Constructing Queer Faith Narratives

Yesterday, I participated in a symposium, under the theme “Faith and Sexuality,” and facilitated by The Caribbean Vulnerable Communities and its partners. I was part of a panel whose topic for discussion/conversation was “Addressing and reframing harmful religious narratives: What does an inclusive faith look like?”

Below was my two cents. Of course, it needs a bit more thought and fleshing out.  

"We inhabit a context in which homophobia and homophobic narratives are not only culturally pervasive but also theologically—and more specifically, biblically and hermeneutically—justified. Addressing and reframing these harmful religious narratives requires a reckoning with how faith narratives are formed, how they function, and how they can be negotiated with in order to challenge exclusionary, downpressive ideologies.

Anthony Ceresko, Oral Thomas, John Barton and others have underscored ways in which socio-ideological interests, theological agendas, and social vision shape both the formation and interpretation of sacred texts. The Bible did not fall from heaven; it emerged from particular communities—real people, facing real struggles, attempting to survive, resist, reform, and make sense of their worlds and experiences. These texts are deeply human in their formation, even as they reach toward the divine.

socio-ideological interests, theological agendas, and social vision shape both the formation and interpretation of sacred texts.

Across the history of religion, communities have narrated their histories, creating stories, myths, and legends not only of their survival, but for their survival. These narratives are not simply records of history—they are instruments of identity and hope, crafted to assert dignity, worth, power, and even godhood for those who feel unseen or under threat. This is a fundamental feature of the Scriptures. It is a record of such striving. And, like all human endeavours, it bears the marks of its contexts—which for different communities can be limiting and or deeply liberating.

In the wake of the Babylonian exile, for instance, Jewish elites began compiling what had primarily been oral national traditions and folk memories, adapting and reshaping them in response to their new context. At the same time, they drew upon Babylonian sources and their lived experience of displacement to craft a textual corpus that served the theological and communal needs of their exiled people. In doing so, they produced narratives that both reflected and reinforced their vision of survival, continuity, and hope.

My proposal, then—though it may seem farfetched to some—is deeply rooted in the very tradition of faith/narrative-making itself: that our queer siblings become active agents in shaping the contours of faith. This includes crafting their own stories, myths, and legends—not only as records of survival but as instruments of survival. These new narratives would draw from both lived experience and inherited faith traditions, reimagined in ways that centre queer identity and hope, while simultaneously challenging, subverting, or transforming the dominant narratives that have historically excluded them. In other words, queer individuals cannot rely solely on texts or narratives that were never intended to centre their lives, experiences, or identities. A closed canon and their interpretive tools may not sufficiently serve them.  

...our queer siblings become active agents in shaping the contours of faith. This includes crafting their own stories, myths, and legends—not only as records of survival but as instruments of survival.

Some may wish to begin addressing and reframing harmful religious narratives by constructing narratives of their own that draw on the heart of Christian faith—with the person of Jesus, the Word made flesh, who embodies love, compassion, and radical hospitality. In his life and teachings, we find a consistent prioritization of human dignity: welcoming the marginalized, healing the excluded, and challenging rigid interpretations of religious law. He insisted that mercy and inclusion outweighed rule-bound exclusion. This foundation offers not only theological legitimacy, but an urgent call to reimagine faith in a way that affirms and empowers all, especially those whom faith traditions have historically failed.

Here’s an AI-generated narrative. Yes, it's cliche, and I am sure there are queer imaginatives out there who can write way better stories (or provide way better prompts!). My friend, Rev. Angeline Jackson and many others have written books, for example, that can be used as sources for such stories. But you should get the point!  

The Story of the Many-Coloured Threads

 

A long time ago, in a parish by the sea where the hibiscus bloomed bright and the sea breeze whispered secrets through the palm trees, there lived a woman named Ms. Bobles. Ms. Bobles was a woman of good heart; she was pleasant and wise. She had a daughter, a beautiful soul named Shenae, whose spirit was as free and vibrant as the hummingbird flitting from blossom to blossom.

Now, Shenae grew, and her heart, it found a special joy being around Keisha, a kind and strong soul whose hands were skilled at making palm baskets.

But not everyone saw the beauty in their bond. In the community, some folks spoke in hushed tones. Their words often turned to cold stares and harsh whispers directed at Keisha, especially when she walked alone. There were times when the market vendors would turn their backs when she approached, or children, echoing their parents, would call out unkind names. Keisha felt the sting of their judgment, a heavy burden that tried to dim her bright spirit.

One day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of fire and gold, Ms. Bobles gathered the people. Her face was calm, her eyes full of the light of understanding. She held up a piece of finely woven cloth, a tapestry vibrant with many colours – reds, blues, greens, and even the soft purples and oranges.

"Look pahn da piece a claat ya," she said, her voice clear and strong. "It pretty, no true? Every one a di thread dem we mek it op, hav it place no mata di kola, no true? A no di whole a dem togeda no mak it luk pretty? If yu tek out one a dem, it udn mek di claat les prettya?”

The people looked, and they nodded, for the cloth was truly a thing of beauty.

Ms. Bobles continued, "A same so it go wid Gad pikni dem! Each person is a thread, spun by the Creator's own hand, unique and precious. Some threads are one colour, some another, and some, like the rainbow that follows the rain, hold many colours within them. When we try to unravel a thread, or cast it aside, we do not harm only that thread. We unravel the fabric of our own community. When one among us feels the sting of unkindness, does not the whole suffer?"

And as Ms. Bobles spoke, a hush fell upon the crowd. The words sank into their hearts like the gentle dew on parched earth. They looked at Shenae and Keisha, who stood near, their presence a quiet, undeniable testament to the beauty of human connection. And in that moment, many among them saw with new eyes, remembering times they might have looked away, or even contributed to their pain.

From that day forward, the community began to change. The whispers of judgment faded, replaced by the sounds of acceptance and understanding. There were still those who held onto their opinions, but their voices grew softer, their actions less bold. Shenae and Keisha lived their lives, their bond a quiet joy, and the community, now richer and more vibrant for its embrace of all its members, flourished.