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Matthew 21:2-3
Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.

This Sunday is Palm Sunday on our liturgical calendars.  This is the day where we commemorate the protest march against the Empire that Jesus coordinated in Jerusalem just before he was executed. Much like the history of Pride, Palm Sunday has become tragically de-politicized. What began in both cases as radical resistance against unjust authority is now painted as something of a politely permitted parade. But without keeping in mind these revolutionary roots, we lose context for Palm Sunday and for our own LGBTQIA+ history.

There is a lot that goes into planning an action like Palm Sunday, a lot of roles to play, a lot of materials to gather.  Jesus relied on the community to provide for the things that he would need. He trusted that the movement that was being built was wider and bigger than the people in his close personal circle. He knew that outside of the people he regularly interacted with, like his disciples and benefactors, there were people in the midst of their ordinary lives who were sympathetic and supportive of the cause in their own way.  Jesus – who had a target on his back – would have had every reason to be skeptical about who he let be a part of his work. But instead of being suspicious of outsiders or acting as a gatekeeper, Jesus reached outside the scope of his normal relationships to invite people in.

LGBTQIA+ people have often had to learn to reach outside of our normal, socially mandated circles – like our family of origin, like traditional churches – to build chosen families and gather support.  Many of us have been denied, betrayed, and wounded by our home churches or our families of origin. But out of this pain, new ways of being community have been formed. LGBTQIA+ people form networks of mutual aid to help one another in times of crisis or need, whether that is raising money for gender-affirming surgery or paying someone’s rent. When the ELCA did not ordain openly LGBTQIA+ leaders, we formed the extraordinary roster, outside of the normal, permissible way of doing things. And queer teenagers in isolated and queer-antagonistic regions reach out online to form friendships across the world that save lives.

Our status quo has been interrupted this year in the midst of a global pandemic.  Our normal ways of forming community, extending support, and sharing resources have been stretched. But the world and the church have much to learn from LGBTQIA+ people.  We have always been resilient and scrappy and creative in building unconventional relationships. We have often reached out, like Jesus, hoping that even if we didn’t quite know who it would be, that scattered amongst our neighborhoods and the internet, there are people there waiting and ready to provide for what we need.

Holy God, you sent your Begotten One, Jesus Christ to show us your radical way of Love and Liberation.  We praise you for giving us the gift of unconventional relationships and creative community building. Thank you for the unknown helpers embedded in our networks. Empower us too to be ready to provide for our neighbors’ needs in times of uncertainty. Amen.

Elle Dowd (she/her/hers) is a bi-furious seminarian at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago and a candidate for ordained ministry in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America currently serving as the full-time pastoral intern at St. Luke’s Lutheran Church in Logan Square, Chicago. Elle has pieces of her heart in Sierra Leone, where her two children were born, and in St. Louis where she learned from the radical, queer, Black leadership during the Ferguson Uprising. She was formerly a co-conspirator with the movement to #decolonizeLutheranism and currently works as a community organizer with the Faith and Justice Collective and SOUL, writes regularly for the Disrupt Worship Project, and facilitates workshops on gender and sexuality and the Church in both secular conferences and Christian spaces. Elle has interests in queer and feminist Biblical interpretation and liberation and body theology. Elle loves spending time with the people she loves and on weekends, Elle tours the city of Chicago in search of the best brunch.

Elle’s Twitter and Instagram handles are @HowNowBrownDowd and her public Facebook page is Facebook.com/ElleDowdMinistry

morning light presses against the window pane and

Pastor Anna Gordy (she/ her/ hers) is a resident of San Antonio who grew up in the Deep South and who moved regularly across the continental United States as an adult.  She is grateful after a lifetime of searching to finally be able to call Texas “home”.  Mother, grandmother(!), artist, spouse, lover, pastor, and friend are her callings, and she believes the call we share is to be neighbor to all the world.

I admit it: the first place I looked when I was assigned this text was www.workingpreacher.org, and my eyes fell on Melinda Quivik’s commentary immediately. There it was on the screen:  “The pastor’s challenge is to work at making a familiar text strange…”

The point of this Lenten blog, it seems, is to make the familiar text queer.

What unique perspectives can the Proclaim community bring to reading the Bible? Most, if not all, LGBTQIA+ people have had to read the Bible with fear and trembling, then with anger, then curiosity. After a long time in the wilderness, we tend to read the Bible with liberation and courage. We demand things of the texts. We demand things of God. “Explain yourself!” “Where are you?” “What might you be doing in me and through me?”

Well, turns out Jesus was likely asking the same things of God as Jesus entered the wilderness, the passage we find in Matthew 4:1-11. We read this story at the beginning of every Lent. “O church,” the trembling pastor proclaims, “we enter the wilderness of Lent, these 40 days of denial and wandering.”

Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

The tried and true path preacher’s take on this text is the assurance we will be tempted, just as Jesus was tempted. Jesus forsook Satan (try to use the word “forsook”. It just doesn’t get enough airtime these days) Jesus forsook Satan and so should you. There’s rarely an acknowledgement that Jesus is God and can do things we cannot. So try really hard, dear listeners, like Jesus did. White knuckle it.

That’s a terrible way to introduce Lent.

Oh, we can muse about the temptations Jesus faces, the temptations to eat, the temptations of power. The temptations of risky behavior which God will save us from. We might describe different ways Satan tempts us today: too much social media. Obsessions with fitness or fashion or investment accounts. Political infighting. Racism, sexism, homophobia. Look how relevant this sermon is!

But what’s the queer perspective?

I won’t speak for all queers, but I’ll speak for myself. This Lent, as I approach this passage, I think about the wilderness.

To be LGBTQIA+ is to have spent time in the wilderness. There were lonely days. Days when we were sure no one understood us. Days when we didn’t understand ourselves.

For some of us, this led to suicidal thoughts. This led to violent behaviors, physical, self-harming, emotional and social violence. We lashed out to ourselves and others. We could not imagine a path out of this wilderness, so we wandered, getting into trouble. Getting lost.

In my queer reading of this story, I imagine the isolation. Jesus knew He was baptized. He knew He was God’s Son. Those experiences, described one verse earlier in Matthew, were real. Many of us were fortunate enough to know God claimed us and loves us, but we still cannot find our way among people. We cannot find a place to belong in society.

The wilderness changes us, y’all.

That loneliness may be healed, but it has changed the shape of our hearts forever. We know hunger in deep, embedded ways. We have longed to find a settled home, in our families, in our churches, in our relationships, either platonic and romantic.

Jesus spent 40 days not being seen. Not being heard. I suspect He would remember that forever.

It made Him compassionate to others He found in His ministry. He recognized the look of a lost soul because that lost soul connected to something deep inside, something that hadn’t been nurtured until the wilderness. Jesus knew how to speak to isolation, to self-doubt, to self-hatred, because He had lived into each of those things in the wilderness.

As Lutherans, we believe in the theology of the cross. We acknowledge God is found in the suffering. We acknowledge death is real and must take place for resurrection.

The Lenten journey leads to the cross, but it starts in the wilderness. It starts in a place of deep longing and confusion. It starts with that lonely place LGBTQIA+ people know.

For some of us, we had to wander in the wilderness for many years. For some of us, we have had to wander for only a brief period of time. The wilderness changes us, y’all. The wilderness prepares us to be uniquely qualified for compassion. It taught us things. Jesus received gifts for ministry in the wilderness, and so have we.

In the Matthew telling, Jesus comes out of the wilderness and finds out John has been arrested. His hometown is not safe. Jesus moves to a new place, makes new friends. Finds disciples. Starts his work. By the end of chapter 4, Jesus is healing, teaching, doing all the things God called Him to do. He finds His way. This, too, is the LGBTQIA+ story. There is a wilderness. There is also a community. There is power and strength and calling. Both are true.

Bless now, O God the journey that all your people make

The path through noise and silence, the way of give and take.

 I love this hymn by Sylvia Dunstan because it acknowledges the truth. All of us go through the wilderness. I suggest this LGBTQIA+ community is ready to talk honestly about that wilderness, so that we might care for all people, all genders, all sexualities, about the times we have not been seen or heard.

And then the last verse of this hymn:

Divine eternal lover, you meet us on the road

We wait for lands of praise where milk and honey flow.

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. There is a long road of Lent to walk. There is a land of praise ahead. But first, we must let the wilderness change us.

Brenda Bos (she/her/hers) is the Assistant to the Bishop in Southwest California Synod, working with the first openly gay bishop, R. Guy Erwin, also a member of Proclaim. Brenda lives with her wife Janis and their son, Joshua. She has not yet given up her over-ambitious list of Lenten disciplines.

by Amanda Gerken-Nelson

“PALM”

That’s the term many of us in the queer community serving the church have called our partners, lovers, spouses, or significant others for the past ten years. Somewhat jokingly, yet somewhat seriously, this term embodied both our deepest love and our oppression.

It stands for “Publicly Accountable Life-Long Monogamous” and it’s the language used in the 2010 revised version of the ELCA policy Vision and Expectations – in place of partner, lover, spouse, or significant other for those who are in same-gender relationships. 

While seemingly descriptive, the term is explicitly conscriptive.

When the path to ordination for LGBTQIA+ individuals was opened in 2009, the invitation to serve was like that of so many churches and institutions: “you are welcome here as long as you look like us, act like us, and do not disturb our ways of being in this world.”

When I was serving as the pastor of Faith Lutheran Church in East Hartford, CT, I had the opportunity on a few occasions to receive new members. Recalling the wisdom of my Old Testament Professor, the Rev. Dr. Steed Davidson, who once told me “even when we welcome others into community, there is power: ‘I have the power to welcome YOU into OUR community,” I would always augment the rite of reception ever so slightly to say: “we look forward to how you will change us and help us grow evermore fully into the beautiful kin-dom of God.”

In 2019, I, on behalf of ELM, was able to bring both of these perspectives into the process to review and revise Vision and Expectations. 

I was able to lift up and share the voices, perspectives, and experiences of queer people and how this document has inhibited and excluded our gifts; and, I was able to share how our gifts have the potential to change the ELCA and help us to live ever more fully into the beautiful kin-dom of God. 

I have heard our church leaders say that Vision and Expectations is more than just about human sexuality, and yet it has been the crux of its application. Minimizing V&E’s focus on human sexuality minimizes and erases the oppression queer people have experienced in the world and in the church which hyper focuses on who we have sex with and/or with whom we have deep, meaningful relationships.

Certainly, there is more to V&E and the church than human sexuality, just as there is more to my relationship with my wife than our sexual intimacy. 

Yet, perhaps, healing our relationship with human sexuality is exactly where we need to start this process of reconciliation so as to liberate us from the ways we have tried to confine and construct such relationships rather than celebrate the joy and awe of God’s beloved creation.

Human sexuality needs a Good Friday – a time to die to the systems of oppression that have defined with whom and how we are to be in relationship and who has power – so that we can experience the delight and release of its Easter morning.

Thank you to those who gave of their talents and treasurers in 2019 to make ELM’s advocacy and activism in this process possible. The journey continues and I look forward to seeking it out with you in 2020.

Amanda Gerken-Nelson (she/her/hers) serves as executive director of ELM and is a proud member of Proclaim and a rostered minister in the ELCA. Amanda would like to thank Dr. Davidson for ruining Christmas and for giving her faith the breadth and depth she needed to sustain her in ministry.