Pharisee easy

Hi, my name is Amber, and I wrestle with the idea I'm not really pro-gay enough to self-identify as a straight ally.

A while back, I wrote about maybe being an evangelical. Or that I was trying to be one, by my own definition. Recently, though, while talking about how societal expectations rubs against faith and how all of us crave some sort of ceremony in our lives, a friend pointed out the logical limits of my love, my graciousness towards others.

The first person who came out to be me as a friend was Taylor. Two years after high school graduation, back when no one talked about things like preference or being different, Taylor came out. He backed away from his friends for weeks before. It was hard, confusing time for all of us, fueled by fear, hormones and wrestling with who we, as this group of friends, were away from our parents and safe suburbs.

Taylor was impressively brave. He asked to attend church with me a bit before coming out; my only friend to ever do so. My youth pastor at the time sensed an otherness about Taylor, and told me I could only be friends with Taylor. Or with the youth group.

It made the choice easy. I left the church.

When Taylor needed a job not too long later, I told him about an opportunity where I was working. After that, every company I worked with, I researched their stance on human rights first. If Taylor and his boyfriend weren't treated like my partner and I would be, it wasn't a company worth my work ethic.

Taylor and I drifted, but remain FB friends. And somewhere between college and 30, Taylor stopped being the face of human rights for me.

Human rights issues broke into smaller pieces - gay marriage, women's rights, universal health care. And those pieces became ideas with little to any actual relevance to my intimates or me. Careers mattered, deadlines, mundane things like bills and car maintenance. My friends found partners, some mourned the loss of partners. Friends started having babies. Priorities shifted, and college, with its idealism and bright eyes, faded.

Issues with no direct relevance to my life became interesting dinner conversation, something to entertain with cocktails and not a lot more.

During a heated conversation with a friend recently, I actually made the statement: marriages happen in church.

And I didn't realize the words coming out of my mouth.

The silence after my statement deafened. I meant to say weddings happen in church, but that doesn't alter the truth I spoke. My friend, currently processing a divorce, responded with what we in the South call “righteous anger.”

And he had a point.

Because civil ceremonies fulfill some of the legal standards of a wedding, the assumption implied is they are the same; only the location of the ritual differs. And I bought that. I even argued the difference between marriages and civil ceremonies are an issue of faith, and for me, faith trumps everything else.

Except faith requires more. Being a person of faith requires following teaching – and not blindly. It means wrestling with fear – what I don’t want to be true – and pride – what I think should be true just because I think it should be so.

It’s that last one which pricks. I realized if I saw all gay and lesbian couples like Taylor and his partner, they would have the right to stand before God and community if they wished to, and express their commitment however they felt truest. It wouldn't be a discussion or debate. I’d’ve at already been at the wedding (if Taylor had any say).

Instead I saw gay marriage, the concept, wanted by gays and lesbians, a faceless group of people. I saw my faith tradition challenged by a group of outsiders, my fear painting an image of a world where faith had no relevance, and the church had no power.

I was no ally. I was a Pharisee.

And now, I wrestle with the idea I’m not as authentically invested in the agenda of the LGBT community to self-identify as a straight ally.

But I’ve acknowledged my fear. And my pride.

And that’s a good first step towards being a better friend to the stranger and the outsider.