Hands moving in church

Hands moving in church?!? Not for Twitter-checking, and not for altar boys. Whenever my hands are moving in church- rather, whenever my hands are even IN a church building, it has to do with interpreting and sign language. And, oddly enough, it is generally for an audience that has no friggin' clue what I'm saying.

I could stand in front of a congregation and sign "sodomy feels awesome" to the hymn "He Touched Me", and half of the people would ooh and ahh at the grace that is American Sign Language.

Of course that would be highly unprofessional, unethical, and it could put me in an uncomfortable position. *cough*

Two weeks ago I had the opportunity to interpret a few songs for a high school church choir at a Methodist church west of DC. The church had all the required features needed to sustain its Methodist status: food, lots of old people, and clapping to music that is about as exciting as a dog panting.

The kids were pretty damn good considering the surge of hormones constantly yanking at their vocal chords. And it was somewhat haunting to hear songs that instantaneously transported me back to my 8-year-old self. It reminded me of my family's weekly trek to church ... the ceremony, the (ir)reverence, and the anthems sung and played by my mom and dad.

My aunt (mom's sister) was the choir director and also accompanied the kids during the concert. I looked over at my aunt and thought about how she knew my mom in a way I never would (growing up together). It felt lonely. Then I stood up and waved my arms around to a bunch of people who wouldn't know the difference between real sign language and lewd gestures in another culture. And that felt lonely, too.

I stepped outside to get some fresh air after the concert. Congregants inside were wrapping up in truly Methodist style (like watching grass grow in a pitch-black room) and the cool night air was perfect for some pensive reflection about my family. And then the pastor strolled up ...

"Hey there! Friday night at church, huh? Usually I go down to Dupont Circle."

Hmmm ....

"You looked sooooo beautiful in there, you've got such long fingers- perfect for graceful signing."

Hmmm ....

"Your beard looks amazing, it's so short! How'd you get it like that? I use a number 2 on my trimmer- what do you do???"

Oh my hell ....


Well, I didn't stick around long enough to see what kind of tithing he wanted to put in my offering plate ... but I did start to think about this (potentially) gay priest and what kind of life he was living.

Perhaps this priest, quite like myself, stands before groups of people who don't really understand him at all. I wonder if that makes him feel lonely, too?

So ... maybe the next time I find myself in a sanctuary without sanctuary, I'll try to remember this priest and the commitment he has made- faithfully putting himself out there, knowing that hopefully, maybe maybe *fingers crossed*, someone in the crowd will get it.

In the meantime, I'll just keep signing "stripper's pole" instead of "cross", and wait until I hear an audible *GASP*.