A few years ago I opened a November column in the Castlegar News with the claim that “November is a time to remember.” Looking back on that moment, I wish that I had followed those words with these:

“Remembrance is not passive.”

Remembrance, at its best, is defiant, subversive, and communal. Remembrance is an embodied act.

We begin the month of November with the remembrance of All Saints and All Souls, not merely to look back on the past, but to invoke the presence of those who have gone before—to bring the life and witness and prayers of these Souls and Saints into the present.

The feast of All Saints and All Souls reminds us that we are not simply a community of the living, but of the living and the dead—a communion of saints—being raised to new life in Christ.

That is to say, our ancestors, dearly departed, are still a part of our story, and we a part of theirs. 

On November 20th, communities across the country, and throughout our Diocese will come together to mark the Transgender Day of Remembrance. This is a day to remember and honour the names, the lives, and the stories of transgender people who have lost their lives over the last year. 

This is important. It's not something we should skip, for they too, are a part of our story.  

In a world of increasing violence against our queer and trans siblings, it is vital that we remember. To remember isn’t merely a failure to forget. To re-member is to put back together two things that belong together. It is to understand that our queer and trans siblings are also a part of Christ's body. When St. Paul asks, “Can the eye say to the hand, I have no need of you?” we are forced to confront the times and occasions that we claim in word and in deed that we wish to say "yes."

When it comes to the Trans Day of Remembrance, we are not simply speaking of those who have lost their lives as if their lives have been somehow misplaced.

The lives we honour have been ended by people and systems who have weaponized their discomfort rather than seeking understanding. Even though I wish it weren’t so, the steady rise in anti-trans bigotry and violence across the continent, the way it plays out in our own political discourse, and even in our communities of faith, seems to suggest that we are a long way from much-needed understanding and mutual transformation.

So what might we do—whoever we are, and whatever our gender identity—we who seek to love God and our trans neighbours too? Today I bring three proposals to the table, inspired by the work of Christine M. Smith, preaching professor at United Theological Seminary of the Twin Cities:

To start, we must weep. 

We weep with those who weep. We allow the tears of our trans neighbours to crack our hearts open. We weep at the violence being done. We weep at these lives, beloved of Creator, cut short too soon. We weep at the holes left in our community with each successive death. 

We weep, and then we confess. 

We confess our own complicity. As individuals, as communities, and as the church. We confess that we have done and continue to do harm. We confess that we have left undone those things which we ought to have done. We confess that we have done those things which we ought not to have done. 

We confess, and then we resist. 

We resist by seeking understanding. We resist by opening ourselves to listen and learn from the stories of our trans neighbours and their ancestors, those who have come before. In our churches, we resist the theology that kills—any theology that suggests that God’s trans children are any less beloved because of how they were created. 

We resist by believing and proclaiming a love that liberates all people, and by living as though it’s true.