Beyond Acceptance

Embracing and Cherishing LGBTQ People in Our Meetings

How do any of us feel when we are ignored, or worse: when we reveal an aspect of our life that is met with raised eyebrows or cold response? When I enter a room, my human nature scans the crowd to see if any of “my people” are here: Are there any folks my age? Dressed like me? With tattoos like me? Queer like me? Whether or not I’ve identified with anyone via visual clues, how does the composition of those gathered leave me feeling?

It has often been upon my heart to examine what our role is as the Religious Society of Friends in making known that spiritual practice, intimate relationship with the Divine, and membership within a welcoming community are all available to each and every person without qualification. One of the tasks laid into my lap is a calling to let the lonely and estranged feel the comfort and embrace of Divine Love and Holy Communion within a community that doesn’t merely tolerate but instead cherishes and supports them right where they are—without any change required as a price of admittance.

When the public view of Christianity (and perhaps religion at large) is one of judgement and condemnation, how do we get out the word that there’s an alternative? There is a real sense of fear right now in the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer community. What do the vulnerable in our world need? They need safety in a community that will not just stand up for them but will stand alongside them. It takes some bravery to attend a new place of worship; it takes even more if one is actually experiencing a trepidation that borders on fear.

Some years ago, I was at a local demonstration when an acquaintance approached me to inquire whether I would speak with a young man she had just met. We were introduced, and in short order, he said bluntly, “I’m gay. Would I be welcomed at your place of worship?” I assured him he would be not only welcomed but embraced. This experience tendered my heart and led me to ask myself: how many LGBTQ folks have felt the door of spiritual communion and fellowship slammed in their faces? How many have yearned for nurturance and community but were shamed into believing that they must choose between religion and their authentic selves? We welcomed this young man at Fayetteville (N.C.) Meeting and enjoyed his company immensely.

After this experience, I brought my leading to the meeting for us to begin hosting a table at our local Pride celebration. We are an extremely tiny meeting, so any event is a big commitment for us. We moved forward with the understanding that proselytizing was not our goal; indeed, if no new attenders materialized from it, we would be okay with that. Instead, we simply intended to convey to the community at large that you can be queer and have a spiritual practice.

As it turned out, we have had several people relay that they decided to contact us because they saw our Facebook post that showed us at the Pride celebration. Some of those people have visited once and not returned; others have become treasured regular attenders. We keep a trans rights brochure on the table alongside other literature as a subtle message for anyone too afraid to ask where we might stand and to silently reassure them. When folks email me ahead of a first visit, I volunteer the information that more than one of us are under the “queer umbrella,” so that they know beforehand that they will not be a solitary or unusual presence.

When the public view of Christianity is one of judgement and condemnation, how do we get out the word that there’s an alternative? What do the vulnerable in our world need? They need safety in a community that will stand up for them and stand alongside them.

There’s a vibrational difference between being tolerated and being treasured. In addition to making clear that our doors are open, we must also examine how comfortable our LGBTQ attenders and members are in truly sharing their lives with others in the meeting. How effective is the statement on our website landing page that we are “welcome and affirming”? When I read that, does it resonate within me in a meaningful way, or does it merely come across as obligatory box-checking? As a queer person, what would actually convey a sense of belonging to me if I arrived for the first time at my meeting? What atmosphere corrections—subtle or obvious—would I need to feel comfortable to come as my true self?

One of the highest honors I’ve experienced was having an attender come to me with the news that they wanted to share their transition with our meeting. What an incredible validation of our intent to be not just welcoming but embracing! In my role as clerk, this made my heart swell with gratitude for the level of comfort and safety we as a meeting had cultivated, leading to this incredible demonstration of trust. We celebrated the process with them and adjusted to the name change. Some years later, after they had moved, we were invited to their wedding at another meeting within our yearly meeting. Our meeting had been a lovely step along their path.

Beyond the bounds of my monthly meeting, I have long harbored a sense of curiosity about the perception of my yearly meeting by those outside of our small group. Last year, I was blessed to be able to drive from my home in North Carolina to visit Ohio Yearly Meeting for the Wider Fellowship of Conservative Friends gathering. During a break in sessions, I found myself sitting on the front porch of the meetinghouse in conversation with a Friend who has been a long-standing visitor to my yearly meeting, North Carolina Yearly Meeting (Conservative). I asked him if he would describe my meeting to me and share his perceptions. He thought for a moment and then warmed me with his simple reply: “Your meeting is very loving.” That was all he chose to say, and yet it felt incredibly profound to receive that assessment.

I felt that sentiment had been confirmed a few years earlier during a conversation I had at one of our annual sessions with a woman from a national Quaker organization who had attended as a guest. At the end of the week, I inquired how she felt about the experience and was deeply happy to hear her response: “As a trans woman, I cannot tell you how wonderful it was to just be. This is the first place since my transition that I haven’t had to explain myself or enter into conversations about who I am. I got to just be myself here.” What a testimony!

This encounter led me to consider how we interact with anyone we come in contact with: Do we keep a careful balance between interest and getting to know someone, or do we question them with the goal of categorizing them? When we are truly seeking to connect with that of God in everyone, our focus must transcend appearances, classification, and human inclination to affix labels to those with whom we interact. To feel unseen and unconfirmed is to feel misunderstood and misrepresented: a loss of validity and a lack of affirmation. Offering “acceptance” falls flat if we pigeonhole people into a description rather than viewing them as glorious, multidimensional, complex individuals.

Moving beyond pat answers into a deep state of relationship takes commitment to doing the work. Quakers have a history of making public professions; the minutes we publish can potentially have impact and consequence, but only if they are seen as a starting point from which we actively endeavor to live into our words. Resting in the publication of a message as an act complete in itself is not enough. I encourage each of us to query ourselves: “How will we . . .” instead of “Are we . . .” as we examine the practices of our meeting. Dig into the gritty details; get uncomfortable and get honest about what it means to fully embrace individuals.

What makes any of us feel truly welcomed when we enter a new situation? Is it a warm smile, questions that indicate genuine interest rather than feeling like interrogation, and invitations not just to return but to become involved—in classes, committees, and interest groups. If we do not have a specific LGBTQ support group at our meeting, are we ready with a list of outside community resources? What about the public face of the meeting? How does that ubiquitous statement of inclusion read? Is it copy-and-paste generic, or is it imbued with a loving depth of true welcome? What does our community see of our presence? Are we visibly participating in LGBTQ events or sponsoring activities? How will we get the word out to folks who are too hesitant to reach out and investigate on their own?

Our statements of inclusion are mere starting points for creating a meeting committed to deeply nurturing all who walk through our doors. There is a profound difference between issuing a statement of welcome on a website and doing the work to create not only a safe space but a place of joyous celebration of each person’s authentic self. True community encompasses both the mundane struggles of daily life, support during times of stress and crisis, and the sharing of achievements and milestones. It is the difference between sitting, smiling, and nodding and standing, beaming, and pulling someone in close for a warm embrace.