It was Mother’s Day.
I went to church with my family, at my father’s request, in order to make the day nice for my mom. I used to go to church with my family — two sisters, father and mother — every Sunday. But I stopped going to their particular church nearly a year before because, though it was never explicitly stated, I knew I couldn’t be myself there. I alone moved to a church where I knew the pastor would accept me and support me. But I stopped going to that specific church three months prior because even though the leadership was welcoming, I couldn’t shake the unwelcoming vibe I picked up from the members of the congregation.
But I went to my old church because I love my mom and I wanted to make her happy. I was worried it would make me feel dysphoric, and man, if I was ever right about anything, I was right about that.
In case it’s not yet clear, or if you’ve never read an article by me before, or if you have never been exposed to a person like me, or if you just refuse to assume anything even though context and indirect communication is valid, let me explain: I’m queer (I claim that label with bold acceptance and in no way use it as a derogatory term. Though, if you’re not in the MOGAI community, be careful using it to refer to anyone without their explicit permission). My attraction orientation is bi and my gender identity is nonbinary. I also consider myself to be trans masculine.
Everything was going as smoothly as could be expected that day. My younger sister and I walked in late, during opening prayer, as per our non-morning-person habits permit. My sister and I sat next to the rest of my family, who chose to sit all the way in the front of the congregation that day — only heaven knows why. My family stood with the rest of the congregation to sing a hymn called “Make Me a Blessing.” (Though I tried to Google and attach a link to the lyrics and apparently the song we call "Make Me a Blessing" is not the same song everyone else calls "Make Me a Blessing.") And the whole time, I could only think about how hard it was for me to sing in a low tone like I wished I could and how much my sociology professor was right — we throw around terms in religious settings without understanding or defining them. What does it mean to be a blessing? A person can be blessed. A person can need to be blessed. We say “bless you” when someone sneezes. What does any of that really mean?
We continued and sang another hymn, “I love to Praise Him.” I thought the whole time about how upbeat the song was and that it would be fun to teach younger kids to sing and dance to. Everything was pretty normal — until the pastor began the Children’s Chat, which is a part of the service where all the little kids sit on the steps leading to the altar to hear a mini-kid-version-sermon.
The pastor had a pot of soil and opened a bag of seeds and talked about how some moms garden but all moms know what it takes to encourage growth: time, patience, prayer, etc. He had the children close their eyes to pray, and while they were all bowing their heads, he switched pots and held a fully grown plant when he finished the prayer. The kids were amazed. It was cute.
But I was bothered.
The pastor had planted Burpee seeds in the first pot. But in the second pot, there was some sort of leafy plant that was not at all a Burpee flower.
Then, the children and the pastor handed out carnations to all the mothers in the sanctuary. And then they went back and handed one to all of the women in the pews. They handed one to me.
After the Children’s Chat, my sister read a poem that a lady had handed her as we walked in about mothers. One line that rung in my ears over and over was something like, “mothers love us unconditionally, through and through.”
Next was the scripture reading. It was from the gospel of Matthew, chapter five, verses one through sixteen — the Beatitudes. I’ve heard these particular verses at least one hundred times. And if I remember correctly, I have even taught Bible study classes on them. I knew what was coming, but the particular version (I don’t know which one) that was displayed on the screen that day had words the glared in my eyes: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God." Sons of God.
In the sermon that followed, the pastor referenced the Beatitudes and talked about how mothers possess the qualities that Jesus said would bring them blessing. The discussion of one verse, "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth," is the only point I remember him making. He said that his favorite definition of meek is “power under control.” I only remember that point because my mind was racing and I thought it was ironic that he was talking about mothers being under control and he, nor anyone around me, knew that I was keeping a panic attack under wraps.
Let me explain.
When the plant that was supposed to be a flower “turned out to be” some unidentifiable leafy plant, I couldn’t help but make the connection that sometimes when parents think they’re growing girl babies, they’re actually growing boy babies. Or unidentifiable (but still cute) babies.
I love flowers. I would wear them in my hair every day if I would be treated as a masculine person regardless. But that’s not how our society works. I was trying so hard to be masculine. Or at least confusing. I had done everything that I could to make the point that I am not a feminine oriented person. Yet, I was handed a carnation, just like all the other mom’s and soon-to-be-moms and one-day-will-be-moms. Why is there so much pressure to be a mom if you have a vagina? Is that what we were doing? Getting a congratulations present for having a particular body part? Is that an insult, though? It’s a flower. Does getting one mean you smell? Regardless, every part of my body that I have dysphoria attached to felt like it had swollen seven times its normal size when I was handed that beautiful carnation. I was officially being recognized as a woman. And I hated it. And I am NOT a woman.
Mothers love us unconditionally. My mother loves me. She doesn’t use my pronouns and, as far as I can tell, isn’t sure about how to negotiate the whole me being bi thing. I don’t always feel loved, likely due to lack of communication. But I am. I know that. I also know that for so many MOGAI people, especially young adults, their parent’s don’t make them feel loved — ever. And when you kick your child out of the house or make them feel so horrible that they run away, can you say that you actually love them at all? Christians talk a lot about unconditional love. Where is that love when it comes to the outcast MOGAI person? Why is a mother’s choice to love her MOGAI child also a choice to fight contemporary society for acceptance and equal rights? People in the MOGAI community kill themselves all time. Any sociologist can explain to you why this is. Isolation. Rejection. Ostracism. It’s not something anyone can live with. But yet, we are a Christian nation. “And They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love.”
All my life, people have told me that I am a peacemaker. Some say it’s because I’m a middle child. Some say it’s because I am a Christian. Some say it’s just who I am. (Some others say it’s because I’m afraid of confrontation…) And the Bible calls people like me sons of God. Sons. This is probably an issue of using masculine language to refer to all people and that’s wrong because it pushes all feminine people down into the dark depths of oppression. But to someone who was already feeling the dissonance between body and mind, having a book inspired by a higher power and revered by millions of people as sacred recognize people like me for who I am, or at least didn't make me be what I absolutely am not... It comforted me a little. (It also made me laugh a little because, come on, it’s kind of ironic. Christian people calling me both a girl and a peacemaker-son at the same time. Ha. Haha.)
In all of my frustration, all I can hope is that the meek — those with the ability to contain their passion into written words on a screen — will inherent the earth. I mean, after all, shouldn’t MOGAI people get something after being denied basic human rights by a society that claims to be the greatest that has ever lived?
