Читать книгу Rainbow Theology - Patrick S. Cheng - Страница 8
ОглавлениеWhen I was growing up in the San Francisco Bay Area in the 1970s and 80s, I looked forward each year to the annual network television broadcast of The Wizard of Oz. My favorite part of the movie was when it transitioned from black and white to dazzling Technicolor. The first part of the movie, when Dorothy and Toto are in Kansas, was shot in black and white. After Dorothy and Toto are transported over the rainbow, however, they step out of their monochromatic house into the multicolored hues of Munchkinland. Dorothy is greeted by Glinda, the Good Witch of the South, and Glinda urges the Munchkins to “come out, come out, wherever you are.”1
Somehow I imagined that my own coming out process as a gay man would be just like Dorothy and Toto’s transition from black and white into Technicolor. After all, gay men loved The Wizard of Oz and even called themselves “friends of Dorothy.” That is, I would be transported from the closet—a monochromatic black and white space—into a fabulous rainbow-colored space that was the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex, and queer (“LGBTIQ” or “queer”) community.2
Unfortunately, my coming out process as a gay man was far less fabulous than I had imagined. This was due in large part to the fact that I am also an Asian American man. I quickly found out that to be a person of color within the LGBTIQ community posed its own set of challenges. When I came out of the closet in the mid-1980s in college, I thought I was a unicorn. That is, I thought that I was a one-of-a-kind mythical creature because everyone I knew in the gay and lesbian community was white, and everyone I knew in the Asian American community was straight.3
Not only did I not know other LGBTIQ people of color, but I was actively excluded from parts of gay culture. When I went to a gay bar in Washington, D.C., with my white gay friends from college, I was asked to show several forms of identification, whereas my friends were not.4 And once I was allowed inside the bar, I felt completely invisible. Nobody talked to me or said hello. So much for being “somewhere over the rainbow.” I was stuck in a monochromatic world.
1. Never Quite Getting to Oz
In some ways, the experience of LGBTIQ people of color can be characterized as never quite getting to Oz. That is, those of us who identify as queer people of color are often stuck in the liminal space between Dorothy and Toto’s monochromatic house from Kansas and the Technicolor hues of the Land of Oz. Although we may have been transported over the rainbow as a result of coming out of the closet, we are never able to walk out of the black and white doorway into a truly rainbow space—that is, a space in which the multicolored hues of our bodies, sexualities, and spiritualities are appreciated and seen as beautiful.
First, queer people of color never quite get to Oz because of the racism that we face from the predominantly white LGBTIQ community. In addition to experiencing the historical practices of exclusion such as multiple carding by gay bars, we are often rendered virtually invisible by the LGBTIQ media. For example, in 2011, Out Magazine released its fifth annual “Power 50 List” of the fifty most powerful people in the LGBTIQ community.5 Of the fifty names on the list, only two persons were identifiably people of color. Furthermore, both were Latino men, which means that there were no African Americans, Asian Americans, people of Indigenous descent, or women of color on the list.
Second, queer people of color never quite get to Oz because of the queerphobia6 that we experience from predominantly non-queer communities of color. For example, many of us are rejected by our biological families because of our sexualities and/or gender identities. Unlike our straight and cisgender7 siblings of color, LGBTIQ people of color are often unable to turn to our families of origin for support when we face issues of racism either inside or outside of the LGBTIQ community.
Third, queer people of color never quite get to Oz because of both the racism and the queerphobia that we experience from many religious—and especially Christian—communities. That is, many conservative Christian communities are toxic sites for LGBTIQ people of color in which the mutually-reinforcing oppressions of racism and queerphobia converge. In particular, this dynamic can be seen in the context of the marriage equality debate in which the religious right has actively used racism and queerphobia to prevent the enactment of same-sex marriage laws.
With respect to racism, predominantly white religious groups such as the so-called National Organization for Marriage (NOM) intentionally exploit racial tensions by pitting people of color against LGBTIQ people. For example, a confidential report by NOM was leaked in March 2012 that explicitly argued for a strategy to “drive a wedge between gays and blacks” as well as Latina/os.8
With respect to queerphobia, religious leaders such as Bishop Harry Jackson, an outspoken African American pastor from Maryland who is vehemently opposed to same-sex marriage rights, have articulated a false dichotomy of race on the one hand vs. sexuality on the other hand. For example, Jackson told a conference of the religious right in Texas in July 2012: “We need to steal back the rainbow. We can’t let the gays have it.” Jackson continued by proclaiming: “We’re the rainbow coalition. We’re the army of God.”9 According to Jackson, people of color are the “true” children of the rainbow. However, this ignores the fact that there are LGBTIQ people of color who are both queer and of color.
These divide-and-conquer strategies of the religious right are particularly reprehensible because not only do they exploit racism and queerphobia for political purposes, but they ignore the existence of LGBTIQ people of color. Contrary to what Harry Jackson and NOM may think, there are in fact millions of people in this country—not to mention around the world—who are queers of color.10 And queers of color are already members of the very “rainbow coalition” that Jackson and NOM are trying to appropriate for their own goals.
In sum, LGBTIQ people of color never quite get to Oz. We are excluded from both the LGBTIQ community (because of racism) as well as communities of color (because of queerphobia). And we are caught in the middle when the religious right pits the LGBTIQ community against communities of color (because of both racism and queerphobia).
2. Goals of the Book
This book is written within the larger context of the exclusion and silencing of LGBTIQ people of color. Accordingly, the goals of this book are twofold. The first goal is to lift up the writings by LGBTIQ theologians of color and to break the silence with respect to such writings. The second goal is to rethink the enterprise of Christian theology by moving the experiences of LGBTIQ people of color from the margins to the center.
a. Lifting Up Queer of Color Theologies
The first goal of this book is to lift up the writings by LGBTIQ theologians of color. Although queer theologians of color have been writing about their experiences for at least the last two decades, these writings remain largely unknown within the broader queer theological world. My hope is that this book, by bringing together and organizing these writings, will begin to break the silence with respect to the work of LGBTIQ theologians of color.
For example, an important anthology of queer theological writings published in 2007, Queer Theology: Rethinking the Western Body, includes (as far as I can tell) no contributions from LGBTIQ theologians of color.11 Other than a brief discussion about homophobia and the Black Church by the queer ethicist Kathy Rudy,12 the anthology contains no discussion (again, as far as I can tell) relating to the experiences of LGBTIQ people of color. Sadly, the Queer Theology anthology is true to its subtitle; it is indeed a rethinking of the “western body,” but bodies of African, Asian, Latin American, or Indigenous descent are not mentioned.
This is particularly problematic because queer theologies of color have been around for at least two decades. Two pioneering works of queer Black theology appeared in 1993: one about the silence of the Black Church with respect to gay and bisexual men and the HIV/AIDS pandemic;13 and another about the silence of womanist theologians with respect to Black lesbians and issues of heterosexism and homophobia.14
These two works were followed in 1996 with a groundbreaking essay about the queer Asian American Christian experience.15 The following year, 1997, saw the publication of a theological reflection about the Latina lesbian experience.16 In 2000, a revolutionary book-length work on “indecent theology” was published by a Latin American bisexual theologian.17 Since the mid-2000s, there has been a proliferation of writings by LGBTIQ theologians of color, including a book-length treatment about homophobia and the Black Church (2006),18 a queer Black critique of Black liberation theology (2010),19 and a rethinking of the Christian doctrines of sin and grace from a queer Asian American perspective (2012).20
To be sure, things are changing. The U.K. queer theologian Susannah Cornwall, in her 2011 introductory text on queer theology, Controversies in Queer Theology, included a chapter entitled “Is Queer Theology Inherently White or Western?” In that chapter, Cornwall addressed the critiques of theologians of color, including myself, that queer theologies have “failed to engage adequately with questions of ethnicity and ‘race.’”21 And the 2012 two-volume anthology Queer Religion, edited by Donald L. Boisvert and Jay Emerson Johnson, included a number of contributions from African American, Asian American, and Latina/o theologians and religious studies scholars.22
Nevertheless, to date, there has been no book-length treatment about the writings of LGBTIQ theologians of color, nor has there been any book-length work about the experiences of LGBTIQ people of color from a theological perspective. It is my hope that this book will begin to fill the gap in the literature.
b. From the Margins to the Center
The second goal of this book is to rethink the enterprise of Christian theology by moving the experiences of LGBTIQ people of color from the margins to the center. That is, this book asks what a queer of color theology can contribute to the larger theological enterprise. What does the unique position of LGBTIQ people of color—that is, those individuals who are both fully queer and fully of color—have to say about the Gospel? Where is God in the experiences of LGBTIQ people of color?
To date, LGBTIQ people have been relegated to the margins with respect to theological and ecclesial debates about sexuality. Whether it is the debates in the Anglican Communion over the 2003 consecration of the Right Reverend V. Gene Robinson as the first openly-gay partnered person to be consecrated a bishop,23 or the debates in the United States over civil marriage equality, the lines of debate are usually divided between straight and cisgender communities of color on the one hand, and white LGBTIQ communities on the other. LGBTIQ people of color are often rendered invisible in these debates.
By contrast, this book will argue that the experiences of LGBTIQ people are central to the theological enterprise. Specifically, this book will propose a “rainbow theology,” which is, simply put, a theology that celebrates the experiences of queer people of color. The book will explore the three rainbow themes of (1) multiplicity, (2) middle spaces, and (3) mediation. The book will also argue that these rainbow themes are not only central to the queer of color experience, but they are also central to Christian theology itself.
These three rainbow themes are contrasted with what this book will call “monochromatic theology,” which is characterized by the opposing themes of (1) singularity, (2) staying home, and (3) selecting sides. Many progressive theologies—including early liberation theologies—are actually monochromatic theologies. That is, monochromatic theologies focus primarily on liberation from a singular oppression, as opposed to challenging the interplay of multiple oppressions. Monochromatic theologies also assume that there is a single, metaphorical “home” that consists of others who experience this singular oppression. Finally, monochromatic theologies urge those who are oppressed by this singular oppression to “choose” the side of the oppressed (as opposed to the oppressors). In reality, however, LGBTIQ people of color experience complicated dynamics of oppression that call into question the monochromatic themes of singularity, staying home, and selecting sides. By contrast, rainbow theology—with its themes of multiplicity, middle spaces, and mediation—can be a helpful corrective to monochromatic theologies.24
In sum, rainbow theology arises out of the specific experiences of LGBTIQ people of color, but it is not limited to such individuals. Rather, it is a new way of doing theology. Rainbow theology takes seriously the unique position of queers of color with respect to the LGBTIQ community and communities of color, and it challenges all theologies to reflect upon the intersections of race, sexuality, and spirit.
3. Overview of the Book
This book is divided into two parts. Part I of the book focuses on “queer of color theologies”—that is, theologies written by theologians who identify as both queer and of color. Chapter one introduces some of the definitions and key theoretical issues relating to such queer of color theologies.
Chapters two through five each provide a survey of the main subgroups of queer of color theology. Instead of covering the theologies chronologically, I have chosen to organize them by racial and ethnic groups. I do this not to reinforce traditional racial and ethnic categories, but rather to explore certain shared themes—and differences—within each subgroup.
Specifically, chapter two looks at queer Black theologies with its themes of Black Church exclusion, reclaiming Black lesbian voices, and challenging Black liberation theologies. Chapter three looks at queer Asian American theologies with its themes of Asian and Asian American church exclusion, critiquing LGBTIQ racism, and highlighting transnational perspectives. Chapter four looks at queer Latina/o theologies with its themes of living on the borderlands, challenging machismo, and crossing literary and religious borders. Chapter five looks at Two-Spirit Indigenous scholarship with its themes of resisting settler colonialism, recognizing Two-Spirit identities, and doing the work of allies.
Part II of the book focuses on the construction of a rainbow theology. Chapter six introduces the concept of rainbow theology and provides an overview to the three rainbow themes of (1) multiplicity, (2) middle spaces, and (3) mediation. As noted above, these three themes are contrasted with the monochromatic themes of (1) singularity, (2) staying home, and (3) selecting sides. Chapters seven, eight, and nine examine each of the above three rainbow themes in greater detail. Chapter ten concludes Part II of the book by illustrating how a rainbow theology might work in the specific context of christology.
Having mapped out the main themes and outline of the book, let us now turn to Part I of the book, which focuses on queer of color theologies.
Study Questions
1. Have you ever experienced “never quite getting to Oz”? That is, have you been in situations in which you have not felt completely welcomed because of your race, sexuality, and/or spirituality?
2. How do you describe your own social location with respect to race, sexuality, and spirituality? How fluid have these identities been throughout your life?
3. When did the first works of queer of color theology appear? How have such works been treated within mainstream queer theology?
4. What are the three “rainbow” themes covered by this book? How do they compare and contrast with the three “monochromatic” themes?
5. How might Part I of this book be useful in your own theological work and reflections? Part II?
For Further Study
Definitions
• Cheng, From Sin to Amazing Grace, xvi–xviii
• Cheng, Radical Love, 2–8
• Palmer and Haffner, A Time to Seek, 7–11
Queer of Color Theologies
• Cheng, From Sin to Amazing Grace, 133–45
• Cheng, Radical Love, 74–77
• Cornwall, Controversies in Queer Theology, 72–113
• Goss, Queering Christ, 253
• Schippert, “Implications of Queer Theory for the Study of Religion and Gender,” 74–77
1 The Wizard of Oz, directed by Victor Fleming (1939).
2 For more information about definitions relating to the LGBTIQ community, see chapter 1 below. See also Timothy Palmer and Debra W. Haffner, A Time to Seek: Study Guide on Sexual and Gender Diversity (Westport, CT: Religious Institute, 2006), 7–11; Patrick S. Cheng, From Sin to Amazing Grace: Discovering the Queer Christ (New York: Seabury Books, 2012), xvi–xviii; Patrick S. Cheng, Radical Love: An Introduction to Queer Theology (New York: Seabury Books, 2011), 2–8.
3 See Patrick S. Cheng, “A Unicorn at the White House,” Huffington Post (July 30, 2012), accessed January 3, 2013, http://huff.to/Phq3d2.
4 The gay historian Allan Bérubé has written about the practice of “triple-carding” by gay bars to dissuade people of color from entering. This was done because a bar could lose its popularity if it was perceived to have been “taken over” by gay men of color. Allan Bérubé, My Desire for History: Essays in Gay, Community, and Labor History (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011), 206.
5 “Fifth Annual Power 50,” Out.com, accessed January 3, 2013, http://bit.ly/yyesrL.
6 “Queerphobia” is an umbrella term that refers collectively to the fears that certain straight and/or non-transgender people have of lesbians and gay men (“homophobia”), bisexuals (“biphobia”), and transgender people (“transphobia”).
7 “Cisgender” refers to people who do not identify as transgender.
8 John Becker, “Secret NOM Documents Reveal Race-Baiting Strategy,” Huffington Post (March 27, 2012), accessed January 3, 2013, http://huff.to/HbkIUL.
9 “Harry Jackson, Maryland Bishop, Claims Gays Are ‘Trying to Recruit’ Children, Wants to ‘Steal Back’ Rainbow,” Huffington Post (August 3, 2012), accessed January 3, 2013, http://huff.to/QMrx3q. On November 6, 2012, Maryland voters approved same-sex marriage by popular vote, and the first same-sex marriages occurred in that state on January 1, 2013.
10 Assuming that there are some 8.7 million LGBTIQ people in the United States, and approximately 37 percent of the population consists of racial and ethnic minorities, then there are some 3.2 million queers of color in the United States. See “How Many LGBT’s Live in America?,” Advocate (April 6, 2011), accessed January 3, 2013, http://bit.ly/JRLwKZ; Doris Nhan, “Census: Minorities Constitute 37 Percent of U.S. Population,” National Journal (May 17, 2012), accessed January 3, 2013, http://bit.ly/QvPLLG.
11 See Gerard Loughlin, ed., Queer Theology: Rethinking the Western Body (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2007), vii–viii.
12 See Kathy Rudy, “Subjectivity and Belief,” in Loughlin, Queer Theology, 46–48.
13 See Elias Farajaje-Jones, “Breaking Silence: Toward an In-the-Life Theology,” in Black Theology: A Documentary History, Volume II, 1980–1992, ed. James H. Cone and Gayraud S. Wilmore (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1993), 139–59.
14 See Renee L. Hill, “Who Are We for Each Other?: Sexism, Sexuality and Womanist Theology,” in Cone and Wilmore, Black Theology II, 345–51.
15 See Leng Leroy Lim, “The Gay Erotics of My Stuttering Mother Tongue,” Amerasia Journal 22, no. 1 (1996): 172–77.
16 See Margarita Suárez, “Reflections on Being Latina and Lesbian,” in Que(e)rying Religion: A Critical Anthology, ed. Gary David Comstock and Susan E. Henking (New York: Continuum, 1997), 347–50.
17 See Marcella Althaus-Reid, Indecent Theology: Theological Perversions in Sex, Gender and Politics (London: Routledge, 2000).
18 See Horace L. Griffin, Their Own Receive Them Not: African American Lesbians and Gays in Black Churches (Cleveland, OH: Pilgrim Press, 2006).
19 See Roger A. Sneed, Representations of Homosexuality: Black Liberation Theology and Cultural Criticism (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010).
20 See Cheng, From Sin to Amazing Grace.
21 Susannah Cornwall, Controversies in Queer Theology (London: SCM Press, 2011), 73.
22 See, e.g., Michael Sepidoza Campos, “The Baklâ: Gendered Religious Performance in Filipino Cultural Spaces,” in Queer Religion: Volume II, LGBT Movements and Queering Religion, ed. Donald L. Boisvert and Jay Emerson Johnson (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2012), 167–91; Jojo (Kenneth Hamilton), “Searching for Gender-Variant East African Spiritual Leaders, From Missionary Discourse to Middle Course,” in Queer Religion: Volume I, Homosexuality in Modern Religious History, ed. Donald L. Boisvert and Jay Emerson Johnson (Santa Barbara, CA: Praeger, 2012), 127–45; Juan A. Herrero-Brasas, “Whitman’s Church of Comradeship: Same-Sex Love, Religion, and the Marginality of Friendship,” in Boisvert and Johnson, Queer Religion I, 169–89; Roland Stringfellow, “Soul Work: Developing a Black LGBT Liberation Theology,” in Boisvert and Johnson, Queer Religion I, 113–25; Ruth Vanita, “Hinduism and Homosexuality,” in Boisvert and Johnson, Queer Religion I, 1–23; Lai-shan Yip, “Listening to the Passion of Catholic nu-tongzhi: Developing a Catholic Lesbian Feminist Theology in Hong Kong,” in Boisvert and Johnson, Queer Religion II, 63–80; Kuukua Dzigbordi Yomekpe, “Not Just a Phase: Single Black Women in the Black Church,” in Boisvert and Johnson, Queer Religion II, 109–23.
23 See Miranda K. Hassett, Anglican Communion in Crisis: How Episcopal Dissidents and Their African Allies Are Reshaping Anglicanism (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007).
24 It should be noted that I am not setting up a binary between rainbow and monochromatic theologies here. Rather, I am suggesting that the themes of rainbow theology can be used to enrich the analysis of traditional liberation theologies.
