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Particular readings from the church’s lectionary feel like a time capsule, bringing me back to the moment when I last heard them. Due to the three-year cycle of readings, today’s scriptures were last proclaimed in Catholic churches on the Second Sunday of Easter in 2021.
During the first week of Easter 2021, my wife had given birth—not to our baby, but to the child of her best friend. My wife had spent the past 40 weeks as a gestational carrier (more commonly known as a “surrogate”) for her best friend, who was born without a uterus due to a rare condition. This friend had eggs; her husband provided sperm; and my wife offered the womb that housed and nurtured their child from embryo to infant.
The decision to become a gestational carrier was a simple one for my wife. She knew her friend’s deep sense of calling to become a parent, and she knew that we had the emotional and physical resources necessary to make that dream a reality. My wife believed, like the early disciples in Acts, that the gifts God had given her–in this case, her body’s ability to nurture an embryo and fetus–weren’t hers alone, but were intended to be used for the common good.
I recall reading the scripture passage quoted above on that Second Sunday in Easter, when we celebrated a pandemic-initiated Liturgy of the Word in our home. Throughout the reading, we passed baby Henry back and forth between the parents, grandparents, and friends. My wife pumped breastmilk, which I prepared in a bottle, and Henry’s father fed him.
Grandparents washed dishes, prepared meals for the adults, and folded onesies. Everyone was “of one mind and one heart,” focused on caring for one another and for this new life. All tasks, responsibilities, and concerns were shared. When my wife’s ducts began to clog painfully with milk, the grandmothers hovered around her with remedies and comfort. When the new parents were running low on sleep, energy, and patience, another member of our little household stepped in to soothe and hold the baby.
I recalled hearing about friends’ experiences of the first few weeks of parenthood as exhausting, terrifying, and lonely. Tiring though those weeks were for all of us, we experienced a beautiful sense of common purpose and mutual care. In community, we had enough – enough hands, enough energy, enough wisdom, and enough love to buoy one another.
I have come to believe that God has gifted the world with everything necessary for all of us to thrive. There is enough food for everyone, if only we would share it with the hungry. We have enough creativity, if only we would apply it to the problems our communities face. And we have enough love to warm each lonely heart, if only we would reach out to those around us.
The early community of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem experienced this sense of sufficiency. Acts of the Apostles tells us that no one was “needy” among them. All of their needs were met, because everyone gave generously according to their abilities, and received according to their needs. This experience of plenty is only possible in community.
Today is known as “Divine Mercy Sunday.” Psalm 118, which we pray at Mass, celebrates God’s mercy, while signaling that we often experience it communally:
“Let the house of Israel say, ‘God’s mercy endures forever.’
Let the house of Aaron say, ‘God’s mercy endures forever.’”
The psalmist does not turn to individuals to bear witness to God’s faithfulness. No, the psalmist looks to households and families, exhorting them to testify to God’s mercy to them. Perhaps the psalmist knows that we experience divine mercy in the context of community, through the sharing of our gifts with one another.
The psalm continues by proclaiming, “The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” This statement, often associated prophetically with Jesus, declares that God particularly delights in using the gifts of those who are unrecognized and undervalued. All too often, LGBTQ+ folks are that “stone which the builders rejected.”
Our cultures overlook the contributions of non-traditional families, single people, and queer households, assuming that we are poor building blocks for society. If the goal is to build a society of isolated, self-sufficient nuclear families, that may be true. But what if God is inviting us to build something much more wonderful: an interdependent kin-dom in which all of our gifts are used, and all of our needs are met? What if our queer chosen families, in all their beautifully diverse forms, are the cornerstone?
What If Queer Chosen Families Are Cornerstones for God’s Kin-dom?
“The community of believers was of one mind and one heart. None of them claimed anything as their own; rather, everything was held in common […] nor was anyone needy among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them and give the money to the apostles. It was then distributed to any members who might be in need.” (Acts 4:32, The Inclusive Lectionary)Particular readings from the church’s lectionary feel like a time capsule, bringing me back to the moment when I last heard them. Due to the three-year cycle of readings, today’s scriptures were last proclaimed in Catholic churches on the Second Sunday of Easter in 2021.
During the first week of Easter 2021, my wife had given birth—not to our baby, but to the child of her best friend. My wife had spent the past 40 weeks as a gestational carrier (more commonly known as a “surrogate”) for her best friend, who was born without a uterus due to a rare condition. This friend had eggs; her husband provided sperm; and my wife offered the womb that housed and nurtured their child from embryo to infant.
The decision to become a gestational carrier was a simple one for my wife. She knew her friend’s deep sense of calling to become a parent, and she knew that we had the emotional and physical resources necessary to make that dream a reality. My wife believed, like the early disciples in Acts, that the gifts God had given her–in this case, her body’s ability to nurture an embryo and fetus–weren’t hers alone, but were intended to be used for the common good.
I recall reading the scripture passage quoted above on that Second Sunday in Easter, when we celebrated a pandemic-initiated Liturgy of the Word in our home. Throughout the reading, we passed baby Henry back and forth between the parents, grandparents, and friends. My wife pumped breastmilk, which I prepared in a bottle, and Henry’s father fed him.
Grandparents washed dishes, prepared meals for the adults, and folded onesies. Everyone was “of one mind and one heart,” focused on caring for one another and for this new life. All tasks, responsibilities, and concerns were shared. When my wife’s ducts began to clog painfully with milk, the grandmothers hovered around her with remedies and comfort. When the new parents were running low on sleep, energy, and patience, another member of our little household stepped in to soothe and hold the baby.
I recalled hearing about friends’ experiences of the first few weeks of parenthood as exhausting, terrifying, and lonely. Tiring though those weeks were for all of us, we experienced a beautiful sense of common purpose and mutual care. In community, we had enough – enough hands, enough energy, enough wisdom, and enough love to buoy one another.
I have come to believe that God has gifted the world with everything necessary for all of us to thrive. There is enough food for everyone, if only we would share it with the hungry. We have enough creativity, if only we would apply it to the problems our communities face. And we have enough love to warm each lonely heart, if only we would reach out to those around us.
The early community of Jesus’ followers in Jerusalem experienced this sense of sufficiency. Acts of the Apostles tells us that no one was “needy” among them. All of their needs were met, because everyone gave generously according to their abilities, and received according to their needs. This experience of plenty is only possible in community.
Today is known as “Divine Mercy Sunday.” Psalm 118, which we pray at Mass, celebrates God’s mercy, while signaling that we often experience it communally:
“Let the house of Israel say, ‘God’s mercy endures forever.’
Let the house of Aaron say, ‘God’s mercy endures forever.’”
The psalmist does not turn to individuals to bear witness to God’s faithfulness. No, the psalmist looks to households and families, exhorting them to testify to God’s mercy to them. Perhaps the psalmist knows that we experience divine mercy in the context of community, through the sharing of our gifts with one another.
The psalm continues by proclaiming, “The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” This statement, often associated prophetically with Jesus, declares that God particularly delights in using the gifts of those who are unrecognized and undervalued. All too often, LGBTQ+ folks are that “stone which the builders rejected.”
Our cultures overlook the contributions of non-traditional families, single people, and queer households, assuming that we are poor building blocks for society. If the goal is to build a society of isolated, self-sufficient nuclear families, that may be true. But what if God is inviting us to build something much more wonderful: an interdependent kin-dom in which all of our gifts are used, and all of our needs are met? What if our queer chosen families, in all their beautifully diverse forms, are the cornerstone?
