Christian Nationalism: What It Means To An Ethical Vegan and Trans Identifying Queer

Christian nationalism is hard. Like, very hard. Not because of the Christian behind it. I’ve come to really appreciate the peace Christianity brings my mom, for instance. But because of the nationalism behind it. Insisting that everyone live by your own rules is not very fun. It wasn’t fun for me when I was a practicing Christian, and it’s not very fun for me now that I’m openly queer non-believer.

It’s not too dissimilar to my experience living as an ethical vegan. Part of me wants to force everyone to be a vegan. I mean, I believe that exploiting animals is horrific. To me, it’s the same as exploiting humans. It’s just that humans look like us, and most of us can speak, read and write. But animals feel pain, joy, build complex communities, and even have their own languages. Why wouldn’t I think it’s horrible to exploit them just for our convenience? Why wouldn’t I want to make that illegal? But not everyone holds those views. As hard as that is for me to fathom, it’s reality. Not only do some think it’s okay to exploit animals, they think it’s okay to murder them en masse. They don’t think it’s exploitation. They don’t think it’s murder. Somehow, they’ve convinced themselves that they are better than them. That humans have more rights than animals do. That humans are more deserving of a life of dignity and autonomy. To most people, animals are a commodity. And even if it’s hard to hold that truth, I can’t force anyone to believe like me.

In the same way, I think it’s horrible that many Christians believe so strongly that queer people (specifically, LGBTQ+ people) don’t deserve equality. They believe it so strongly that it bleeds over into the way they vote. It even determines how they treat queer people. In a way, I feel like this gives many Christians a license to “exploit” the queer community for their own convenience.

I’m not asking Christians to do anything I am not doing. I’m not asking anyone to do for me what I’m not willing to do for them.

As a matter of fact, I haven’t always identified as queer, transgender or non-binary. I was once a Christian nationalist. I was an evangelical missionary. Born again, honey! Of course, some would argue that I never was a Christian because I do not currently exhibit what they would consider “fruits of the spirit.” I’m probably anathema to many of my Christian friends and family. But back then, I believed in the God of Christian scripture with every once of my being — and I wanted everyone else to believe, too. I was in favor of forcing, through legislation and policy, everyone to uphold Christian values. I even preached from pulpits, taught Sunday School classes, and led Bible studies where I took every opportunity to spread this message. Independence Day was a sacred holiday in my church, and being in the USA was always celebrated as an incredible gift from God. I believed this was a Christian nation and that I needed to do whatever I had to do to make sure it stayed that way.

But one day, I realized that I didn’t believe that anymore. It was the most painful realization of my life because I had to disentangle myself from the only community I had ever known. My church family was like my biological family. We were bonded in an immeasurable way. As I started questioning the foundational beliefs of my church community, one of the church leaders put a finger in my face and said, “If you don’t believe like us, you need to leave.” And I did!

I estranged myself from my friends and family. I moved away from Hueytown, Alabama and I didn’t have very nice things to say about the only place I had ever called home. I moved to New York City, and I made a new life for myself. For nearly 20 years, I didn’t have meaningful conversations with my family. I never talked to the people I went to church with — the people outside of my home that I spent most of my time with.

Then, three years ago, my mom texted me. “I have cancer,” she said. “It’s terminal.” They gave her two years to live. I knew I had to go home. I spent years without much more than holiday communications, and now I was going home for three months to rebuild a relationship with my family. I was going home for my mom — but I was also going home for myself. The hole left in my heart from the estrangement was debilitating. Cancerous in its own way. Terminal, even. It was killing me. So, I went home.

Over the course of one Sunday lunch, my family talked. Now, most of my family are the most conservative brand of Republican and the most devoutly religious Christians. I had drifted so far from that identity that the chasm seemed too big to bridge. How were we ever going to get on the same page?

It’s amazing what empathy can do.

For three and a half hours, my family shared their feelings. We decided not to use the word “you” or the word “should.” We decided to deeply listen to how each person was feeling and do our best to understand what they needed. They say food is medicine, but I think it was the dialogue that healed us that day. We apologized, we laughed, we cried, we hugged — and I have a relationship with them to this day.

My mom is still alive and still fighting cancer with the help of chemo treatments and her Christian faith. I recently spent 10 days with her, and we talked a lot about what’s going on in the world. In the wake of Charlie Kirk’s murder, there’s a surge of anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric and an increase in the spread of anti-trans misinformation. I want to convince everyone to see the world like I do: inclusive and respectful of queer and trans people.

I didn’t want to fight with my mom. Every day with her is precious! Instead, I wanted to learn from her. She has an incredible capacity to love. And she’s a natural teacher. I wanted us to figure out how to move forward — together. So, we talked. She told me how she was feeling and what she needed, and I did the same. I didn’t try to convince her. I just tried to listen and understand. I think she did the same for me.

That’s pluralism. There are many ways to define pluralism, such as the way The Global Center for Pluralism does. But I think a great working definition is “knowing who you are and who other people are and being okay with coexisting in society while working together for the good of all.”

It doesn’t mean you don’t fight for what you believe in. I don’t want anyone to eat meat, but I am okay with coexisting with meat eaters. I will advocate for the rights of animals. I’ll volunteer at farm sanctuaries and attend protests and donate to animal rights organizations. I will have intimate conversations with people about my feelings. Oftentimes, those actions and conversations lead to change. But I’m not going to try to eradicate all meat eaters.

In the same way, I would love for everyone — even those that oppose queer rights — to coexist with each other in empathy and respect.

Instead of violently eradicating, erasing, silencing, or incriminating those that disagree with us, let’s talk to them. Gordon Allport’s Intergroup Contact Theory and Marshall Rosenberg’s Non-Violent Communication framework are great places to start.

I should also note that I’m still grappling with the immediate effects of harmful actions imposed on minorities. Lynchings, for instance, must never be allowed. The denial of healthcare, the spread of misinformation, the incitement of violence against people of color and trans people, the financial entrapment of a system designed to protect the rich — we must end these acts of violence. It’s not enough to simply talk to our opponents when they are actively hurting us. Resistance is not futile. It’s necessary for survival. We need immediate action against immediate harm. But those are specific strategies I’m not talking about here.

There’s a much deeper conversation that needs to happen. Perhaps the one like Ezra Klein and Ta-Nehisi Coates had on The Ezra Klein Show:

Even so, I acknowledge the privilege that I carry, protected by my whiteness and by the fact that I look like a man. In a way, it’s easy for me to say that we should talk to each other to solve our problems. And though I’ve confronted abusers, those who have assaulted me, religious warriors, bigots, those in politics who write policies that harm me — and countless other people that perpetuate harm against me and other queer people — I will still not know what it’s like to sit at the intersection of other marginalizations. So, while I truly do believe in pluralism rooted in empathy and mutual respect, I also believe that everyone is entitled to their own reaction to the harsh treatment of the world. And I will do whatever I can to ensure the immediate end to harm that causes physical pain or death. I don’t know how to say it other than the approach to healing is complex and requires many different roles.

Imagine a river where, every night, children are swept downstream in danger of drowning. Villagers may build nets, post guards, or rush into the water to save them — and they must, because the danger is immediate. But eventually, someone has to go upstream and ask: why are the children in the river at all? Addressing the harm in the moment is survival; addressing the cause is transformation.

Picture a village where houses keep catching fire. The firefighters are constantly busy — saving lives, containing damage, protecting what they can. But eventually, the community has to ask: what’s causing all these fires? Only by addressing the spark at its source can they create lasting safety.

Think of a garden where dandelion weeds keep choking out the crops. You can keep cutting the weeds back every season, and you must if you want anything to grow. But unless you get down to the roots and change the soil, the weeds will always return.

I’m specifically comparing Christian nationalism and pluralism — and I’m questioning how they each impact the LGBTQ+ community. I’m talking about the long game. What’s upstream? Where’s the spark that started this fire? How do we root it out?

I’m wondering if there’s a way for us to coexist. Christian nationalism doesn’t allow us to do this. Pluralism does. 

I am excited for a society that doesn’t cause immediate harm to queer trans nonbinary people like me. I’m excited to live in a society that addresses our disagreements in ways that allows everyone to live in peace.

Let’s treat every day like I treat the days I have left with my mom. That means that we don’t cause others harm simply because we believe differently than them. Instead, we get to listen deeply and try our best to understand. Days with other humans are special. Days with my mom are sacred. They are gifts.

Precious, precious gifts.