I Am What I Am

Sermon, Pride Sunday, 27 June 2021
The Rev. Jake Miles Joseph
Philippians 4:8-12 NRSV
A Pride Anthem

Within my first three months at First Church, I received a letter from a congregation member indicating that someone as out gay and proud of my family (just me and my husband Gerhard) as I am, doesn’t belong in this pulpit. To be honest, I have never felt exactly the same about Guilford since, but I refuse to give-up or become less vocal, out, and gay as heck! I am not in this calling for me or my own career. I am here for the love of Jesus the Christ who loved everyone and everything—except, Scripture shows, institutions and organized religion. Scripture shows that Jesus wasn’t big on the status quo. My call to ministry is for everyone who needs to know that LGBTQ people can be anything, go anywhere, and can even become and thrive as ministers in 400-year-old churches on the Shoreline of Connecticut.

Today, while I will talk about our Scripture passage, I offer a sermon that falls more in the tradition of testimony from my upbringing in the Assemblies of God. Let me share with you why it is so important for me to do this very out work of being a gay minister. Like so many things in life, it goes back to a single moment.

Unlike Connecticut, my home state of Colorado isn’t accustomed to people not loving it. Colorado is used to winning popularity contests. Everyone loves Colorado and especially Fort Collins. As I have ascertained since moving here two years ago, Connecticut people are not even so sure that they like Connecticut most of the time not to even mention what the rest of New England thinks about us, but that isn’t the case in Colorado. Colorado is more of a cult than a state.  So, I remember the stunned silence in the audience, the awkward feeling of bewilderment when Judy Shepard[1], the mom of Matthew Shepard visited Fort Collins. Matthew was the University of Wyoming student who was hung on fencepost, beaten, and left for dead for being gay on October 8, 1998 and the subject of the play The Laramie Project. His mom came to Fort Collins and started her Pride Week talk at Colorado State University by saying, “I really don’t like it here. I wish I never had to come to Fort Collins again. I don’t like this town, so I guess you can tell how important what I have to share with you must be, since I am here.” She looked out at us with distrust and memories. 

As a 17-year-old statewide high school Gay Straight Alliance (GSA) coordinator, I was invited as a townie to go over to the college campus to hear this talk. I brought my mom with me. It mattered, but the impact has lasted. You see, Judy Shepard hated Fort Collins not because her son, Matthew had been attacked and left to die on a fence in Fort Collins. No, that was 50 minutes north up over the Virginia Dale Pass in Laramie. But Matthew died days later at Poudre Valley Hospital—blocks from my childhood home. While he was dying in 1998, Colorado State University had its Homecoming Parade, and fraternities used their floats to mock Matthew Shepard and his murder. Fort Collins is far more culturally liberal than Guilford, and yet this still happened there. It can happen anywhere.

Judy Shepard concluded her talk, “If you are comfortable, if you are safe, then you have to come out. You have to tell your families and friends. That is the only way change is ever made if people who love you also really know you.”  I know that not everyone can or should come out. It isn’t safe for everyone, but from that moment on I knew I was called out. I was called out by Judy Shepard who hated my hometown because her baby, her son, died at my local hospital.

When I first came out, I didn’t say, “I am gay.” My first coming out words at 15 were a croaked-out whisper of fear couched within a conversation about Matthew Shepard. “I think I am like him.” “I think I am like him,” I said with eyes to the floor. “Dear God, I think I am like him. Do you love me still?” Every coming out moment, you see, is a prayer of hope for survival and wholeness. It is a gospel, and goodness, and humanity at its simplest most intimate form.  

When I think of that moment alone with a guidance counselor at school whispering, “I think I am like him,” I can actually agree with the Apostle Paul for once in his letter to the Philippians: Yes, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure of intention, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” I am like him. I am like her. I am like them. True. Honorable. Just. Commendable. Pure of intention. Judy Shepard was right—she was channeling Paul.  

The Letter to the Philippians, our text today, is Paul’s anthem. He is in prison, locked up in a closet, and he is writing to the community that he believes understands him best. Phillipi was, scholars tell us, Paul’s safe space and where he had the least conflict. It was also the most remote and furthest West of all of the communities of Christians at that time. Scholar at Brite Divinity School, Prof. Emerita Carolyn Osiek, studied this as an editor of the Oxford Bible, and she writes, “Paul writes from prison and is uncertain of the outcomes for himself. The themes of opposition and the possibility of death are therefore prominent. Yet in the midst of suffering and uncertainty, the theme of joy emerges quite clearly and remarkably.”[2] 

This is Paul’s anthem text of authenticity. Phillipi is his safe space. It is where, as Judy Shepard said, he is truly known and loved. This is why it resonates with coming out. Anthems are about finding the places where we belong, being in common verse with those whom we trust, and creating community even in times of suffering and uncertainty. Joy. That is what this passage from the Epistles is about and it is what Pride is about—finding our anthem communities. 

When we think of the word anthem, we often think of national anthems, but the meaning of the word is much broader than that. While the origin comes from Latin “antifana” meaning sung in “anti” or opposite verses, it came to mean, according to one source, “a composition (usually from Scripture) set to sacred music" (late 14c.), then "song of praise or gladness" (1590s).[3]

Of all musical genres, the anthem captivates my heart the most. And of all of the Pride Month anthems of all time, the one the chorus will sing after the sermon, originally from the 1983 play La Cage aux Folles and made famous by disco superstar Gloria Gaynor, is a favorite. “I am what I am” is not a shy statement, “I am like him,” but it is a statement of self-actualization and acknowledgement of Sacred Worth. It speaks of liberation, of self-differentiation, and of wholeness. I am what I am. It is so meaningful that The Connecticut Gay Men’s Chorus has been asked to even sing it at funerals and memorial services even one as recent as 2014 for The Rev. Dr. David Wentroble—an LGBTQ chaplain and CPE supervisor.[4]

The LGBTQ community has anthems that reclaim our sacred worth and sacredness from heteronormative institutions and people that continue to deny it. These are songs, both new and classic, that the community has claimed, learned to sing from heart, and act as safety and belonging in song. This is Queer Gospel. 

These are the songs that we played secretly on our record players, radios, and now Spotify that give life in darkness. The lyrics are hope, salvation, and courage for so many. While there is suffering, the songs offer joy and pride. While there are some rare churches that will have gay ministers now (and believe me even rare in the UCC), it is the LGBTQ community that finds and claims our own Sacred Texts and Scripture—the anthems. The anthems are Queer Scripture.

The anthems are the canon of meaning spanning generations. They are our dogma texts of diversity. We don’t need any church to tell us that we are of worth—while it is nice when they do! We have each other and we have our pride anthems—a Sacred Text of worth and belonging that we have made our own in the absence of the acceptance of organized faith. 

When church choirs wouldn’t have us, we created our own choirs.  When national health systems and the Reagan Administration ignored the HIV/ AIDS crisis, we created our own Aids Service Organizations (ASOs) and fundraised to help our own dying and sick friends.  When churches, including the UCC, wouldn’t have us (and many still won’t), we created our own denomination called the MCC[5] and our own safe spaces. When many of us had our family holidays like Christmas, Easter, Birthdays, and Thanksgiving taken away by rejection, we created our own monthlong (forget about only one day) holiday to celebrate our uniqueness. We called it Pride.  When we got tired of Sacred Texts that hurt and took away our humanity, we turned to pop songs and musicals and disco—and we made our own lexicon of hope.

In their June Pride Month edition in 2019, Rolling Stone Magazine listed the top 25 Essential LGBTQ Pride Songs or “Anthems” in history. The genres and histories of these songs range wildly from Queen’s (1978) “Don’t Stop Me Now” to the more subdued classic from Melissa Etheridge (1993) “Come to My Window” and “Alive” by Sia.  It is a far from comprehensive list and misses some new anthems like the pointed and modern dance track (2021) “We’ve Lost Dancing” by Marea about the loss of the pandemic or more of the all-time classics like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” from the unparalleled Judy Garland. 

Even with some of the missing songs, Rolling Stone’s article points out the diversity of music genres and lyrics that have spoken to LGBTQ people and helped us to survive and translate a culture that excludes and shames us into one that celebrates, liberates, and has pride in us. Sacred Text derived from song—song we make into anthems of pride. 

Rolling Stone’s editors start the article with an editorial reading: “Is there an LGBTQ sensibility? What was it 40 years ago, before much of today’s language for gender and sexual identities even existed? Or, much more simply: Which songs best evoke the sex, drama, heartache, struggle, liberation and mind[s] of queer lives then and now? What follows is not a comprehensive (or ranked) list, but one that bridges the gap between post-Stonewall disco parties and gender-queer millennial rock of today.”[6] 

An LGBTQ Pride Anthem is not necessarily, especially historically, a song that was written for those of us who are lesbian, gay, bi, trans, or queer. They are most often songs that we have claimed, and applied something architects and city planners would call “adaptive reuse” to make them our own. An anthem is a song that we claim and adaptively reuse to express our Sacredness. An anthem is a defiant song. It is a song that says, “I am here and others support me.” An anthem is rarely sung alone. It is sung from memory, from the heart, from a place that defies shame. Often it is accompanied by a dance rhythm and offers embodied freedom and whole person.

Paul’s letter to his people, his authentic community in Phillipi shows us a different side of Paul. It shows what happens when people have an anthem. Joy in sorrow. Sacred text emerges anew. 

Finally, so what now for the church? We have been Open and Affirming for 24 years? Isn’t the job now just to maintain the Status Quo and put up with Jake’s pride sermon once a year? I see you.    

As the former board chair of a housing authority, I love to borrow ideas from other industries and apply them to our work as church. Churchy thinking doesn’t help us do anything new or entrepreneurial for the Holy Spirit. An idea that I think offers us a new anthem, a way forward into Queerer Theologies is Adaptive Reuse from the fields of Architecture and City Planning.

One source says, “Adaptive reuse refers to the process of reusing an existing building for a purpose other than which it was originally built or designed for. It is also known as recycling and conversion. Adaptive reuse is an effective strategy for optimizing the operational and commercial performance of built assets. Adaptive reuse of buildings can be an attractive alternative to new construction in terms of sustainability and a circular economy. It has prevented thousands of buildings' demolition and has allowed them to become critical components of urban regeneration Not every old building can qualify for adaptive reuse. Architects, developers, builders and entrepreneurs who wish to become involved in rejuvenating and reconstructing a building must first make sure that the finished product will serve the need of the market [and] that it will be completely useful for its new purpose.”[7]  We have so many assets to leverage, church, to help make a better world. We have the possibility to be more relevant than ever before if we think of our theological work right now in terms of adaptive reuse. We can be a critical component of ethical regeneration for humanity. Old building, old religion—new way of making it meaningful. 

Some of you may have heard of the debate around “cancel culture.” I have thought a lot about it. If any institution deserves to be “cancelled,” by modern standards of institutional accountability for wrongdoing, racism, homophobia, ableism, socio-economic injustice, war-mongering, and protecting and enabling systemic economic injustice…it is the Church and the Bible. There I said it, but I believe we can also use this moment to make the Church better, to see the Bible differently, to be relevant for the post-pandemic spiritual thirst for deeper living! People are looking for purpose and meaning and ritual now more than ever! This is our moment, the one we have prayed for, to change, to save the church, to reverse decline! Finally! What will we do with it?

Again, if left unchallenged and un-adapted to modern use, needs and lives, then we are rightfully cancellable, Church! People don’t even need to call and cancel us. They just quietly unsubscribe and vanish. The data shows us that they have been slowly unsubscribing for decades.  We must adopt a theological version of adaptive reuse like what the LGBTQ community does with music when we claim our anthems.

We are Connecticans, after all, we are good at re-using old things for new purposes! I know you all keep everything. I have seen the Harvest Fair and Rummage Sale. I have seen some of your barns. Goodness even our town green is a repurposed graveyard and we even left most of the bodies! We can do this! Our traditions, our spaces, our Sacred Texts are rich in meaning and potential purpose. How can we save them while also offering new ways of understanding them to make them vital again? How do we honor 400 years of First Church while becoming relevant, real, adaptively reused meaning making for another 400 years? The way to not be cancelled is to be vulnerable to the Holy Spirit and the new ways, queerer ways of reading Scripture now.

Yes, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure of intention, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence [any pride] and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about^, use, adapt these things.”  This is the Scripture of my people. This is the Scripture that has brought salvation to many quiet voices crying out, “Dear God, I think I am like him. I think I am like her. I think I am like them.” And God replies with a hug, a smile, and new and disco beat. Something like this…

I am what I am. I am my own special creation. So come take a look, give me the hook of the ovation.

It is my world that I want to have a little pride in. It’s my world, and it’s not a place I have to hide in. Life’s not worth a damn till you can say, “I am what I am.” Amen.

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judy_Shepard
[2] Carolyn Osiek, “Philippians,” The New Oxford Annotated Bible (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), NT328.
[3] https://www.etymonline.com/word/anthem
[4] https://obits.lohud.com/obituaries/lohud/obituary.aspx?n=david-p-wentroble&pid=169568729
[5] https://www.mccchurch.org/overview/history-of-mcc
[6] https://www.rollingstone.com/music/music-lists/25-essential-lgbtq-pride-songs-199348/queen-dont-stop-me-now-1978-193758/
[7] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adaptive_reuse