While St. Benedict Roman Catholic Parish in Cambridge, OH, was not the highest of liturgical experiences, it maintained a decidedly somber nature during my childhood. Mass was meant to be reverent and well ordered, but not stuffy. Similar to the majority of American Roman Catholic congregations, congregants dressed well, but not in suits or dresses. Children were encouraged to be involved and they could even explore the sanctuary after mass. It was in the best sense of churches a community and it was the genesis of all my later liturgical involvement.

Throughout the course of my church activities in Roman Catholic, Episcopalian, UCC, Methodist, and nondenominational congregations, I’ve been drawn to liturgical cultures. The quintessential “smells and bells” and pageantry of finely executed Anglo-Catholic (Episcopalian) services gave me my first true sense of church and liturgy as an experience of the divine. The power and movement of Gospel music and powerful social gospel preaching gave me my second and different perspective of that divine. Even as I write this essay, liturgy is close to me physically and intellectually in the form of Cole Arthur Riley’s new book Black Liturgies, which is sitting on my desk. 

Liturgy has not always been a source of strength, comfort, and divinity for me. During college I began to realize that I often put far too much importance on the mechanics of liturgy and missed what the liturgy was there to communicate. Even worse I stopped finding God in the liturgy as I became so engrossed in why the deacon was wearing a tunicle—the proper vestment of a sub-deacon—instead of a dalmatic or the order in which the crucifer should process relative to the torchbearers or other liturgical thoughts similar to debating how many angels can stand on a pin head. When the liturgy no longer conveys the presence and reality of God then the liturgy becomes a stale script of words and movements. Liturgies can fail the people and people can fail the liturgy. I was in the latter group. 

At about this same time in my life, I wandered into Middle Collegiate Church in New York City having heard that it was a particularly progressive and uplifting congregation. I had been living and working just outside the city for a few months and had been exploring some of Manhattan’s well known Anglo-Catholic churches. Despite the beautiful buildings and the grand services, I left each church feeling increasingly displaced from the experience of church, community, and belonging. Granted, liturgy was only one aspect of that feeling of disconnection from church and church communities. In addition to showing me how Christianity could be different, how I could be loved by God in the fullness of my identities rather than in spite of them, Middle Church presented me with a liturgy that while lacking “smells and bells” was absolutely joyous and was responsive to the world outside the doors of the church building. It was there that I first felt the Spirit move.

I have had enough of an education and experience of various forms of Christianity to know that many people and many congregations talk about the Spirit far more than we ever did in Roman Catholic or Episcopal churches. I also have learned theological definitions for the Holy Spirit and where the Spirit fits in with the Trinity and salvation history. Yet, like many Christians, the Holy Spirit was something ethereal and far off. I couldn’t say I had ever felt the Spirit moving. 

For many people who have experienced Middle Church, it is first a spiritual hospital, not to heal sinners from our sin, but to teach us that what has been called sin is not sin in the eyes of God. Particularly for those of us who are Queer, Middle taught us that we are not sin embodied in ourselves. The walls I had built up to true expressions of Christian liturgy and Christian community came tumbling down. I recognized that it wasn’t liturgy which had gotten in my way, but the manner in which I saw and understood that liturgy. Radically, I recognized that the Spirit had always been moving in my life. 

When I left New York and moved on with my career and life, I continued carrying all that I learned at Middle Church with me. When I began working with LOVEboldly at the intersection of LGBTQIA+ identities and Christianity, I felt the Spirit moving in so much of my work. While I may not be as “Spirit-filled” as some of my friends and colleagues, the active presence and guidance of the Holy Spirit has carried be through particularly difficult moments in this work when it seems like our community is fighting battles on all fronts. 

Several weeks ago, I preached a sermon at a church in Columbus, OH. While I might not always stay with exactly what I write, when I preach, I like to have my sermon fully written out and in front of me. This congregation, though, is made up of people whose backgrounds are in the charismatic and Pentecostal traditions and who were raised in environments where each Sunday the bulletin confessed that the length of the service would vary on the movement of the Spirit (for my fellow former Roman Catholics, that means how long the sermon and maybe the associated music would last). Instead of writing a full sermon, I wrote good notes and flagged certain sections in case I needed somewhere to go. When I stood up to preach, I prayed silently for the Spirit to guide me, and I felt the Spirit move. It was likely not my finest sermon and I definitely ended up a few degrees away from where I intended to end, but this sometimes-high churchman finally felt the Spirit move. 

Religious freedom is an American value or, so we were taught in school. Didn’t the Puritans leave England seeking the freedom to practice their religion without harassment? What we are often not taught is the significant difference between religious freedom and the freedom to practice our religion. The former is a universal concept respecting the practice of any religion or no religion in any manner which is consensual and not dangerous. The latter guarantees freedom of practice to only one group or one religion while holding other religions suspect. The Puritans did not leave England seeking to establish a society in which people could practice any religion, their city on a hill was to be theocracy of their particular flavor of Christianity and none other. Religious freedom is liberatory and collective because it shares with each person including those who utilize the freedom to practice no religion. But because religious freedom is communal it must be practiced with respect to the freedom of others. 

You and I have the freedom to believe whatever we are compelled to believe. To the degree that the practice of our religion and spirituality is consensual for everyone involved and does no harm to anyone not participating in our practice, then we have the freedom to practice our faith as we see fit. It is when our faith becomes destructive to others that we have reached the limits of religious freedom. Queer Christians often find this limit when churches and other groups attempt to enforce lifelong chastity on them. While I disagree with the belief and the arguments used to reach it, a Queer Christian is within their rights to believe that God requires celibacy from them. They violate religious freedom when they impose that belief on others. So, Groff, requesting Sundays off work in order to participate in a religious observance, is a fair example of religious freedom. So too 303 Creative is an example of the limit. 

One would be forgiven for mistaking this as simply an intellectual and legal debate. Just as the decision in Groff opens space for religious minorities, the 303 Creative decision presents new challenges for LGBTQIA+ people. Though finding a web designer is a relatively easy prospect even if more designers begin to discriminate against LGBTQIA+ people, the same cannot be said for providers of physical goods—cake designers for instance—or health care practitioners. For Queer people with limited socioeconomic statuses or who live in rural areas the challenge of finding a Queer affirming provider is often even more difficult. We need to remember for Queer people as well as others, the issue of religious freedom is not conceptual, it is grounded in lived experience and fear of being embarrassed and denied services to which we have a right.

Writing for Baptist News Global, Barry Howard developed “Seven Reasons Religious Liberty Matters.” While Howard perhaps reads the current state of religious freedom through rose-colored glasses, he makes a convincing point that religious liberty helps to ensure not only the free practice of religion and ethical living, but the expansion of social justice and the limiting of extremism. Indeed, appeals to religious belief is not just a tactic of the religious right and Christian nationalism, progressive Christians, too, can convincingly argue for their right to practice a liberal religion. In 2014, the United Church of Christ sued the State of North Carolina over a proposed amendment to the state’s constitution defining marriage between one man and one woman. 

Though the 303 Creative ruling was a major blow to LGBTQIA+ rights, it is also prophetic of the work we still have to do through progressive, inclusive, and affirming Christianity where the words and the model of Jesus propel our actions and our witness for justice. If the freedom of religion can be weaponized against God’s people, then the freedom of religion can testify until even the rocks cry out.   

Author Bio: Dr. Ben Huelskamp is the Executive Director of LOVEboldly (www.loveboldly.net), an organization working to create spaces where LGBTQIA+ people can flourish in Christianity, and a seminarian at the Methodist Theological School in Ohio. You can find out more about his projects on his website (www.benhuelskamp.com).

After centuries of misrepresentation and white washing, American Christians largely imagine a Jesus who is white with flowing brown hair and a chiseled jaw line—not for nothing, this image of Jesus looks a lot like Jonathan Van Ness, but I digress. Christian nationalism is recreating Jesus in the model of white supremacy. The reality of the Jesus story is being replaced by a sterilized ideal of the white nationalist man. Who is this Jesus? He’s a man possessing all the marks of a man who leads, fights for family values, and protects women by controlling as much of their lives as possible. He values life from conception to death. He hates LGBTQIA+ people and believes there are only two genders. He wants to build a wall at the southern border, because illegal immigration is a serious issue to safety and the job prospects of Americans. He supports tax cuts for the rich because they create jobs. He decries social services for the poor because it makes people lazy. The Christian nationalist Jesus knows that best way for free people to protect themselves is by keeping guns readily available. This Jesus shouts at people marching in Pride parades. In short, this Jesus wants to make America great again.

The Bible, however, depicts Jesus as a person of first-century Palestine, brown skinned and poor. His immediate family lives in a collective community which travels together and supports each other. Shortly after his birth, Jesus becomes a refugee and migrant fleeing persecution by King Herod. While sacred scripture doesn’t provide a complete view, his upbringing seems happy and fulfilling. He’s loved and he’s taught to show love. He grows up knowing about the dominant, governing culture (Roman) as well as his own marginalized culture. He lives as a homeless, iterant minister in a region with diverse and conflicting religious groups. Ultimately, he becomes a victim of an occupying force terrified of dissension and is put to death in a gruesome and public manner. 

We don’t need to “Queer” Jesus or read him through a Queer lens, because Jesus is already a Queer character. He is socially transgressive and liberatory. He puts into practice the message he preaches and centers the voices of the marginalized. Our search for Jesus during Pride Month shouldn’t be in the hollow prayers of people pushing destructive bills through state legislatures or in the people claiming Christianity while they spew hate at Pride festivals. We will find Jesus in the Pride parades, among drag queens maintaining an uniquely Queer art form, and at festival booths set up by churches trying to better welcome and include the LGBTQIA+ community. Jesus can be found among the families fleeing states where it is no longer tenable to be transgender and he can relate with their struggle because once his own family fled violence. 

The Biblical Jesus and the Christian nationalist Jesus look nothing like each other. One is focused on community while the other is obsessed with control and power. One hungers for liberation while the other thirsts to further oppress the marginalized. One brings truth while the other offers sweet lies presented as hope. The reality of Jesus—the Jesus we find during Pride Month and beyond—is a person and a force who has never stopped working. We Queer Christians can find Jesus among us building community, in front of us demanding action, and around us standing between us and those who would wish us or do us harm. That’s where Jesus is during Pride Month and every month. 

Author: Dr. Ben Huelskamp is the Executive Director of LOVEboldly (www.loveboldly.net), an organization working to create spaces where LGBTQIA+ people can flourish in Christianity. You can find out more about his projects on his website (www.benhuelskamp.com).