Redeeming Queerness

Easter is one of my favorite holidays. It is a time we get to celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. After Jesus died on the cross, his body and spirit were separated, and were not reunited again until his resurrection three days later. Latter-day Saints testify of Jesus’ resurrection that he lives today with a perfect body of flesh and bone. Not only that, Jesus paved the way for a universal resurrection.[1] Resurrection is not a blessing reserved exclusively for Jesus, but for each and every one of us. We are promised that all people will be resurrected.[2] Christ has risen and has given us hope from death.[3] We will all have the opportunity to receive a celestial body.

In my youth, I often wondered what a celestial body would look like. The majority of the paintings depicting celestial bodies did not resemble my body or experience. As a bisexual, intersex woman, what would my perfected body be like, function like, and feel like? What does the resurrection mean for queer bodies like mine? In Doctrine and Covenants we are taught that the spirit and the body combined are the soul, and the resurrection is the redemption of the soul.[4] But what is to become of my queer body and queer spirit upon the resurrection if my queerness is condemned as ungodly? How am I to understand our theology within the material reality of my body, spirit, and lived experience?

In my youth, I was taught some harmful folk doctrines about what celestial bodies would be like. I was taught that brown and black bodies would become lighter. I was taught that intersex bodies were a mistake and would be made binary. I was taught that gay, lesbian, and bisexual bodies would no longer desire members of the same-sex, and that trans and genderqueer folks would have their gender deviant desires taken from them. I was taught that queer inclinations were a sin in the eyes of God and no such queerness would exist in a celestial body, nor in the presences of God. I call this folk doctrine “Celestial Conversion Therapy.”[5] If my body couldn’t be corrected on earth, the powers that be would fix me in the next life.

I found these stories and folk doctrines deeply distressing. In so many ways, I was taught that my body, desires, and existence were wrong. I was taught I was inherently broken, unfit to be a parent, and ungodly. Ultimately, the resurrection didn’t lead to my eternal life, but my eternal death. I would essentially be transfigured into a thing that wasn’t me―an artificial avatar. Turns out, being me and looking like me are not the same thing. This resurrected being might look like me and sound like me, but it wouldn’t be me. Resurrection wasn’t a hopeful idea, but a harmful one. The death of my body would only be my first death; my second death would happen upon my resurrection when my queer body and spirit would be transfigured into something that wasn’t me. Then I would truly no longer exist.

As I was grappling with my place in the eternities, my dear cousin Molly Cannon said to me, “Blaire, Heaven isn’t Heaven without you there too.” It is one of the most beautiful and comforting things ever said to me by a Latter-day Saint family member. If she were going to Heaven, I would be there too. If not, it wouldn’t be Heaven. She cast her lot in with mine. We would rise and fall together, and that’s what it means to be an eternal family. This is what being members of the body of Christ looks like. She made my thriving her thriving, and her thriving my thriving. We became one in Christ.

Thankfully, I no longer put faith in those harmful folk theologies. Any God worthy of my worship would not seek to destroy my existence but enable my flourishing. I was also taught that God is love.[6] God is charity.[7] As a child of God, I have a divine heritage and destiny.[8] I am part of a divine taxonomy. I believe in that God. I believe in loving Heavenly Parents in an eternally connected Heavenly Family, and our Heavenly Family is bound together in love, not homogenization.[9]

However, if I were going to be resurrected in celestial glory with my family forever, what would that look like for a body like mine? What does redemption mean for queer bodies, people of color, or other victims of violence? Countless queer bodies have been subject to torture, mutilation, violence, hatred, scorn, ridicule, and rejection. How will queer bodies be redeemed without stripping them of their queerness?

Queer bodies are redeemed by redeeming queerness, and we can redeem queerness through Christ. Before Jesus was crucified, he suffered deeply in Gethsemane. He suffered “the pains of every living creature, both men, women, and children, who belong to the family of Adam.”[10] To repeat, he suffered for every “living creature.”

Imagine with me, in the Garden of Gethsemane, among the olive trees, that Jesus’ consciousness was linked, intertwined, connected, or merged with every person who ever lived or ever would live in the world. He didn’t know our experiences by analogy, he actually experienced them so he could comprehend all things. He experienced it all. It’s no wonder he sweat blood.[11] What type of body could withstand the suffering of all humanity, gendered or otherwise?

In Gethsemane, Jesus experienced the pains of a person dying of cancer. He experienced what it is like to be a queer kid constantly being bullied. He experienced the birthing pains of every mother who ever lived or would live. He experienced conversion therapy. He experienced the brutal physical and psychological attacks trans women endure. He experienced the acid poured on a women’s face for her defiance to the patriarchs. He experienced the fear, grief, and sorrow of every parent who has buried their child. He experienced sex slavery. He experienced his first period. He experienced menstruation, not simply from a vagina, but from every pore of his body. He experienced catcalls and rape. He experienced hunger. He experienced disease. He experienced an ectopic pregnancy. He experienced an abortion. He experienced a miscarriage and still birth. He experienced the Holocaust. He experienced war—both the killing and being killed. He experienced internment camps. He experienced depression, anxiety, and suicide. He experienced sleeping on the street with the homeless. He experienced the slave master’s whip on his back and noose around his neck. He knew the fear of every black mother who kissed her son before he left the house, praying he would return home safely. He experienced the effects of unrighteous dominion, corrupt politicians, and all manner of injustice. He experienced the migrant mother with no food or diapers for her baby as she desperately walked northbound in search of a better life. He experienced having his child taken away from him at the border due to “legal complications.” He experienced it all—every death, every cut, every tear, every pain, every sorrow, every bit of suffering imaginable and beyond human imagination. He experienced an onslaught of suffering which was so great that it took a God to bear it. He experienced death and came through the other side to show us the way.[12]

Accounting for the full robustness of Jesus’ experience in Gethsemane, suddenly, the pronoun “He” doesn’t adequately describe Jesus nor his universal act of redemption. Nor would “She.” A being who has known through personal experience all the world’s suffering, gendered or otherwise, becomes “They.” Jesus Christ entered Gethsemane as “He,” but left Gethsemane as “They.” Jesus tapped into the consciousness of the entire world and that’s not an experience which can be dismissed as forgettable or non-queer.

Yet that’s not all. Redemption, atoning, and resurrection are not exclusive to Jesus. Jesus personally invited each of us to join him in the Body of Christ. In 1 Corinthians we read:

For as the body is one, and hath many members, and all the members of that one body, being many, and one body: so also is Christ… For the body is not one member, but many… And whether one member suffer, all the members suffer with it; or one member be honoured, all the members rejoice with it. Now ye are the body of Christ and members in particular. [13]

Though Jesus walked out of Gethsemane as a “They,” his invitation to join him makes Christ a “We.” Together, we are becoming Christ with Jesus’ example as our guide. Together we are made queer in Christ with Jesus. Our scriptures demand our participation in this endeavor. We must all take on the name of Christ, and we do this every Sunday when we take the sacrament. When we participate in the sacrament, we are transforming Christ from a “He,” “She,” and “They,” into a “We.” In Philippians we read "I want to know Christ—yes, to know the power of his resurrection and participation in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death."[14] With our participation in mind, Gethsemane takes on new meaning.

In Gethsemane, we experienced the pains of a person dying of cancer. We experienced what it is like to be a queer kid constantly being bullied. We experienced the birthing pains of every mother who ever lived or would live. We experienced conversion therapy. We experienced the brutal physical and psychological attacks trans women endure. We experienced the acid poured on a women’s face for her defiance to the patriarchs. We experienced the fear, grief, and sorrow of every parent who has buried their child. We experienced sex slavery. We experienced our first period. We experienced menstruation, not simply from a vagina, but from every pore of our body. We experienced catcalls and rape. We experienced hunger. We experienced disease. We experienced an ectopic pregnancy. We experienced an abortion. We experienced a miscarriage and still birth. We experienced the Holocaust. We experienced war—both the killing and being killed. We experienced internment camps. We experienced depression, anxiety, and suicide. We experienced sleeping on the street with the homeless. We experienced the slave master’s whip on our back and noose around our neck. We knew the fear of every black mother who kissed her son before he left the house, praying he would return home safely. We experienced the effects of unrighteous dominion, corrupt politicians, and all manner of injustice. We experienced the migrant mother with no food or diapers for her baby as she desperately walked northbound in search of a better life. We experienced having our child taken away from us at the boarder due to “legal complications.” We experienced it all—every death, every cut, every tear, every pain, every sorrow, every bit of suffering imaginable and beyond human imagination. We experienced an onslaught of suffering which was so great that it took a God to bear it. We experienced death and came through the other side to show ourselves the way.[15]

We must do godly things and become Gods. We must take on the shape of each other’s pain. If this seems like an insurmountable goal, I would not blame you for uttering the words, “If it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”[16] Even Jesus, the begotten son of Heavenly Parents, was sorrowful unto death.[17] You are allowed to weep and rejoice. You are allowed sadness and joy. You are allowed the fullest human experience possible filled with complex emotions. Even Jesus was doubtful about the task laid before him.

This is what it means to take on the role of Christ. This is how to become Gods just like our Heavenly Parents. We must be brave enough to take on the pains of the world and reconcile every wrong. We must bear one another’s burdens. We must take on the queerness of the atonement and reconcile in love, compassion, and charity through profounds acts of empathy. If we do this, the resurrection, redemption, and restoration of queerness will be a natural outcome of Christ’s all-encompassing love and charity.

As we look toward celestial glory, sometimes people forget that eternity is right now. Eternity is made of an endless series of “nows.” Too often we look to the future for eternal glory, so much so that celestial paradise always feels just out of reach. The resurrection feels like something reserved for later. Redemption feels like something reserved for later. Atoning feels like something reserved for later. Yet, eternity is now. If we are looking to redeem queerness, we must do it now, not later. When have we ever been counseled to procrastinate the day of our salvation?[18]

It is my personal witness that it is our responsibility as members of the body of Christ to redeem the dead, restore what’s been lost, reconcile our differences, and lift one another into a celestial state of glory. This is a work that isn’t reserved exclusively for Jesus―it is our work too. This is also not a work reserved for a later time and place, but a work that is occurring right now. The sacrament is our reminder that if we follow the example of Jesus, join him in the body of Christ, and do the works he did, wonderous realities are possible―even the resurrection and redemption of queer souls.[19] If Jesus, in all his holy queerness, can stand in the presence of God, so too can we.

Notes and Citations

[1] 1 Corinthians 6:14

[2] 1 Corinthians 15:20, Alma 11:42-45

[3] 1 Peter 1:3

[4] Doctrine and Covenants 88:14-17

[5] Blaire Ostler, “Queer Mormon Theology: An Introduction,” BCC Press, 2021. pp 103-105.

[6] 1 John 4:8, 16

[7] Moroni 7:47-48

[8] Joseph Smith, “King Follett Sermon,” April 7, 1884.

[9] Blaire Ostler, “Finding Unity in Diversity through Christ,” Queer Mormon Transhumanist, September 2018. https://www.blaireostler.com/journal/2018/9/11/finding-unity-in-diversity-through-christ?rq=diversity

[10] 2 Nephi 9:21

[11] Luke 22:44

[12] Blaire Ostler, “Queer Mormon Theology: An Introduction,” BCC Press, 2021. pp 37-40.

[13] 1 Corinthians 12:12, 14, 26-27

[14] Philippians 3:10

[15] Blaire Ostler, “Queer Mormon Theology: An Introduction,” BCC Press, 2021. pp 44-46.

[16] Matthew 26:39-42

[17] Matthew 26:38

[18] Alma 34:32-33

[19] 1 Corinthians 12: 14-27, John 14:12

*Originally published in Exponent II on November 11, 2021.