On March 31, 2025, the Diocese of Newark celebrated Transgender Day of Visibility with “Breaking Bread, Breaking Binaries,” a service of Holy Eucharist hosted by the Diocese of Newark’s LGBTQ+ Action Group at Grace Church in Madison. This sermon was given by Brigid Dwyer, a Postulant for the Diaconate from St. George’s, Maplewood. Mother Abigail King of Trinity, Bayonne served as celebrant. (Time: 14:21.)
Sermon Text
In the name of the One, Holy, and Living God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Privilege is a tough idea for many – including very well-meaning people – to wrap their heads around. Here’s what it looks like for me standing in this pulpit this evening: I’m a member of a community marginalized enough that winning political campaigns have centered around demonizing us, while the losing side’s post-election findings were “we should have demonized them a bit more ourselves,” and still, I’m not worried that I could be jailed indefinitely for anything I say here today. On the other hand, I have cisgender, heterosexual classmates and friends who are out here trying to preach the Good News of Jesus Christ while living here on a visa, and I have no idea how they do that. Now, I’m not saying I’m safe by any stretch of the imagination. But right here, at least for tonight, I’ve got a measure of privilege in that I don’t have to decide between self-censure and prison.
We are here tonight celebrating one man who decided not to self-censure, and he was put to death. But we celebrate him because by his death he destroyed death. We celebrate Jesus Christ because he ensures that death will never have the final word. And this present evil will not either. If you’re here tonight and you’re scared of what’s going on out there, welcome. If you’re afraid for yourself, a family member, a friend, welcome. I am, too. As far as trans women in the United States go, I’m pretty safe, but that doesn’t mean my contingency plans don’t have contingency plans, and it certainly doesn’t mean my head isn’t on a constant swivel every time I leave the house. Of course I’m afraid. Fear is a perfectly reasonable reaction to a campaign of terror, which is what’s being waged currently against many, if not all marginalized groups. So, be afraid. But, my beloved babe of God, we celebrate the Eucharist because we’ve read ahead in the story, and we know that God – that love – will always win. Even here, even now, even against this unfathomable, seemingly indomitable evil, love will always win.
But even back when walking around trans wasn’t a cause for existential dread, it could still be pretty awkward and wearisome. Trans people are a tiny minority, with a radically different set of life experiences than cis people. It would make sense that cis people are interested, particularly after what Time Magazine called the “Trans Tipping Point” 10 years ago. Sometimes we can feel like a “a walking, talking, trans 101 session.” And that can get exhausting, to the point where many trans folks would rather be celebrating “Trans Day of Not Being Perceived.” Maybe a day in which we just don’t have to worry if we’re doing it right. A day where we don’t have to worry that the way we walk isn’t performing our gender or lack thereof well enough, or the way we dress gets us clocked, or our voice gets us misgendered on the phone, or we’re worried about all of that a bit too much and not performing bravery or pride well enough. Just a day off where we don’t have to be on point every time we leave the house. A day where we can just be.
Unfortunately for us, gender is about being perceived. Gender starts less with a doctor looking at a newborn and pronouncing “boy” or “girl,” and more with the color hat that goes on that baby’s head. But gender doesn’t really come together until someone looks at that baby with the blue hat and goes “what a handsome fella,” or at the baby with a pink hat, going “aren’t you the prettiest thing?” If a parent wants to hear that their baby is pretty, rather than handsome, all they have to do is swap out a blue hat for a pink one. Or if they want to opt out altogether, they get them an orange or green hat.
Later in life, the general rules are similar, but the execution is a lot more difficult, and keeps getting more difficult the older you get. It’s no longer just about swapping out a pink hat for a blue one or an orange one or one with a propeller for that matter. The longer that people and society at large have seen you and interpreted your identity for themselves, the harder it is to say, “you’ve got that all wrong.” And that’s why we talk about visibility today. That’s why so many of the sweet, comforting words we tell each other have to do with validity. That is why attacks on trans people start with attacks on the concept of transitioning. Because if transitioning isn’t a thing one can do, then trans can’t be an identity.
And identity is hard. Jesus, in the Gospel reading we heard this evening, is struggling with how he’s being perceived. He can feel that it’s somehow not right, so he asks those closest to him. And he’s not wrong – the people know he’s somehow more than just the carpenter Joseph’s son, but they don’t quite get it. He’s not his cousin, he’s neither Elijah nor Jeremiah, and while he absolutely has a prophetic voice, “one of the prophets” doesn’t really fit. So he turns from a general look at society to asking his closest friends. And Peter is bang on: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” And while that may seem intuitive to us – we absolutely see Jesus as Messiah, a 1st century Jewish understanding of what a Messiah should be was so much different than what we see of Jesus in scripture. Jesus was not – to anyone’s understanding of the term – a conquering king sent to liberate Judea from Roman rule. “His kingdom,” as he would say in the Gospel of John, was of another world. He was sent to bring about a kingdom that has no need of kings. He was sent to liberate, not with weapons, but with love.
The Jesus we see in this passage is very vulnerable. I can almost hear his voice shaking when he asks, “But who do you say that I am,” This Jesus – even this Matthean Jesus, whose characterization is set up to maximize his connection to kingship – needs the validation of his friends, because he didn’t get it from the people. And if I can dive into the Greek for a second here, that “the people” is really important. The question he asks isn’t “who do the people say I am,” it’s “who do the people say the Son of Man is?” If you’ve ever thought that “Son of Man” was kind of a weird way for Jesus to refer to himself, you’re not wrong. It’s a translation that just doesn’t work in the 21st century. It comes from the 17th century King James Version, which was written back when we used to use masculine terms to mean everyone. Think of “forgive us our trespasses” – it’s something dated that’s lost its utility, but we still can’t let go of it. A better translation might be “the son of humanity.” Taking that translation, the same word Jesus uses for “humanity,” – ἅνθπωπος, is the one he uses for people. So, instead of that very august “Who do the people say the Son of Man is,” which adds a layer of abstraction to the question that misses the mark, imagine instead, “who do the people say that the son of the people is?” Or, “who do the people say their son is?”
Take a second to imagine what it would feel like to ask that, and then hear that your family got the answer wrong.
So, Jesus does what so many of us do when we’re let down by those we consider family: we turn to our found-family instead. “But who do you say that I am?” This is not a test, this is a friend asking for reassurance. If this exercise is too uncomfortable for you, take care of you first, but otherwise, let’s try something. See how it feels in your body, both to ask that question, and to hear the answer. Take turns asking your neighbor, “who do you say I am?” and then answering. Go ahead.
How did that feel? Were you nervous to ask – nervous about what you might hear in response? Were you relieved when your neighbor got the answer right, or secretly crushed when they got it wrong? Were you nervous about being asked that question, and hurting someone’s feelings with your wrong or half-right answer?
Peter, of course, got that question right. And Jesus was so overjoyed by this, that he said it was God alone who showed him this. Which, of course God did. As an observant Jew, Jesus would have studied the psalter, prayed the psalter, and he would have known the psalm we read today: Psalm 139. “Lord, you have searched me out and known me.” Even when Jesus couldn’t tell anyone else who he was, God knew exactly who he was.
And God knows us. Regardless of the actions or the dictates of any earthly power, our validity is not in question with God. God sees us. Beloved babe of God, if you take nothing from the service today, take that. Know that the God who, as the psalmist says, knit us together in our mothers’ wombs, and created our inmost parts; the God who created us, fearfully and wondrously in God’s own marvelous image knows who we are, and when he created us, he saw that we are very good. We were created by love and in love and through love, and the love that created us is the love that died and rose again, conquering death for all time.
Amen.
