The Resurrection, to me, seems the pinnacle of God’s queerness.

The Divine, of course, has refused binaries since the Garden, when God created male to female–all genders–in Their image. Throughout scripture the Holy One inhabits mystery and defies definition: from the burning bush voice that insists “I am Who I am,” to the sacred presence in the life/breath/wind of ruach, to the bloody infant birthed by Mary who was fully divine and fully human.

In the Resurrection, the both/and/all God of creation and flame, of Spirit and birth, is both dead and alive, mortal and immortal, wounded and whole. The resurrected Christ comes as a solid body that moves through walls, a spiritual being that eats fish and invites friends to place their fingers inside their flesh. 

To the extent that I enter into this Easter mystery, I do so by faith. I don’t understand how any of it works: how the impossible is real, how the thing that makes no sense is the most true thing. 

And so, in the Easter season, I feel particularly grateful for my transgender, non-binary, and gender queer friends. In them I see the both/and/all lived out, the mysterious fullness of it all celebrated. In the authenticity of these friends I see the divine image reflected; in their curiosity I feel safely invited into my own wonderings; in their courage I find inspiration for living into the fullness of my own self.

In the face of so much death-dealing legislation in the United States right now, I want to claim the full power of the resurrection: the triumph of life over death, vibrancy over violence, fluidity over rigidity. I want to live joyfully into the queerness of the Ressurection. And I offer deep thanks to those who lead the way.