The Black Church Is Queer.
I can sho’nuff testify that the Black Church is as queer as they come.
Queerness haunted me for years. It lurked in the shadows of my life with little regard for my comfort or convenience. I rejected its alluring embrace with every fiber of my being. But, the more I resisted, the larger it loomed. Desperate for relief, I found refuge in a place that promised liberation and deliverance: the Black Church. I got it. But not in the way that you may think.
As the son of a Southern preacher and the grandson of a Holy Ghost filled grandmother, the Black Church was my second home. The markings of my adolescence are littered throughout my childhood church. I met my first girl crush in Sunday school class at 10. I played my first bass guitar in the musician’s corner at 12. And I preached my first sermon in the pulpit at 14. With all of these experiences under my belt, I was on my way to becoming a well-regarded member of the Black clerical class. My preaching calendar was full. The number of three piece suits in my closet were growing. And Morehouse College–the launching pad for prominent Black preachers–was within my grasp.
Until queerness manifested.
In between Sunday school classes and sermons, I had many trips to the church bathroom. (Yes, I said the bathroom.) It is there where my queerness formally introduced itself.
Then it followed me into empty classrooms, church vans, and church parking lots. I resisted its invitation at first. This gave me plausible deniability. I was able to delude myself into thinking that my dance with queerness was simply a one time affair. However, it became increasingly difficult to maintain this facade when I was the one requesting a dance on the bathroom floor. Again. And again.
I know. Of all places, the bathroom in a Black church became the holy incubator for my divine queerness; the place where I was able to explore the bounds of my sexuality with other young men just like me.
Of all places, the bathroom in a Black church became the holy incubator for my divine queerness.
Often, people like to think that good old church boys discover their queerness in ‘secular’ places like liberal arts colleges or gay clubs downtown. For me, I found mine on the hallowed grounds of my first spiritual home: the Black Church. I recognize that many see these two things — my queerness and my Black religiosity — as mutually exclusive. Maybe even inherently contradictory. I beg to differ. I see them as mutually dependent and inextricably connected. One cannot exist without the other. My queerness was birthed alongside and within sacred spaces well before I embodied it in so-called ‘secular places.’
My queerness was birthed alongside and within sacred spaces well before I embodied it in so-called ‘secular places.’
While it is true that many Black churches are theologically hostile toward queer folks, it has never stopped us from finding ways to take up space and create our own within the Church. I certainly did. Tapping into my queerness — only steps away from the main sanctuary — was an attempt to create a new sacred space that affirmed my humanity. It facilitated an unexpected yet desperately needed encounter with the divine. My fingertips and perched lips acted as conduits for uncompromising self-worth. Every gingerly placed hand and breathy pant signified the fulfillment of something my soul longed for — divine freedom.
Every gingerly placed hand and breathy pant signified the fulfillment of something my soul longed for — divine freedom.
These serendipitous sensual sessions granted me the transformational gift of spiritual ecstasy; the kind that could only come from an authentic expression of self. In the presence of God and in the shadows of Her church, I submitted myself to a material endeavour that birthed a spiritual awakening. Defying the odds, I waded through the shame, the guilt, and the internalized homophobia to reach the parts of myself that I was told to deem as ungodly. I audaciously reclaimed my body and my desires in the name of unconditional love, not just for the other but for myself. Wherever I stood — the bathroom stall, an empty office, or the church parking lot — in that moment turned into holy ground.
These serendipitous sensual sessions granted me the transformational gift of spiritual ecstasy.
And even in the main sanctuary my queerness manifested in subtle yet subversive ways. Sometimes it was seen in the slight brush of a shoulder in choir practice or an elongated glance exchanged during offering. Other times it was shown through a flirtatious comment made or a strategically placed, lingering hand. These precious moments permeated Sunday services in-spite of what was said from the pulpit or in the pew.
Despite all attempts to stymie and silence queerness in the Black Church, my queer kindred and I still exist within it and we do so without apology. This is precisely why the Black Church will remain a queer sacred site for me. It was the holy incubator for my God-given queerness. No other sacred site can claim the credit. So, whether the Black Church acknowledges its queerness or not, I will always stand as witness. I can sho’nuff testify that the Black Church is as queer as they come.
