In your hands, O Lord,
we humbly entrust our brothers, sisters, and siblings.
In this life you embraced them with your tender love;
deliver them now from every evil
and bid them eternal rest.
I am meditating today on a Catholic prayer for the dead. It has become a way to centre myself amid all my swirling thoughts about faith, gender, and mourning. This time of year, I find myself turning to our Catholic words of sorrow and solace. In the best of ways, the provide me with both comfort and challenge.
Today is Transgender Day of Remembrance, marked annually on November 20th. On this day, we set aside time to grieve, to name those who have lost their lives to transphobic violence in the past year.
There are lists compiled by various groups every year of how many trans people were killed and where. The lists are always incomplete, but they tell us that 2020 has been a particularly deadly year for us. These are just the people we know of, and only those killed through direct violence. We do not know how many died without ever being reported, how many died without being acknowledged as trans, or how many died for lack of adequate medical care, food, or shelter. Those who are targeted by additional forms of prejudice—misogyny, white supremacy, ableism, and others—are at highest risk.
I have often kept my sexuality and gender separate from my Catholicism, splitting them between the spaces I frequented. It took a long time to feel safe being queer and trans and Catholic all at once, particularly in church spaces. I had good reason to worry, given the history of the Church. Though the Catholic Church is tied up in all these systems of oppression, I do not believe it has to be this way.
The old order has passed away:
welcome them into paradise,
where there will be no sorrow, no weeping or pain,
but fullness of peace and joy
with your Son and the Holy Spirit
forever and ever.
In my experience, the most beautiful part of Trans Day of Remembrance vigils are the parts that come afterwards. Whether walking down a snowy road or just resetting the space, we find ways to broaden ourselves beyond mourning. We begin to imagine new spaces for ourselves, new ways to build community, new ways to change the world. Those of us who have already challenged and rebuilt our notions of gender are so often full of ideas to change everything else.
My request for today, particularly for those of you who are not transgender, is this: mourn with us, and then dream with us too. We the church are called to be a light in the world. Jesus called all of us to envision something beyond the enforced divisions of the day, and to create something better.
I dream of a church where we remember all of our fallen siblings. I dream of a church where we remember to speak their names. I dream of a church that works to ensure there are fewer names to pray over next year. A church where transition is celebrated, where trans Catholics are welcomed with open hearts. A church with resources and support for all its children. I dream of building that church with you.
Today, we pray for our beloved dead, for those whose names we know, and for those whose names have been lost to us.
Tomorrow, there is much work to be done. We have a world to build.
