by Sorrel Christian, a student and a multiply-disabled queer Christian. They enjoy writing and are particularly interested in crip theology and ecumenism
My name is Sorrel Christian, I am a student in my early 20s, and I am a queer disabled Christian. I became a member of the United Reformed Church a few years ago. However, due to the only URC in my area not having approved same-sex marriage, it having been allowed on a church-by-church basis since 2016) when I’m not at university I’m currently worshipping with a local independent church community. I also attended a Roman Catholic sixth form college, and have had both helpful and harmful experiences in the Church of England in my ongoing journey to a committed faith.
It will come as no surprise that the established church as a whole tends to have a poor reputation amongst my peers. Years of anti-LGBTQ+ and anti-disabled rhetoric and action from powerful churches has led to a deep mistrust and fear within these overlapping communities in all age ranges, particularly when it comes to the Roman Catholic Church and the Church of England. And it often seems like the powers that be do little to help themselves. Sex education and compulsory RE in Catholic sixth form was entirely heteronormative, with no mention of any other type of potential sexual encounter, gender non-conformity, or even an acknowledgement that the many LGBTQ+ youth at the college existed. One of the most powerful and well-known Church of England churches in my university town does not accept same-sex marriage or women in ministry. Such experiences give a strong impression, even amongst young people who are not part of the LGBTQ+ community, that organised religion is backwards looking, limited, and not in sync with anything they care about.
Having said all that, I have found my non-Christian peers to be largely respectful of my personal faith, if somewhat baffled on occasion. Many would also describe themselves as spiritual in some form, and mutual respect and understanding goes a long way. Despite this, I find myself “caveating” my faith when meeting new people. “I’m a Christian but…”. As I’ve started expressing myself using queer fashion and rethinking the binary concepts of gendered clothing, it’s becoming less and less necessary – yet at the same time, the Church of England is in the news for still not having approved same-sex marriage. I pray for a world where I don’t have to consider “how queer” I look to my peer group before deciding if I need to justify and explain that my faith is not one of exclusion and hatred. Maybe it’s partly egotistical. I don’t want people to think, even for a moment, that I’m exclusionary. Maybe my sense of self-worth is too much based in how people may judge me. I feel the need to caveat my faith, even as I am aware of how God knows me. A more charitable view of this need to caveat would be that I do it to protect others. Whenever I try online dating, I state my religion on my profile. Whilst it’s true that this is partly for simple reasons of compatibility, there’s more to it than that. Being non-binary, if the apps do their job, my dating pool is entirely made up of LGBTQ+ young people. I haven’t met a single person of faith in the LGBTQ+ community who does not also hold religious trauma. Many more have left the church and their faith due to spiritual abuse and hostile churches. Still others have never held deep convictions, but associate church schools with a place they were never safe to be themselves. For the sake of both parties, I choose for the cross around my neck to not come as a surprise on the first date.
Speaking of surprises, my first experience of an exclusionary church when I moved to university came as a complete shock. My experience of the Church of England up until then consisted of occasional services at the parish church in my small hometown. It was a fairly standard semi-rural set up, family-friendly, with a primary school attached, and also happened to be a part of the Inclusive Church network. With a family tradition of non-conformist churches, I naively assumed that all Church of England churches were much of a muchness when it came to societal viewpoints, if I considered it at all. I wasn’t even out to myself at that point. I was mostly just desperate for somewhere to belong. I started attending a popular church in my university city without even thinking to google it or find out it was a conservative evangelical branch of the CofE. I knew that the “party line” at the CofE didn’t include same-sex marriage, but I had no idea of the strength of anti-gay and anti-woman sentiment that could be found in some churches; something which SCM’s Honest Church campaign is trying to make visible. The wake-up moment was an anti-abortion rant from the pulpit. I kept going until the end of term though, because I didn’t know how to leave. Eventually, in the holidays, a family friend from the parish church explained the wide spectrum of belief in the Church of England, and how I needed to use critical thinking to find a church which aligned with my values of how to treat others.
What confused me at the time, and frankly still baffles me today, was the popularity amongst students of a church which doesn’t accept female ministry and whose rector has openly written that same-sex relationships are sinful. All the students I met outside the church seemed to be in favour of the rights of women and LGBTQ+ people, and yet, this narrow-minded preaching attracted enough devotees for an entire separate student congregation. My theory is that is that it’s a question of resources and priorities, and a question of connections, of insidious roots throughout the university structure. Right from freshers’ week, the church works with a large Christian Union to attract new students through the tried and tested formula of free food. The promotional materials promise that everyone’s welcome, no strings attached. The leadership structure is carefully designed to disguise their views on women preachers at first glance. Once in, the usual mechanisms of organised religion slide greasily into action to keep you there. Guilt, shame, fear. A cult of personality around the rector. Upbeat music and a free student lunch. If you leave now, you’re going to Hell. By the time you discover the anti-gay rhetoric, you’re supposed to have bought in to believing everything the rector says as gospel truth. This dangerous machine is funded and legitimised by the powerful institution that is the Church of England.
And yet, there is hope. The following term, just down the road, I found a wonderfully inclusive URC church. We’re smaller, less well funded, and much less powerful than those that can afford an entirely separate service for the student congregation. But by working with the other local non-conformist churches, we’re making changes in the city. I believe ecumenism is key in youth Christianity. I don’t understand the strict divides between denominations, the ‘us’ versus ‘them’. At the Student Christian Movement National Gathering this year, there were Quakers, Catholics, Anglicans, Methodists, Lutherans and more, all coming together to share ideas and theology and inclusive Christian love. Of course, there were differences in theology. But not rigid divisions. No one young person seemed convinced that they were more in the right than anyone else. That’s the spirit we need to take forward into the future.
