PUBLISHED WORK
“Everything Broken and Whole: A Genderqueer UU Tale”
by Sunshine Jeremiah Wolfe, M.Div.
from Coming Out In Faith: Voices of LGBTQ Unitarian Universalists
Eds. Keith Kron and Susan Gore
You cannot have wholeness without brokenness. To have a complete universe, what some call G-d, is to encompass all- the broken and the whole. It was in Unitarian Universalism where I found a whole that could welcome all of me despite the brokenness within Unitarian Universalism, or perhaps even because of it. I am genderqueer. To even be able to say that or describe what that means for me, I had to become a Unitarian Universalist and, through this powerful religion, discover that as broken and afraid as I was, there are places where all of my being is welcome. Unitarian Universalism helped me trust my mind and open my heart.
Unitarian Universalism has given me language and resolve. I have spoken at dozens of colleges, medical facilities, churches, and community events on being genderqueer and what it’s like to be a GLBTQQIA (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, and ally) person in general. In these settings, being able to talk about love as a radical ethical value and sharing the importance of respect for differing ideas has helped significantly. I knew these things before joining a church, but when I speak to total strangers, some of whom are judging me based on their religious values, I know that I have a community of ancestors and people standing with me as I speak. It makes a world of difference to know that our values can bring a little grace into the world.
It wasn’t in a worship service or small group ministry or pastoral visit that brought me to UUism, though I have certainly found healing in all of those places. The greatest healing came from the Unitarian Universalist Association’s comprehensive sexuality class “Our Whole Lives” for adults. The sexologist leading our class directed us, “I want each of you to decide if you are male, female, or gender neutral. We will go around the circle and share our answers.” I remember tears forming in my eyes and the sounds of the world seemed muffled. I thought, “Gender neutral? I can choose gender neutral?” I felt myself trembling and knew with every ounce of my being that this was language that described who I was. Not only did I get to proclaim in this Our Whole Lives class that I was gender neutral, but I discovered that another person in the room identified this way as well- I wasn’t alone! This began a road to healing and wholeness that has been a wild ride. It took six years to piece together the broken pieces that make up my gender wholeness. There are certainly gaps that may never be filled. That’s okay though. Love fills those holes and helps hold the spirit of my life together.
I grew up in rural Indiana where gender deviation is not accepted- not that it is really accepted anywhere. I had strong female role models including my grandmother and mother. It is perfectly acceptable for women to have what are considered to be more “masculine” traits. In this world, I could pass as a strong woman and not worry too much about who I was. I played with trains, Barbie Dolls, toy tools, blocks, Strawberry Shortcake, and Hot Wheels cars (I had quite the collection). My father made a dollhouse that was a four story space station. I learned that I could play with and be whoever I wanted in my parent’s home. Though my parents did not enforce gender stereotypical rules, I still learned what I was supposed to be from other family members, school, media, and society.
The only example of a genderqueer/transgender person was a woman with a beard who lived on my street. Kids threw rocks and eggs at her house and yelled obscenities at her. In high school, people made fun of me for being the only ‘girl’ in the Small Engine Repair class. One teacher told me that I would never get into college preparatory programs if I took technology classes. Television accounts of violence toward those who were “different” told me that troubling the gender waters was not only bad, it was dangerous.
In college, I came out as bisexual and fell in love with a woman for the first time. This relationship terrified me. It took years of therapy, self reflection, and study to figure out that I was beginning to realize that something was different about me- something nameless and well beyond my understanding. All I knew was that if I kept on this path, I would lose my family. I did not want that so I buried myself in drugs and alcohol for a couple of years. When I sobered up I substituted another addition, working constantly. At the heart of this pain was fear that my family would never accept me and that I did not fit into the middle class world I was supposed to be moving into. Where would I find home? Who would accept me?
I knew my mother would support me no matter what. Her family is big and I know all of my great aunts and uncles, first cousins, second cousins, and third cousins. Mom taught me it is through family you find employment, housing, money when you are desperate, support in the bad times, and joy in the good times. My family was and is everything to me.
So, I decided to just not deal with it. For many years I only dated men and avoided the constant dissonance that would play itself out when a gender that was clearly not me was thrown in my face. A man would take a heavy box from me and I would get mad. I would insist on paying my own way on a date. More than once, I was told that someone was not comfortable dating me because they didn’t feel I was feminine enough. “You should wear dresses more.” “You should wear make-up.”
I would insist that I wanted children, but never physically to give birth. Frequently the questioning of cultural expectations of my gender was chalked up to my age, even well into my thirties. “Oh, you will grow out of it.” In the US, at least, it is clearly expected that as we get older we will fit in one of two categories, and always the one that is associated with our genitals.
Many women are berated for not wearing make-up, showing no interest in bearing children, and struggling with outdated social norms. What was different for me as a genderqueer person is that it never once occurred to me to think that these criticisms were an affront to me as a woman. I never felt comfortable calling myself a feminist because feminism and the increasing freedom for women did not answer questions about my body and my experience. Feminism gave me freedom to defend myself as someone perceived as a woman, but when I did this, I felt like I was being dishonest.
Many of my friends and family assumed that my failure to conform meant that I was actually a lesbian. I have never identified as a lesbian. I have always found people of all genders and sexual orientations attractive. Bisexual and pansexual people often run into this form of discrimination and, for years, I just assumed that my frustration with assumptions about my sexual orientation had to do with ignorance about bisexual and pansexual people.
There were no solid images, words, or examples of what I was and therefore, I was lost. My heart was filled with pain and confusion. Nothing in education talked about genderqueer people. My friends who were bisexual, gay, lesbian, and transgender did not talk about genderqueer identity. Nothing in the media portrayed anything remotely related to my experiences as genderqueer. I didn’t know what I was, so I ignored my body.
It was in Unitarian Universalism where I faced some of my most painful experiences - and where I ultimately found my spiritual home.
I was raised in a mixed-religion family. My father is an atheist, my mother lives the tsa-la-gi and dakota ways, and my grandparents took me to their Catholic church. In addition to these traditions, my mother ensured that I had exposure to many religious traditions including Taoism, Sufism, paganism, protestant Christianity. I often joke that I was raised a Unitarian Universalist without the church.
I joined my first Unitarian Universalist church after college in March of 2000. My love for Unitarian Universalism was instant. In particular, the Principles and Purposes really spoke to me. At its best, Unitarian Universalism is a religion of people who covenant to treat one another well, care for the earth, and protect the beautiful tapestry of cultures and communities that make up the people of the world. Love is the core value from which we build. Of course, none of this is easy. We struggle and stumble and fall. As Rev. Dr. Sharon Welch has said, “We are, quite simply, like all the generations before us, and all the generations that will come after, learning to walk.”[1]
As a UU, I believe in heaven here on earth and that each of us has responsibility for caring for each other. My friend Ulysses once told me about a conversation he had with a Christian friend. Our church was at the height of conflict over something and he was sharing his concerns. Ulysses’ friend asked, “What keeps you in your church?” He said, “We are a religious community that is committed to one another. I have faith that we as people can work it out.” “Wow, I couldn’t do that,” she replied. “I have to have faith in God because I don’t have faith that people can work it out.” Unitarian Universalists’ belief that we must do the work has kept me in this religion when all I have wanted is to run out the door.
Our Unitarian Universalist communities have growing edges. Among the most difficult interactions for me as a genderqueer person are those with people who treat me as something they can intellectually judge as acceptable or not. It is truly a joy for me to meet someone whose first response to something they know nothing or little about is humility and open ears.
For example, one time the Young Adult Group at my church had a workshop about what women’s bodies tell us about spirituality. Women in the group talked about the power to create, the ebb and flow of the cycles of the moon, and the power of female divine symbols in their lives. I remember thinking that this was interesting, but I could not relate to any of the commentary. Then came my turn. I answered honestly. , “There really isn’t anything about being a woman that informs my spirituality. I think bodies have a lot to do with spirituality, but there is nothing in particular about being a woman that informs that.” The group leader was not happy with my response. Her deep anger and dismissive attitude in what I had perceived as a safe space really jostled something within me.
I was not quite sure what had happened. I went about my days, but kept coming back to this question- what does my body tell me about spirituality? I wasn’t sure, but I was sure the answer was important.
The leader of the Young Adult Group discussion had cracked the door open to something pushed away for at least twenty years. Feeling confused, I talked to my therapist about my experience and the questions it had raised. He said it was common for women to push away their bodies and gave me exercises that were meant to help me find my power as a woman. The exercises only led to frustration on my part and his. I stopped going to therapy. I wish I could say that I turned to my minister or other church friends or leaders for help during this time, but I did not feel it was safe or wise to do so. While many in my UU congregation are welcoming and try to understand, others are uncomfortable and even rude; some just avoid me altogether.
In addition to being part of a congregation, in 2005, I enrolled in Starr King School for the Ministry. Every year, students sing “Come, Come Whoever You Are” and then cross the threshold into the school. For the first time in my life, I felt safe enough to talk about what it means to be a genderqueer, pansexual, working class, multiracial, fat, young adult, temporarily able bodied person in the United States. There were still moments that were difficult, but overall I felt a liberation within myself and a trust in my colleagues that I had never fully known before. The school has “Transgender” bathroom signs, out genderqueer faculty, and, at least while I was there, transgender students. I was excited and hopeful, even though I still ran into the assumption that I was female.
One particular moment knocked all the walls blocking my view of my gender. I was taking a Unitarian Universalist theology class when one of the older students made a comment that men tend to do X and women tend to do Y. I said I thought their comment supported stereotypes and ignored genderqueer people like me. Another student told me that I was wrong and to have respect for my elders. I was enraged but kept silent.
Later that day, my therapist role-played the interaction with me and then asked, “Why did this hurt you so much?” I had to stop to think. After a few moments I finally spoke the words that I had been afraid to say for years, “Because I don’t exist. My experience is totally ignored.” She said, “That is right.” To finally proclaim that my body, heart, and spirit are not talked about, recognized, or even known to everyday society was liberating. After more meetings with my therapist, I made the decision to officially come out of the closet as pansexual and genderqueer, to change my name, and to ask people to use the gender neutral pronouns ghe and gher in reference to myself.
One thing I love about ministry and Unitarian Universalism is the value we place on ritual. After deciding to come out, I asked four of my classmates to create a ritual of transition to which I invited my friends, colleagues, and classmates. I felt such a sense of love from them. The affirmation I experienced from that ritual has carried me through when I succumb to loneliness and fear.
There is a lot to be afraid of. Physical safety is always a concern. Not long after my transition ritual, I was stopped by a man in parking garage. If his son hadn’t asked him to stop, I am sure he would have hit me. My doctor freaked out when I told her I was genderqueer transgender and made errors on routine procedures. I have been followed, had strangers ask ‘what are you?’, and been denied service at restaurants. I have friends who have committed suicide because they are genderqueer and/or transgender. I have a friend whose loved one was murdered for being transgender.
Social safety is a concern. At the time I am writing, employment and housing discrimination is perfectly legal. As a Unitarian Universalist candidate minister, I know that transgender ministers have had difficulty succeeding in our congregations.
I love ministry. I feel deep connection in preaching, energizing church communities, fostering lay leadership, and walking with church members during major life transitions such as weddings and illness. My call to ministry lies at the heart of my commitment to living. I enjoy serving something larger than myself and I enjoy fostering community and supporting individual transformation. However, much of this can be overshadowed by church members’ discomfort with genderqueer and transgender identity. I have had people walk out of worship when I talk about gender neutral pronouns because they do not believe that genderqueer people should be ministers. My financial future is far from secure simply because of whom I am.
Within Unitarian Universalist churches transgender and genderqueer people struggle to explain why our concerns may need to be addressed separately from gay and lesbian concerns, and how our concerns are even different in the first place. As a result, activism in our communities typically is limited to singular events at the time of crisis rather than an overall commitment to ensuring security and basic human rights.
Currently, I am a candidate for being called by a UU congregation as their minister. I have visited many churches for interviews. In every church I have visited, I have met someone who is genderqueer and/or transgender. In all but a few, these members are in the closet in their own church communities. They have friends within the church that they may be out to, but they are not comfortable telling the congregation. They sneak me business cards or e-mail me after church to maintain their safety. This says a lot about what it means to be genderqueer and/or transgender in Unitarian Universalism.
Since the 1970 General Assembly Resolution to “End Discrimination Against Homosexuals and Bisexuals,” UUs have done a lot of good healing work in order to welcome gay and lesbian people. However, I believe we have made the mistake of assuming that educating around sexuality will lead to awareness and understanding of gender. Often the two intersect, but understanding sexuality does not necessarily lead to understanding gender, particularly in the lives of transgender and genderqueer people.
So long ago, I asked the question: what does my body tell me about spirituality? I think everyone should ask themselves this question. There are multiple answers. Above the doors at West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, the sign reads: One Church, Many Paths. It could just as easily read: One Community, Many Bodies. These vessels that are our only permanent homes from birth to death tell us a lot about the spirit that lives within us.
What does my body tell me about spirituality? It reminds me either/or thinking can divide something that is both/and in nature. That, as Rev. Dr. Rita Nakashima Brock writes, “interstitial spaces are real places." My body teaches me that being in-between is a sacred place.
Daily my body reminds me of the preciousness of living. Lack of physical and social safety constantly reminds me of the gratitude I have for a house to live in and for another day on this earth. My body constantly reminds me of the importance of love. Love bonds me to my family even as we struggle with the very different ways we live. Love guides my religious faith into engagement with the social justice issues of our time. Love keeps me coming to the table when it feels like everything has fallen apart.
My genderqueer body reminds me that interstitial space is constantly in motion, in process. The process of my life has taught me that every moment matters. Embracing the times of my brokenness, when I feel like my pain, fear, or loneliness will swallow me is as important as embracing the times of my fullness when I know joy, love, and connection. Often, I hold these supposedly “opposite” experiences at the same time. They are, in reality, moments of spiritual grace.
In holding both my brokenness and fullness, I have found some of the most grounding and whole experiences in my life. Bodies contain so much that can guide and inform us. If we can come from a place of listening and humbleness, we open ourselves to the divinity of all bodies- all people - billions of unique answers to what it means to be alive, holy, broken, and whole.
[1] Sharon D. Welch, Sweet Dreams in America (New York: Routledge, 1999), pg. 26.
Unitarian Universalism has given me language and resolve. I have spoken at dozens of colleges, medical facilities, churches, and community events on being genderqueer and what it’s like to be a GLBTQQIA (gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer, questioning, intersex, and ally) person in general. In these settings, being able to talk about love as a radical ethical value and sharing the importance of respect for differing ideas has helped significantly. I knew these things before joining a church, but when I speak to total strangers, some of whom are judging me based on their religious values, I know that I have a community of ancestors and people standing with me as I speak. It makes a world of difference to know that our values can bring a little grace into the world.
It wasn’t in a worship service or small group ministry or pastoral visit that brought me to UUism, though I have certainly found healing in all of those places. The greatest healing came from the Unitarian Universalist Association’s comprehensive sexuality class “Our Whole Lives” for adults. The sexologist leading our class directed us, “I want each of you to decide if you are male, female, or gender neutral. We will go around the circle and share our answers.” I remember tears forming in my eyes and the sounds of the world seemed muffled. I thought, “Gender neutral? I can choose gender neutral?” I felt myself trembling and knew with every ounce of my being that this was language that described who I was. Not only did I get to proclaim in this Our Whole Lives class that I was gender neutral, but I discovered that another person in the room identified this way as well- I wasn’t alone! This began a road to healing and wholeness that has been a wild ride. It took six years to piece together the broken pieces that make up my gender wholeness. There are certainly gaps that may never be filled. That’s okay though. Love fills those holes and helps hold the spirit of my life together.
I grew up in rural Indiana where gender deviation is not accepted- not that it is really accepted anywhere. I had strong female role models including my grandmother and mother. It is perfectly acceptable for women to have what are considered to be more “masculine” traits. In this world, I could pass as a strong woman and not worry too much about who I was. I played with trains, Barbie Dolls, toy tools, blocks, Strawberry Shortcake, and Hot Wheels cars (I had quite the collection). My father made a dollhouse that was a four story space station. I learned that I could play with and be whoever I wanted in my parent’s home. Though my parents did not enforce gender stereotypical rules, I still learned what I was supposed to be from other family members, school, media, and society.
The only example of a genderqueer/transgender person was a woman with a beard who lived on my street. Kids threw rocks and eggs at her house and yelled obscenities at her. In high school, people made fun of me for being the only ‘girl’ in the Small Engine Repair class. One teacher told me that I would never get into college preparatory programs if I took technology classes. Television accounts of violence toward those who were “different” told me that troubling the gender waters was not only bad, it was dangerous.
In college, I came out as bisexual and fell in love with a woman for the first time. This relationship terrified me. It took years of therapy, self reflection, and study to figure out that I was beginning to realize that something was different about me- something nameless and well beyond my understanding. All I knew was that if I kept on this path, I would lose my family. I did not want that so I buried myself in drugs and alcohol for a couple of years. When I sobered up I substituted another addition, working constantly. At the heart of this pain was fear that my family would never accept me and that I did not fit into the middle class world I was supposed to be moving into. Where would I find home? Who would accept me?
I knew my mother would support me no matter what. Her family is big and I know all of my great aunts and uncles, first cousins, second cousins, and third cousins. Mom taught me it is through family you find employment, housing, money when you are desperate, support in the bad times, and joy in the good times. My family was and is everything to me.
So, I decided to just not deal with it. For many years I only dated men and avoided the constant dissonance that would play itself out when a gender that was clearly not me was thrown in my face. A man would take a heavy box from me and I would get mad. I would insist on paying my own way on a date. More than once, I was told that someone was not comfortable dating me because they didn’t feel I was feminine enough. “You should wear dresses more.” “You should wear make-up.”
I would insist that I wanted children, but never physically to give birth. Frequently the questioning of cultural expectations of my gender was chalked up to my age, even well into my thirties. “Oh, you will grow out of it.” In the US, at least, it is clearly expected that as we get older we will fit in one of two categories, and always the one that is associated with our genitals.
Many women are berated for not wearing make-up, showing no interest in bearing children, and struggling with outdated social norms. What was different for me as a genderqueer person is that it never once occurred to me to think that these criticisms were an affront to me as a woman. I never felt comfortable calling myself a feminist because feminism and the increasing freedom for women did not answer questions about my body and my experience. Feminism gave me freedom to defend myself as someone perceived as a woman, but when I did this, I felt like I was being dishonest.
Many of my friends and family assumed that my failure to conform meant that I was actually a lesbian. I have never identified as a lesbian. I have always found people of all genders and sexual orientations attractive. Bisexual and pansexual people often run into this form of discrimination and, for years, I just assumed that my frustration with assumptions about my sexual orientation had to do with ignorance about bisexual and pansexual people.
There were no solid images, words, or examples of what I was and therefore, I was lost. My heart was filled with pain and confusion. Nothing in education talked about genderqueer people. My friends who were bisexual, gay, lesbian, and transgender did not talk about genderqueer identity. Nothing in the media portrayed anything remotely related to my experiences as genderqueer. I didn’t know what I was, so I ignored my body.
It was in Unitarian Universalism where I faced some of my most painful experiences - and where I ultimately found my spiritual home.
I was raised in a mixed-religion family. My father is an atheist, my mother lives the tsa-la-gi and dakota ways, and my grandparents took me to their Catholic church. In addition to these traditions, my mother ensured that I had exposure to many religious traditions including Taoism, Sufism, paganism, protestant Christianity. I often joke that I was raised a Unitarian Universalist without the church.
I joined my first Unitarian Universalist church after college in March of 2000. My love for Unitarian Universalism was instant. In particular, the Principles and Purposes really spoke to me. At its best, Unitarian Universalism is a religion of people who covenant to treat one another well, care for the earth, and protect the beautiful tapestry of cultures and communities that make up the people of the world. Love is the core value from which we build. Of course, none of this is easy. We struggle and stumble and fall. As Rev. Dr. Sharon Welch has said, “We are, quite simply, like all the generations before us, and all the generations that will come after, learning to walk.”[1]
As a UU, I believe in heaven here on earth and that each of us has responsibility for caring for each other. My friend Ulysses once told me about a conversation he had with a Christian friend. Our church was at the height of conflict over something and he was sharing his concerns. Ulysses’ friend asked, “What keeps you in your church?” He said, “We are a religious community that is committed to one another. I have faith that we as people can work it out.” “Wow, I couldn’t do that,” she replied. “I have to have faith in God because I don’t have faith that people can work it out.” Unitarian Universalists’ belief that we must do the work has kept me in this religion when all I have wanted is to run out the door.
Our Unitarian Universalist communities have growing edges. Among the most difficult interactions for me as a genderqueer person are those with people who treat me as something they can intellectually judge as acceptable or not. It is truly a joy for me to meet someone whose first response to something they know nothing or little about is humility and open ears.
For example, one time the Young Adult Group at my church had a workshop about what women’s bodies tell us about spirituality. Women in the group talked about the power to create, the ebb and flow of the cycles of the moon, and the power of female divine symbols in their lives. I remember thinking that this was interesting, but I could not relate to any of the commentary. Then came my turn. I answered honestly. , “There really isn’t anything about being a woman that informs my spirituality. I think bodies have a lot to do with spirituality, but there is nothing in particular about being a woman that informs that.” The group leader was not happy with my response. Her deep anger and dismissive attitude in what I had perceived as a safe space really jostled something within me.
I was not quite sure what had happened. I went about my days, but kept coming back to this question- what does my body tell me about spirituality? I wasn’t sure, but I was sure the answer was important.
The leader of the Young Adult Group discussion had cracked the door open to something pushed away for at least twenty years. Feeling confused, I talked to my therapist about my experience and the questions it had raised. He said it was common for women to push away their bodies and gave me exercises that were meant to help me find my power as a woman. The exercises only led to frustration on my part and his. I stopped going to therapy. I wish I could say that I turned to my minister or other church friends or leaders for help during this time, but I did not feel it was safe or wise to do so. While many in my UU congregation are welcoming and try to understand, others are uncomfortable and even rude; some just avoid me altogether.
In addition to being part of a congregation, in 2005, I enrolled in Starr King School for the Ministry. Every year, students sing “Come, Come Whoever You Are” and then cross the threshold into the school. For the first time in my life, I felt safe enough to talk about what it means to be a genderqueer, pansexual, working class, multiracial, fat, young adult, temporarily able bodied person in the United States. There were still moments that were difficult, but overall I felt a liberation within myself and a trust in my colleagues that I had never fully known before. The school has “Transgender” bathroom signs, out genderqueer faculty, and, at least while I was there, transgender students. I was excited and hopeful, even though I still ran into the assumption that I was female.
One particular moment knocked all the walls blocking my view of my gender. I was taking a Unitarian Universalist theology class when one of the older students made a comment that men tend to do X and women tend to do Y. I said I thought their comment supported stereotypes and ignored genderqueer people like me. Another student told me that I was wrong and to have respect for my elders. I was enraged but kept silent.
Later that day, my therapist role-played the interaction with me and then asked, “Why did this hurt you so much?” I had to stop to think. After a few moments I finally spoke the words that I had been afraid to say for years, “Because I don’t exist. My experience is totally ignored.” She said, “That is right.” To finally proclaim that my body, heart, and spirit are not talked about, recognized, or even known to everyday society was liberating. After more meetings with my therapist, I made the decision to officially come out of the closet as pansexual and genderqueer, to change my name, and to ask people to use the gender neutral pronouns ghe and gher in reference to myself.
One thing I love about ministry and Unitarian Universalism is the value we place on ritual. After deciding to come out, I asked four of my classmates to create a ritual of transition to which I invited my friends, colleagues, and classmates. I felt such a sense of love from them. The affirmation I experienced from that ritual has carried me through when I succumb to loneliness and fear.
There is a lot to be afraid of. Physical safety is always a concern. Not long after my transition ritual, I was stopped by a man in parking garage. If his son hadn’t asked him to stop, I am sure he would have hit me. My doctor freaked out when I told her I was genderqueer transgender and made errors on routine procedures. I have been followed, had strangers ask ‘what are you?’, and been denied service at restaurants. I have friends who have committed suicide because they are genderqueer and/or transgender. I have a friend whose loved one was murdered for being transgender.
Social safety is a concern. At the time I am writing, employment and housing discrimination is perfectly legal. As a Unitarian Universalist candidate minister, I know that transgender ministers have had difficulty succeeding in our congregations.
I love ministry. I feel deep connection in preaching, energizing church communities, fostering lay leadership, and walking with church members during major life transitions such as weddings and illness. My call to ministry lies at the heart of my commitment to living. I enjoy serving something larger than myself and I enjoy fostering community and supporting individual transformation. However, much of this can be overshadowed by church members’ discomfort with genderqueer and transgender identity. I have had people walk out of worship when I talk about gender neutral pronouns because they do not believe that genderqueer people should be ministers. My financial future is far from secure simply because of whom I am.
Within Unitarian Universalist churches transgender and genderqueer people struggle to explain why our concerns may need to be addressed separately from gay and lesbian concerns, and how our concerns are even different in the first place. As a result, activism in our communities typically is limited to singular events at the time of crisis rather than an overall commitment to ensuring security and basic human rights.
Currently, I am a candidate for being called by a UU congregation as their minister. I have visited many churches for interviews. In every church I have visited, I have met someone who is genderqueer and/or transgender. In all but a few, these members are in the closet in their own church communities. They have friends within the church that they may be out to, but they are not comfortable telling the congregation. They sneak me business cards or e-mail me after church to maintain their safety. This says a lot about what it means to be genderqueer and/or transgender in Unitarian Universalism.
Since the 1970 General Assembly Resolution to “End Discrimination Against Homosexuals and Bisexuals,” UUs have done a lot of good healing work in order to welcome gay and lesbian people. However, I believe we have made the mistake of assuming that educating around sexuality will lead to awareness and understanding of gender. Often the two intersect, but understanding sexuality does not necessarily lead to understanding gender, particularly in the lives of transgender and genderqueer people.
So long ago, I asked the question: what does my body tell me about spirituality? I think everyone should ask themselves this question. There are multiple answers. Above the doors at West Shore Unitarian Universalist Church, the sign reads: One Church, Many Paths. It could just as easily read: One Community, Many Bodies. These vessels that are our only permanent homes from birth to death tell us a lot about the spirit that lives within us.
What does my body tell me about spirituality? It reminds me either/or thinking can divide something that is both/and in nature. That, as Rev. Dr. Rita Nakashima Brock writes, “interstitial spaces are real places." My body teaches me that being in-between is a sacred place.
Daily my body reminds me of the preciousness of living. Lack of physical and social safety constantly reminds me of the gratitude I have for a house to live in and for another day on this earth. My body constantly reminds me of the importance of love. Love bonds me to my family even as we struggle with the very different ways we live. Love guides my religious faith into engagement with the social justice issues of our time. Love keeps me coming to the table when it feels like everything has fallen apart.
My genderqueer body reminds me that interstitial space is constantly in motion, in process. The process of my life has taught me that every moment matters. Embracing the times of my brokenness, when I feel like my pain, fear, or loneliness will swallow me is as important as embracing the times of my fullness when I know joy, love, and connection. Often, I hold these supposedly “opposite” experiences at the same time. They are, in reality, moments of spiritual grace.
In holding both my brokenness and fullness, I have found some of the most grounding and whole experiences in my life. Bodies contain so much that can guide and inform us. If we can come from a place of listening and humbleness, we open ourselves to the divinity of all bodies- all people - billions of unique answers to what it means to be alive, holy, broken, and whole.
[1] Sharon D. Welch, Sweet Dreams in America (New York: Routledge, 1999), pg. 26.