Voices from the Margins: Reflection on Pride Week

In October, Congress passed the Matthew Shepherd Act which expanded a previous federal hate-crime law to include sexual orientation, gender (actual or perceived), and disability. While this is a law that has long been needed in our country, there are some who decry it as a potential threat to freedom of thought or expression. While there are clauses in the act to keep that from being the case (and it seems pretty safe to say that such concerns are largely unfounded), it strikes me that, as Christians, we must support his law.

To be clear, I am not advocating that all Christians must have one particular opinion about homosexuality. What I am suggesting is this: if we, as Christians, are not holding our arms wider to people in the name of Christ, then we are missing the point all together. This law, the Matthew Shepherd Act, will help this country do exactly what Christ has always been calling us to do--open our arms wider.
Does this mean condoning homosexuality? Not necessarily (although, to be fair, Jesus didn’t say a word about it). It means not condoning violence as a way of expressing differing opinions. It means protecting that which has made this country great--the ability to live our own lives. It means creating space for all of God’s children to be welcome regardless of our differences.
But, as Christians, our call does not stop at simply insuring that people are not hurt physically. We are called to a much deeper purpose. We are called not just to hold our arms open to all people, but to also give a voice to the voiceless.

Two springs ago, toward the end of the semester, I had a particularly thought provoking week at Candler around these issues.That week, Sacred Worth was participating in the Day of Silence. Day of Silence is a national day of remembrance for those who remain voiceless (or who have lost their voice) due to issues around sexual orientation. At our Tuesday worship, we gathered at the table as a community. To honor their efforts, the Eucharist was shared in silence--complete silence, to remember those who walk this path voiceless and lonely. It was a powerful moment in the life of our school community. As we walked to the table, our intentional silence echoed the silence that the church forces upon LGBTQ students, clergy and friends. As we gathered to celebrate the feast of life, we remembered the death that the church had forced upon its own--the people it claimed from birth as Children of God.

The next day was the Sending Forth Service of Sacred Worth. This service honors those LGBTQ graduating students. As they take the next steps on their journey, they do so with our blessing. We gave each student (who could be open--not all can) a stole as a parting gift. At the close of this ritual, we laid a stole on the altar for the silenced among us--the ones who hadn't even thought about seminary because they didn't think they'd be welcomed, the ones who came then were rejected, for the ones whose gifts would be wasted because the church they loved and dedicated themselves to couldn't move beyond difference into community. Then we celebrated communion--this time with joy and resurrection in our hearts. It was life-giving.

The following day, in my Introduction to Public Worship class, we began our final projects--25 minute worship services. At 8:30 in the morning, none of us were too keen on worship or shouting or clapping or anything really, but we gathered in the chapel, anyway. I zoned in and out for a few minutes, then I came to right when I needed to. The service’s theme was Easter. The Gospel reading told of Christ’s first post-resurrection appearance to the women. The preacher spoke of Christ's call for us to go and tell, and the reason we needed to do it was this: "Go and tell for the victory and deliverance of others." This is the good news: Christ’s arms remain wide open to us despite all the ways that our churches and our traditions and our interpretations and, yes, even ourselves, have tried to force them closed. Christ’s call to open our arms to all people is as clear today as it was millennia ago. We must make space for the voiceless to be heard without fear of retribution.

This, of course, is not easy. I’ve struggled with it my whole time at Candler. When is being gay part of who are or who you are? After not being all that involved with LBGTQ activism and after taking a job at a church where I can't really be open, I was reminded early one Friday morning in class why it's important that I be both of those--involved and open. Because silence isn't OK. Because I've fought long enough for my voice. Because others deserve the victory and deliverance that I've tasted. Because it is what Christ would have me do.

Will you speak for the voiceless? Will you hold your arms open with me?