Peculiar Faith: Queer Theology for Christian Witness by Jay Emerson Johnson; Seabury Press, $24
Upon reading the title of the provocative new book by Jay Johnson, a professor at the Pacific School of Religion and Graduate Theological Union in Berkeley, one asks, What are "peculiar faith" and "queer theology?"
Citing Scripture, Johnson defines "peculiar" as atypical, unexpected, or something out of the ordinary that challenges others. And just as blacks have reclaimed the N-word to dismantle its insulting impact, similarly have LGBTs reappropriated "queer." In the last 25 years, academics have reconceived "queer" as anything resisting accommodation to mainstream Western society, defying the cultural forces deployed to reinforce the normal. So "queer" here describes people who are not necessarily LGBT. In a faith context, Johnson notes that since the early 1990s, LGBT people began to reengage explicitly in Christian communities not in spite of their queerness but because of it, due to their own "peculiar experiences, sensibilities, and relationships." So Johnson wants to embrace both definitions of queer, though the broader understanding predominates. He endeavors to take some of the theological insights gained by LGBTs on their journey to full participation in the church and use them to reshape Christian witness in socially transformative ways.
Johnson uses two potent images to make his case: the first one, home, as embodied in the iconic film The Wizard of Oz, to transform the black-and-white (of Kansas) to the brilliant Technicolor (of Oz) and the "key lessons learned over the rainbow." We are to become queer home economists doing "theological housework."
The goal here is a critique of the institutional church as indistinguishable from modern Western culture, distorted by colonialism and empire rhetoric. Johnson wants the church to disturb the wider world with its presence, which he feels it has not done in modern times due to static concepts such as identity, body, and gender. He incorporates from secular queer theory the notion that identity should be flexible, sexual bodies should be accepted in all their forms, and gender depicted not as essence but as performance, a la the work of lesbian philosopher Judith Butler.
The second and more effective image is dancing, a metaphor for joy, seduction, and social bonding. For Johnson, it symbolizes hope in a world characterized by oppressive social structures, unwelcoming religious institutions, and threats of violence. Johnson wants to take that defiance against despair, epitomized by dance with its enlivening energy, "to work with God on making this world a home, not just for some but for all, and combat the sense of rootless dissatisfaction," especially for "those who experience a sense of not fitting in." With this theological method in place, Johnson attempts a reappraisal of topics such as baptism, incarnation, salvation, social ethics, worship, and death. He believes theologians are only at the beginning of this long process of reinvention.
For those trying to reconcile sexuality and spirituality, this is definitely not the book to read, as Johnson assumes this reintegration has already occurred. In fact, gay references appear only sporadically throughout the book, which is too bad. When Johnson uses LGBT illustrations, the book is far more alive, though he does have the gift of rendering some queer jargon more accessible. The book is too short on practical applications, a bit odd considering that Johnson is also a working Episcopal priest. So "this new Pentecost" will appeal more to theologically informed readers. Johnson urges a total overhaul, and is open to introducing innovation to doctrine. I wonder how appealing such a project would be to the average churchgoer, as well as to the growing spiritual but not religious crowd, who are more interested in finding the divine presence in their daily lives than in speculative debates about terminology.
Although Johnson concludes his book with a poignant reflection about the meaning of presiding at the Eucharist table and encounters with the "fathomless mystery of God," there is almost nothing in the book addressing spirituality or prayer. Are queer and nonqueer churchgoers ready to welcome what feels like near-spiritual anarchy, buttressed by academic arguments using impersonal language?
I am also haunted by the sad story of Sasha Fleischman, the agender (or genderfree) Oakland teenager whose skirt was set onfire by a fellow teen while riding on a bus last November. Sasha, born a male, uses only pronouns such as they to make self-reference. It is a valid question to ask whether the church in its present form can dialogue meaningfully with Sasha, or attract digital nation youth with their virtual communities and online spiritual practices. So we may need to adopt a queer theology by virtue of our "Christian faith demanding ongoing conversion." Part of turning the world upside-down could well be shaking the institutional church of its constructed world views. So fasten your seat belts, because it could be a very bumpy ride!