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​D019 Testimony from Donna Cartwright

7/6/2012

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Following is testimony prepared by TE Co-Convenor Donna Cartwright, for hearing by Ministry Committee of GC 2012 on Resolutions D002 and D019. Testimony could not be delivered because too many witnesses had signed up for the available time.

For many trans people, religious experience includes a strong narrative of transformation and redemption. Indeed, some of us find our spirituality through our trans journeys. I will tell you one such story, my own.

As a child of the 1960's, I became involved several of the movements for social change of that time, particularly civil rights and anti-war. I marched, I picketed, I was arrested, I went to jail. Since then, advocacy for social justice has remained a central part of my life. But for most of my life, there was still something missing.

As a closeted trans person, I felt a lack of authenticity, a deep inner uncertainty, a detachment from myself, an emptiness at the core. I was guarded, moody, frequently depressed and withdrawn. And as an agnostic, I found it difficult to express or develop my spiritual feelings. There was a part of me that was hungry and was not fed.

When I came out as trans and lived into my true self, dissociation dropped away quickly and depression lessened greatly. My spiritual hunger intensified, and eventually I had to act on it. I needed reverence and ritual to mark out my journey, for which secular culture had left me ill-equipped.

I found what I needed, and much more, and the Episcopal Church of the Good Shepherd in Fort Lee, N.J., where I became a member, and eventually served as an usher, on vestry, and as deputy to diocesan convention. At last, my soul was fed.

By adopting these resolutions, the church will support trans people as we say, "Grant, Lord, that we may serve thee in newness of life."

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Sling-Shot Ministry at the 77th General Convention: Trans Lived Experience as Embodied Prophecy

7/6/2012

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A post by Teal Van Dyck

As a non-Episcopalian and a young queer trans activist, I was a little bit apprehensive about attending the 77th Episcopal General Convention. I agreed to travel to Indianapolis from my home in Western Massachusetts to help my friend and employer navigate accessibility at the Convention as her aide. She is an out lesbian Episcopalian, and a proud member of IntegrityUSA and the Episcopal Women's Caucus, and I knew how important it was to her to be able to attend. If summoning the resolve to jump into two weeks at my first General Convention would make her participation possible, I knew that my call to service was clear. Nonetheless, I was concerned. Would there be room for someone like me at the General Convention? 

I'm a queer, genderqueer trans man and at home, I use art and performance to speak about intersectional justice as loudly as I can manage. I was also raised in a deeply Christian family, and continue to seek Jesus' message of teaching, preaching, and healing while working to hold my certainty that God loves me just as Ze loves the whole benevolent universal creation. It is rare that I am able to live fully in both my transformative faith and my social justice politics. As I boarded the flight to Indiana and checked into the hotel, I worried that I would need to once again perform a less-than-whole version of myself to make it though the Convention.

I shouldn't have been concerned. My employer volun-told me to help TransEpiscopal with their work at the Convention, and the generosity, warmth, humor, and heart of the group of people here has been astounding. I feel grateful for their willingness to include me in their initiatives to pass resolutions D002, D019, and D022, and their larger mission of promoting visibility, inclusion, and understanding of trans people and our lives in the church. Our numbers are small compared to the massive scale of the event, but our spirit is disproportionately strong, propelled by the compelling message that we bring about the future of The Episcopal Church. 

In the last several days I have had the chance to speak with people as they stop by the booth, encourage them to check out our materials, and engage in friendly dialogue while clarifying the urgency of TransEpiscopal's mission. As folks stop by who have little experience with transgender politics or experiences, I am moved by the number of people who express great willingness to make connections and learn, making it safe and feasible for me to have these vulnerable interactions. As our conversations develop, many people share stories with me about trans people they notice in their lives. I noticed one man momentarily lingering near the table, and we made small talk about General Convention. He eventually spoke of a trans woman he works with who transitioned on the job, impressing upon me that he respects and values her because she's a good coworker. I brought up the widespread employment discrimination faced by many trans people, and we talked about supporting a trans coworker as an important way to support gender justice. 

Another woman stopped by hoping to talk about ways to support her friend, a mother struggling to accept her trans son who has come out in the last year. She spoke earnestly about not understanding much about transgender identities, but feeling strongly that she must find tangible resources and language to pass along to her beloved friend. I spoke to her from my own experience of patiently working with my mother as she struggled to accept my transition, and Donna Cartwright, one of the co-founders of TransEpiscopal, also shared from her experience with her mother. We directed her to resources for parents of trans children, and also spoke about the power of love to transform some families' acceptance over time, and God's unwavering love for each person in the family as they work to grieve, process, and witness each others' true selves. Each interaction like these demonstrates the depth of the power of courageous love to conquer oppressive fear.

The power of telling the truth of my trans lived experience to another person is a prophetic ministry of hope and the possibility for interpersonal triumph over the superhuman monolith of prejudicial discrimination. I'm reminded of the young David on the verge of battling the biggest, baddest guy that the Philistines could find, as described in 1 Samuel 17.

Goliath, like the giants of exclusion, discrimination, and prejudice that we stand down every day, wasn't operating on a human scale. He's between eight and twelve feet tall depending on who's telling the story, his armor is between 60 and 120 tons, and his weaponry is ultra high-tech for the ancient world. The Israelites, with all their war weapons and violent fervor, are afraid to challenge him. Even King Saul, himself a tall and powerful warrior with ancient high-tech armor, isn't interested in taking his chances with Goliath. To make things worse, Goliath is vocal about his intention to destroy the Israelites, raining down all sorts of shady comments and threats and challenging them to fight every morning and evening when they're trying to worship and pray. 

At this time, David is the little brother of three older soldier sons, so he's at home in the mountains tending the sheep when his dad asks him to bring some provisions to King Saul's men. When David hears about Goliath and all his threats, he goes to Saul to volunteer to face the giant – to speak truth to power. Perhaps in an effort to save face, “Saul said to David, Thou art not able to go against this Philistine to fight with him: for thou art but a youth, and he a man of war from his youth” (1 Samuel 17:33). David elaborates that as a shepherd, he's used to dealing with large, loud, aggressive threats to his flock – he killed a lion and a bear by himself, evidently using just his courage, faith, and desire to protect his sheep. Saul piles all his armor onto David's small frame, but David refuses it, saying he hasn't tested Saul's equipment and trusts his usual weapon, the totally low-tech slingshot. 

When David shows up to face Goliath, the monolith starts up again with the discriminatory diatribes. Goliath is offended that the Israelites have sent a young person to take him on – Goliath, like Saul, estimates that young people aren't any good at speaking truth to power.  David lays it on him, saying “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord...and all this assembly shall know that the Lord saveth not with sword and spear: for the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands” (1 Samuel 17:45-47). To seal the deal, David whips a smooth river stone from his slingshot into Goliath's forehead, the big guy topples over, completely defeated. 

David makes an important distinction about what brought him to victory. As the spiritual inspired by 2 Corinthians 20:15 says, “The battle is not yours – it's the Lord's.” David's stature, weaponry, and ammunition are small, but he knows he's contributing to the tidal force of God's justice reflected in courageous incarnational presence by human beings. When it comes to our work toward full transgender inclusion in The Episcopal Church and in the world, we commit small acts of courage that contribute to the larger change of transgender people assuming their rightful place as spiritual leaders and valued members of parishes and dioceses.

Every moment in which I trust God enough to have an honest conversation with a stranger about being a transgender person, I lean on the sustaining faith that brought me to that moment with a fellow human being, a seeker like myself. Every time I bear witness to the incredible and mischievous grace of the Universe that made me fluid and resilient, I am like David, quietly kneeling by the river to find the smoothest stones, worn down to the authentic truth by time in the flow of the life-giving waters. Every connection that I share with another person about the lessons of life in my body is another stone lodged in the forehead of institutional discrimination until that bellowing giant is inevitably felled.

Some deliver dire predictions that voices and bodies like ours will bring chaos and collapse to the church, just as fearful and prejudiced people around the world assert that we are irreparably unraveling the social fabric itself. As a trans person, I have the lived experience of immersing myself in the chaotic unknown – throwing myself into the abyss of change through transition with complete doubt, but also with complete trust that God's omniscience regarding my truest self will uplift me from my dark nights of the soul into the morning light of my glorious future. For those who have never taken such an embodied leap of faith, for those who don't believe it's sacred or even possible to prove the malleability of corporeal gender and perpetuity of spiritual wholeness, fear is an understandable response. As trans people, we hold a beautiful prophecy for the world. Over the edge of the unknown, deep in abyssal fear, the wings of divine Love are just waiting to scoop up all up, deliver us from the giants of oppression and discrimination, and transform our hearts and our communities. As we humbly aim the smooth stones of living our truth in each moment, we are already victorious in our battle to reveal God's exuberant grace to the 77th General Convention and to all who encounter us in our daily lives.

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An Easter Vigil Reception

4/5/2010

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I attended an Easter Vigil called "Rise Up" on Saturday night and heard a very powerful sermon by Penny Larson, the drummer for the music team at the Crossing, the progressive emergent church at the Cathedral Church of St. Paul in Boston. I asked Penny afterward if I could post her words to TransEpiscopal and she agreed, so below, reposted from her blog, is her description of the event, followed by her sermon.

CP

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An Easter Vigil Reception
April 5, 2010 at 1:22 am 

So, last night was the Easter Vigil at church. I was received into The Episcopal Church, and I preached the sermon. It was a pretty amazing evening. The Darling Boyfriend and my mom and several of my dear friends were there to witness the night’s important moments.

Before I detail the service, I want to say that I took the step to formally rejoin a Christian church very deliberately (I was raised Lutheran, but haven’t considered myself a member of a church in twenty years). I have always turned to the teachings of Jesus when I’ve felt most challenged in my life. So, I guess in some ways I’ve been a Christian all along. But there is something about the Episcopal Church (and yes, clearly, The Crossing, ~my~ church is incredibly special) that has called me to join a community. For the last several weeks I took part in a catechesis study small group, and the more I learned about the Episcopal Church, the more sure I was that this was the right step for me to take. I don’t want to turn this into a history and explanation of the Episcopal Church, let’s just say the the Episcopal Church feels like a very good place for me to call “home.”

On to the Vigil…

We began in the bowels of the church in darkness. Liturgically we were still sitting with the fallen Christ, while Jesus was lost in Hell. The service started with a lighting of candles (“The Light of Christ”) and an amazing Blues version of the Exultant – I was already weepy. There was a light-hearted and fun spoken-word telling of the Creation story, a beautiful Psalm (with Crossing-style chanting), and an enactment of the story of the valley of the dry bones.

After the readings we moved to the group that was to be baptized or confirmed or received or to renew their baptism. There were several of us joining the church in one way or other, from one place or other. There was a woman who had been Muslim who was baptized in a full-immersion ceremony (~way~ cool!), a toddler who was baptized, and then a bunch of people that found the Episcopal Church from diverse paths (or grew up in it) who were deciding to make their commitments public. It was sort of interesting, in that I guess I’ve sort of been Episcopalian for a while now, in that I’ve believed and belonged for quite some time. My reception was merely a public acknowledgement of the connection that God and I already share.

After the baptism/confirmation/reception ceremony, the service progressed upstairs into the Sanctuary. The next thing I knew, the Gospel was done and I was up to deliver the sermon (I’ll include the text of my sermon at the end of this post). My sermon was very personal. I spoke about my journey, and how strongly I feel a connection to Jesus suffering and resurrection and triumph over death. I almost broke down a couple times, but I felt better about fighting the tears back than letting it go full throttle. I’m amazed by how comfortable I am with public speaking nowadays. I was sharing my deepest truths, showing people my heart, and I felt good and strong. I found it easy to make eye contact with folks in the congregation and I just generally felt pretty calm. Honestly, preaching the sermon is a bit of a blur, which always makes me feel like I was in the zone (to use a performance concept). I am so glad I did that, and I feel energized and empowered by the experience.

During the Eucharist the new members of the church distributed the bread and wine to the congregation. It was incredibly powerful to offer the body to people and say, “The Body of Christ.” The Eucharist is something I have grown to really love. There is something really powerful about sharing a meal together, and this meal is special for all sorts of reasons.

After that there was the sending (which I did also), and there were plenty of Hallelujahs and then we partied like God herself had come to party with us. 

I was touched by how many folks sought me out to tell me how much they appreciated my sermon. I’m still slightly bemused by how much I seem to connect with people. I really sometimes don’t feel like I’m doing anything all that special. I’m just telling my truth. But, for whatever reason it often seems to have a powerful effect on people, and I admit that makes me very happy.

We partied and drank champagne and chatted and just had a wonderful time.

Then today my folks came over and we had a Easter feast!

It was a weekend I will never forget.

And now I am an Episcopalian. Yay!  

Let the people say, “Amen!”

AMEN!

[here's my sermon:]

Good Evening.

Happy Easter!

This is a little overwhelming. Here I am, just received into The Episcopal Church, taking my first real steps back into Christianity and I’m preaching at the Eater Vigil. Why? What did I feel called to tell you all tonight?

Just about a year ago I was in a catacomb similar to the one we just emerged from. For me it was the culmination of a several-year process in which I finally had the facts of my life brought into congruence.

But I should back up a little first. When I was very little I knew that something was different about me; in the fullness of time it became clear that the difference was that I was born with the wrong body. To put it simply: I was born with a female brain inside a male body. It took me three and a half decades to find the strength, courage, and wisdom to undertake the process of putting that right.

I walked through some very dark places on my journey. I battled depression and anxiety that required medication and hospitalization. I was afraid to venture out into the world. Jesus sat alone in the Garden of Gethsemane, and I sat alone in my room.

I wish I could say that I consciously decided to give in to God’s plan for me when I decided to fix my body and my life, but the truth is that I just gave up – I couldn’t fight anymore.

On September 5th, 2006, I finally began living my life as it should have been all along, as a woman. Ironically, it was also in the fall of 2006 that I found myself attending church for the first time in many years. Though at the time I thought I was in church just to drum, it quickly became clear that it was beyond mere coincidence.

When I met Jesus again nearly four years ago I was raw and weak, but I was open to the truth. I had been hurt by all the anger and misunderstanding that others had thrown at me – and that I had thrown at myself – because I was different. Jesus’ suffering at the hands of the ones who would crucify him hits me very hard, though I have never been tortured by others, I have tortured myself.

What does Jesus suffering, death, and renewal mean? What’s so important about Jesus claiming victory over death? What does it mean to a mere transsexual woman that Jesus rose from the dead and cast off his tomb? It’s a great story, and a glorious way for God to make a point, but what does it mean now? Today? For me?

Christ’s victory over the ultimate death is magnificent, and promises us paradise. But what about life? When I was suffering through the worst of my days, either harming myself, or contemplating suicide, or purposefully isolating myself from the world because I thought that no one could ever accept this very unique girl – least of all God, I felt like I was dead already. I despaired. I understand how the women felt as they walked to the tomb that morning. They had just watched their friend die. We all know death; it’s a truism that by being living creatures we also know death – sometimes we use a softer word: loss. The desolation that those women must have felt that morning, walking to the tomb is an experience that is universal.

I also know their shock upon finding the tomb empty and Jesus’ body missing and getting the news from the angels. I remember getting the news that everything was all set for the surgery that would finally bring my body into line with my being. I was sitting right over there, drumming during a service of The Crossing. And I got an email from my surgeon’s office. I couldn’t believe it. I sat there for a second. I knew the news was coming, and yet I felt unprepared for it. I’ll bet that Peter didn’t run back to the tomb any faster than I did when I ran out into the stairwell and literally jumped with glee. I overflowed so much that a member of The Crossing noticed that even my drumming sounded especially joyous.

And that’s the wonder of Jesus triumph over death. It’s said in a nuanced way in Luke, but in Revelation he says it directly: “I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.” This is very difficult to believe. I get it. Indeed, even though Jesus had told everyone that he would be delivered to sinful men and killed and then rise three days later, the news was hard to believe. Even as the women were telling the others about the angels’ message their reaction was to scoff and call it nonsense. I remember being afraid that something was going to mess up my plans for surgery and speaking with therapist about it, and she said, “Penny, nothing is going to keep you from this victory.” And I started crying with the truth of the moment.

This night is when we honor the ultimate victory, not only because it was a victory for our friend Jesus, but because he shares the victory with each and every one of us. Every time there we suffer a loss, Christ has offered to turn it into a victory. It is pretty shocking. It takes some getting used to. And it’s easy to think it’s nonsense. Which is why it’s good that God is patient, even if it takes 35 years to get it, the promise of life is there.

When I emerged from that catacomb a year ago, the Department of Records at Boston’s City Hall, I had a corrected birth certificate that listed “Name of Child: Penelope Jane Larson” and “Sex: Female.” I had triumphed, and I am certain that God celebrated along with me.

Shortly after I got home from having surgery my family and friends threw me a party with a very special message: “It’s a girl!”

Tonight we throw a party to celebrate the most wondrous message of all: “He is Risen!”

And so are We All!

Hallelujah!

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On the Threshold of Transweek: a Theological Proclamation

11/13/2009

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Here in Boston, we are marking the coming week as Transweek in preparation for Friday's Transgender Day of Remembrance, which my congregation, St. Luke's and St. Margaret's, is honored to host again this year. My field education student this year, Kori Pacyniak, shared this wonderful theological reflection with me in our meeting this week, and it struck me as a moving way to begin stepping into the space of the coming week, which seems to me to be as much about the grief with which our community struggles every day and our determined hope to build a better world as it is about mourning those whom we have lost. And so I share this with Kori's permission.

- The Rev'd Dr. Cameron Partridge

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Kori Pacyniak 
Theological Reflection 

“I am speaking the truth in Christ, I am not lying; my conscience bears me witness in the Holy Spirit, that I have great sorrow and unceasing anguish in my heart.” – Romans 9:1-2

Prof. Charles Stang preached on this passage from Romans last Friday at Harvard Divinity School, and it was a passage that seemed to skip the intellect and go directly to my soul. The month of October has largely been a great struggle. September found me struggling against one physical illness after another – there was a span of three weeks where I was just sick, whereas October, by contrast, was filled with internal struggle. It was a busy month from the onset – with preaching, organizing the Noon Service at Harvard Divinity School for national coming out week, a trip to NYC for a film festival and then a speaking engagement at Suffolk University. To top it all off, it was the month I decided to come out to my parents as trans. 

It was in coming out to my parents and the time that followed where this verse from Romans really hit me. My parents’ initial reaction was one of shock and disbelief. That disbelief led me to cling to this verse when I heard it. I wanted this verse to legitimize my pain and internal struggle. I needed my faith to support me. Following my parents reaction, I fell apart. I had known it would be difficult to tell them (even though I took the easy way out of writing a letter). I had known that the letter would only be the beginning of the watershed, but I don’t think I was truly prepared for what came next – or to the extent that I would internalize the struggle. My parents’ disbelief and attempted denial of my trans identity leads me to want to throw this verse at them. At the very least, I cling to it in hope. 

There is a viewpoint that being trans is, in a way, all in my head. My parents would like me to just ‘give up on this nonsense’ or grow out of this phase. For them, I believe, the fear and shock leads to disbelief and denial. But the denial only serves to wound me deeper. At times I think it’d be easier if there was acknowledgement and rejection, but then again, the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence. Truth be told, it’d be an incredibly difficult journey regardless of my parent’s reactions – mostly because I have often considered myself to have strong empathic tendencies. Sometimes it really sucks to be an empath – to feel other people’s pain so easily. Personality tests classify me as the healer or the helper. To feel other people’s pain and be able to share it is both a blessing and a curse. A single phone call or voicemail message can send me into tears, feeling the pain of the other individual. This has, in other scenarios, been construed as me just being a very emotional person. I cry at books, movies, songs – it’s very easy for me. But I internalize a lot. At times this has been criticized as melodrama, and I’ll admit that sometimes I can make things bigger than they actually are, but with regard to the anxiety and tempest of emotions inside me around my gender identity, I don’t think it’s fake. 

For me, coming to terms with my gender identity needed a spiritual component. This isn’t something I could have done without a religious and spiritual support network. (Or, as I commonly refer to them, my Godsquad). For many years, I struggled to keep sexuality and gender identity as far apart from each other as I could. They were two extremes that I bounced between and while I dreamt of somehow reconciling them, I didn’t have the faintest idea of how to reconcile them within myself. In January of 2009, the HDS Episcopalians went on a one day retreat to the monastery of the Society of Saint John the Evangelist in Cambridge and I ended up spending over an hour in the small chapel there – I just needed to be. In front of the icon of Jesus with the Beloved Disciple, I begged God for a sign that I was okay. That the gender identity issues that were surfacing and that I was struggling to name – that somehow it was okay. I needed a sign that it was okay to be trans. I did get the sign, in the end. Praying and meditating on the icon, I felt myself become the beloved disciple and heard Jesus say to me – “You are my beloved and you are mine.”

That was back in January. I haven’t thought of that time at the monastery for quite some time, but now it seems appropriate paired with the Romans verse. Choosing Christ doesn’t save you from experiencing angst and hard times, but it does give you something to hold on to. There is a sense of belonging and a sense of validation. It’s that validation that I draw on in trying to resolve things with my parents – and in a way, it’s the validation I need for myself. Because there are plenty of times when I need someone to witness to my pain, to share in it with me and agree that is allowable and not just self-created.  

In Prof. Stang’s sermon, he wonders if our conscience “is not sufficient even to report on our own sorrow or anguish.” There are times that I feel this way, especially in regard to gender identity. There is no tell-all book, no ‘Transgenderism for dummies’ book out there or any sort of manual to guide me through the process. Though I have found support in other individuals, there is still part of this journey, this process of self-exploration that remains largely personal and individualistic. 

At one point in his sermon, Prof. Stang suggested that “… without the indwelling of Christ we cannot speak the truth of our own lives, we cannot even know the contours of our own despair. If this is right, then I – who cannot in good conscience echo Paul in Gal 2:20 – and perhaps you too, we are barred from the truth of our own pain.” This comment of his seemed to tie in the anguish of October with the reassurance of my prayer at the monastery in January. It also fosters my deep intrinsic yearning to connect with the verse from Romans. I truly think that I would not have been able to come out to my parents without feeling that this was actually the will of God for me at this point in time at my life. 

Prof. Stang’s sermon concluded with a startling revelation: “By letting Christ in, we are not delivered from our sorrow or anguish, but rather delivered into them. Christ does not save us from despair, but gives us access to our despair and becomes a corroborating witness to our shifty heart’s anguish.” It’s hard to discern the purpose of certain challenges and hard times that we encounter in our lives, but I think what Prof. Stang is trying to get at, and what I’ve started to come to terms with in October, is that by relying on Christ (or even just including him, as total surrender and reliance on Christ is something that doesn’t come easily to most of us), we are able to bear the challenges we encounter, to validate our pain as real and legitimate, and more fully live in Christ through those challenges and pain.
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Today, in Your Hearing

9/22/2009

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As Congress gears up to begin hearings on the Employment Nondiscrimination Act (ENDA) tomorrow (September 23, 2009), I am grateful to recall how decisively The Episcopal Church declared its support for transgender civil rights in general, and a fully inclusive ENDA in particular, this summer at its 76th triennial General Convention.  

I remember the various stories that came out over the course of the Convention about trans people, our vulnerability to discrimination and violence as well as the progress we are making in all areas right now. The stories came from TransEpiscopal members, several of whom testified at General Convention hearings, and on the floor of the House of Deputies. Stories came, seemingly out of the blue, from people I had never met. And I remember how bishops rose, one after another, to speak in support of anti-discrimination protections such as ENDA. It was incredibly moving.

But what’s incredibly sad is, as the National Center for Transgender Equality and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force recently learned in a joint study, 97% of those who are gender non-conforming and/or transgender identified have experienced mistreatment, harassment, or discrimination in the worplace. As long as there is no federal Employment Nondiscrimination Act, that statistic is in danger of staying right where it is, because gender identity and expression are not protected categories in most states.  

But even more important than a statistic is the impact of that statistic, and the experiences underlying it, on a community that so needs hope. How many trans people give up on their dreams because they fear not simply discrimination itself but the lasting emotional impact of discrimination? I’m talking about a sense of self worth, a sense of confidence in oneself and the knowledge that one has an important contribution to make in this world.  Hope is as much at stake in ENDA as the concrete issue of job retention or opportunity.

That’s exactly where The Episcopal Church’s actions add a small contribution-- hope and solidarity. We cannot make nondiscrimination a reality simply with our words. What we can and did do is to add our voice to a growing chorus, specifically a chorus of people of faith.  

And I think those words, that chorus, can do more than we might imagine.

If you are trans, and you are reading this, I invite you to imagine yourself, as the gospel of Luke portrays it (Lk 4:16-20), in the synagogue at Nazareth, as Jesus steps forward and reads from the prophet Isaiah (61:1, 2):

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to release the oppressed,
to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”


Imagine Jesus rolling up that scroll and sitting down. Imagine your own eyes fixed on this person who read this proclamation of hope with such intensity. And then hear him say to you: “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”

Imagine that today, in your hearing, you are released from the weight not only of discrimination and violence itself, but also from the fear generated by it. Imagine that you can simply be yourself as God has created you and calls you to be. 

Passing ENDA is absolutely essential, and will go a long way toward alleviating the pressure that weighs on all whose gender identity and/or expression does not conform to social norms. But even ENDA cannot by itself put an end to that pressure with which we wrestle every day.

Religious bodies have a crucial part to play in freeing us from this captivity, because it is so often religious traditions that are invoked to undermine our sense of human worth. And because of their role in creating anti-transgender messages, one of the important modes for this work is proclamation. In many and various ways, trans people need to hear: today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing. You are set free from stigma and stereotypes, you are released from prisons of gender conformity, you are invited to hear this as the year of God’s favor. 

Religious bodies, including the Episcopal Church, have only just begun to take up that work, but when they do, it is powerful. 

And so, tomorrow the voice of ENDA renews its cry in the wilderness-- prepare the way.

But today, today may we hear words of hope.

- The Rev'd Dr. Cameron Partridge

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Tavolaro Testimony on C061

7/15/2009

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PictureDante Tavolaro testifying in support of C061 in the House of Deputies
Here is the testimony given by Dante Tavolaro yesterday in support of C061, reposted with permission from his blog, I Will, with God's Help.

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Deputy Tavolaro, Rhode Island. 

I am 19 years old, and active member of this Church, and I identify as Transgender. For me that means I am biologically female, but I live and identify as male. I know for most of you this is a new topic and while this is the second General Convention to deal with Transgender issues, I believe it is the first time this issue has come to the floor of our house. 

Gender identity and gender expression are not the same as sexual orientation. Gender identity refers to who you are, while sexual orientation refers to whom you love. 

Transgender people - whether known or unknown - serve in various capacities both lay and ordained within the Church. As a Church when we fail to recognize the humanity of all people we fail to proclaim the Gospel, we fail to live out our Baptismal Covenant, we fail to respect the dignity of every human being. Many of my Transgender siblings have been explicitly rejected in their Church homes when their chosen names and pronouns are not used. 

I love this Church with all my heart and soul. By adding Gender Identity and Gender Expression to our ministry canon it will serve as a beacon of hope - for myself, the trans community, and all people who wonder whether they are truly welcome in this Church.

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Do I Look Like Half a Human Being?

7/11/2009

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What follows is the testimony of Vicki Gray before the Committee on National and International Affairs on DO12 concerning transgender civil rights:

I have been shouted at by angry, threatening men in a shopping mall.

I have had rocks thrown at me from a passing pick-up truck on the Golden Gate Bridge.

With the San Francisco Night Ministry, I have repeatedly encountered my transgendered sisters and brothers on the corners of Polk Street or Larkin…selling their bodies at two o’clock in the morning, because they have no other way to support themselves.

And I know that my transgendered brothers and sisters are killed in this country at the rate of one a month.

A few years back I attended the funeral of a young teen, Gwen Araujo, who was killed in Newark, California just because she was transgendered.

Also at that funeral were the “Rev.” Fred Phelps and his followers, shouting through their bullhorns “Gwen is burning in hell!”

As fate would have it – God’s serendipity – the students at Gwen’s Newark High School were at the time in the midst of rehearsing “The Laramie Project,” which features a chorus of angels. The members of that chorus came to the funeral in their angels’ garb – white robes and wings – and formed a cordon from the street to the church entrance to protect Gwen’s mom Sylvia and the other mourners from Phelps’ haters.

I tell you all this to impress upon you how vulnerable transgender people are to hate, discrimination, and violence. We desperately need the added protection that would be afforded by our inclusion in hate crimes and employment discrimination legislation.

I come before you to urge your support for two resolutions before you that would put our church on record in support of such legislation.

For me, this is not an abstract issue. It is a matter of life and death.

In closing, let me say I have heard those who have told us to “wait your turn.” I have also heard those who have advised us to “accept half a loaf.” To them and to you, I ask: “Do I look like half a human being?”

- The Rev'd Deacon Vicki Gray

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