Embraced as a Gift

I was going through a break-up when I first started to realize I was queer. That relationship with a boy I met in college had been my final attempt at scoring the lottery of the Christian marriage prosperity gospel. Sure, it was upsetting that a relationship had ended at all, but those days were more marked by a pervading fear that I would always feel fundamentally broken. I had tried my best to outrun my same-sex attraction and gender dysphoria for 21 years, but it seemed to have finally caught up with me. The future seemed bleak. I thought I would have to choose between the feelings in my body and the God I dearly loved. I didn't even have the bravery to come out to myself yet, but all I knew was that there was something seriously wrong with me and that it debilitated my desire for a long life and my hope for a future.

During this dark season, I became absurdly obsessed with the story of Hannah in 1 Samuel 1–2. I found myself reading Chapter 1– the account of her weeping in the temple and being mistaken as a drunk–over and over again. I was taking a Bible class at the time and chose to do my final project on her story. Studying her story became the undoing of my fear, ultimately opening my soul up to the possibility that life as a queer Christian could maybe be a life of blessedness and giftedness.

Hannah was one of Elkanah's two wives. From early on in the story, it is evident that Hannah has a problem. She is unable to bear a son. Her barrenness causes Hannah deep despair, but not for any of the reasons one might initially think. Across many measures, bearing a son would have meant social, economic, and religious security for ancient Israelite women. And yet, that is not the reason why Hannah despairs over her barrenness.

The reason for Hannah's despair is not the lack of earthly prosperity that a son would have given her but the fact that her barrenness means she comes to the temple empty-handed year after year. Within the patriarchal context of ancient Israel, there is nothing of her labor or fruit that she can bring to the temple to worship the Lord with. She is unable to bear a son who would grow up to uphold the future of Israel. She is barren in womb and in spirit.

So when the Lord finally does open her womb and gifts her with a son, Hannah is ecstatic! Here is a beautiful boy, the bone of her bone, the flesh of her flesh, nursed by her blood and milk, that she may set aside to dedicate to the Lord. Hannah does not waste a moment giving back to God what He has given her, saying, "I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord" (1 Sam 1:27–28).

Hannah's primary concern was not security or prosperity, although certainly, becoming the mother of a son would have afforded her lots of privilege. More than anything, Hannah's despair was that she was unable to have something to give to the temple. Her joy sprang forth when she finally found in baby Samuel a gift to bring to the Lord. Her desperation to worship God this way would become the foundation for Israel's continued growth as God's chosen people.

I tell you the story of Hannah this way because I think her story mirrors the longings of LGBTQ+/SSA Christians. For me, I despaired over my queerness because I believed it excluded me from the possibility of not only living a happy life of love and belonging but also from the possibility of worshiping and serving God fully. As I struggled to come to terms with my queerness after that break-up, I didn't believe that I could survive, let alone thrive, as a queer person who loved Jesus. I had nothing to offer to God and the Church. If anything, I was a walking liability, a scandal waiting to happen. I was Hannah weeping like a drunken person in the temple, despairing over my empty hands rendered unworthy to sacrifice unto the Lord.

Hannah taught me that the very site of my seeming brokenness would actually be the place where I could become a fruitful gift to the Kingdom of God. Where I used to lament and mourn my queerness exclusively, I am now learning to see it as a kind of gift and blessedness. I am reminded of the promise of Isaiah 56 to eunuchs, who were considered a kind of gender and sexual minority in the ancient world: "To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths, who choose what pleases me and hold fast to my covenant— to them I will give within my temple and its walls a memorial and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that will endure forever."

It isn't lost on me the irony that eunuchs, unable to have biological children who will carry on their name into future generations, are promised by Isaiah to be a name remembered and carried on forever. The economy of our God functions such that those who come to the Lord lonely, despairing, and empty-handed will continually be transformed into the primary agents of his redeeming work in the world. This is the story of the mustard seed that grows into a mighty tree that becomes a home to many birds. This is the story of the boy's loaves and fishes that feed a large, hungry crowd. This is the story of hundreds of LGBTQ+/SSA Christians who keep showing up to churches all around the world, empty-handed and despairing and yet yielding the fruits of the Holy Spirit in abundance again and again.

The good news of the Gospel for me as a queer Christian continues to be what Wesley Hill, in his book Spiritual Friendship, calls "a location for my love." I come to the throne of God with all the messiness of my life, queerness and all, and He does not scorn any part of my being. He is my excellent Creator, and every part of my design serves a beautiful purpose in His world. Through the power of Jesus' redeeming work in the world, my same-sex attraction has a location in the family of God. I do not have to erase that part of me in order to flourish and worship alongside the saints of the Church. I have something to offer to God's household. In fact, I declare that my queerness, thanks to the work of the Holy Spirit that dwells within me, is a gift to God's creation and to His Church.

There are so many ways I see my queerness as a gift to my own life and my community, but here are just a few:

My celibacy gives me the ability to bless other people with my flexibility. While this doesn't eliminate the importance of boundaries and routine, being a single person means more freedom to be spontaneous. This has looked like being able to call a long-distance friend for three hours on a random Tuesday. Singleness gives me space to drive to a friend's house after they've had a bad day and watch a movie together at the drop of a hat. I know that, for me, these things would not have been possible if God had not taught me about the blessedness of my queerness. I needed to see my celibacy as a gift before I could offer it to others as a gift.

Similarly, my vocation as a Side B Christian empowers me to bless other families. As a celibate person, it is paramount that I practice regular rhythms of belonging and friendship. This means that I choose to make tangible commitments to the families in my community for my spiritual health. I get to partake in the intimacy of chosen family through bearing witness to my friends' wedding anniversaries, job interviews, and birthday parties. One of my friends who has recently become a parent speaks often of their hope that their child will grow up surrounded by single people like me who love God and serve the Church. I am assured that these commitments I make to my chosen family are as much a gift to my friends as they are to me.

I hope that my presence in my community and church will empower others to see their lives as gifts.

Most prominently, I believe that my queerness is a gift to the Church because it makes me proximate to vulnerability. The seeming paradox of being a queer Christian constantly opens me up to the internal burdens of doubt, bitterness, and loneliness, as well as the external pressures of homophobia, rejection, and suspicion. Whether I look inward or outward, I am reminded daily of the sheer precarity of this tightrope I walk with Jesus. But I see all this as a gift. It makes me more sensitive to the tenderness of others. My grief has taught me to be perceptive to the pain of others, especially those who feel marginalized by the Church.

My testimony of vulnerability is living proof that God receives me as a gift, not because of the service I render unto others or the exceptional work I do, but simply because God has created me. Yes, I am finite and helpless, and I praise God for making me that way. I think of Hannah, weeping in the temple and desperately asking God to put an end to her barrenness. God regarded her as a gift before she was useful to God as the mother of Samuel. I think of the person I was three years ago, afraid and ashamed of all that I was. God regarded even that version of me as a delightful gift.

Certainly, LGBTQ+/SSA Christians are such a gift to the Church for all the ways we create, speak, advocate, nurture, and lead. We are so very useful and crucial to the Kingdom of God. At the same time, I am convinced that our giftedness originates in our belovedness more than any great thing we'll ever do for the Church. In the end, we do not need to despair of our empty-handedness. Our hands are not empty. They are held tightly by a Father who sees all of who we are and continues to anoint us with His love. That is the source of our giftedness.