For the first time, I saw how big the table of Christ can really be. I could be my whole self — my complicated, queer, heretical, Presbyterian self — and people told me that self was a blessing to them.
In these infinitely more accepting times, it’s more important than ever to remember, pay tribute to, and celebrate the lives of foremothers like Córdova. Especially right here, in this space, right now, because we would not exist were it not for all the publications for lesbian, queer and bisexual women that came before us — the community they built, the stories they shared, the political issues they hashed out and the divisions they investigated.
There were so many sugary-sweet moments in the first episode of the #StevenBomb!; it almost felt like showrunner Rebecca Sugar added a subliminal lesbian melody, sorta like Pied Piper’s tune, to lure us in and keep us blushing.
Somewhere, my father got off track. It was like everything he taught me stopped being real once I got old enough to disagree with him. Christianity for kids is all about love, but now that I’m 24 and talking about potentially loving a human who isn’t a man, Christianity is about something completely different. His Christianity is fueled by hatred, not love. His Christianity is rooted in righteousness, not justice. He cares about proving that he is the most like Christ, but he’s so stuck living inside of a rigid interpretation of the Bible that he isn’t actually being like Christ at all. The Christianity he believes in is the Christianity that would have me, a non-binary queer person, not exist, or at least not be welcome into heaven. And there’s this sad inner child part of me that wants to believe that he loves me too much to believe in that Christianity. But when someone shows themselves to you, you have to believe them.
