Feature

I took communion for the first time on Pride Sunday at a church beside Stonewall in New York City. There were already celebratory crowds gathering outside, and we would join them at the end of the service. There was a small mural of a dove, descending, above the altar. The congregation was small enough that we all gathered in a circle to receive bread and wine.

I am the solo pastor and only full-time staff person at a rural church in East Texas. As an assembly, our life together revolves around planning and enacting worship. What we say and do in worship is formed in our beliefs about God, to whom we turn our devotion, and forms us as God’s people. What it means to queer worship also has everything to do with what we believe about God and about our life as a community.

In the early stages of lockdown in 2020, I began to say what has now become a repeated refrain in my life, “If you want to know how to worship outside of a church building, talk to the people who’ve been told they cannot worship in a church building. Because it is among those folks that you’ll begin to realize why it is we worship in the first place; you’ll engage a level of authenticity that has been lost from much of our traditional worship these days.”

I’d like to start with one of my favorite jokes about Unitarian Universalists, a joke I feel comfortable telling because I spent thirty years with the UUs and still maintain a connection with them. The joke goes like this: Why are Unitarian Universalists such bad hymn singers? Because they are always reading ahead to see whether they agree with the words.

Life within the baptismal covenant for Christians in the Wesleyan tradition, including United Methodists, is to be governed by John Wesley’s three general rules: do no harm, do good, and attend upon the ordinances of God. The order is not incidental. One cannot engage in acts of grace—doing good—until one has turned away (repented) from sin—doing harm. Liturgical scholars have brought to our attention the harm words can do to members of marginalized communities, particularly the LGBTQIA2S+ community.

The Presbyterian congregation in which I was baptized and grew up was a loving congregation of faithful folks, where I learned a lot of what was important about being a Christian. I’ll always be grateful to Sunday school teachers and youth pastors who schooled me in Bible verses and Christian love. They also planted and fostered what would become a lifelong passion for crafting and leading worship; those weeks letting teenagers run the sound system or preach on Youth Sunday have more impact than we sometimes know.

Good liturgy may be innovative or ancient, contemplative or active, repetitive or transitory. But most importantly, whatever the form or format, good liturgy must be alive. Liturgy is supposed to wake us up, not lull us to sleep—physically or spiritually. In my experience, the best liturgy heightens my awareness and helps me see / feel things like I’ve never seen / felt / thought them before.