I’m not one to label the Bible as fact, but I’m also not one to discount it entirely as a work of meritless fiction. I can appreciate its historical context and I’m always down for an interesting tale, tall or otherwise.
I learned at an early age that the Bible was full of them, even if our household’s copy was utilized for storing important documents moreso than for family debate or discussion. Securely pressed within its pages were birth certificates, funeral programs and everything in-between: a holy filing system.
I knew any book entrusted with preserving such treasures had to be important, even if we weren’t particularly religious. I also knew that while no one discussed either at length, we were Baptist and Republican: two groups I understood to value Christianity’s commandments and commentary above all else.
Despite the fact that neither affiliation had ever done a single thing to make our lives better, guiding our principles in name more than substance, I thought I’d give them each a try. Thankfully I couldn’t vote for a few more elections, but I did start regularly attending church with some of my more religious friends to become a “practicing Christian” in high school.
I dove wholeheartedly into a religious phase in my early teenage years, leaning into much of the Bible’s texts through weekly youth groups and church services. I studied its tales in the same way I would any piece of literature, by considering and challenging its themes through a modern lens.
My religious era didn’t last long. It ended ahead of my junior year when I came out, prompting my best Baptist buds to try praying my gay away. It didn’t work, given that being myself wasn’t a choice and being a practicing Christian was, and it helped me realize that I value evidence more than evangelism.
Even so and as more of an agnostic today than anything else, I appreciate many of the Bible’s lessons. At their core, they reaffirmed my desire to be a decent human being; the hatred just wasn’t as catchy as the hymns.
Having been forced into an awakening over my first ancestral affiliation, I had no choice but to question the second. What did being a Republican really mean?
I found at least one example in my neighboring state’s U.S. representative. He rose to political prominence not far from my Ohio hometown on an anti-LGBTQ platform unlike any I’d ever seen, long before he would become Indiana’s governor or this country’s current vice president: Mike Pence.
In his first and ultimately successful bid for Congress, “The Pence Agenda” outlined the former radio host’s “guide to renewing the America dream.” He asserted that a key facet of that was strengthening the “traditional two parent household,” the “nucleus of our civilization.”
To that end, he wrote that Congress should oppose “any effort to put gay and lesbian relationships on an equal legal status with heterosexual marriage.” He also stressed that any “effort to recognize homosexuals as a ‘discreet and insular minority’ entitled to the protection of anti-discrimination laws similar to those extended to women and ethnic minorities” must be strongly disavowed.
It didn’t end there. Pence insisted the largest federal program focused on providing HIV care should only be reauthorized if assistance wasn’t given to “organizations that celebrate and encourage the types of behaviors that facilitate the spreading of HIV.” He believed these funds should be redirected to institutions promoting conversion therapy, the dangerous and discredited practice which claims to alter a person’s sexual orientation or gender identity.
I strongly believe people can evolve on equality and that we should let them, but Pence never has. As a member of Congress, as Indiana’s governor and ultimately as the vice president, he’s worked to undermine LGBTQ civil rights at every opportunity. He’s often done so in the name of religion, echoing the Baptists I knew but not the Bible I read.
California Senator Kamala Harris hasn’t. Her historic Democratic nomination for vice president is one more reason to fight not just against the Trump/Pence ticket during this year’s presidential election, but for a Biden/Harris administration. They represent perhaps the most pro-LGBTQ presidential bid in U.S. history, something we should remember as we march to the mailboxes or polls this November.
Marching with your voice takes center stage in this issue, which welcomes country music legends The Chicks. The LGBTQ allies discuss their first album in 14 years, the current political environment and more. LGBTQ educators from throughout Tampa Bay and Central Florida also share what it’s like to return to the classroom during COVID-19.
Watermark strives to bring you a variety of stories, your stories. Please stay safe, stay informed and enjoy this latest issue.
