(The day before I [now known as Khrysso LeFey] joined Dublin Unitarian Universalist Church [now known as North Unitarian Universalist Congregation, Lewis Center, Ohio].)
“Why would you want to do that?” she ejaculated when I told her I was officially going to join the Unitarian Universalist church, thereby belonging to an “organized religion” (an expression she suggested was oxymoronic in this case) for the first time since I broke with Roman Catholicism some sixteen years ago.
Hell, I don’t know. Why would I want to do that?
I could cite lists of noble goals and aspirations about the dignity and worth of all persons, but you don’t have to be UU to embrace such propositions. You don’t have to be anything. I’ve been essentially not anything for a long time now and have gotten along quite nicely.
I like labels. Labels are convenient tools. I don’t feel particularly limited by the labels I claim, mainly because I use labels to describe myself, not to define myself. My labels are adjectives, not nouns. That’s why “a Christianesque pagan with Buddhist leanings,” in addition to being clunky, was inadequate except for a laugh. It didn’t describe me—and, worse, it didn’t even define me. Not at all.
I like belonging. As a member of the queer diaspora (aha! There, I’ve finally put it in writing: I do believe that I belong to a tribe that belongs together somewhere, preferably someplace warm . . .), I have had little feeling of belonging, a feeling that no non-queer person, no matter how sensitive, will ever really comprehend. I gravitate toward things I can have a semblance of belonging to. Those who are marginalized because of race are thereby united by their race; women will always be integral to the propagation of the species, so, downtrodden as they may be, the need to procreate will always make them indispensable. The differently abled will always have a place in society as long as the drive to be decent (rooted in pity or heroism though it may sometimes be) exists. As a queer—particularly a non-breeding queer—I am dispensable. I can’t pass as a member of any Old Boy club anywhere, ever. I’m a procreational anomaly. I mount no challenge or reward to anyone’s sense of generosity. Against my will, I am the wedge that keeps my family of origin disunited. There is no place for me to belong save by identity and by intention. And so I seek out intentional communities. And I seek to identify with them.
I like the privileges that come with membership. I like having a voice. Membership empowers: I get to have my vote counted. I like having a name. I like having something to write in the blank on the hospital forms under “religion.” I had a religion before I decided to be UU. Being UU doesn’t change my religion; it doesn’t even really mean anything, expect to give me the chance to say, “I’m one, too.” A terminal node on the family tree I may be, but there are many things I get to be by identity. I get to make my way. I get to be on the books. I only get one line in the family bible. I only get one line in my mother’s annual Christmas newsletter until I have kids. But by God I get to be in someone’s membership book as part of a continuing tradition. I WAS HERE, GODDAMMIT! I have been made invisible by my family, by my country, by my life outside salaried America, a life that chose me before I chose it. I am an outlaw in so many ways: c*cks*cker, artist . . . anarchist, pacifist, vegetarian, hippie, androgyne, pauper are labels we use for some of them. By choosing to belong to something, I get to be an inlaw. I get to choose these rules, or I get to choose to leave if I cease to like them.
Not only do I like the “intentional” part of intentional community, but I also like the “community” part. I like being able to say to people whom I respect, “I like you enough to cast in my lot with you, to be identified with you. Though I may not like all of you, I respect you and affirm your basic dignity and worth.” I like going on record as being bonded with somebody. The friend who asked me the question gets to be Mom, wife, and Grandma (in a socially acceptable way, no less) in addition to the labels that have accrued to her by virtue of her accomplishments and, in addition to all the labels I am able to share with her: child, sibling, Aunt/Uncle, cousin. To the extent to which blood is thicker than water, she gets to have more blood. Granted, she had choices in taking on some of those labels. Still, I don’t get as many choices, even overlooking biology. I don’t get to marry the man of my dreams—not in this lifetime—but I do get to marry a community that may help me to fulfill some dreams. By joining a community of people with whom I have a remarkable number of common goals, I exercise choices—and I get to honor that community by saying, “I, for one, think you’re good enough to join.” By this choice, I get to widen the arena of my future choices.
It doesn’t make sense, really, to join an organized religion. But social needs, no matter how much we scrutinize them, are still ultimately inscrutable. Maybe I just need to say “yes” to something. By becoming officially UU, I get to do something mystical that I wouldn’t have gotten to do otherwise.
Plus, this way I’ll get more cool mail. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get invited to an extra party or two. ###