Queer resurrection: constructing queer trauma theology

ABSTRACT

This paper uses an autoethnographic theoretical approach of constructive theology to create a framework of queer trauma theology. By exploring the relationship between trauma and queerness, I argue that queer affirming congregations and faith leaders must add a layer of trauma-sensitivity to offer queer people the space and tools required to reach a point of resurrection. Building upon the work of trauma theologians like Karen O´Donnell, I suggest that the goal of the work is not healing, but a divine remaining that I allegorize to the resurrection. The paper explores a framework of queer trauma theology that is aimed to be useful for affirming faith leaders in their everyday work. The last part the framework is exemplified through a queer trauma theological view of mourning, the Bible, and religious history.

KEYWORDS:

• LGBTQ
• queer theology
• trauma theology
• queer trauma theology
• homosexuality
• Christianity

Introduction

In 2022, the issue of conversion therapy was on every Swede’s mind. It went from being a non-issue in the 2018 election, to being one of the top issues in the 2022 general elections. Overnight the conversation went from being non-existent to one of the most important election issues, seemingly because media – and so also secular civil society – discovered that it exists in a Swedish context. While the conversation on conversion therapy in Sweden is recent, the conception of a divide between religion and queerness is well established in Sweden – and across the world.

When I attended college in New York City, a queer classmate of mine shared how she would cross the street every time she walked by a church because of the trauma that had been done to her in the name of God. In the television show Queer Eye season 2, cast member Bobby refuses to walk into the church of the episode’s hero due to his past experiences of religion.¹ Representing a secular LGBTQ-organization working with mental health issues, I once met a man whose gay brother had killed himself, and the man lovingly expressed ‘I’ll see him again in hell!’ Secularized, atheist Swedish queer friends of mine shiver at the thought of the Bible. The public narrative is that Christianity and queerness does not go well together.

The impression of the rejection of queer people in Christian theology runs so deep that it also impacts those with no relationship to the church, nor any faith in God. To meet a people with this ruptured relationship to Christianity, churches need a trauma-sensitive queer theology to help support the queer community in their resurrection from a people overwhelmed by trauma to a people that persists. But not only that, churches also need a queer trauma theology to meet the needs of queer people impacted by trauma no matter if this trauma has religious roots or not. In this paper I create a framework for churches to work with by combining queer theology and trauma theology into a queer trauma theology.

Methodology

Trauma theology is still an emerging field, and while the field is heavily influenced by feminist theology, the concept of queer trauma theology is underdeveloped. Some work of queer trauma theology has already been done, for example considering the lives of queer Ugandan refugees,² and exploring the ways in which trauma impacts the lives of trans and intersex peoples.³ In the edited volume Bearing Witness by trauma theologians Karen O’Donnell and Katie Cross, a full section is devoted to chapters on ‘Gender and Sexuality in Dialogue with Trauma Theology.’ The section features four chapters that center queerness in trauma theology, one of which is by theologian Tyler Brinkman.⁴ Brinkman aims to ‘construct a trans*-centered trauma theology by utilizing the experiences of trans* persons, insights from queer theology, and psychiatric research.’⁵ This is one of few attempts to date of constructing a trauma theology centering a queer experience, and it highlights a research gap. Because while scholars have begun exploring the topic of gender and sexuality in trauma theology, a basic framework for what constitutes queer trauma theology has yet to be developed. This paper aims to be more general, but I hope the work of expanding this framework into specific contexts will continue.

As a queer theologian who moves in the field of practical theology, I see time and again the need for queer trauma theology as I interact with queer folks who carry trauma as individuals as well as a community. I aim to create a theological framework that can become a source of resurrection for the queer individual as well as for the queer community, where the theology is embracing rather than apologetic. This approach stems from theories by theologians like Linn Tonstad.⁶ Queer, in this article, is used interchangeably as an umbrella term for LGBTQ-identities, as well as an academic term describing discourses stemming from queer theory and queer theology. By the very nature of the term, ‘queer’ is indescribable, but aims at capturing something that is beyond the norm and a challenge of the status quo. Tonstad states: ‘One of the most famous definitions of “queer” calls it “an identity without an essence’ that is ‘defined wholly relationally, by its distance to and difference from the normative.”’⁷ Like Tonstad however, I find that the term ‘queer’ is still a feasible term of identification, although it also acknowledges ‘that identification is never complete, never unambiguous, never uncomplicated.’⁸

This article uses an autoethnographic theoretical approach that mixes my own experience and the experience of persons around me with queer theology and trauma theology. Autoethnographic insights are used to build and exemplify theory to create a more general framework of what queer trauma theology is, a framework that through these examples stays grounded in real life experience. The autoethnographic theoretical approach has been increasingly used across disciplines over the past decades, but is particularly important for fields where marginalized perspectives are explored since it may be used to humanize theories.⁹ Social scientists and autoethnography pioneers Arthur P. Bochner and Carolyn Ellis state: ‘autoethnography enables researchers and practitioners to address what it feels like, and what it means, to be alive and living in a chaotic and uncertain world, and to show other human beings how they might endure it and move forward.’¹⁰ Through using autoethnography in exploring and describing queer trauma theology, I hope to better convey why and how it matters. Because for me, as for many others, my research is personal and that personal connection, autoethnography argues, should not be inhibited.¹¹

The use of constructive theology rather than systematic theology in this article builds upon the ‘rejection of the idea that there can be a ‘system’ of theology that is complete and finished.’¹² Just like feminist trauma theologian Karen O’Donnell, I as a queer theologian is drawn to the idea of constructive theology based upon that ‘[t]here is something incomplete, messy, unfinished and open about constructive approaches to theology … ’¹³ I firmly believe that the knowledge of queer trauma theology can contribute not only to the work of faith leaders, but also to the general field of trauma theology. Considering I am a Lutheran Christian queer theologian, the reality of protestant Christianity will unavoidably be centered. My experience, however, also stems from years of membership in the United Methodist Church in the United States, and my studies at an ecumenical (and partly interreligious) seminary in the Tennessee from where I draw knowledge and context. Thus, ‘the church’ in this article is not meant to signify a particular denomination. My hope is for this framework to be translatable into the reality of other faith contexts as well, in relation to their liturgies, languages, histories, sacred texts, and gods.

I will introduce the theory of queer trauma theology through initially exploring the relationship between queerness and trauma, arguing for the usage of the language of trauma to further understand the complexities of the queer experience. I go on to introduce the concept of the queer resurrection, which is the goal of queer trauma theology. In the last part of the paper, I outline a framework of queer trauma theology, looking particularly at three different aspects and how to use queer trauma theology in exploring them: the need for mourning, the Bible, and queer religious history.

Traumatized queers?

There is no easy definition of trauma, but scholars have described it ‘as an encounter with death. This encounter is not, however, a literal death but a way of describing a radical event or events that shatter all that one knows about the world and all the familiar ways of operating within it.’¹⁴ This is also the definition of trauma that I use. For queer folks, this first encounter of world-shattering events often happens while living in the closet and coming to terms with the fact that the world is not as safe as they have previously believed. Religious scholar Adriaan van Klinken states: ‘From feminist and queer studies, I take the notion of what Ann Cvetkovich describes as “the everyday life of trauma”, in which trauma is not so much a specific and discrete event but is “everyday and ongoing”.’¹⁵ While many queer folks do experience so called big-T-Traumas, like sexual assaults and queerphobic violence, the experience of everyday trauma among queers is even more widespread. Using the concept of ongoing trauma that Cvetkovich introduces, being misgendered is a form of trauma;¹⁶ the experience of erasure and exclusion for queers who are not white, middle-class gay men is a form of trauma; and the experience of being in the closet is a form of trauma.¹⁷

In addition to individual queer folks carrying trauma, the queer community is also a community that carries trauma. For me, this is exemplified by my experience of a Sunday morning worship service in the middle of November of 2022. While celebrating an ecumenical queer centered worship service in the middle of Stockholm, I decide to pull up my phone and take a picture of the president of the Swedish ecumenical queer Christian organization EKHO as he was speaking. As I do, I am met by news flashes about a mass shooting at a gay bar in Colorado. Getting the news while sitting in a queer church context, something breaks in me. This worship service was supposed to be a queer celebration of a loving God, but suddenly my soul is torn, and I keep thinking of Orlando, Oslo, and now Colorado Springs. In the middle of my ongoing research into queer trauma theology, I was brutally reminded of the reality of the collective queer trauma experience.

The queer community carries collective trauma from a long history of marginalization, violence, oppression, queerphobia, closetedness, tragedy, and erasure; from the AIDS-crisis; from being illegal in a vast number of countries around the world; from the shootings in Orlando and Oslo and Colorado Springs; from anti-queer statements by faith leaders, popes, governments, and presidents. Every act of queerphobic violence, murder, oppression, and suicide is an added level of traumatization for the queer community.¹⁸ The way this kind of trauma affects the individual queer person is coined by psychologists as indirect or secondary trauma.¹⁹

Not all queer folks are traumatized, but, I argue, all queer lives are impacted by trauma. Even though not all queers have experienced trauma, the access to queer trauma theology creates an available tool for those who want and need it in their process of self-creation. Clinical psychologist Brooke N. Petersen states: ‘Naming the experience of LGBTQIA+ people as trauma is a gift to some, while it remains a poor fit for others.’²⁰ And I agree. I am not advocating naming the queer experience as traumatic, however, understanding the way queer lives are impacted by trauma better equips us dealing with it.

Instead of being a token of queerphobia, the church could be the very source of care for queer folks. Theology has all the tools to be a source of good on the path to resurrection for the queer community, as will be described next. Before moving into the framework of queer trauma theology, in the next part I explore what I see as the goal of queer trauma theology: the queer resurrection.

The queer resurrection

The psychological field of post-traumatic growth has come to be increasingly criticized over the last years, primarily with reference to methodological weaknesses.²¹ While the appeal of the narrative is strong, that humans grow from trauma, ‘empirical research provides limited evidence that adversity reliably leads to improved psychological functioning.’²² Recent research suggest that post-traumatic growth may not be as widespread, nor as great, as previously thought. Trauma theology is neither interested in, nor equipped to, engage in this debate, however, what is important in trauma theology is to acknowledge that not all trauma survivors will experience, or perhaps are even capable of experiencing, post-traumatic growth. For this reason, trauma theology avoids the language of healing to avoid encouraging an ideology of trauma potentially being a good thing.

In defining and relating to trauma, I build my theories upon the work of trauma theologians Karen O’Donnell and Shelley Rambo who argues that there is no ‘after’ trauma. Rambo writes: ‘Trauma is the suffering that does not go away. The study of trauma is the study of what remains.’²³ Thus, like O’Donnell, I have chosen to stay away from the terminology of healing and recovery. While this is important in trauma theology in general, it is even more important in relationship to queerness. Queers have a particularly toxic relationship to the concept of healing, as society throughout history has claimed queers to be sick or demonized and in need of healing, recovery, or a cure. O’Donnell uses the terminology of ‘post-traumatic remaking,’ while I instead suggest the language of resurrection. As read in the Bible, the resurrection does not cancel out the crucifixion; the resurrection does not fix everything, the scars of the crucifixion remain.²⁴ However, that is not to say that I will fall in the trap of jumping from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, which both Rambo and O’Donnell warn against.

Rambo uses the allegory of Holy Saturday, that most survivors of trauma never make it to the beauty of Easter Sunday and life triumphing death. O’Donnell builds upon Rambo’s work as she writes:

My second frustration with solidarity is that it usually makes too quick a turn to the resurrection. Solidarity through Jesus’ suffering on the cross is given significance because that same suffering is followed by the resurrection, which can give hope that our own suffering will be similarly followed by a relief from that suffering. Trauma theologies (of the sort I am engaged with in this book) aim to resist too quick a turn to the resurrection because it does not do justice to the ongoing experience and realities of living with trauma.²⁵

I interpret their theories as if Easter Sunday is a utopia for trauma survivors. To a certain extent I agree; I do think that many trauma survivors will live the rest of their lives in Holy Saturday. Yet, with a slight alteration of the interpretations of the resurrection, I believe that reaching Easter Sunday is a viable goal for trauma survivors. If Easter Sunday is seen through the eyes of Jesus, Easter Sunday is no longer a triumphant and celebratory victory over death. Instead, resurrecting is persisting, a continued living that brings scars but prevails. This interpretation is in line with queer theologian Elizabeth Stuart’s resurrection theology, which ‘resists the celebratory nature of Easter Sunday.’²⁶

Religious scholar M. Cooper Minister builds upon the work of scholars like Rambo, as well as Karen Bray, Marcella Althaus-Reid, and Elizabeth Stuart, when arguing for a trauma theology that includes a path to resurrection.²⁷ Using the allegory of the resurrection is not to say that everybody carrying trauma will reach that point in their life. Like Rambo states, many people will live the rest of their lives in Holy Saturday, yet I do believe that it can be useful to work toward the aim of resurrection. I resist the jump from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, and am more than willing to stay with Rambo and O’Donnell in Holy Saturday for a prolonged period of time, remaining with God in the ongoing experience of suffering.²⁸ But, I want to challenge the theological interpretation of the resurrection. The queer resurrection should not be seen as the hallelujah in which it is described in churches around the globe each year on Easter Sunday. Instead, I argue, the queer resurrection is to be seen as divine brokenness, of living and persisting with the scars of the crucifixion. Minister interprets Stuart’s reading of the resurrection as an ending of dualism, not only between life and death but also ‘the dualisms of gender, sexual orientation, race and class … ’²⁹ A queer resurrection builds upon that argument to say that it may also be an end to the dualism between broken and healed. The queer resurrection is a continued living that carries scars proudly and that takes ownership of the narrative; a surviving that moves beyond suffering, but that also carries the realities of the past. In the words of Minister,

… resurrection means an end to the rehearsal of the narratives that killed us … In this end, we can create space for those who have been traumatized to invent and design what they need without having to continually perform their trauma in order to defend or rationalize their needs.³⁰

While resurrection is the terminology I use throughout the article, there are sources I cite which use terms like recovery and healing, but I encourage the reader to imagine the queer resurrection in the descriptions of what may happen in the aftermaths of trauma.

The path toward a potential resurrection is not straight forward, but there are some criteria that need to be met. Pioneering trauma theologian Serene Jones lays it out in three different steps. Firstly, Jones states, the person or persons who have experienced trauma need to be able to tell their story: ‘The event needs to be spoken, pulled out of the shadows of the mind into the light of day.’³¹ This is true also in queer trauma theology. Queer folks need to be able to share their testimony in an environment that is willing to hear it fully. This means congregations and faith leaders working through a queer trauma theological framework must be prepared to receive stories of violence, loss, and shame. In rooms created to be safe, queers must be allowed to talk about their fears of religion, their hurt from religion, their hurt in life, their grief in life, about sex and abuse and violence, about how they wish everything to be different and yet want nothing else than what they have.

Leading into Jones’ second point, ‘there needs to be someone to witness this testimony, a third-party presence that not only creates the safe space for speaking but also receives the words when they finally are spoken.’³² The church must witness the story that is being told, which is crucial in both the field of trauma theology as well as trauma theory. O’Donnell states:

Witnessing has long been considered to be a significant element required by the trauma survivor. It is through being witnessed that the trauma survivor constructs a narrative of their trauma that can help make sense of their experience and bring life where death has reigned.³³

In relationship to the queer community, that means that the church also has to receive the story of religiously motivated violence and queerphobia, and the receiving congregation and faith leaders have to be prepared to make amends for the ways in which religion has contributed to the trauma that the queer community has had to endure. The church must look at their own history and make amends for the ways in which religion and religious communities have added to the experience of trauma in the lives of queer people.

Finally, Jones third point is that ‘the testifier and the witness (and we are both) must begin the process of telling a new, different story together: we must begin to pave a new road through the brain.’³⁴ The community creates a new narrative, in which the queer person gets to take ownership of their – individual and collective – story. For this, as Jones expresses, there is a necessity for safety and community. Part of being a witness is helping to create a language and putting experiences into words; of creating narratives and making sense of the world.³⁵ For this process theology is rich with tools. The Bible offers opportunities for putting narratives into context, churches have many liturgies, prayers, and rituals to help make sense of that which does not make sense. Through theology queers can be given words to describe the indescribable, to be able to discuss their existential questions, identity, and the state of their soul. Additionally, faith leaders have the tools, if they are brave enough, to lean into their theology, to dwell in Holy Saturday for as long as the queer person needs. Holy Saturday is a day of witnessing, of being in community, of staying with – and faith leaders are trained to be present in situations that have no words and no answers. It is an opportunity ‘to create space for the articulation of pain and then to move out of that space together,’³⁶ but it is also an opportunity to stay still and stay quiet. Either way, witnessing without judgment is necessary.

One additional important aspect in the journey toward resurrection that Jones does not explore as extensively is the need for embodiment. O’Donnell, referencing Bessel van der Kolk’s groundbreaking book The Body Keeps the Score, states:

talking therapies will only take us so far. Given that traumatic memories are held in the deeper, somatic part of the brain and that the body is entwined with the trauma experience, it makes sense that more than just talking is required for post-traumatic remaking of the self. A retraining, reengagement and return to the body are all required within this process too.³⁷

Being queer is an embodied, spiritual experience. The queer experience is centered in the way the body reacts to others, of sexual and romantic attractions, and the gendered experience of the world. For many queers, especially those with trans experience, the relationship to the body is complicated. Because of this, the experience of embodiment will keep many queers in Holy Saturday for a prolonged period of time. In the framework of queer trauma theology, this is something to be aware of. Witnesses should remember that the embodied experience may be triggering for queer folks, at the same time as the embodiment of trauma theology is crucial on the path toward resurrection. Some embodied rituals may feel safer, for example lighting candles or engaging in the Eucharist, than other experiences, like mindfulness activities that highlights the way the body feels. A fun, embodied experience, like a queer-inclusive dance mass, may be helpful for some queers, but as always it is important to work in accordance with the context in which the congregation is located.

Now, considering that Christianity is the source of so much trauma in queer lives, can Christianity really be the place for queer resurrection? Yes, Petersen argues.³⁸ Petersen even suggests that queer inclusive faith experiences may be necessary for resurrection to happen: ‘Despite these changes, slow though they are, participants in this study describe experiences of trauma that were healed only when they were able to live out their identity in a progressive church community.’³⁹ Additionally, a number of scholars have explored the importance of religion in coping with trauma.⁴⁰ Of course, theology is not the only place where queers find ground for resurrection, probably not even the primary place, but even for those who never make their way to the church, progressive theology helps, and a trauma-sensitive progressive theology even more so. The knowledge of its existence is sometimes good enough for the queer person who explores their path to resurrection. I am not arguing that all queers should go to church, however, I do argue that for many queers creating a healthier relationship to religion would likely be a foundation for a path toward resurrection.

O’Donnell states:

For a church, or other group or institution, to be trauma-sensitive, it needs to be aware not just of the impact of trauma on the trauma survivor but also of what might be required by the survivor in the process.⁴¹

After describing what is needed for a carrier of trauma to move in the direction of resurrection, it is time to delve into the framework of queer trauma theology.

A queer trauma theology

Today, there are numerous queer affirming and queer centered congregations and religious organizations around the world. However, as I convey in this article, being affirming is not enough in serving the queer community, congregations must combine that affirmingness with being trauma-sensitive. For religious contexts to be healthy and not further destructive, contexts of queer inclusive theology require a lens of queer trauma theology.

Pastoral theologian Cody J. Sanders notes in his exploration of queers who have been hurt by religion that several found it important on their journey toward resurrection to connect with progressive and queer friendly churches, one informant noting that it ‘was very restorative to my soul.’⁴² The importance of the existence of queer faith communities cannot be downplayed, and creating space for queer persons of faith to meet and share experiences is part of a queer trauma theology, as community plays an important role for resurrection.

However, going beyond the work of Sanders and Petersen, I argue that queer trauma theology needs to consider that also queer persons with no religious upbringing are impacted by the homophobia within religion. This fact is exemplified by the stories in the introductory part of this article. A friend of mine once noted that even if we do not want to be friends with our neighbors, walking around with the knowledge that our neighbors despise us still impacts us. Secular queer lives are impacted by queerphobic expressions of religion, and that is important for queer affirming trauma-sensitive faith leaders to remember. A Pew Research study from 2014 notes that, in the United States, being religiously unaffiliated is twice as common among LGB folks than among straight folks. Additionally, Pew Research found that most queer folks view Christian churches as unfriendly to queer people.⁴³ This is worth bearing in mind as a church meeting queer folks. In addition, queer trauma theology must consider the non-religious queerphobia in society and be a source of support also in working through non-religious queer trauma experiences. Through a queer trauma theology, churches can not only learn how to support queer people on their journey toward resurrection, but churches can also learn how to stay away from mistakenly adding onto the trauma that queer people carry. I argue for three steps in becoming a trauma-sensitive queer affirming church: education on LGBTQIA+ issues, education on trauma, and returning the power of religion to the queer individual.

The crucial first step in becoming a trauma-sensitive queer affirming church is being educated on LGBTQIA+ issues and being willing to continue that education in an ever-changing landscape. This holds true for heterosexual CIS-gendered and queer faith leaders alike; even queer faith leaders must hold a willingness to listen and learn on the vastness of issues impacting the lives of the queer community. None of us are ever done learning.

The next step in becoming a trauma-sensitive queer affirming church is being educated on how trauma impacts queer lives and what is needed on the journey toward resurrection. That is what this article aims to present. Faith leaders need to understand that many queer persons will approach the church with skepticism, with an assumed unwelcome. Thus, stating the welcome upfront explicitly is crucial in queer trauma theology, as that is in itself a supportive step on the journey toward resurrection.⁴⁴ When I was in my early 20s, I went back to church. While I always liked church, the fear of queerphobia kept me away, and it had taken me years to muster up the courage to go to that worship service. That worship service the pastor happened to be wearing a rainbow stole, and that made all the difference for me. Yet, the church must understand that while stating the explicit welcome is a crucial first step, it is only a first step. A church that works through queer trauma theology understands that the work must run deep into the theology, liturgy and work of the congregation, and the work must continue happening every day.⁴⁵ That rainbow stole made me come back to church to discover the work that the congregation was doing; the stole was not enough to keep me in church, but it was enough to make me come back to discover more.

Queer theology has been created over several decades. There are plenty of queer inclusive languages, liturgies, hymns, and rituals out there. Additionally, some churches offer queer-centered worship services, and on top of performing same-sex weddings some also offer variations of renaming ceremonies and trans-baptisms. However, a trauma-sensitive queer theology is also mindful of the hidden triggers in theology and language. For example, the word ‘sin’ has often been used to justify the discrimination of queer folks. This can make prayers of forgiveness, especially communal such during worship services, triggering. One way to work around this is presented in the Rainbow Mass in the Stockholm diocese of the Church of Sweden. Instead of a communal prayer of forgiveness, the congregation is invited to silent prayer, after which the priest breaks the silence with the words: ‘For you who wishes to hear the words: you are loved, you are desired, and you are forgiven.’⁴⁶ That is one, but not the only, way of offering forgiveness to those who need it, while also staying away from being triggering to those queer people for whom the idea of sin and forgiveness may be troublesome.

Finally, a queer trauma theology needs to hand the power of religion back into the hands of the queer individual. Through a queer affirming education on history, religion, and sacred texts, a queer trauma theology encourages the opportunity to own one’s trauma, one’s narrative, and one’s relationship to theology and faith. The primary tool for a queer trauma theology is the opportunity for queer folks to take ownership of their theology. That is why this article presents a framework for theology, not a complete theology. Trauma-sensitive faith leaders know how to meet queer people where they are at and can walk with them as they themselves lead the way on their own journey toward resurrection.

In the last part, I give examples of what taking ownership of the Bible and religious history through the lens of a queer trauma theology might look like, but first I will speak to the importance of mourning on the journey toward resurrection.

Livssorg

Livssorg is a Scandinavian term with no English equivalent. At best, it can be translated into ‘grief of life,’ although that translation does not fully make the term justice. It is different from melancholy in that it is not necessarily pensive, neither a feeling nor a mood. Livssorg is not about experiencing a feeling of meaninglessness. It is different from existential grief in that the source of grief is often quite clear, rather than a general unknown experience of grief. The term livssorg describes a grief that is lifelong, a heartbreak or a grief that is always at the back of the mind and that will never fully go away. It may be a grief of never knowing a parent or not mending with a family member before they passed. It may be grieving a lost childhood, or infertility resulting in childlessness. A livssorg is not necessarily related to death, but rather to having lost a part of life.

That livssorg is hard to translate speaks to our inability to deal with it. Even in Scandinavia, livssorg is rarely talked about. But whether we know how to name it and deal with it or not, it is there; and, I suggest, for queer people more so than for others. For queer folks it may be grieving the inability to have children, to get married, to travel freely, of lost teenage years, of having lost a whole generation of queer role-models to AIDS. Additionally, queer folks grieve communal and indirect trauma, like the lives lost at the gay nightclubs in Orlando, Oslo, and Colorado Springs. All that requires mourning.

Jones writes about the necessity for mourning that which is lost due to trauma:

It requires acknowledging how much was lost, how deeply it matters, how unstable the world has become in the aftermath, and how difficult it feels to be ever moving forward. It requires full-bodied grieving for what you’ve lost. Grief is hard, actually the hardest of all emotions and perhaps most intolerable because its demands are so excruciating. It requires a willingness to bear the unbearable. As mourning, it requires turning private agony into public, shared loss. If you can learn to truly mourn, then there is at least the possibility of moving on.⁴⁷

Queer trauma theology opens space for these livssorger to be spoken and grieved, even if the livssorg an individual carries may be stigmatized. In a queer trauma theology framework, grief is welcomed without judgement. Many queers have lost part of their lives due to living in the closet, have lost family members, church communities or friend groups due to queerphobia. There must be opportunities for these trauma experiences to be given light, to be spoken, and for the grief to be cared for. Faith leaders are trained in meeting grieving people, and thus need to be able to lean into this theology to meet grieving queer people in the framework of queer trauma theology.

The Bible

I called myself a Christian but stayed away from the Bible out of fear for many, many years, arguing that I did not need it for my faith. Then in college I met a queer Bible professor, and I not only grew the courage to open the Bible, but I learned to read and embrace it – and found that the Bible embraces me too. Now, I know it is a very privileged thing to have been re-introduced to the Bible with the handholding of a queer Bible professor. However, with queer affirming trauma-sensitive faith leaders, more queers can be supported on their journey to rediscover the Bible. Faith leaders cannot let conservative Christian theologies dominate the conversation on the Bible, but should rather guide queers in exploring a liberating relationship to the Bible.

Queer theology has long worked to counter the supposed homophobia of the Bible. That is necessary, but that is not enough. In the framework of queer trauma theology, queers also need to be given the opportunity to see the Bible as a book of liberation. To reach resurrection, queer people need to rewrite the narrative of what the Bible means to them. The Bible has historically been used to oppress queer people, and queer people know this. Whether or not a queer person has ever picked up the Bible, there is a perception of that the Bible is homophobic. Queer theologians have spent thousands of hours and thousands of pages in endless books over the years explaining how these supposedly queerphobic passages are not what they have been used to mean.⁴⁸ This apologetic approach is good, but reading the Bible through the lens of queer trauma theology means moving away from the apologetic approach to explore how the Bible can be liberating for queer people. This is not to say that the Bible does not contain passages that are problematic, but the Bible can still be used for queer liberation. I am convinced it is possible, and below I will outline examples of how.

To take ownership of the Bible, stories need to be told that embrace queer people. Turning the queer reading of the Bible from a hermeneutics of suspicion to a hermeneutics of trust has already been initiated, for example by biblical scholars Robert Goss and Mona West already in the year 2000 with their book Take Back the Word.⁴⁹ However, in my experience claiming the Bible as a source of affirmation is still a minority view in Western queer communities. Narratives from work in other religious contexts, such as the work by van Klinken et. al. with Ugandan refugees located in Kenya, suggest that there may be cultural differences in the queer relationship to the Bible.⁵⁰ There is much to be learned by the embracement and liberation that is found by these queer refugees in the Bible, and it is through this usage of the Bible that the Bible can be reclaimed as a source of love and liberation. Van Klinken and his colleagues have adopted a method of reading the Bible in the queer refugee Ugandan context that integrates the telling of one’s own narrative with the reading of Bible stories as a way of using the Bible in resurrecting from trauma, as a form of resistance and witnessing, and as a form of reclaiming the Bible. They then add theater to play this integrated queer Bible story, which not only encourages creativity but also integrates the body.⁵¹ This work ‘built on traditions in African religious and theological scholarship that engage the Bible as a resource for addressing and healing trauma.’⁵² This is an example of working through trauma and reclaiming the Bible that should be inspirational for congregations, churches and Christians looking for ways to do queer trauma theology.

It is important to note that the reclaiming of the Bible happens both at large scales and at small scales. For many queer folks the adaptation of the Bible as a tool of liberation is already happening in their own context and their own reading of the Bible, although I argue that this aspect needs amplifying. My friend Lindsey Dye did this when she rewrote 1 Corinthians 13 into a queer version and published it in a video on her Instagram:

A queer [1 Cor. 13]

Queer love is patient, because our journey is long

Queer love is kind because we know hatred so well

Queer love does not envy the status quo because our community is special

Queer love does not boast

But Queer love is proud

Queer love does not dishonor others because we value acceptance

Queer love is not self-seeking because community is everything.

Queer love is not easily angered, but is driven to create change in the name of social justice

Queer love keeps no record of wrongs because our names have been on that list for far too long

Queer love does not delight in evil because our love is pure and holy

Queer love rejoices in the truth that we are all God’s beloved children

Queer love protects its own because no one else will

Queer love always trusts that better days are ahead, always hopes that the world will open its eyes, always perseveres.

Queer love never fails.⁵³

In these ways of reclaiming the Bible, as exemplified by the work of van Klinken et al., as well as by my friend Lindsey, through identifying with Bible stories, through adapting language, or through applying verses on a queer life, the Bible may become liberating for queers for whom the Bible has traditionally been used to oppress. This is not to dismiss the problematic aspects of the Bible, but rather a way of choosing how to relate to the Bible and realizing that it is a vast book of many stories which can be used to liberate as much as it can be used to oppress.

A queer religious history

Just like queer people must take ownership of the Bible, queer people must take ownership of their religious history. Scholars are increasingly showing how religion and queerness historically are not as incompatible as previously thought. Peterson speaks to this in her book Religious Trauma as she brings up an article from 1945 by American former army chaplain Bertram Crocker. Crocker suggests that the field of psychology is behind on the topic of homosexuality, and that theologians need to be aware of that as they meet homosexuals.⁵⁴ Peterson writes:

Despite Crocker’s underlying view that homosexual people are ‘sexually abnormal,’ and that the appropriate kind of pastoral relationship will lead to the healing of homosexual desires, what Crocker reveals to us, more than half a century later, is that the relationship between pastoral care and homosexuality is much more complicated than simply fiery condemnation.⁵⁵

Religious historian Heather White’s book Reforming Sodom explores the same topic, where she in detail lays out a perspective of queer religious history that challenges that which is usually presented. My own work as an undergraduate student in New York centered around the life of Rev. Dr. Ed Egan, a pastor in New York City during the 1960s and 1970s, who was an important contributor in the founding of the organization PFLAG: ‘Ed was one of the key early leaders of Parents of Gay, later PFLAG, whose first meeting was convened on 26 March 1973 by Jeanne Manford at the Metropolitan-Duane Church.’⁵⁶ In the United States, the organization LGBTQ Religious Archives Network was founded to preserve queer religious history. On their website, hundreds of stories present faith leaders and forgotten narratives outlaying the importance of religion in the development of the modern queer rights movement.

Unfortunately, the positive impact by religion on the development of queer rights is still globally underexplored, and while the research interest on the topic is on the rise much is yet to be discovered. Ongoing research suggests that similarly to the United States, churches have often been on the forefront of queer rights in Europe as well. For example, in Sweden, the Church of Sweden played an important role during the AIDS crisis; openly lesbian bishop Eva Brunne has been an outspoken queer activist her whole life; a Baptist congregation in Stockholm has openly welcomed homosexuals since 1971; and bishop Lars Carlzon was well-known for his work for queer people both inside and outside the church during the early 1980s.

Speaking this queer affirming religious history is an important part in queer trauma theology, because despite what people may say, research shows that queerness and religion is not as incompatible as it may seem. Many queer heroes throughout history were also religious, and many religious leaders throughout history were also important allies in the fight for queer equality. The present notion of that Christianity has always been homophobic is thus a recent, and anachronistic, idea.⁵⁷

Concluding thoughts

Trauma impacts all queer folks. While the framework of trauma may not be helpful for all queer individuals, it is important for churches who meet queer people to be trauma-sensitive. Additionally, it is important to be aware of the particular ways that trauma impacts queer people, especially considering the role that religion, historically and currently, plays in that experience of queer trauma.

In this article, I have outlined a framework for queer trauma theology that combines the knowledge of queer theology with the field of trauma theology. This is meant to be a basis for the work that churches do for queer people, as well as a contribution to the field of trauma theology. I have great hope for how religion can go from being a source of trauma in the lives of queer people, to a foundation for queer resurrection. A queer trauma theology gives the power of religion, faith, and narrative, to the queer person to own and carry, but does so while also walking along on the journey through education on faith as queer embracing and liberating. Instead of having to defend the position of being a queer person of faith, a queer trauma theology hands the ownership to the queer person to use theology however they want or need (or not at all). Queer trauma theology moves beyond an apologetic approach to religion, to claiming a narrative of liberation, in hopes of finding queer resurrection.

Trauma theologian Shelley Rambo states:

Perhaps the divine story is neither a tragic one nor a triumphant one but, in fact, a story of divine remaining, the story of love that survives. It is a cry arising from the abyss. The question is: can we witness it?⁵⁸

My question is: are we brave enough to embrace the liberating theology of queerness and witness queer peoples’ journey toward resurrection?

Acknowledgements

The author would like to thank her supervisors profs. drs. Ruard R. Ganzevoort and Mariecke van den Berg for their support and helpful comments in developing this article.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Additional information

Notes on contributors

Lina Landström

Lina Landström is a PhD candidate at the Faculty of Religion and Theology, Vrije Universiteit, the Netherlands. She is a queer theologian whose research interests concern the everyday experience of the relationship between faith and queerness, currently focusing on ecclesiological perspectives of faith care for queer refugees.

Notes

1 “God Bless Gay,” Queer Eye (USA: Netflix, 2018).

2 van Klinken, “‘We Shall Not Be Eaten by Any Lions’,” 131–48; van Klinken et al., Sacred Queer Stories.

3 Brinkman, “Transgressive Bodies,” 169–84; Cornwall, Clare-Young, and Gillingham, “Epistemic Injustice Exacerbating Trauma,” 111–30; Daniels and Cronin, “Un(En)Titled? Cissexism, Masculinity and Sexual Violence,” 149–68.

4 Brinkman, “Transgressive Bodies.”

5 Ibid., 169.

6 Tonstad, Queer Theology.

7 Ibid., 64.

8 Ibid, 129.

9 Bochner and Ellis, “Why Autoethnography?” 15.

10 Ibid., 9.

11 Ibid, 14.

12 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 47.

13 Ibid., 47.

14 Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, 4.

15 Klinken, “‘We Shall Not Be Eaten by Any Lions’,” 133.

16 Cornwall, Clare-Young, and Gillingham, “Epistemic Injustice Exacerbating Trauma,” 118.

17 Brinkman, “Transgressive Bodies,” 172.

18 Brown, “Sexuality, Lies, and Loss,” 63.

19 Petersen, Religious Trauma, 36–7.

20 Ibid., 181.

21 Infurna and Jayawickreme, “Redesigning Research on Post-Traumatic Growth,” 322; Park and Boals, “Current Assessment and Interpretation,” 30–1; Park and Boals, “Current Assessment and Interpretation,” 25; Jayawickreme et al., “Post-Traumatic Growth as Positive Personality,” 146.

22 Jayawickreme et al., “Post-Traumatic Growth as Positive Personality Change,” 146.

23 Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, 15.

24 E.g., John 20:24–29.

25 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 111.

26 Minister, “A Twelve-Step Guide to Resurrection,” 237.

27 Ibid., 232.

28 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 64–5.

29 Minister, “Transgressive Bodies,” 242.

30 Ibid., 236.

31 Jones, Trauma and Grace, 32.

32 Ibid.

33 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 56.

34 Jones, Trauma and Grace, 32.

35 Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, 21.

36 Minister, “Transgressive Bodies,” 234–35.

37 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 58.

38 Petersen, Religious Trauma, 21.

39 Ibid., 67.

40 Gozdziak and Shandy, “Editorial Introduction,” 130–31.

41 O’Donnell, The Dark Womb, 59.

42 Sanders, Christianity, LGBTQ Suicide, 103.

43 Petersen, Religious Trauma, 220–21.

44 Ibid., 181–82.

45 Ibid., 182.

46 My translation.

47 Jones, Trauma and Grace, 163.

48 Tonstad, Queer Theology, 16–47.

49 Klinken et al., Sacred Queer Stories, 146.

50 Klinken et al., 146.

51 Klinken, “‘We Shall Not Be Eaten by Any Lions’,” 136.

52 Ibid., 144.

53 First published on Lindsey’s Instagram story in April 2021. Text received in private message on 9 April 2021. Used with permission.

54 Petersen, Religious Trauma, 46.

55 Ibid., 47.

56 “Rev. Dr. Ed Egan: Profile,” LGBTQ Religious Archives Network (blog), June 2017.

57 Petersen, Religious Trauma, 48.

58 Rambo, Spirit and Trauma, 172.