On Saturday, August 23rd, I attended Akron, Ohio’s annual Pride celebration. I’ve long admired how Akron waits until August, as an extra jolt of affirmative community is lovely at the end of the summer—especially this summer.
Although I’d been before, this was the first year I attended the Equity March (Pride Parade). It was the usual celebration of color and fun—dancers, roller derby athletes, marching bands. But I was especially moved by the displays of affirmative love from churches and clergy.
As I sat on the curb waving, a few pastors noticed I was misting up and flashed peace signs. One came over and asked if I wanted a glitter blessing. Of course I said yes, and they beautifully printed the cross on my forehead with glitter.
Another Presbyterian minister in a rainbow stole hugged me and said, “God loves you. And don’t let anybody ever tell you differently.”
Even after over 20 years of deconstruction and trauma therapy, such displays of God’s deep love help me heal just a little more.
Crashing the Parade
And then, they literally crashed the parade. The protestors—the ones with hellfire signs and megaphones blasting an angry man telling us to repent—wedged their way in at the end.
Their presence no longer surprises me, yet they still unsettle me. I grew up with people who believed queer people were going to hell, and that their narrow interpretation of Christianity was the only path to salvation. These men believed they were doing God’s work to “win souls.”
At my father’s church, we often watched films about these “ministries”—people who picketed Pride marches, rock concerts, and other events deemed “not of God.” We’d be asked to donate.
My beloved partner, noticing I was upset, asked, “What are they trying to accomplish by being here?”
“They think they’re doing God’s work,” I said. “And as much as they piss me off, part of me would like to talk to them.”
“What would that accomplish?” he replied.
I know he’s right. Talking would waste my breath and upset me more—maybe even risk my arrest for holy resistance.
Several of the men looked just like those I went to church with as a kid, who bowled in the church league with my dad or taught Sunday School. I’d like to believe I could’ve gone up to one of them, adorned in bipride gear and glitter, and said, “Good day, God bless you. May I have a word?”
And then I would have said:
“Gentlemen, about thirty years ago, I could have easily been out here marching with you. I grew up in a church that spreads the Gospel the way you’re doing it now. While I’ll never condemn someone’s professed love for the Lord, I need to tell you this way is harmful. There are people in your churches right now, adults and youth, who love in ways you cannot understand. I knew at eleven that I could love boys or girls, and the churches I was raised in did everything to squash that out of me.
You don’t think I tried praying away the gay? The longer I did, the more I struggled with addiction and with mental health issues. Most days, I wanted to end my life. And yet here I am because the God of my understanding eventually brought me to people who preach love. Studying theology taught me there are so many ways to interpret scripture—and we tend to interpret as we are. When you read from a more loving place, you embrace the world with compassion.
I know you’ll tell me I’m a sinner and that you’ll pray for my salvation. And what I want to say in return is that I will pray for you. Because queer people often pray. Queer people love God. Indeed, I’ve discovered God more strongly in Pride and concerts than I ever did in church. You pray for my conversion; I pray for yours. At the bottom of my struggle, I discovered a God of affirmation and love who does not scare me into submission, but loves me into holy communion with all that is divine.”
Of course, I didn’t go up and say that this year. Maybe one day I will. It may frustrate me, or it could be healing. Even rejection of a loving message can affirm me.
In You Lied to Me About God: A Memoir, I recount how, years after I realized the COEXIST symbol represented me, my father posted an anti-COEXIST message. A part of me wanted to be angry. Yet I felt peace—the peace of knowing that who I am will be rejected by exclusivists.
Drowning Hate With a Joyful Noise
Later, as we walked to lunch, I noticed lingering protestors with megaphones and fearmongering signs. And then I saw the perfect response. Two people in their rainbow-best played their bagpipes—loudly—drowning them out. Talk about a joyful noise!
I gleefully took a video, cheering them on. I saw in them the perfect response: we drown out hate. No need to engage. Instead, we share our more loving, inclusive Gospel with boldness—with pride.
That joyful noise may come through bagpipes, rap, dance, social media reels or theology shared in writing and preaching. May we share a Christianity not exclusivist or nationalistic, but one of unconditional love and authenticity.
May these messages of love continue for the wounded, leaving institutions that shame us for wanting to approach our Creator as our most genuine selves.
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Dr. Marich is the founder of the Institute for Creative Mindfulness. A clinical trauma specialist and educator, she is the author of over a dozen books and manuals on trauma and addiction recovery. She is the author of, You Lied to Me About God: A Memoir,
