Whenever a person interviews me, because it always takes the form of an interview, about why I identify as a Christian despite, well, everything, I never quite know what to tell them. Whatever eloquence I ascribe to my person vanishes at the sound of all the words in the known universe failing to capture what it means when I say I follow Jesus. Cringe. (Keep reading)

This was written as part of Vine & Fig’s Sunday Scripture reflection project.

When Jesus sent out his Twelve, He told them: “Whatever place does not welcome you or listen to you, leave there and shake the dust off your feet in testimony against them.” If you’re not welcomed, not listened to, quietly withdraw. Don’t make a scene. Shrug your shoulders and be on your way.

Last week, a friend of ours in the Vine & Fig community asked me to proofread a letter. It was addressed to her parents, and it asked, in the calm voice of a young woman embracing adulthood, whether or not she and her female partner could count on the same respect, dignity, and love that she saw flow from her parents to her siblings and their partners. Our friend and her partner had just moved in together, and things had gotten serious enough that an introduction was in order, even for her huge anti-queer Catholic family.

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As soon as she hands you the gift
you know it’s another one
“Trans Life Survivors”
says the cover
“Merry Christmas!”
says your sister
you have only been using
they/them pronouns
in private
for a year or so
it’ll look so beautiful next to
the ex-gay book
your other sister presented to you
on your birthday last month

At family dinner you
spend bathroom breaks in your
childhood bedroom
five in total
logging on to talk to us
about how the heavy things feel
being the punching bag
on which your 11-year-old cousin
practises her right hook
screaming fire about
her trans classmate
stings
and
it stings
like a shattered jaw

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When I first learned that ‘pontifex’, Pope Francis’ Twitter account, is Latin for ‘bridge builder’, I was entirely delighted. “How wonderful”, I thought, “that our institution sees the value in a Pope who builds bridges between the Church and the rest of humanity.”

When I look at myself with kind eyes, I dare to see the ways in which I myself help build these bridges. As a queer facilitator, I’m part of the leadership team at Vine & Fig, a community for affirming LGBTQIA+ Catholics. When it comes to the bridge between us and the rest of the world, I focus most of my efforts on building not the bridge’s deck but its foundation. The part that contains the strong back and self love required to even begin thinking about making it to the deck, which is where all the difficult dialogues happen. You know, the ones about whether or not we’re inherently disordered and whether we should ever experience physical intimacy.

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Let’s meditate on us scattered sheep today, shall we? After all, if not scattered, then what are we? It has become a running gag in our household. I will be reading the New York Times, shaking my fist at whomever is responsible for the failed separation of Church and State. Or perhaps I’m mad at those who think their Christian inclination allows them to dictate what happens in other people’s bodies. My Jewish partner will do the eye roll of eye rolls and say: “funny how you all kind of do that, wouldn’t you agree?”

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If you are at all involved in queer Catholic Twitter, you know that last week was a riot. Cause célèbre was an unexpected shout-out from Pope Francis:

“Pope Francis told a group of parents of L.G.B.T. children yesterday that “God loves your children as they are” and “the church loves your children as they are because they are children of God.” — America Magazine

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This was originally published as part of the Vine & Fig “Pray Tell” project.

She sounds quite chipper once she makes it to the telephone. ‘Hey dear!’ it sounds. ‘Happy Mother’s Day’, I go. A few years ago, when I decided that I was going to transition into low contact mode with my mother, I couldn’t have imagined that Mother’s Day was going to be like this.

As many countries celebrate moms today, we remember that, on Mother’s Day last year, we saw my stepfather leave for the hospital, never to return again. The anniversary of his death is next week. Given the trajectory of my life, celebrating my mother’s parenting abilities seems ridiculous, but given the calendar, keeping a distance between us on this very day seems cruel.

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