by Rev. Yin-An Chen, Assistant Curate in the Diocese of Lichfield, Trustee of Open Table Network, and Council Member of Modern Church
I have always believed that I need to stand in solidarity with other minorities and oppressed groups. I stand up firmly for the equality and rights of women, the disabled, transgender people, refugees, people from disadvantaged backgrounds and religious minorities. However, I do not belong to any of these marginalised groups—at least, in the British context. Sometimes some minority experiences are contextual and relative, depending on the situation.
For example, as a Han-ethnic Taiwanese, I never feel I am a ‘racial minority’ in my homeland. I have been ‘learning’ to be a racial minority since I moved to the UK ten years ago. As a bisexual man, I am ‘generally’ a minority in both Taiwan and the UK. I am unlikely to find any place where bisexual men are the ‘majority’.
Due to this ‘inconsistency’ of who is majority and/or minority, I am occasionally confused by what I am standing for and dubious about how “solidarity of the minorities” can be built on strong foundations and prosper—if one minority group can ‘suddenly’ see themselves as the majority, or if embracing the identity of one oppressed group over others has become more mainstreamed and more politically correct.
Something truly heart-breaking happened in the spring of 2023 when the Church of England’s General Synod conducted a serious debate on Living in Love and Faith and the vexed question of the blessing of same-sex marriages. I was told by a campaigner for racial justice that the Church of England must consider the broader context of the whole Anglican Communion. That person continues to say that the unity of the Church must be prioritised over the alteration of the Doctrine of Holy Matrimony. (Beware! The ‘doctrine’ has a capital letter!)
The LGBT community and its allies in the Church of England have heard enough of this stuff. It is nonsensical that the Church should hold back from gay marriage because of strong opposition from the Global Majority. And there is another parallel, which is the growth of conservative Christianity in the Global South vs the decline of liberal Christianity in the Global North. (The definition of ‘liberal’ was already ambiguous but here it simply means affirming women and LGBT people in the church to be ‘who they are’ in terms of their relationship and vocation.) The Synod should listen to what the majority of global Anglicans have taught the minority of English Anglicans about marriage.
There is irony in the rhetorical language that is repeatedly used here when talking of majorities and minorities. The Synod debate and the ongoing conversation has confused me deeply about what I am campaigning for in terms of race and sexuality. Is it truly about the equality of the minority? What do we desire in our campaign? Why do people still assume that the majority voice remains more ‘convincing’ and ‘important’ than the minority voice?
More fundamentally and radically, why should we always allow the majority vote/decision to override the fundamental value of Christian faith and the basic rights of the minority to equality? (I deliberately chose the term ‘override’ to emphasise the power of the majority!) This question is fundamental because how can any minority groups speak for themselves through the majority decision? The question is also radical because we may need to reconsider how ‘democracy’ is applied and fulfilled in the Christian community if the practice of loving our neighbours who are not part of the majority really is the core of Christian values. (Do Christians love our neighbours because the majority of people say so?) Can LGBT people ever win over the majority vote?
I have no interest in arguing over the ecclesiology of the Anglican Communion or the definition of Holy Matrimony. But this part of the Synod debate was disturbing. As an ‘acquired’ racial minority in the UK, I was frightened to learn that many Caribbean Christians were ‘invited out’ when they were sitting in their parish church where they assumed that they would receive a warm welcome from their brothers and sisters in Christ.[1] What were the grounds for excluding these Caribbean Christians? It was because the majority of the white British congregation did not feel comfortable about their presence in their churches. There were certainly some clergy and Christians with a conscience who went against the majority and who wanted to create a hospitable environment for these new immigrants. However, there was also a backlash voice (with which we all are familiar) which attempted to hold back the welcoming move—in the name of the disapproval of the ‘majority’.
Putting these two experiences together and looking at the rhetorical language of the majority-and-minority, it really shows the irony and reinforces my discomfort when I see the broken solidarity between racial and sexual minorities. In our campaigning for equality and justice, can we always rely on what the majority says and the appeal to the majority? How can the Church of England proactively avoid sacrificing sexual minorities on the altar of the majority view in the same way that it excluded the Windrush Generation? Here, now, in 2024, the Church of England continues to hang on and hang back until the day the majority vote for equality arrives—even though this will almost certainly never happen. Once again, we will be badly late—and may even wait forever.
Any thoughts?