Sweat the Small Stuff

Today’s post is from guest contributor Laurel Potter. Laurel teaches theology at the University of St. Thomas in St. Paul, MN. Laurel worships and researches in collaboration with marginal ecclesial communities in El Salvador, where she lived and worked for several years.

Today’s liturgical reading from the Book of 1 Kings contains one of my favorite scriptural hierophanies, or divine manifestations to human beings: God appears to the prophet Elijah, not in a “strong and heavy wind,” nor in an earthquake, nor fire. Rather, a “tiny whispering sound” compels Elijah to hide his face in his cloak and go greet God at the entrance to the cave.

I love this story because it affirms that the holy can move in the quiet murmurings beneath the surface. The Spirit doesn’t always breathe tongues of fire or bring walls tumbling down. Sometimes, They are the caress of a breeze, the calm after catastrophe, a silence that was always there under all the noise. This manifestation of the divine proposes that there is power in the slow and the small. It reminds me of seeds breaking open underground, of the doubling of rising bread, the swell of a pregnant womb. Quiet forces that sustain life.

And yet, in today’s gospel reading, we also have one of the most dramatically striking scriptural expressions of divine power: Peter and the disciples are out at sea on a dark, windy night, afraid that their boat might capsize. Jesus walks to them over the water and even invites Peter to take a few halting steps. Here, we see divine power over the storm, quite a juxtaposition to Elijah’s experience. It almost seems like bragging, like Jesus is showing off how little the storm affects him. It reminds me of other famous scriptural expressions of divine power: parting the Red Sea, bringing down the walls of Jericho, or saving Daniel from the lions. Big-time God stuff.

In the current struggle for queer lives in our societies and our church, we need the big-time God stuff. I’d love for an otherworldly lightning bolt to smite out the so-called “Don’t Say Gay” laws in Florida, or for gender neutral, public, and accessible restrooms to spring from the ground with a wave of Moses’ staff. We need God to be present through our political organizing, our workplace trainings, and our public actions to change minds and hearts and to protect our most vulnerable queer people.

Still, the small stuff, too, is part of this same movement for life. That line on the church bulletin about the LGBTQ+ ministry group matters to one who just moved to a new city and is trying to figure out church. Putting a Pride sticker on your door and getting trained to open safe spaces on your campus, in your workplace, or at your church matters to the student, coworker, or congregant who doesn’t know in whom to confide. The pronouns in your email signoff or personal introduction matter to your contacts who don’t want to always be the first to share theirs. These small steps are easy to sneer at as performative or vacuous, and they can be without ongoing learning and change. But more so they are little hints of divine queer futurity, signs of another possible world.

Of course, we need so much more than these small signposts of our belovedness—and yet they are necessary affirmations of queer life and belonging. So, this week, I’m thinking about the holiness of a sticker on the door or a revised line in boilerplate language. I’m challenging myself to appreciate the variety of ways we recognize and announce God’s presence in our world, both the big time God stuff and the tiny whispering sounds.

—Laurel Potter, August 13, 2023