by Savitri Hensman, author of “Sexuality, Struggle and Saintliness” and LGBTI+ equality activist, writer and involvement coordinator
In February 2023, the Church of England’s General Synod voted to welcome a proposal by bishops for optional prayers for blessing same-sex couples, though weddings were not on offer. Also a much-criticised document which was used to ban married gays from ministry – Issues in Human Sexuality – was to be scrapped. This was a modest but significant step towards greater inclusion of LGBTQI+ people, though far from enough (1).
There were strong negative reactions from those most opposed to change, in the UK and parts of the wider Anglican Communion; the Communion had been mentioned at various points in the debate, mainly with regard to the hazards of moving forward. Church of England leaders were accused of putting Western cultural above biblical values and some challenged the Archbishop of Canterbury’s fitness to chair the Communion, though many think existing structures outdated in any case. Following Synod, at an Anglican Consultative Council gathering in Ghana, Justin Welby made a rather defensive speech, criticising secular British culture and MPs’ warnings about parliamentary consequences if equal marriage in church did not go ahead, but indicating that those in favour of greater inclusion also sought to follow Scripture.
In recent debates, LGBTQI+ people of Global Majority Heritage (GMH) have, I think, been mainly invisible, except occasionally as victims of (now and then protestors against) homophobia and transphobia (2). This seems strange, partly because there are a lot of us, who may be affected in multiple ways by the changes which are proposed or resisted. What is more, some have influenced shifts in churches and society. Each has a unique experience and perspective; the dangers of sweeping generalisations about categories of humans should, by this point in history, be clear. However, there may be areas of common ground among many, if not all.
I am a British Sri Lankan lesbian, born and baptised in what was then Ceylon. I arrived in this country in the ‘60s as a small child but remained a citizen for the first three decades or so of my life and am still connected. My late partner was of Jamaican descent, my family and friends are from diverse backgrounds. My late parents were active in Asian and wider Southern theological circles. I agree with some “conservatives” that many affirming Church of England members underestimate the importance of the Anglican Communion – but I draw entirely different conclusions.
Like Anderson Jeremiah, the Communion I know is far from homogenous. And, echoing Jarel Robinson-Brown, the notion of a “liberal” West pitted against a “traditionalist” South is simply untrue, though slavery and colonialism alongside other kinds of injustice have influenced patterns of oppression and resistance.
With some Synod speakers, I fear for Nigerian Anglicans’ safety. But many already face horrific violence because they are LGBTQI+ or on religious grounds, despite church leaders there inflaming hatred of LGBTQI+ people and bishops here repeatedly stalling moves towards inclusion. Murderous fundamentalists will keep persecuting Christians while this bolsters their own power. Given my own island’s blood-soaked recent history, I understand concerns about increasing the vulnerability of those for whom one cares. Yet, as also pointed out at Synod, some of those seeking affirmation of their love are themselves refugees. And I believe that consistently upholding compassion and human rights for all, and challenging fundamentalism and inequality, offers the best hope of overcoming violent division.
Justice, mercy, human and Divine love
In the mid-twentieth century, Lambeth Conference gatherings proclaimed that all people were equally the objects of God’s love and urged support for human rights; affirmed that all Scripture must be interpreted in the light of Christ; and acknowledged “our debt to the host of devoted scholars who, worshipping the God of Truth, have enriched and deepened our understanding of the Bible, not least by facing with intellectual integrity the questions raised by modern knowledge”.
Such ideas did not simply emerge from an enlightened (or degenerate) West. Struggles against slavery and colonialism, as well as the Holocaust, had helped to demonstrate the dangers of treating some people as less than fully human, while rebels across the world strove for freedom, humanity and greater equality. And a version of Christianity distorted by the interests, and norms, of the rich and powerful in the West had been deeply damaging, though the Good News sometimes shone through nevertheless. Diversity in sexuality and gender identity in some countries was sometimes seen as a sign of heathen backwardness.
Sometimes biblical passages were used to “prove” God’s backing for inequity or even cruelty, ignoring the Bible’s broader emphasis on justice and mercy and God’s presence in and with the marginalised, as well as Jesus’ bold challenge to religious leaders who disregarded human need and emphasis on the law of love. At the same time, “reason” and “experience” were also sometimes harnessed in oppressive ways, a reminder of the risks of over-confidence that one possesses the full truth. Narrow nationalism and uncritical allegiance to the state has also often been disastrous.
I remember how, in South Africa and the USA, numerous supporters of racist segregation were convinced this reflected their faithfulness to the Bible. Selective use of Scripture and tradition was also used to underpin economic oppression and women’s subjugation – and, evidence increasingly indicated, not offering LGBTQI+ people the same opportunities to grow spiritually in faithful, self-giving relationships. When I was young, organisations such as the World Council of Churches and Ecumenical Association of Third World Theologians helped create space for anti-racist and more broadly liberatory theology to be shared and developed.
In different parts of the South, churches took varying paths, especially when social tensions heightened and scapegoating intensified. As in the West, bishops did not represent everyone, though there have been inspirational figures like Desmond Tutu. Sometimes anti-LGBTQI+ laws and norms left over from colonial times were enforced with fresh vigour, at times with backing from institutional churches. Yet creative thinking has also gone on, often exploring how to respond to God’s call, amidst multiple inequalities and divisions, to build a world where all are valued.
Following God, not culture
When I came to Britain, men could be jailed for gay relationships. GMH people in the West, and ethnic minorities in Sri Lanka, have often faced prejudice from neighbours and mistreatment from the state.
Cultures and states do not deserve absolute allegiance, though God can sometimes work through these. The liberatory thread running through the Bible, despite human fallibility, offers more; and openness to the Spirit in seeking a more loving, merciful world. LGBTQI+ GMH Christians, among others, have useful insights to offer.
References
(1)Lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer and intersex – but please note that this term is used broadly for a range of people who, across cultures and history as well as on an individual basis, might describe themselves in varying ways, some of which might not be easily translated into English.
(2) This may include people of African, Asian and Latin American descent or descended from the original peoples of North America or Australasia, who make up most of the world’s population. Some people prefer other terms, such as ‘people of colour’. On various aspects of diversity, I am fairly flexible about the terms or sets of initials used to describe me, if not too rude!
Any thoughts?