From Glasgow we are pleased to introduce Benjamin Morse as a regular columnist.
Raised in the American Episcopal church, I never heard a word against gays from the pulpit or at coffee hour. The combination of congregations who hit a healthy balance between religion and liberalism – and of parents who nurtured me into loving God – has saved me from extended bouts of self-pity when I wished I was someone else. “Today you will be with me in Paradise” (Luke 23.43) is a truth I may never adequately explain. Yet here I am, still alive, my parents and only sibling long gone. A Lone Ranger, but never alone.
It was in Scotland, where my partner and I moved so I could finish my PhD, that we married a year after the UK legalized civil partnerships. We didn’t ask the Scottish Episcopal church we sometimes attended if they would do the honours because they weren’t doing that yet. As it happened, the priest there offered to officiate when we booked the university chapel nearby. My former tutor, a lesbian who taught church history, preached the homily. That our celebration signalled the changing times mattered little to me. More important was that we crafted an order of service so devoted to the Spirit, even atheists came up to take Communion.
I began noticing how many churches flew Pride flags twice the size of their front doors. Nice of you, I thought, but wouldn’t “We are all God’s children” do the trick?
After we separated seven years later, I began going to church more regularly, both in Scotland and in New York. I grappled with God over the first heartbreak that followed, and my impossible sermon standards kept me shifting in my pew. But my love for my tradition and need to check in with the ineffable mystery kept me coming back.
I also refused to give up when Episcopal church schools wouldn’t order the children’s New Testament I wrote and illustrated. Some of them hosted drag shows in their sanctuaries, but they could not have Bible stories on their library shelves since they “only teach religion to the older kids.”
Following Christ requires a willingness to accept that the powers-that-be might determine you’re on the wrong side of history. It would be easier to jump on the marginalised bandwagon by identifying as “queer”…
During this time I began noticing how many churches flew Pride flags twice the size of their front doors. Nice of you, I thought, but wouldn’t “We are all God’s children” do the trick? In the name of inclusion, the imposing rainbow inadvertently re-erected the group divisions Paul encouraged the Galatians to dispense with (Gal. 3.28). Nevertheless, I didn’t want to treat church like a consumer experience. I kept going.
And then the Progress train rolled in. By the end of 2020 I had fully clocked the implications of a gender identity and begun reading books nice liberals weren’t meant to read. Telling a child they were born in the wrong body struck me as unfathomably cruel. From the pulpit at my Scottish church I heard that Genesis 1.27 (on male and female) “proves that God created all genders” – and, apropos of nothing related to the readings that day, about the “trans genocide”. A table of buttons as you walked in now introduced visitors to the Queer Liberation fist (liberation from what, I wondered) as well as the inclusive language of “Some trans people are religious. Get over it!” One Sunday a six-year-old who had pinned one of the rainbow buttons to his shirt handed me my program, and I grieved for him.
I had loved rainbows at that age. I had even longed to be a girl. But I was lucky never to have been given a badge advertising my future same-sex attraction. I was allowed to be a kid. I was allowed to be me.
My attempt to address some of this with the all-gay/female clergy by offering to lead a discussion group on theology versus worldliness was summarily rejected. Ten months later, I’ve found a flag-free parish with outreach programs to the elderly and the incarcerated. Time will tell how willing I am to imitate Christ and lend my hands to these initiatives.
In the meantime I have been reading Kierkegaard. I take comfort in all he says about not running away from life on life’s terms, whether that’s from one’s body or from the personal and historical circumstances that frame one’s time here. To be a soul before God, to distinguish one’s conscience from the prevailing “abyss of sophistry”. To be able to spot the masquerade of good intentions so many imagine to be Christian.
The sum of all this can be far from comforting. Following Christ requires a willingness to accept that the powers-that-be might determine you’re on the wrong side of history. It would be easier to jump on the marginalised bandwagon by identifying as “queer” or making my sexuality represent everything I am. But relegating the kingdom of God to an afterthought leads to spiritual flight – from the terms of my birth and into a realm of egocentric fantasy. Excessive political identification starves the soul. Indulging in qualities that demand others regard me as extraordinary paves a road in the direction away from Paradise.
About Benjamin Morse
Q. Why did I want to write for LGB Christians?
A. There aren’t a lot of places for LGB people to discuss God. Queers for Palestine appeals more to the literary establishment than the idea of a gay Christian.
Q. What experience do I bring?
A. My mother was in the first generation of women to be ordained into the American Episcopal Church. For my PhD in Old Testament I likened the ancient scribes to Modern artists. I then wrote and illustrated The Bible Beautiful Series “for people of all ages, colours and creeds”. My satirical turn on Substack was inspired by the prophets.
I have degrees in Biblical Interpretation from Oxford University, Modern Art from the Courtauld Institute in London, and a PhD in theology from Glasgow University.
Q. What change would I most like to see for LGB Christians and our friends?
A. I believe Christianity asks us to engage with the world as it is. Suffering is an essential part of life that allows us to know God. LGB Christians have been blessed with lives that can bring light to those who suffer from loneliness, rejection, or any other kind of poverty. My hopes are that we can think of ourselves as part of the entire human family and that each of us, whether single or coupled, can build a relationship with our loving Creator.