I love genius lyricism, and as a child of the aughts, I find myself going back to music I would hear on the radio or on my mom's iPod. Moreover, I'm amazed at how often the lyrics become proverbs of my daily life.
Recently, a lyric from "Hey Ya!" by OutKast has been trending on social media: "Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance." Andre 3000 (the genius that he is) uses it to back away from his heavy lyrics about people in unfruitful, unhappy relationships and jump back into the contagious joy felt in the rest of the song. It's beautiful and heartbreaking how self aware the Andre 3000 is. He knows that millions of people were not going to download this song and dance to it at weddings for the next two decades for depressing lyrics in a seemingly peppy song.
I never read into this interjection at the beginning of the second chorus, but people are artfully inserting it into their conversations about justice and inclusivity. It resonates with me on this day as I received this pamphlet from homophobic evangelical protestors on my college campus.
 |
ID: a small pamphlet with a galaxy image with text that reads "Where are you going to spend eternity?"
|
These protestors had been traveling around Iowa with signs that call people to be saved from the "sins" of premarital sex, homosexuality, etc.–you know, the standard protests for most groups with intentions to spread shame instead of joy.
I wasn't afraid. First of all, they couldn't tell a queer person even when they looked them in the eye while wearing a rainbow button on their backpack. Second, I have already come to terms with my personal identity as an LGBTQ+ Christian with goals to live out Christ's gospel. I have faith in my Creator who made me as I am, and my capacity to love and exist in different ways is one of God's gifts to me. Most importantly, I know that my sheer existence and my loving, consensual relationships with others is not something I needed to repent.
But today, the accuser found a way to get under my skin and doubt God's plan for me. Because of these protestors.
With the protestors' presence, my fight or flight response activated, somehow at the same time. No, I didn't want to hurt them, but I wanted so badly to show them how wrong they were. Usually when people ask me out of genuine curiosity, I know exactly how to support threatened communities with scripture, scholarship, well-established theology, historical context, and faith. But when people are anything but curious, I feel the fear creep inside of me. This is where Andre 3000's lyrics resonate.
I feel the pangs of ignorance and hatred as if they reached their hands to strike my cheek. I feel powerless when I stand before the Goliath of systemic homophobia that is able to justify these people's work, and I am just a kid with nothing but the words "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." I doubt. Like Job 3:24-26 when he cursed the day he was born, "For my sighing comes like my bread, and my groanings are poured out like water. Truly the thing that I fear comes upon me, and what I dread befalls me. I am not at ease, nor am I quiet; I have no rest; but trouble comes.”
In other words, Job said "Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance."
However, like Job, this feeling didn't last forever.
As I sat in class knowing the rising tensions in the street between the music building and the Center for the Arts (by no surprise, a loud, beautiful, rainbow-filled counter-protest ensued), I received a text message from someone I knew from our college's student-led worship group. I had some classes and extra-curricular activities in common with him, but we weren't very close. I also knew he was heterosexual and cisgender.
He asked me what was going on outside. I responded that a group of homophobic evangelicals were protesting, and the other noise was from the counter-protest going on from fellow students. He asked why the evangelicals were here, and I said that they were traveling around the midwest but I didn't know specifically what brought them here. During this conversation, I was feeling particularly vulnerable because I hadn't had an in depth conversation with him.
He then responded with the following "Well hey, I'm not exactly sure how you're feeling or what to say–if anything–but I think God loves you so much! Let me know if there's anything I can do to support you♡"
It took everything in my power not to melt into tears in my physics lecture. It wasn't enough. Even typing these words into this post fills my heart with such love and acceptance that the words have the same impact as when I read them for the first time. Yes, I had solidarity within my community, but I so badly needed an ally in that moment. Somehow, the Holy Spirit guided this man to specifically reach out to me to make sure I was okay. Just when I doubted the connection between myself and the overwhelming love of God, someone granted me the gift of compassion.
I wanted to leave a final word of hope for my fellow members of the LGBTQ+ community who wonder if there is a God to hold them. God's love for you is abundant. God made you and is alongside you in the process of become the person you were always meant to be. God is within you and loving people around you to establish beautiful connections with one another. God is alive and well in the spaces we retreat to when we feel unsafe, and God will create safe spaces for you to just be.
Take comfort that two straight men stood in the sight of homophobes and locked lips.
Take comfort in the fact that children of church leaders grow up to be in the LGBTQ+ community.
Take comfort that our college ministries is a Reconciling in Christ congregation, a certification that signifies full inclusion of LGBTQIA+ in all aspects of their work.
Most importantly, take comfort that there are people who do want to hear you, and they don't just want to dance.
