Last week I discussed how questioning is such a crucial component not only to our spiritual health, but also to our queer experiences. Questions help us dig deeper. Questions help us expand our faith beyond what we thought was possible.
That said, there is rarely comfort in questions– especially when, after investigating those questions, we realize that we were wrong. When it comes to biblical characters we can look to for an example, Paul might know a thing or two about that.
In Acts 9, we see another story about Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances– kind of. Paul, who had been known far and wide for his mistreatment of those who followed Jesus, was traveling Damascus to find followers of Jesus. His goal was to make sure they were taken back to Jerusalem to stand trial (probably for heresy). He had recently taken part in stoning the apostle Stephen to death, so his reputation for cruelty was likely known in the city.
As Paul was traveling, he suddenly encountered a bright light. He was so shocked that he fell to the ground and was immediately blinded. The light turned out to be Jesus, who asked Paul to stop persecuting his people. The Lord then spoke to a man in Damascus named Ananias, whom the Lord charged with healing Paul when Paul arrived to the city.
Here’s the thing that gets me about this story: Paul was healed by someone who was in the very community he persecuted. It was a challenge in humility on Paul’s part, but a challenge of mercy on Ananias’.
Let me be clear here: this story does not teach that you are to take in with welcome arms those who are actively causing you harm. The important thing here is that Paul was beginning to recognize the error of his ways– that’s the moment at which someone he had othered could healthily engage him. He was on his way to becoming not only an ally and advocate for this community, but a member himself.
He found his people and they were in the very group he never expected them to be.
Photo by Tomáš Vydržal on Unsplash
I’m thankful that my own Damascus Road experience to queer affirmation was not nearly so traumatizing as Paul’s, but it was an important path nonetheless. As a youth, I was so deep in the closet that I couldn’t see the walls; frankly, I didn’t know I was in a closet to begin with. The few times I heard about gayness at church, it was in the same formula each time: being gay is a choice; being gay is a sin; don’t choose sin. When they misrepresented it that way, my rationale was “easy.” I don’t want to choose sin, so I won’t. Simple. Easy peasy. Outside of that, I didn’t give queerness much thought throughout my youth.
It wasn’t until my junior year of college that I spent any large amount of time with people who are openly queer. I was participating in an independent winter guard unit made up of performers from all over the Knoxville area. As it turned out, our instructor (who had also been my high school guard instructor) was gay; the assistant instructor was a lesbian; all of the men in the unit were gay. Overnight, I found myself in regular community with people who (according to my pastors) were choosing a life of sin.
Over the course of the season, I spent a decent amount of time with my teammates (be it during hours-long rehearsals or day-long competitions). We worked hard during rehearsals, but on breaks we laughed, joked, and shared a little about our backgrounds. When you spend that much time with someone, you can’t help but get to know them.
I was surprised with their vulnerability with me. They knew I was studying ministry at a Christian university (to be fair, I probably shouldn’t have brought my Hebrew translation homework to practice if I wanted to keep that a secret), yet they felt comfortable sharing pieces of their stories with me. Some talked about the pain of rejection from their families. Some talked about the vitriol they’d received from churches in the area. None of them shared too deeply, but they shared deeply enough to pull at the thread of my conviction that being gay was a choice. I could see clearly that they didn’t choose that treatment and, beyond that, they were good people; I wouldn’t have used the word “sinner” to describe any of them. They were beautifully made in God’s image and showed me pieces of God I hadn’t seen before.
In the same way Paul had to, I had to spend time with the people I had “othered” in order to see both their humanity and their divinity. Not only that, I had to spend time with them in order to realize they were –and are– my people.
It was still a few more years before I could come to terms with my own queerness, but those several months were easily the most instrumental in that process (even if I didn’t know it at the time). It was only after spending time with them that I started to question whether what I’d been taught about gay people held up to scripture– and to question how that scripture was interpreted. That season began a work in me that could not be undone: a commitment to no longer harm people simply because I didn’t understand them.
I’d like to think Paul felt similarly as he felt the scales fall from his eyes– that when the scales fell, his heart softened, too. He could no longer treat them cruelly because he could finally see their intrinsic worth.
Perhaps that’s how you came to your own queer identity– through humanizing the people you’d been conditioned to vilify before seeing yourself in them. If so, take comfort in the fact that there are a good many travelers who came before you on the road to Damascus.
If you came to your queerness via a different road, I’m sure you still have a Damascus Road experience. Perhaps you’ve had to reckon with internalized racism and the violence your privilege has caused. Maybe you’ve had the seed of Islamophobia sown in your heart and you’ve had to rip it out at the root. No matter the specific reason, I daresay we all know what it’s like to traverse the Damascus Road.
Take heart, fellow traveler. As we continue to travel along the path to a deep, authentic faith, we will meet strangers who challenge us and who show us a better way. Let’s keep walking.