On Thursday, December 5th, my church hosted its first-ever Holiday Blues service, a time for members and guests to sit honestly with the grief they feel around the holidays.

Some had lost a loved one earlier this year and were navigating the holidays without that special person for the first time. Others were grieving the loss of relationships, career transitions, estrangement from family, and things shared only between themselves and God.

During the service, we took time to light candles on the altar to honor the people we’d lost or other griefs we carry.  As I approached the altar, my heart was heavy with relational grief–old wounds, to be sure, but still painful all the same.

I lit a candle for each member of my bio-family and one for the surrogate family I had in college, who cut me out of their life after I came out. It has been years since I have talked with any of them, but the holidays always seem to stir up those griefs I assume will someday stop hurting.

Maybe.

The holidays are complicated for me. Given what I shared, I’m sure that doesn’t come as a shock.

Much of the complications come from queerphobia. My wife and I don’t spend the holidays with her family because they can’t seem to move beyond their homophobia. We don’t spend it with my (ex)surrogate family because they also can’t seem to move beyond their homophobia.

The reality is, though, that the holidays would be complicated enough even without the challenges brought by homophobia. We don’t spend the holidays with my biological family because of complex challenges that have nothing to do with their acceptance of my queerness.

Those complications would be there even if I were straight.

The truth of the matter is we all (queer or not) have challenges in our relationships. When the media tries to sell us the lie that these picture-perfect Hallmark-quality family gatherings are normal, it’s easy to believe that there is something wrong with us.

The holidays challenge us to hold joy and grief in tension simultaneously.

We get excited about baking our favorite holiday treats, but then we remember that perhaps we don’t have folks to give all those cookies to. You see a clip of one of those old-school claymation holiday classics and remember where you were when you watched that same movie as a child—the last Christmas your family was healthy.

For queer folks, these challenges are just the tip of the iceberg because our holidays look nothing like the cheery commercials we see on TV.

It is often a time of deep loneliness, compounded by the picture-perfect (straight) family Christmases portrayed in the dozens upon dozens of holiday movies. We get the challenges that straight families have, along with challenges borne purely out of queerphobia. It’s a painful double whammy (and one that Wham! didn’t address in their Christmas earworm).

I lit my candles with all that complexity in mind. I can only imagine what was passing through the minds of others as they approached the altar. 

But then something magical happened.

As members talked and held each other after the Holiday Blues service, I was struck by the paradoxical nature of the conversations. Some folks indicated that they came because they felt lonely, yet here they were, offering tissues so neighbors could wipe away tears, holding one another in loving embraces and sharing stories about who or what they lit candles for. 

That magic lasted beyond the service.

The Sunday after our inaugural Holiday Blues service, we hosted our monthly potluck after worship. At one table, queer young adults celebrated the birthday of one of their own. At another, an older gay couple exchanged “how we met” stories with a young, new gay couple. Kids laughed at silly jokes as we all ate, drank and made merry, surrounded by Christmas decorations.

The social hall buzzed not with small talk but with deep, meaningful connection. 

Toward the end of the potluck, the chair of our deacons commented to me, “You know, there’s a good energy in the room today.” I couldn’t agree more.

I know the charge to “make the Yuletide gay” is meant to mean “make Christmas happy.” But I wonder if it can’t mean to make it queer–make it weird.

My Christmas is queer in the sense that I usually celebrate it with people I’m not biologically related to, and a lot of those folks are queer like me. We laugh, play games, eat good food and gather on days other than December 25th.

It’s queer in the sense that it’s quirky and not what the hegemony tells me it’s supposed to look like. Frankly, my queer Christmases have been the best of my life.

In the queer community, we really do make the Yuletide gay. Perhaps that double entendre is exactly what the world needs right now.

May your Christmas be gay, and may it bring you joy. 

 

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