Seeing and Being Seen
A version of this was written in 2012, when my son was a toddler.
When my son was born, one of the biggest inconsistencies in my life had to do with the church that my husband and I had been attending for about nine years, an open and affirming American Baptist church in our southern town. When we slipped out the back door of our old church and into the back pew of this church, long-time friends asked one question in particular: “Isn’t that church kind of sketchy?” This meant, “Don’t a lot of gay people go there?” And the answer, by that measure, was yes. When questioned about the church, we told them about the sermons and the hymns and what we were talking about in Sunday School. We did not answer the question that they were actually asking. I was scared of their disapproval. I knew all the “biblical” arguments they would offer up. And there was a part of me that was afraid the Bible did actually condemn my new friends.
About two years into our time at the church, the local paper ran a story about faith and the LGBT community. They interviewed several of our gay members, including one of the deacons. Irritation rose in my throat as I read the article, not because I disagreed with my church, but because I knew that my grandma would read it and it was going to make Thanksgiving awkward.
“We don’t talk about it much,” I said to a friend in the sanctuary. “It’s not worth the argument with my family.” He took a long look at me and said, “We’re not worth an argument?”
I sputtered that I didn’t mean it like that. But, of course, I did. I wanted the space to believe that my LGBT friends were welcome at church, but I did not want to have any difficult conversations with people who might believe otherwise.
I was perfectly content to sit next to my friends and ignore my childhood-trained hesitancies, but the newspaper made me realize that I was treating my friends like an issue to be avoided in polite company. At the time I was a librarian, and so I started doing what I do best: gathering information. I attended Bible studies where gay and straight people talked honestly about scripture. I read books exploring all sides of the topic, searched the Internet for personal stories, and learned about the “clobber verses” and cultural context. The Bible opened itself to me like a flower in bloom. I no longer read it like a textbook, looking for red-letter answers. Instead, it was alive to me in ways that it never had before. I saw it in a new way and I recognized this as a precious gift.
Like Mary, I treasured these things in my heart, kept them to myself. I still managed to avoid questions about my church, feeling more settled in my beliefs but unprepared to talk about them. And for a while, that was enough. I let the new ideas germinate until I was strong enough to survive the idea that someone might disagree with them.
When my son was born, things changed. My friends had warned me that I would no longer be able to lounge in bed on Saturday mornings, and that we wouldn’t get to see as many new releases in the movie theater. I was less prepared for the level of physical exhaustion and the anxiety that come from not knowing how to help a sad six-month-old with a runny nose.
The biggest surprise was how suddenly my priorities shifted. It is a huge responsibility, shepherding a child. I felt compelled for the first time to go past my strong opinions and to act in ways I wanted my son to see. I was no longer as concerned with other people’s opinions of me. What did those matter if I was sending the wrong message as a parent?
I had some practice speaking out against racism and sexism, but I tapped into a new strength I hadn’t known about before. Would I want my son to hear that or repeat it? If not, I refuted with a calm, even tone. Not perfectly but with a new sense of purpose.
As a child, I was taught that right belief was what mattered. Becoming a parent taught me about orthopraxy, right action. My actions show what I believe much more clearly than I would like. I could no longer ignore the inconsistencies in my own life. It was no longer enough to believe something deeply but to do nothing.
In 2012, my state voted on an amendment that focused on issues of marriage equality. It was obvious to me that I could not sit this one out. How could I tell my son that I had done nothing when my friends’ rights were being eroded? I did not want him to see me stand silently when I could be speaking out against injustice.
We got a sign against the amendment and put it in our yard, declaring definitively where we stood. Emboldened, I sent emails to friends and family. I posted on my blog (remember those days?). I had conversations with coworkers and neighbors and on the dreaded Facebook. I did all the things I had resisted doing because I didn’t want to be uncomfortable and I didn’t want people to think I was “sketchy.” I focused first on my legal concerns about the amendment, but I also began to tell the truth about what our LGBT friends meant to us. I shared what it has meant to live and work and worship with them, from the lesbian couple who gave us baby clothes to the interior designer who taught my husband how to install blinds to the college student who babysat for us when I went back to work. As part of our community, they have brought us food and shown up at funerals and loved my son and supported and strengthened my marriage.
It was uncomfortable at first, but then it felt like finally being able to breathe again. Is this what Jesus meant when he said that the truth sets us free? People disapproved of me and I survived. I was relieved to show them who I really am rather than trying to live up to an idea of who I was supposed be.
At the time, I thought I knew about transparency from being married for a decade and from working with middle school students every day, but as a new parent, the idea of seeing and being seen was taking me to a new place. My toddler surprised me in many ways: his curly hair, the way he ran everywhere, his volume, and the way I glimpsed other family members in his expressions. I thought that parenting him might make me more patient or more thoughtful or more outdoorsy, and, to a certain extent, I did grow in those areas. But I had no idea that bringing him into the world and guiding him through the world would teach me how to begin to integrate my compartmentalized life.
Certain parts of parenting--mostly sleep deprivation--seemed terrifying. If I had known how much the birth of my son would bring my inconsistencies into focus, I would have been afraid of how much I would have to change. There are surely changes still to come, but I worry less these days about what he sees in me. Instead, I am learning the truth: that being seen by him is a fearful and wonderful gift that I was given.