Save Your Scraps
A hundred years ago, when I was a malnourished 17 year-old trying to recover from an eating disorder without actually telling anyone I was suffering from an eating disorder, I developed a process by which I could reintroduce food into a body that wasn’t accustomed to being fed. In hindsight, I’m shocked I survived my little experiment given what I now know about the complications associated with refeeding, but survive I did, and oftentimes through what felt like nothing other than sheer willpower.
At first, the experience of eating after all of those years of starving was excruciating for my mind, my body, and my spirit, and for months, I could only tolerate a few bites at a time. But as days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years, I remembered what it meant to feel full, and once I remembered, I promised myself I would never starve again.
When I made this promise years ago, I meant it only in relation to food because for so very long, food was my primary fixation, but over time, I’ve begun to realize that even when we get food figured out, there are so many other ways for us to starve at tables where others seem to be well-fed.
I think here about the first church I found after coming out. I was a shell-shocked recovering Catholic, uncertain I would belong in any sacred space ever again, and by way of comparison, this church offered me what felt like an extravagant welcome. They invited me to communion, remembered my name, and didn’t flinch when I mentioned my same-sex partner. All good signs, to be sure.
And for a while, I felt like I belonged there, until I didn’t.
There was the time I’d joined a small discussion group and had to sit through an entire session during which the “sin of homosexuality” was debated.
There was the time I invited my partner to join me at worship and spent the whole service fighting off tears because the family behind us moved seats when I put my arm around her.
There were so many moments when I was reminded that I could find a way to be fed here, but the whole meal didn’t quite belong to me.
And for a while, I couldn’t figure out why this was the case. The pastoral staff was so friendly and welcoming to me, so why didn’t my experience in the congregation line up?
It took me longer than I’d like to admit to figure out why, but in the end it boiled down to this:
When given the chance to publicly profess that LGBTQ+ people belong at this church, the decision was made to pass on the public designation and just behave in a welcoming way, instead.
Which I’m sure sounds logical to some people, but I’m also pretty sure those people would be straight people because queer people know better. Queer people know that the public desingation not only tells other queer people they will be safe in this place. It also tells straight people that this is a church committed to making sure queer people are safe.
And yes, people will leave over that.
And yes, the people who leave over that should leave if there exists an actual commitment to inclusion.
But if you’re just looking to play the middle ground - to throw LGBTQ+ people some scraps and call it dinner - then by all means, proceed as planned.
You know, I’ve been the fat girl in the relationship with the boy who doesn’t want anyone else to know about it, and I don’t really need that noise from Jesus, so when I found out about this decision, it was a pretty short trip out the door for me.
I have since taken to Sunday service in my backyard where I sink my feet into the earth and read from the gospel according to Mary Oliver, so I’m doing just fine, but when I think back to that time, to my desperation to be included, to the way I settled for scraps when I was starving for sustenance, it makes me so angry.
And this isn’t the only place where I see the same scenario playing out over and over.
I think about the way I’ve watched women claw past each other on the corporate climb because there is only one seat at the table, and then, once seated, begin to realize that no one is coming to set a place for them.
I think about what it must have felt like to be Black and have Juneteenth declared a national holiday on the heels of everything the past year has brought to light.
I think about the absurd volume of corporations lining up to profit from Pride who will summarily disappear from the actual fight starting the second the calendar flips to July 1st.
Scraps as far as the eye can see, but not a real meal to be eaten within a million miles.
And I’m sick of settling for scraps.
I’m tired of crawling around for crumbs.
I am hungry for a whole ass meal.
And I’m done squeezing myself around tables where the hosts refuse to feed me.
I hope you are, too.
So, as we round out Pride month, this is the invitation I extend to you, my gay-straight-white-black-brown-male-female-enbie-churched-pagan audience:
Stop saving your scraps for the starving.
If you’re in a position to feed people, feed them until they’re full. Throw open the fridge and empty the cupboards. Pile the table high with every good thing available to you. Leave no loaf uncut and no dish unserved. Be extravagant with your welcome and committed to seeing the whole thing through until the end.