The Rainbow and the Cross

How society has changed! Today, people struggle to accept that I’m Christian, but not that I’m gay. How, they ask, could I ascribe to an oppressive religion, or any religion at all?

The question comes from two groups that sometimes overlap: those who were traumatised by a religious community, and those who profess to be “spiritual, in my own way” or “basically atheist.”

To those who have survived religion trauma, there’s not much I can say beyond “How terrible to have experienced that.” To the others, I reply, “That’s your choice.” Neither response ends the conversation.

“Seriously, Steven, how can you believe in something that rejects you?”

It’s a predictable question. Christianity is so often distorted into something unrecognisably cruel and homophobic. But the Gospels are not. Although I wish my well-intentioned critics would read them, I respond with my personal experience.

My childhood Episcopal church, St. George’s by-the-River (those hyphens! so camp!) was the most welcoming institution in my early life. School? Bullying. Community sports teams? Picked last. America under Ronald Reagan? Oppression. But church? Pure beauty: flowers, robes, stained glass, candles, singing and most importantly, the encouragement to be myself, a child of God, created in God’s image. It was the safest place I knew.

“OK, so church is nostalgic for you. But you’re too smart to be a believer!”

Is that meant to be a compliment? I’d love to counter with, “you’re too smart to not be” but instead I wonder aloud: “was Martin Luther King too smart to be a believer?” I rattle off names of broadly admired leaders, scientists, artistic geniuses, all believers. Including Oscar Wilde. Amen.

These conversations have become more frequent since I recently decided to come out—as a Christian.

For me, it’s so similar to my coming out as gay. I was 15. It was 1983, and a terrifying “Gay Cancer” soon called GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency) and eventually called AIDS, was ravaging New York City, just up the New Jersey Turnpike from my town. Gay equalled death.

Nevertheless, I assembled my closest friends in our TV room to tell them I had something important to say. One friend, Robert, a straight ally par excellence, still bemusedly tells this story with the punchline “And Steven thought we’d be surprised!” I came out at church, and I came out at home. It was scary, but I was held. I’ve known too many others who weren’t.

Coming out is proclaiming and reframing. It’s saying, this is who I am. It’s also saying, I represent what gay is, what Christian is. Coming out is an act of pride.

I have an evolving relationship with Pride month and Pride parades. I originally saw Pride as a street party to celebrate and promote our joyful diversity to the world. I will never forget the first time I got lost in a massive crowd in Greenwich Village under a blazing midsummer sun, surrounded by people wearing sequinned rainbow hot pants, feather boas, leather collars. I remember thinking, wow, there are so many of us!

I soon saw it as activism. Demonstrating the edifying power of solidarity. Marching alongside groups like ActUp, Lesbian Avengers, and Queer Nation felt historic and electrifying.

Later, I came to see Pride cynically, as a marketing opportunity for big brands and especially for alcohol companies who always sponsored the largest floats. The ones populated by shirtless and mostly Caucasian male go-go dancers. Simultaneously body shaming, mono-gendering and objectifying our community. Monetising our higher tendency for substance abuse. Whoop whoop!

I felt cynical about church at the same time. Despite recognised places where LGBTQ people worshipped, like the Metropolitan Community Church, mainline denominational inclusion was a whisper you had to hear through the grapevine. That parish accepts us, that one doesn’t. I didn’t want to be ghettoised in faith.

Thus, both Christianity and gayness took a back seat to my desire to be fully integrated into straight, secular society. I wasn’t closeted. But the only thing I was truly proud of was seeming “normal.”

Now, the older I get, the more Pride means to me. I’ve come to realise that no matter how accepted we might be, no one else has experienced quite the same traumas and victories that we have. I’m not saying no one else has experienced traumas and victories. Just not ours, specifically.

Statistically, we are four times more likely to experience violence than cisgender heterosexual people. I’ve never held any partner’s hand in public. Physical intimacy involves potentially fatal risk. I never thought we’d gain equal rights, and I’m bitterly unsurprised that things are now moving backwards. I could go on. If you’re gay, you know exactly what I’m talking about. We can see ourselves in each other’s eyes. Our solidarity matters more than ever.

Now, for me, Pride is sacred. A life-affirming ritual that challenges the notion that we should feel fortunate for mere acceptance. A place and time to be in communion with others who’ve shared our life experience. It’s our moment, and everyone is invited.

Just like the Eucharist. We gather our individual lives in all their complexity around the Table, and become one. It’s why the Eucharist brought me back to church and to God.

Back to my conversations with those who are baffled by my faith. Here’s another response that I’ve started using. “Come with me to church one Sunday and see for yourself.” I promise a big ol’ gay brunch in Soho afterwards. This works wonders. Hence you will sometimes see me in church on Sunday with a friend. Though I don’t consider myself evangelical, I’m gradually convincing others that having a faith, and a welcoming and sophisticated faith community, can be a pretty great thing.

The rainbow is God’s covenant with us. The Cross is an intersection of suffering and redemption. For me, LGBTQ+ Pride and the inclusive Christianity we practice at St. James’s are in perfect harmony.

Happy Pride everyone!