We sit perched in a soda-shoppe,
carving our spoons
through generous bowls
of rich and gracious strawberry ice cream,

debating about bodies.

She thinks that the idea of sex with Jesus is heretical
(never mind that many of the Christian mystics
lead us strongly in that direction,
or that the Son of God and Son of Man
was a human male who probably had orgasms
after the onset of puberty).

She thinks that trans* people need healing of their gender identities,
that God would prefer everyone to be clearly Adam and clearly Eve,
because this is (clearly) much closer to the perfect will of God
than the messy battle of messing with pronouns
and doing battle with dysphoria and dissociation.

She even thinks, after years of feeling secure
in her Jesus-loving lesbian life,
that she must seek healing, instantaneous
re-orientation to a heterosexual happiness
that eludes her in her current touch-deprivation,
or (only slightly better) her repeated falls into the arms of women
who give her fucking fabulous orgasms
but no true hold,
no murmur that speaks the truth:
“I see you, Beloved.”

I believe that each one of us,
in community,
has our own journey of integrity,
of growing by inches into royal robes stitched for us by the hand of God–
into the full stature of Christ.

Her journey does not look like mine–
nor does it need to:

But for myself,
I cannot yet hear in the certainty she expresses
the rich and gracious flavour
of intimacy with Jesus,
the joy of being unafraid to be wrong
because he is right,
even and especially when I am not.

And I wonder how many times,
in my burning desire to scatter the Gospel
and protect children of God from the dangerous and salty
depths of real heresy and real blasphemy,
my own words have not tasted like rest, like belovedness,

like sitting in a soda-shoppe
smiling the simple sensuality
and rich graciousness
of strawberry ice cream.

In repentance–
smirking flirtatiously at the hot waiter–
I order another bowl.