National Coming Out Day: Seeking Refuge in the Oasis of Risk-Taking Love

I remember my first coming-out conversation.

I was a seminary student, well in the throes of study and deconstruction, and terrified of how being gay would affect my career in ministry. I was driving home from work that evening.

Because I was paranoid about being overheard by classmates, teachers and well, anyone, I figured the safety of my car on the interstate at night would ward off any potential eavesdroppers. Still unsure of where exactly I fit into the alphabet soup of the LGBTQ+ community, I shakily said into my phone, “I think I might be bi.”

My friend was loving, compassionate and immediately affirmed who I am. Not all queer folks are lucky enough to have such a comforting first coming-out conversation.

While I had significantly more challenging conversations over the next several months, I am incredibly thankful that my first conversations were received with inclusive love. Thinking back to the months before those conversations, I remember looking for signals to tell me someone was safe to come out to.

When referring to the queer community, did they say LGBTQ (likely an ally) or homosexual (likely homophobic)? What was their facial expression when we passed the iconic rainbow crosswalk in Atlanta? What were their favorite TV shows? How did they feel about Lady Gaga?

I was thirsty for any sign that my full self would be safe with them.

It seems I was participating in an ancient tradition. The LGBTQ+ community has long looked for signals not just to find safe people, but other folks in our community.

Early in the 1900s, people would ask each other, “Are you a friend of Dorothy’s?” to covertly ask if they were gay. Someone who felt particularly brave may just tell someone they were a “friend of Dorothy’s” to signal that they themselves are gay.

In the times before this coded phrase, LGBTQ+ people may have looked for other clues: a certain glance, a type of jewelry, a lingering touch. Because the stakes were too high, one had to exercise extreme caution when looking for a worthwhile love.

Unsurprisingly, the LGBTQ+ community is not the only community that has needed secret language to safely “out” oneself to another. In the days of the early church– when the Roman empire was not yet Christian– Christians were seen as a direct threat to the empire because they refused to worship the emperor.

Christians were arrested, tortured, and often crucified. Their hanged bodies lined the road into the city.

In order for one Christian to “out” himself to someone, he would casually swipe his foot in an arc along the ground. If his conversation partner was Christian, he’d swipe his foot in a reflected arc.

The two arcs together created an ichthus, the ancient symbol of the fish and a then-new symbol for Jesus. Seeing the completed ichthus was a small reminder to each of them that they were not alone in this risky endeavor of following the Way of Jesus.

In America today, it is not risky to be a mainline Christian. Radio stations blare religious Christmas music in December. Choruses of “God Bless America” fill churches in July.

No one in America needs to “out” themselves as a Christian because conservative Christianity is the hegemonic structure of our society. In many instances, exclusive American Christianity has become the new Roman Empire, seeking the oppression of anyone who does not worship the same emperor God as them.

The Church– which once knew the risk involved in finding a love worth pursuing – is now the party most responsible for creating that risk for the LGBTQ+ community. It’s a sad thing when the oppressed become the oppressor, even though the church made that transition several centuries ago.

What would it look like for Christianity to return to its ancient roots of understanding love as a risky endeavor? I don’t mean in the “you could die” sense, but in the “loss of social collateral” sense.

What could it learn from the queer community about loving without reservation, about proclaiming from the rooftop love for all of Christ’s children, regardless of the consequences? What would it look like for the church to be more beholden to authenticity than their bottom line?

If the church as a whole was able to learn this lesson from the queer community, I have a suspicion that it would lead us back to a love that values the image of God in each other– a faith that can look in the eye of their neighbor and call them beloved. Thankfully, we don’t have to use our imagination to picture this scene. There are churches that are doing that hard, risky work right now.

They are offering queer folks sacraments. They are advocating against laws that seek to take away our rights. They are doing deeply-appreciated, much-needed work to make sure we aren’t harmed.

I understand that some churches may feel like that’s a theological bridge they can’t cross. If you can’t celebrate who God created us to be, then at least make the commitment to stop harming us. That’s literally the least they can do.

This National Coming Out Day, I wish LGBTQ+ people the courage to be who you are. I wish you the friends and family who will embrace you lovingly. I pray you find spaces that will not crucify you for embracing who you are.

To the church, I wish you discomfort. I pray your conscious itches. I pray you desperately thirst for authenticity until you have no choice but to seek refuge in the oasis of risk-taking love.

May we reach a place where we no longer have to hunt for those signs and signals to know that we are safe. Not because love is ever risk-free, but because we have the assurance that our lives are no longer at stake. Amen.