There's No Crying In Church (Our Bodies Are Not Our Own)

 

I haven't had many awful days as a trans woman but Saturday was shaping up to be one. I woke up to the horrifying news out of Venezuela, another moment of political exhaustion and frustration. I try not to talk politics too much in this space; I have plenty of opinions but nothing of value that you can't get elsewhere. I lift this up because even by the standards of the last twelve months, what happened felt exceptionally odious. 

 

On a mezzo level, there was another horror that, while not as devastating, was personal.

A trans woman with a large social media following wrote a thread on BlueSky in which she was prepared to delete her account. Long story short: her photos on her socials had been co-opted by some creep on X and transformed into nudes by Grok. The woman shared her story of being a survivor, how hard the recovery was, how difficult it still felt to claim bodily autonomy after all this time and how his actions brought it all back. 

Two incidents with one being far more seismic than the other and yet both aligning with the same value: bodies. Our bodies are not our own. There are external factors that impact how we live, especially for people who aren't cishet white men. I knew this struggle would be mine the moment I decided to transition. And even though I've had the good fortune to build safeguards against the resulting despair, I still struggle with where I want to be — a happy-go-lucky basic white woman who loves everyone and craves lesbian romance — versus what the world wants me to be...

Yep, folks, your girl hit the trifecta as the most sexually desired person in the world. Sadly, this has not translated to my dating life.

Anyway, I despaired most of the morning but resolved to make it a better day and I did. I bought a sappy sapphic romance novel, ran some errands, had good drinks and a good time in the City. I said hi to friends and became friends with strangers and just kept working on building a circle for myself. 

Would that the good feeling lasted. 

I woke the next day, preached out a sermon in the shower (on the wrong text, no less), got the requisite pre-worship mocha latte, and sat down to open my phone, taking a look at BlueSky. I often chastise my parishioners for their social media consumption and here I, hypocrite I am, was ready to ruin my morning. Sure enough, I did, reading a Church Times article in which 5,000 British Christians protested a proposed government ban on conversion therapy. 

Distraught at the sheer amount of religious hate packed in one piece, I left the coffee house without even asking the cute barista about her always amazing playlist. I drove with clouded eyes to my church, pulling up an hour early as per usual. And I couldn't get out of my car. For the first time in many years, I didn't want to go in. I wanted to cry my eyes out, be comforted by someone, and once refreshed, find something else to do. 

___

Unlike many of my colleagues, I did not find my home congregation to be an exceptionally warm or loving place when growing up. Like everywhere else in my life, grown-ups dominated every corner. Lutherans are conservative but not strict so I wasn't put on a diet of theological angst the way my wife and many others are. And yet, I still was raised in the church-approved atmosphere of patriarchal norms, believing in a God that seemed loving but distant, forgiving but angry. 

Perhaps I should have put this particular horse before the cart but I have not seriously reconciled my transness with my job or my institution. When it came to God and gender, I ran an end around the church to seek Her.  I think it's because nothing about the church has ever felt especially affirming or queer. It's a place where people dress up in fancy robes (okay, maybe a little queer), listen to a man drone, eat stale cookies and drink bad coffee and go home.  

And as I sat outside of my church, knowing that it's the institution and not the people keeping me from coming out, I felt a sense of helplessness. The weight of centuries of patriarchal violence and unwilling submission crushing my body, my soul. I feel God deeply in and out of the building. But the rules, the laws, the sheer anger and self-righteousness cis men and their cis women accomplices have to theft the beauty of the divine for control of my body and the body of others left me feeling defeated. 

I'm a practical person, so for me, the institutional church will always be a means to an end, an apparatus of which I am required to engage in order to share fellowship with Christians. In counseling a baby trans, a cis woman once said that womanhood is a series of smokescreens designed to get men to see what they want to see, ropes and pulleys to distract them from what's behind the curtain. I don't feminize myself for men but I understand the point because my relationship with the church has always felt the same way. Yeah I know the words, yeah I speak the lingo, I've read the Greek, I've read the Hebrew. But my connection with God has always transcended what the institution has to offer. 

I love my job, even though I don't know how long I can keep it. And I love worship, at least I do now. But some days, I wish I could just tell the church: You cannot control my body. You do not deserve my body. This belongs to me and was gifted to me by my Creator. Make up all your stupid, arbitrary, culturally-inflected rules to describe why my body is a sin. I have never felt holier than when I am in makeup, the sense of feminine peace glowing within me as estradiol works overtime to reconfigure my programming. 

I need God. I do not need you.

___

Our newly-elected Bishop has been conducting one-on-one meetings with all pastors in their territory. Mine was last month and was held in a loudly LGBTQIA+-affirming congregation, which was a relief. The pastor is a married queer person. The congregation has deep ties to the City's queer and trans communities. Walking in, I at least felt safe in that space. 

And I needed to feel safe more than usual. For I knew I was about to come out to the one person who, more than any other, holds my professional fate in their hands. 

I waited for the Bishop in the sanctuary of the church on a still Saturday morning. I kept looking at the altar, trying not to cry. I felt proud of myself for how far I have come and how I believed God was with me no matter what. But the moment overwhelmed my emotions. 

In the back of the sanctuary was a room where the Bishop and I were to meet. Above it was a trans flag. Coincidence but I couldn't help but be grateful to God, like this was a sign of Her presence. I thought of a hymn I loved as a child: On Eagle's Wings, about how God would protect me from all harm. I imagined myself in God's palm as the song said, feeling safe. I felt God wrapping Her arms around me, holding me close in love. 

I snapped a photo of the flag, DM'ed my colleague thanking them for it and telling them I was about to come out. I didn't think I'd see them before the meeting but they came up the steps moments later. They looked at my message on their phone with shock. I hadn't intended for that to happen and was embarrassed. After congratulating me, they walked me through a calming exercise which helped. And as the Bishop arrived, I prepared my body for what was to come. 

___

Later that day, I was in a lesbian bar in full femme battle regalia. The only time of day where body felt like my own. For a moment, I was beyond the reach of my institution, as well as the forces of evil who want my body to conform. 

Saturday night, I felt beyond their reach as well. 

I'm not a glass half-full/empty kind of person. A glass with liquid is a glass with liquid. Things happen in life, some good, some not. I don't know what it will take to "win," such as it were. I don't even really know what gender liberation looks like, nor can I articulate it beyond what it might mean to me, a white woman with no moral authority to speak for non-white people. 

But I know there are spaces where I can be free. Places where I can be me. People I can feel safe with. Not everyone has that. 

I wish the institutional church was one. It would make my life a lot easier. But it's not. And it likely will not be in my lifetime. 

Taking a deep breath on Sunday morning, I prepared to exit my car, swallowing my pain. I couldn't let my parishioners see my crying. They've seen it before but I didn't trust myself in that moment to come up with a viable excuse as to why. I recalled Senator Danica Roem writing ruefully about having to do food deliveries the morning after the Pulse nightclub massacre, pretending that nothing was wrong while roiling on the inside. I felt that for a moment. 

But I love my parishioners. They see God in me. And I need to help them see what they must see, even if I don't feel like I always reflect God. 

As for me, God will be present on Her time. My body will be prepared.