I’ve eyed the inland surge of a heavy surf,
and shuddered at the thought of its undertow.
I’ve shivered in a late-summer prairie scene:
bronze waves of wheatgrass,
suddenly chromed by a charge of lightning.
But today I hear the thunder of edict and order,
the chilling spray of manifesto, as from a winter ocean;
and I’m driven to consider the particular valour
of .33 percent of our population—
the everyday resolve of people who’ve glimpsed
their freedom, felt a germinating joy,
in moving beyond the binary map—
not without turmoil, not without
a complexity of sorrows, most know little about:
and not without stepping into a firing-line of deadly phobias—
the Baptist preacher who wishes them “shot in the back,”
the Christian congressman crying, “demons,” “mutants,”
and the calmer, more efficient legislators,
who “only know of two genders.” All useful ammo
for a barrage of policies aiming to eliminate trans folk.
I claim to follow the light of the world,
but today I feel some excrescence in me
advancing to match the hate I see.
And when I say, “I follow the way of a shepherd,”
I find within, a brewing animosity to Christianity,
its use now, as an exclusionary force.
I read, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst
after righteousness,” and I’m filled with indignation
at a so-called “…nation under God.”
I contemplate salt and light, a lamp on a hill,
…and then recall sitting in a coffee shop,
while at a table across the isle, whole communities
of the human family were whittled away
under the razor chatter of the willfully ignorant, and I,
throwing my stones of silence, became a lie.
All this talk and intention, and in moment,
I’m just a twin, hating, yet furtively wearing
the coordinate clothes of empire.
Shall I strike my own cheek? turn the other,
expose the slack mouth of my complicity?
How will I learn to lock arms with those who refuse to bow,
who stand in the light of their own right to be?
Will I wait until they come for me?
I know every brewing storm carries the seed of its own demise,
but what does one do in a series of storms?
I know, “Blessed are the pure in heart,” is not
for the faint of heart, “for they will see God,” not in
some future rapture, but in the here-now faces of the erased,
the locked-out, the deported.
I know every act of resistance carries no guarantee
other than the pain it invites. No guarantee,
other than the soul it ignites. No guarantee,
other than retaining our humanity.
I am sorry for the pain we have caused, Stephen, the self-righteousness of the Church here, and the nation that allowed to be what is now. The other day I was reading in Luke 6 and came to the words, “Give to everyone who asks of you and whoever takes away what is yours, do not demand it back.” And I asked, “Even democracy?” I didn’t hear an answer.
Today, that’s the right question. Thanks for this Ann.
I don’t have the words to express all the emotions stirred up inside me by this, Stephen, but as always you have penned a gorgeous, poignant, loving message on this day of trans visibility. Love to you and your beautiful family.
Dear Laurie, I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Thank you, friend.
Weeping for us all. May God forgive us for we ought to know what we do, driving the nails deeper into the cross of Christ
Thank you, Marcia, your image is achingly, sorrowfully, precise. Hanging my head with you.
A friend of yours (my brother Brian) shared this with me. As a queer Christian, I am well aware of the stench Christianity has left in my community. I am part of a conversion therapy survivors group, and almost all of our number have been driven from their faith and faithfulness by the church. One of our number commented during our meeting yesterday that they tried many times to find a truly welcoming place to worship, but time and time again they discovered that they were not going to be treated as an equal. So now they have given up hope.
The only hope is people like you who will not only say the right words, but live them out in your home, your place of work, your church, and among your friends. Yes, you will be persecuted for righteousness sake. But you will also hear “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”
Keep the faith! And thanks for standing up for my beloved trans friends.
If you happen to live in/near Seattle, come to St Joseph (Roman Catholic) church on Capital Hill. We welcome EVERYONE! (Shouting intentional!) and wherever you are, keep searching for that loving Christ community. They are out there.
Wonderful. Thanks, Katy, for this connection.
Hi Al, as a writer/poet, the greatest satisfaction and joy I receive is from responses like yours. I’m saddened by the ruin conversion therapy programs have caused lives, and how it has hollowed out the church and robbed it of rich diversity and possibility. And I take to heart your counsel to continue to stand and live out the gospel of inclusion. It’s a mere trifle to have lost several subscribers because of this post, while others face ongoing and life-altering discrimination. Thank you again for your comment, Al.
I have just finished Brian McLaren’s brilliant book: Do I Stay Christian? The first section answers that question with “no”. I was astonished at how much of Christianity is burdened with incredible assaults on humanity. I have a masters degree in ministry, and learned very little of this history. The second section answers the question with “yes”. And there is a great deal of hope to be had there, and onto the end. I’m a “stayer” but I am now prepared more than ever to be uplifting, inclusive and to follow the words in the Prophet Micah to love mercy, do justice and walk humbly with my God.
Katy, thanks for the reference. I’ve enjoyed McLaren’s thoughtful and progressing writing, but I’ve not read this book. Your mini review here, put’s this on my reading list. Thank you!
Steve, I can resist only some of the time. Even in speaking solely for myself. Sometimes I have to gather strength. Sometimes I have to find that quiet place in me that’s so solid on the ground it knows exactly what to say because anything else would be absurd. Sometimes I have to observe, hunt for the fears behind the hate, because that’s the only place to speak to. I’ve been an advocate since I was 12, and I often don’t feel very good at it. For all the times I’ve wished for someone, for me, to have said something, I celebrate the times when we were able to step into that storm and stay standing.
Anne, thank you for adding your wise, honest, and full-hearted voice to this post. To “hunt for the fears behind the hate,” seems to me a most courageous act of resistance; the place where change might happen, and if not change, at least one’s humanity is retained. None of us are good at it, but we can celebrate that we keep trying. Thank you again, dear friend.
Thanks, Steve, for this most profound piece of poetry.
I especially appreciated the references to the, Sermon on the Mount which is an intense invitation to see each other’s humanity. Unfortunately, the righteousness of the Pharisees prevails too often. Many more thoughts to share here….
Thanks so much, Sam. Always grateful.
To love one another
with kindness
and
with grace
seems a fairly simple sort of
instruction
and yet,
we are so determined
to make it
increasingly more
difficult
while armouring ourselves
in misguided devout
righteousness
where acts of resistance may be
reminding ourselves
without judgement of
other
that we
are here
to
love <3 -^-
Thank you Stephen
Thank you, Tamara, for your eloquent, poetic, and wise response.
“misguided devout righteousness” indeed! Real love might sometimes be tough, but never deadly. If only the same could be said for what passes in some places as Christian love.