am is perceived as an inconvenience or a burden.  It reinforces the false idea that some pronouns are “natural” and thus easy to remember and others are something that requires a significant amount of effort. 

Try Instead: “Have I said anything that hurt you lately?” This creates a space for the person to be honest about how they are experiencing their interactions with you.

Best Option:  Be mindful of how privilege affects expectations. Using a person’s correct pronouns is a mark of basic decency, not an act of kindness you should expect recognition for.  When someone draws attention to the effort they are putting into being inclusive they eradicate the welcome as the person they are speaking to is reminded of their outsider status.

The “Try Instead” steps I’ve listed above are part of the very minimum steps required to be welcoming of the children of God in all their miraculous genders and experiences. Anything less than this serves as a reminder that the existence of certain people is treated as an inconvenience. When people hear the bold phrases, at coffee hour, in the sermon, or in meetings, we often hear that we, by inconveniencing the church with our presence, are through our very being are inconveniencing God. That message is one I find irreconcilable with the Gospel. As such I challenge all of us to listen and to grow together, reflecting on the effect of our words that linger after our intentions fade. I ask this so that together we may come to see that through Christ’s boundary breaking presence in the Eucharist and the transforming power of God working through the Holy Spirit we, a disparate body of many genders, are being bound together into one body, one church.

*Throughout this post I will use the singular they to reference an individual of any gender identity, unless specific pronouns are called for.

The Rite of Reconciliation: Letting Love Conquer the Oppression of the Soul (#TractSwarmOne)

                There are many dates from which I can trace my Christian journey. My baptism and confirmation, the first time I heard God and the first Sunday I attended church as an adult would all be on the list. Yet while these have been powerful moments, shaping who I am as a person, the most healing moment in my life was none of these. Rather I understand who I am as a Christian because of a little talked about rite, the rite of reconciliation. Because it has been such a transforming force in my life, I’d like to invite you to step with me beyond the curtain to see how confession can be a powerful resource in surviving oppression.

                It was Epiphany 2012, and after stumbling into the Episcopal Church I was finally starting to get a grip on all the odd things that I was surrounded by. Then we began to prepare for the changing seasons. After asking what Lent was I was confronted with an interesting opportunity. The priest invited anyone to schedule a time to meet for confession. This invitation threw me into confusion. My curiosity, strengthen by a desire to do the “right” things to continue to fit in this church fought with my fear of opening up, my terror of being rejected. In the end I somehow managed to spit the request out at a time the priest and I were alone. He suggested that we meet after the early service on Ash Wednesday, and my path was set.

                I remember sitting in the chapel after the service, nervous and fidgety. A friend from school had come to church that morning and I can’t even remember what I said to explain why I stayed. It might even have been the truth. All I knew at that moment was that I was terrified about what was coming, and a large part of me felt that this had to be a mistake. With my soul and mind in a mess of knots the priest returned and explained the process. Slowly I found the right page in the still foreign book of common prayer and tried to clear my mind to sink into the silence.

                We began together, ancient words falling from our tongues in a desperate prayer: “Have mercy on me, O God.” I kept my eyes locked on the black and white text, unable to bear looking at the human being sitting just behind the altar rail. All too soon the comfortable words faded, it was my turn to speak. So I began, my voice uncertain as I focused on the page:

                “Holy God, heavenly Father, you formed me from the dust in your image and likeness, and redeemed me from sin and death by the cross of your Son Jesus Christ”.

                Instantly I was struck by how reassuring the text was. In this moment, as I prepared to be rejected for all of the most horrible things I had done, here was a reminder that I had been made for something greater than the life I had been living. It was shocking, even though I’d read through the rite before I came, hearing the words aloud in that sacred space led me to wonder if perhaps they might even be true.

                The service continued, “…wandered far in a land that is waste. Especially I confess to you and to the Church…”. This was the part that I had most dreaded. How could I compress six and half years of anti-Christian beliefs into language. What words were there to tell another of the hate I had believed, the scars from self-injury, and a mind exhausted by regular suicidal ideation. How could I tell this person, who I still wanted to like me, about my transgender identity, the reason I had once been called demon possessed, or how I had once been the fundamentalist who had bullied others into corrupted faith.

                Yet when the time came I simply spoke, words tumbled from my mouth, all of my fears and my doubts, my scars and the lies that I had believed. Then after I returned, tears streaming down my face, to the text of the page, I was given the greatest gift I had ever received. The priest told me that being transgender wasn’t a sin, and that all of the things I had turned to for relief when I had believed that message could be put aside. He told me that I was loved, for who I was and for who I was becoming. For the first time I dared to believe that this could be true. I had let another person see that which I had always kept hidden, and in return he offered me the absolute assurance of God’s love.

                I’ve come a long way from that first confession, and the rite has continued to play a huge role in helping me to navigate a challenging life. Because of my gender I am constantly bombarded with messages that tell me to be less then who God made me to be. Surrounded by them for my entire life I often submit to the temptation to believe them, or to invert them and make myself the center of a narrative that ignores my neighbor. It is only by returning to confession that I have found the strength to disregard those narratives of the world. It has only been by confessing the times I slip in patterns that reinforce the choice between suicide or idolatry of myself, that I have even a temporary relief from the internalized transphobia that still ravages my life. Yet even as the battle for my soul rages on, by entering into this ritual I am given a life-line that can anchor me in my true worth. I am a child of God, and because of my sin, I need to be reminded of that. Through the rite of reconciliation I am reminded that nothing I do, nothing I have done, can keep me from returning to the miraculous life I have been given. That truth is a powerful resource we have to share with all who are seeking to know the true value, the complete worth, of their life.