Devolvendo migalhas para a comunidade queer que a igreja roubou alguns anos atrás

6 de abril de 2019

Pão e Migalhas

by Scott Sessions

Submetido à Afirmação após a reversão de A Igreja de Jesus Cristo dos Santos dos Últimos Dias de suas mudanças de política de novembro de 2015 que proibiam filhos de pais LGBTQ de serem abençoados e batizados e caracterizavam membros da igreja que se casavam pelo mesmo sexo como apóstatas. Essas mudanças se tornaram conhecidas na comunidade LGBTQ Mórmon como a "política de exclusão", "política de exclusão" ou "PoX". No dia seguinte ao anúncio da reversão desta política, Nathan Kitchen, Presidente da Afirmação, convidou todos os que estivessem dispostos a compartilhar seus sentimentos autênticos e todas as suas histórias de pesar, raiva, alívio, tristeza, felicidade, confusão, o que quer que seja que esteja ao redor a rescisão desta política. “Como presidente da Afirmação, quero ter certeza de que a Afirmação não esconde você ou suas histórias à medida que avançamos”, escreveu Kitchen em seu convite. Se você tiver reações ou uma história para compartilhar sobre a reversão da política de exclusão, envie para [email protected]. Você também pode leia outras histórias e reações à reversão da política de exclusão.

I had already left the LDS church in spirit before the November 5th policy was leaked, but that day put the final nail in the coffin. Despite my personal disagreements with the LDS organization, I have deep respect for Mormon culture and history (pioneer ancestors on both sides of the family). I don’t have children, but I had always assumed that, whether I attended church or not, my babies would be blessed in an LDS church building like I and nearly all members of my family have been for generations. This assumption came to an end on November 5, 2015, when the leaders of the church made public that they would withhold such a blessing from any of my progeny.

I’m used to the leaders of the LDS church publicly devaluing me because of my homosexuality. Heavens, I grew up in the suburbs of the Salt Lake valley, and knew that something about me was “wrong” even before I knew the word “gay”. By 2015, I’d done some of the work to separate myself from those damaging narratives and could stomach the usual blows: people praising the Proclamation on the Family on social media, my father telling me it was inappropriate to hold my boyfriend’s hand at his house, and hearing basically any talk from Dallin Oaks or Boyd Packer. Those attacks were aimed at me, and I had grown a thick enough skin that I was no longer surprised. The November 5 policy was different–it attacked my future babies, and the already-born children of other queer Mormons like myself. It removed me from my family’s baby blessing tradition without my consent, and attempted to mark me as “apostate” because of the conditions of my birth, completely regardless of my choices or beliefs. That was the final straw, and I found myself completing the process of “removing my name” from church records in early 2016.

On April 4, 2019, as we know, the LDS Church reversed that policy, claiming it was a revelation from Heavenly Father. My reaction to the newest proclamation is mostly one of skepticism. While I’m glad to see the progress, and am especially heartened by the turnaround time (3.5 years is basically lightspeed in Mormon time), I can’t help but think we are worse off today, April 5, 2019, than we were on November 4, 2015. The LDS Church has basically returned crumbs to the queer community: crumbs that they stole a few years ago, all the while withholding the loaf of nourishing and life-saving bread that we crave, the bread of understanding, acceptance, and encouragement. Many of our queer siblings died in despair because of the November 5 policy, and many friends and families were torn apart. For the leaders of the church to reverse the policy without an attempt at public apology or reconciliation is, at best, woefully ignorant, or, at worst, hideously cruel. For a church that preaches so often about the repentance process, the leaders are remarkably bad examples of such.

When I sent the letter that would officially rescind my membership in the LDS Church, I wrote that I claimed my Mormonism as a birthright and heritage that no institution could take away. I still cling to Mormonism as a crucial piece of my identity, and I always will. I am a child of Mormon pioneers, raised in an active Mormon household, who loves many folks inside and adjacent to the Mormon community. Yet, regardless of the policy reversal of April 4, 2019, my future children will not be blessed in the Mormon church. I don’t know where I’ll celebrate the birth of my children, but there are several sacred spaces I might choose, perhaps a chapel of the Community of Christ or the Episcopal church, both spaces where I’ve recently found spiritual refuge. I might bless my child on a mountaintop or in a meadow, God’s country, surrounded by friends and family. I might do it in my home, close to a table overflowing of potluck dishes, including our treasured funeral potatoes (or “company potatoes”, as my mom calls them at non-funeral events). Regardless, my children will indeed enter into the Mormon community because it is their birthright, as it was mine. No matter what revelation any 94-year-old career-apostle might claim to have received from deity, the truth rings clear in my heart: We, the LGBTQ+ members of the Mormon community, are inherently valuable, worthy of praise, and celebrated in God’s sight. We deserve love, intimate companionship, and full acceptance. We need not wait for any more crumbs from the church leadership to claim our rightful place in Zion.

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1 comentário

  1. Michael em 11/04/2019 às 5:14 PM

    I felt tears as you said you were going to bless your children in your own sacred spaces. You are absolutely right. The church seeks to control by taking things away from us, but in the end, the reality is that they can’t take anything away from us. We still have God, and God gives us all we need. God honors our worship, no matter who we are or where we worship from.
    Thank you for your inspiring words. I’m not sure that you set out to be inspiring, but that’s what happened anyway.

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