Pride on Dark Days

I remember, vividly, the Sunday after Obergefell v. Hodges made marriage equality the law of the land. I remember because I worked at a conservative Evangelical church at the time, and that Sunday I overheard a dozen conversations lamenting the state of moral decay in America. Grown men swearing (in church) and on the verge of tears, incensed that our nation would deign to extend marriage rights to same sex couples. At that point I had more or less come to terms with my own orientation, but I was not out, nor could I have been while working at that church. It’s an interesting experience indeed, to have your identity so publicly and thoroughly skewered, right in front of you. They didn’t know they were talking about me, but they really told on themselves that day. I learned that I was not safe to be myself in that environment. That people like me were not welcome.

The last few years have reminded me, over and over, that certain people will stick to their guns in refusing to acknowledge my basic dignity. And I’d love to pretend it doesn’t bother me. I’d love to exist above it all, not caring how many of the people I used to worship alongside now find my existence so problematic that they’ll ally themselves with tasteless authoritarian leaders who promise to scale back every right won by LGBTQ+ people in the last half century. 

It’s hard to write about Pride this year. It’s hard to celebrate when it feels like the backlash against LGBTQ+ progress is louder and more politically powerful than the progress itself. When queer identities are so inherently sexualized and demonized that teachers are called “groomers” for teaching children that LGBTQ+ people exist. When children of same sex couples are accosted on trains, their parents accused of being “rapists” and “pedophiles.” When life-saving health care for trans youth is criminalized across the southern United States. When even the right to marry feels like it may be stripped away unceremoniously by Supreme Court decision, mere years after it was won.

Meanwhile companies profit off rainbow-washed merchandise at unprecedented levels. And sure, on the whole a thriving market for LGBTQ+ inclusive merch may be a good sign, indicating that broader societal acceptance has turned a corner. Still, with politicians and judges so poised to scale back our hard-won rights, these rainbow displays feel even more cynical and hollow than they would otherwise.

For the most part I’m not worried about myself. I’m bi, so I may settle down with a partner of another gender, rendering many of these concerns moot in my own life. Plus, I live in a blue state, unlikely to criminalize same sex marriage even if Obergefell should be overturned. Finally I’m thirty, and have already done the hard work of coming to terms with my identity and sharing it with the world. What I worry about most is, ironically, the children. 

I worry for the children of gay parents whose family structures will be treated as controversial and shameful. I worry for queer kids who come out to their parents and are cast out of the home to survive on the streets. I worry for trans and non-binary kids most of all. 

And I know these kids, too. They aren’t theoretical to me. I know that the world can be a hostile place when you’re different, and that when we cast shame on those differences rather than creating safe, affirming spaces, we will lose some of these kids. To addiction, to homelessness, to suicide. These are statistical inevitabilities in a world built on condemnation and judgment against LGBTQ+ identities.

I know there are reasons to be hopeful. I know that even if things take a turn for the worse, the battle will not be over. But this year I’ve had to learn how to celebrate Pride when it feels like the darkness is too thick to see the rainbow. 

I’m reminded of the time my friend Sam and I went to the GCN (Gay Christian Network) conference in Portland. It was 2015, the same year as the Obergefell decision. Working at the aforementioned church, I had to broach the topic of attending the conference carefully with my employers. I would attend to “seek understanding,” to learn from another side of the issue. Not because these issues had any bearing on my own life (in retrospect this was disingenuous verging on outright dishonesty, but what other choice did I have?). One or two days into the event we heard rumor that the Westboro Baptist Church had set their sights on us. According to their social media accounts, they would be protesting our event the next day, with their “God hates fags” and “Thank God for 9/11” signs. Sam and I drove back to the conference the following morning in anxious silence, ready to be harassed on our way into the building. But then, something caught our eye through the corner of his van’s windshield: a rainbow. As we approached the event center it grew larger and came to fill our field of view, this image of God’s covenant love and protection. We gathered in the main hall and joined in grateful prayer, for God’s unequivocal sign of support and love. We remembered that God does not shy away from picking sides, not when one side is being oppressed and exploited by the other. God does not side with bigots or bullies. 

I hold fast to this memory on days when my newsfeed is filled with politicians exploiting God’s name for favor, meanwhile working to undermine the rights of the vulnerable. I am emboldened by my faith, not into complacency but into advocacy and action. I find hope and solace but also a motive force to keep going. Ultimately my faith in Christ is a source of comfort and gratitude, even when the same faith is contorted and exploited by the hateful to justify their hatred. I fix my eyes on Christ and see the antidote to his followers’ coldheartedness in his own life and teachings.

In my bones, I believe that God will not abandon us. I’m moved by how Madeleine L’Engle described God’s comfort in our storming and doubting:

“I want God to wrap me in the everlasting wings and say, ‘there there, it’s all right.’ And that cosmic affirmation of, ‘Yes, I know it’s terrible. I know it hurts. But be patient. It’s going to work out. I’m not going to lose, I’m going to win. It’s all right.’”

It takes a little faith, sure. But in a world as chaotic as this one, is faith really any more absurd than its alternatives? Especially if it keeps us going, keeps us engaging, keeps us fighting, keeps us loving. Faith is marvelous. But there’s so much work to do. Do not tarry, Lord. Show us how to work toward justice, now. Be our guiding light and enlivening spark. Be the coach waiting ringside to mop our brow, bandage our wounds and send us back into the ring. Be the rainbow cutting through on a dark day, please Lord. Amen.