Beyond the Trauma Narrative

THE RELIGIOUS FAITH of LGBTQIA+ people remains, in religion reporting, a puzzlement.

For those of us in the LGBTQIA+ family who were raised in religious—especially Christian—households, our churches have often demanded that we choose between our faith communities and our identities. Until recently, genuine LGBTQIA+ role models of faith were markedly rare. Too often, especially in evangelical communities, so-called role models were promoted because they publicly renounced their sexuality or identity in exchange for “faithful” pursuit of celibacy and gender conformity. Many of us can recount horror stories of religious trauma by those who rejected and condemned our essential selves. It’s not surprising that many of us run from religions dedicated to instilling self-hatred in us.

Yet a survey of LGBT adults in the United States shows they maintain relationships with faith and spirituality at rates similar to all Americans. Twenty percent of LGBT adults in the U.S. (compared to 25 percent of all Americans) say they attend religious services at least once a week, and 47 percent consider themselves religious. (Among all Americans, 41 percent say religion is “very important” in their lives.) If LGBTQIA+ people are engaged with their faith at similar rates to other Americans, why aren’t they centered as positive examples in religion reporting? Last December, Julia Métraux at the Poynter Institute reported on a lack of coverage in religion reporting on LGBTQIA+ communities and on the importance of queer reporters and editors in centering those stories.

Large majorities in major religious groups in the U.S. favor laws that protect LGBTQIA+ people, and majorities of every major religious group (except white evangelical Protestants) support marriage equality. But 66 percent of coverage on the intersection of LGBTQIA+ identity and religious faith cite religiously identified sources that oppose our equality or existence, according to the Center for American Progress.

Of course, LGBTQIA+ people of faith are not monolithic. Some of us maintain relationships with our churches or faiths of origin even as they condemn us. Some of us weave a tapestry of personal and communal spiritualities that reflect a multitude of faiths and experiences. Some of us seek something resembling “organized religion” with caution and intention, participating in affirming and celebratory spaces where our relationships and identities are respected. And many of us, after years or decades of discernment and prayer, find our healing and wholeness incompatible with anything resembling the churches where we were broken.

Capturing our varied experiences and practices with religious faith and participation in contrast to cisgender and straight Americans may seem inconsequential to religion reporters. Recounting the horrors of conversion therapy or headlining major “firsts” in trans and nonbinary ordination or same-gender marriage recognition are easier to distill and present, but a significant portion of our stories (if not the majority) are far more winding and interwoven.

We are startlingly resilient—crafting faith from ashes and reclaiming holy texts that have been unjustly beaten into swords against us. As church leaders wring their hands over the decline of American Protestantism, LGBTQIA+ people of faith set our attention to curating what sustains us.

Until religion reporting captures the nuances of our queer need for both survival and spirituality, until it challenges the persistent neglect and rejection of our gifts in congregations and denominations, we will continue to be reported on primarily in the tales of our trauma or in forgotten footnotes.