odd man out.

Every year on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I read King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” which I cannot recommend enough to anyone passionate about issues of justice and equality.  As you may imagine, the letter has resonated with me much more deeply over the last few years, especially as I’ve become aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle forms of oppression that exist in regards to the LGBT community.

I can distinctly remember the first time I recognized the word “minority” as an accurate descriptor of me.  It happened the first time I came out to someone who was an ethnic minority, and as we talked back and forth, I suddenly realized there was a word to describe my experience—the experience of not fitting quite right, of inadvertently messing up the status quo by my very existence because my perspective and needs and expectations were different from what was common, of always punishing myself and apologizing to others for seeing things differently.  The word was “minority,” and though I think the prevalent race-sexuality metaphor is too simplistic, I do understand what it means to be an outsider.

There was a time when I thought the desperate cries of minorities (of all kinds) were little more than so much noise, manufactured discontent learned from years of life on the supposed margins.  I can pass as a member of the majority, and I’ve often been callous to the prophetic cries of minorities in my midst because I don’t personally feel the sting of what they’ve experienced: I’ve never been called a racial slur; I’ve never had my abilities or competence questioned because of my gender; I’ve never had trouble entering a building or participating in a worship service because of a physical disability; and I’ve never faced the despairing frustration of an economy with no place for me.  I often surrendered to the illusion that the world in which I live is perfectly fair, inclusive, and just.

And then I stopped fitting like I was supposed to fit, and then I understood what King meant in his letter: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  When I oppress my brother or sister, it may not be readily apparent to me how I’m hurting myself, especially when that oppression contributes to (or at least sustains) a lifestyle I enjoy and take comfort in.  But the poison of injustice is a toxin that spoils the reality of common human experience, much as a little yeast spoils the whole batch of dough (Galatians 5:9).  It doesn’t matter whether I am the direct victim of injustice because injustice hurts us all.

Through my participation in the body of Christ, I have discovered something more meaningful, significant, and fulfilling than what I’ve found anywhere else.  I love the church, and I want the church to represent the fullness of Christ’s body.  Nevertheless, that’s only possible when we have eradicated all remnants of injustice and oppression.  I’m often tempted to believe things are exactly as they’re meant to be, since I’m often comfortable as as an almost-member of the majority; but to succumb to that temptation would be to continue silencing the voices of my brothers and sisters who bear the burden of what the church is getting wrong, whose pain gives clear vision to see how far we are from what the church could be.

This is why I write this blog and why I just won’t shut up about the oppression of our LGBT sisters and brothers.  Yes, it hurts personally to be the victim of such oppression, and yes, I feel a particular tenderness for LGBT people like me, but I want to live into something that is even closer to the fullness of Christ than what I’ve gotten thus far.  As we all aim for that end—because surely what we’ve tasted of Christ’s love makes us yearn for more—the people who are oppressed possess an invaluable voice that continues to siphon away any of that lingering poison of injustice.  Their pain is our pain, and their hope is our hope.  This is why, like King, I can’t wait any longer to make things right:

“We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that justice too long delayed is justice denied.’”