Bobby what now?: Transgender friends and the power of the name

I have several friends whose birth certificates read "Robert."

Some go by Rob. Others Bob. Some Robert. One - and only one - is called Bobby. I have yet to meet a Robby (except when they* were in trouble with their moms), but I've heard they exist.

When someone introduces themselves as "Robert," I call them Robert.

When someone introduces themselves as "Bob," I call them Bob.

Friends I know who prefer "Bob" will threaten to punch me in the genitals if I call them "Bobby."

Friends I know who prefer "Robert" will slap me upside the head if I call them Rob or Robby.

So, out of respect (and self-preservation), I call them by the name they ask to be called.

That's not "political correctness" - it's decency and kindness and common sense.

This is why I'm confused by the transgender backlash hoopla. I know people who absolutely refuse to call a person by the pronoun or name they prefer, no matter how often they ask. Those folks are making some kind of stand: defending the sex organs said person was born with, I suppose.

And yep, then it gets all kinds of weird when folks have to pee. (I can't tell you how little time I spend watching other people pee. But apparently this is a thing.)

I don't get it. I would never say to a "Bob": "Damnit! You shall be called Robert, as your parents and God ordained it!"

I would never say to a "Robert": "Jesus says thou shalt be called Bobby, no matter what ye think!"

Nope: I call Bob, Bob. I call Rob, Rob. I call Robert, Robert.

And I call Diego, Diego - and refer to him as he/him/his. Because he asked me to. Even though he was called "she/her/hers" and carried another name for most of his early life. That doesn't mean I don't sometimes fumble and say the wrong thing. And when I do, I apologize. Profusely. Not least because he can pack a punch. You should see his gauges and ink.

Seems to me, that's just what civil people do.

* - intentionally bad grammar, for obvious reasons. The most recent OED has decided they're cool with it.

The gift and necessity of particularity: The funeral as analogy for #BlackLivesMatter

                When we gather for a funeral, we do not shrug our shoulders and say, “You know, everybody dies. This day is no different from any other.”

                Of course not. Rather, on this day, this person’s death matters most. Not because they were more precious than anyone else’s spouse, child, parent or friend. But because in this room, on this day, this is the crisis into which the Gospel must be proclaimed. This is the rupture in the fabric of time and space for these people who have lost this person.

                I’ve been to funerals where it is clear that the pastor did not know the deceased – and didn’t bother getting to know them much posthumously. They fumble through a generic sermon pulled from the archives and preach platitudes and pablum into a room full of broken hearts. Hearts that have been specifically broken by this particular death.

                Those are not good funerals. And on the occasions when I have been that pastor, I have failed to do my job.

                Particularity matters. By speaking specifically about this person who has died, we do not thereby dismiss or diminish the lives of others. Yes: Tomorrow, someone else will die. And her life matters. When we gather for her funeral, hers will be the most heart-wrenching death to which the Gospel must be applied. By grieving this man today, we do not in any way forestall the grief we will bear when we gather for that woman’s funeral tomorrow.

                See how that works? The Gospel is not generic. It is always particular. Universal, of course – but also immanently specific.

                And so, into this particular historical moment, when a 12-year-old Black child (Tamir Rice) can be shot with impunity within seconds of the police pulling over to “investigate” him playing in the park; when Dontre Hamilton can be shot with impunity for having the audacity to sleep in a public square; when Trayvon Martin can be shot with impunity for carrying Skittles and iced tea through a white suburban neighborhood; when Eric Garner can be choked to death on camera, his death declared a homicide by the medical examiner, and still no charges are brought; when Freddie Gray can be tousled about in the back of a paddy-wagon with no seat belt and his hands and feet shackled such that he cannot protect himself, and no jury can be found to convict anyone responsible for his murder by vehicular manslaughter and official neglect… and on and on and on and on and on….

                …then, yes, in this particular moment, we must listen to those who stake the claim that Black Lives Matter. For this is the rupture in the fabric of our lives that is breaking hearts wide open. To say “Black Lives Matter” does not in any way diminish or demean or dismiss any other lives – police lives, trans* lives, white lives, or any lives. To say “Black Lives Matter” does not mean – by default – that “all lives” don’t.

                It simply claims that these precious lives are being lost and diminished – and that ought to matter.          

                Until death is no more, we will continue to gather for each particular death and speak of the attention God pays to that person’s life and death.

                Likewise, until racism is no more and all lives truly do matter fully and equally, we must speak out loud, with particularity, the truth that God knows but we so often deny by word and deed, individually and systemically: That these actual, specific lives matter. No more, and no less, than any other life.

                “All lives matter” is generic pablum and platitude spoken in a world crying out for specific justice and mercy. It’s not untrue – any more than a generic sermon at a funeral is untrue; but neither is it helpful – not, at least, as helpful as an unequivocally specific claim that this life, this grief, and this moment truly matters most, today.