Jesus Loves Atlanta’s Queer Community
It was a warm and sunny Saturday when I first saw it. A small, Presbyterian church. Its walls were built from brown bricks and the concrete sidewalk that led up to it was covered in patches of brown and green from the arrival of spring. What stuck out the most though, was the announcement board in front of the building. Now, we’ve all probably seen these announcement boards before, seen the messages of either a scripture verse or when service is or something like that. That’s something to be expected. What I wasn’t expecting, however, was the slightly frayed and dirt-stained pride flag that rested casually against the black board and white letters. What surprised me even further was that it was the Progress Pride Flag. With how beat up it was, it was pretty clear that it had been there for a while. An LGBTQ friendly church.
Growing up with a religious background in the Virgin Islands, I was surrounded and brought up on more traditional or conservative views that left little space for self-exploration. Things were routine, especially on Sundays.
I remember when I was growing up, how I would wake up to the smell of barbecue ribs and baked macaroni that Mama would cook for Sunday lunch as “The Golden Girls” played on the living-room television. I’d rush to bathe and get dressed before meeting her in the living room before sitting between her legs so that she could do my hair while the food was baking in the oven. By 10 a.m., the food was done, Mama and I were wearing our Sunday best and we would both be sitting in the hot car with the air on full blast as we made our way to our Pentecostal church.
Eventually, I’d go to youth groups on Fridays, and then we would get to church earlier so that I could attend Sunday school. Add that with me spending my entire childhood in Catholic school (which caused a whole other existential crisis on its own), faith and religion was all that I knew — at least until I went to college. During that time, I was able to deviate from the religious background I knew and learn the views of my peers; those who practiced paganism, an acknowledgement of a higher power, or believed in nothing at all.
However, in learning the more modern, humanistic, and liberal views of my friends and expanding my view of the world, I began to question myself. I suffered sleepless nights, tossing and turning in my twin-sized bed as every realization would clash and conflict with everything that’d been instilled in me since birth. What was I supposed to believe in? Was I living the “right” way or was I buying my ticket to hell? Was there even an afterlife to begin with? Questioning one of the most consistent aspects of your life is never a fun time. Hell, I even asked myself if me questioning my sexuality as a kid was just puberty hormones or not. But, if it wasn’t just hormones, and I wasn’t really straight, how could I still be a Christian? Was it possible to be both?
CG, who wished to be referred to by her first name for privacy reasons, seemed to think so despite only being an ally to the queer community. Working at a hospital as a spiritual health and care specialist, she has met her fair of patients that were both queer and Christian.
“So, in my nametag, I have this Pride pin,” she told me over our zoom call as she held up her name tag and pointed to the rainbow flag pin that sat under her picture, “and I make it a point to wear it to show my allyship.”
She then proceeded to tell me about a time that she was talking with a patient, a gay man whom she was helping to prep for his upcoming surgery, saw her pin. After asking whether she was a part of the community or an ally — to which she answered that she was an ally — he smiled and told her, “Thank you, spiritual wholeness is important to me.”
Then there was her earliest memory. She was working at a veteran’s hospital at the time and she was talking to a patient, an African American veteran who had tears in his eyes as they talked.
“He was a Christian, he loved God, but he was gay and he believed that the two identities were incongruent.” She sighed as she ran a hand through her dark hair, “We did end up exploring why God wouldn’t accept that he was gay.”
As she learned about his background, she also learned that not only was he not out to his church family, but that he also dreamed of bringing his partner to church with him, to be welcomed and accepted.
So, with what CG had experienced, that had to mean that it was possible for Christians to be gay and for gay people to be Christians, right?
“You can’t do that, it’s not allowed,” is what Whitney Brown, a queer Black woman, was told by her Baptist/Presbyterian parents when she first came out to them as gay seven years ago. She was 30 years old at the time. “My parents would quote scripture to me, but they have come a long way since then.”
Raised in a Baptist megachurch for most of her life, Brown had her fair share of questioning when it came to her faith. According to her, there wasn’t any way for bonds to form when there’s such a large amount of people. However, things took a turn when Brown started her high school years.
“Things just felt wrong. I was asking a lot of questions like, ‘why were we letting religion dictate the things we do?’ My parents didn’t like that, but I was at that point in my life. I also knew that I didn’t fit in with my peers, but I couldn’t figure out why. And then I went to college, doing the things that college kids do. I stopped going to church.”
She recalled that soon after graduation, her mom suffered a stroke. She survived, but the event had Brown resign that, “Okay, maybe I should think about religion.” After moving out of her parents’ house and finding her place in an Episcopal church, Brown then decided to attend seminary, where she met Dorrie Toney, a fellow queer Black woman and elder at Oakhurst Presbyterian Church.
“I attended seminary from I think 2016 to 2019,” started Brown, “and I left feeling less religious, but being there also made me realize that Christians are kind of terrible people and I don’t know if I want to be associated with that.”
Toney, who also graduated seminary in 2019 shared a similar sentiment, “People saying that LGBTQ+ people are sinful and unloved by God? That’s not how I know God to be.”
Raised with a Presbyterian background herself, Toney also had what she called a growth period, when she left the church and stopped attending all-together.
“It hurts to see Christians condemn queer people, saying such hateful things,” she sighed over the phone.
“So, with your aversion to the church and the association with Christianity, how did you end up in seminary?” I asked. The line was quiet for a second before she let out a hum.
“That’s actually a good question. I had a successful career in journalism, but after working in that field for 20 years, I always felt like there was something else, that journalism wasn’t doing enough for the world.”
Toney continued on to say that before seminary, she didn’t have a strong, biblical understanding on the affirmations of queer people. This was something that she learned about in her Old Testament class.
“Learning about the context and translations, it was freeing and affirming to find that God never expressed disdain or discontent towards queer people. And it’s really touching to me, I think that queer Christians make good Christians because there is such pushback against them.”
As I wrote down her words, another question came to mind, “Then, how did you end up at Oakhurst?”
According to Toney, she felt a pull back to her Presbyterian roots as it reminded her of her family. She also knew people who were going, including her pastor, Katie Ricks.
Now, to meet Ricks, I had to head over to Oakhurst Presbyterian Church this past Sunday for their service. In my research of this small, brick church, I found reviews saying that Oakhurst was a warm and accepting congregation. I wasn’t even out of my Uber when I saw the banners that surrounded the church’s sign: “Black Lives Matter,” “Immigrants and Refugees Welcome” and “More Light Presbyterians.”
As my driver drove off, I walked up the concrete stairs and through the dark, wooden doors. I was met by an older woman in the foyer, whom I assumed to be a greeter, and she was more than happy to shake my hand and introduce me to a couple of things: the program on the table, the prayer stations (I counted 16) that sit on the windowsills and the minimalistic approach taken in the decorations (or lack thereof) for the Lenten season.
I will admit, however, that I was not prepared for the stained-glass window behind the pulpit to have Black Jesus but I’m not complaining.
I came early so the building was practically empty, with attendees trickling in as the time passed. As the minutes went on and people walked in, greeting familiar faces, ushers and choir members dressed in purple greeted me eagerly with warm and bright smiles. They told me their names and asked for mine, welcomed me, wished for me to enjoy the service and one of the ushers stayed to chat with me before being called away. The reviews definitely weren’t lying, and the attention was nice but a little overwhelming for me as this was a new environment.
Eventually the hour-long service began and I followed along using the program I took earlier. The order of events was followed as written; song lyrics were on the paper which made it easier to follow along. As I listened to Ricks’ sermon, there’s one sentence that stuck out.
“There is something powerful about being seen, really seen.”
Maybe it’s chance, maybe it’s a coincidence, but something told me that statement needed to be put in here.
After the service ended with everyone gathering in a circle around the building and holding hands, I was met with more welcomes and greetings before Ricks came to meet me. She led me to her office where I was able to see her rainbow stole that she had hanging on a decorative ladder. After we sat down and broke the ice with introductions and laughs, we started to talk.
Ricks attended seminary back in 1998 and became an ordained pastor in 2012. When she was ordained, she considered herself to be the first lesbian in the Presbyterian church to be ordained after the rules were changed.
“At least that’s what I tend to say, but queer folks have been ordained even though the rules said that they couldn’t,” she laughed. According to her, this form of breaking the rules was pretty common. However, since Oakhurst is a “More Liked” church, it had always been open and inclusive, but it had become even more so in the last three or four years.
“It’s hard to be queer and Christian or any denomination; but it’s hard for queers to go to queer churches because they’re treated so horribly,” she said as she crossed her legs in her seat.
When asked, Ricks explained that now, more queer folks are in seminary and that for a lot of people, ordination is a smooth process, although it is a bit harder in the South. Her experience with the ordination process, however, was interesting since she was about her bed partners. I heard the record scratch in my head.
“Excuse me?” I asked. She cracked a smile and nodded, as though she expected my disbelief.
“Yup. You’d think they’d ask me about my spiritual journey but instead they asked about whom I was sleeping with and if I was having sex.”
I didn’t know what to make of that but apparently, neither did she at the time. She was still ordained and it was after the process that she started to see the shadows of the church.
“I started to see the shadow of the church and after being ordained, I looked back at my life, at my time in the church and came to realize that ‘Wait, all of that stuff really hurt.’ And then I left ministry for two years,” she told me with a small shrug.
“Right after you were ordained?” I asked with a laugh.
“Right after I was ordained,” she chuckled, “and then I worked at the Apple store which was probably the coolest thing I had done.”
I snorted. Once we regained our composure, she continued with how she went to would stay close to the church setting but wouldn’t actually be in it.
“And I stayed away because I was angry. And in late July last year, my therapist asked me, ‘When did you start seeing your parents as human?’ and for a week after I was lamenting on that and there was like this release of angst so then I came to Oakhurst.”
“And what was it about Oakhurst that made you stay and take the job as their pastor?” I asked.
She proceeded to explain to me how she has a rule: “I will not walk into a church unless they explicitly say that they accept LGBTQ people,” a sentiment that Toney shared as well.
“They can’t just say that they accept queer folks,” Toney emphasized, “they have to mean it and show it.”
According to Toney, almost all Christian denominations across the country had split because of the decisions of inclusivity — having women and queer people as ministers and affirming all marriages.
“People,” CG started, “whether they admit it or not, pick and choose what they believe from the Bible.”
“Now, I think that it’s a very human thing to decide what is ‘good’ and ‘right’ and all, but it’s not Christianity,” Toney said.
“People have said things to me like, ‘It’s okay, she’s a cool Christian,’ because I’m well, gay and a Christian. I even say it myself sometimes and it makes me sad that I feel like I have to make that distinction,” Brown sighed.
After talking with everyone, I sat on my bed and looked to the Bible that stood upright on my desk. I had only picked it up a handful of times after it was given to me as a graduation present from my undergrad. Then my eyes went to the wooden box painted in Bisexual Pride colors and the Non-binary frog button pinned to my bookbag.
As Christians we are raised to understand that God is love, that Jesus himself is the ultimate sign of love. He said it himself, to love our neighbor as ourselves. God loves everyone and queer people are no exception.
