January felt like a decade, didn’t it? It seems like February’s not faring much better. As Trump continues to sign more executive orders, I’m beginning to see concretely how this administration is negatively affecting my community. 

Businesses in my town have closed. ICE has enacted raids in areas where my congregation serves. Federal government employees are anxiously watching their inboxes, wondering if they will be in the next round of layoffs.

In a recent Sunday school class, the parents of one of our trans youth shared that their teenager’s doctor called to inform them the office would no longer offer HRT to their underage patients–their son included. These violations of rights are no longer hypothetical; they are happening to people I know and love. 

However, the whiplash in all of this is that life is still happening. In that same Sunday school room–on the very same day, even–we celebrated one of our trans young adults as she prepared for her upcoming baptism. LGBTQ+ people are still claiming and reclaiming their belovedness as children of God, and it is a beautiful sight to behold.

But how do you carry such joy and deep sadness at the same time? Over the past month, joy and grief have taken residency in my spirit like two roommates who would rather eat thumbtacks than occupy the same space.

Think Galinda and Elphaba in “Wicked”: Two on-the-surface completely opposite feelings glaring at one another as they sing, “Loathing. Unadulterated loathing… Let’s just say, I loathe it all.” The tension is so thick you can cut it with a dull knife.

Unfortunately, that tension has to take up residence somewhere, and that somewhere has been in me: my worn-out flesh, tense shoulders and uneasy stomach. It’s like joy and grief are on opposite ends of a basketball court, and I can’t run back and forth quickly enough to address each other as they pop up. 

This tension has stretched me; sometimes, I’m afraid I’m not flexible enough to tend to both when they surface at the same time. How can I hold all of this?

I’ve preached numerous times about how joy and grief aren’t mutually exclusive, how they are likely even two sides of the same coin. In precedented times, I still believe that’s true; grief and joy are intricately connected due to our love for the people in our lives.

In this season, though, grief feels different. It’s not that she’s more jaded (while that’s probably true). It’s not that she’s bigger than she once was (which is probably also true). It’s that she’s connected to something different now.

When we grieve someone we love, our grief is a recognition of the joy we felt while they were alive. When we grieve something that is supposed to be an inalienable right, our grief is a recognition of how we have been continually violated. This grief unveils the nefariousness of the abuse that is happening–with “legal” blessing–to minoritized communities all over the country. 

It’s cruel. It’s evil. I dare go so far as to say it’s sinful.

Amid all this hurt, I keep seeing people post sentiments in the ballpark of “queer joy is resistance.” Whenever I see that phrase, the tension between joy and grief tightens uncomfortably in me.

Yes, queer joy is an act of resistance, but it shouldn’t have to be. 

It shouldn’t be inspiring for me to dress in a way that feels authentic. It shouldn’t be brave to hold my wife’s hand in public. 

These are simply ordinary ways of existing in the world and should be regarded as such–not bad, not joy-filled, but emotionally neutral. But when variance from the hegemony is villainized, the ordinary is revolutionary.

My encouragement to those most affected by these executive orders is simply this: keep doing mundane things. 

Yes, advocate and protest, but keep doing the little things. Celebrate birthdays. Consume art. Host that church potluck. Text silly jokes to your friends. Hold your partner’s hand in public. Wear your favorite sweater, the one that makes you feel like you.

All of those things may seem small. But in a time when this Christian Nationalist agenda aims to dehumanize us, we must remind ourselves of our humanity. All of these small, mundane things keep us humane.

In an age when the inhumane becomes normalized, we need these reminders of what humanity is supposed to look like. Without these small, mundane things, I fear we will miss seeing the Imago Dei in one another.

May you never lose sight of the Christ in you—or your neighbor.