The Gospel of the Pink Pony Club

Now the eleven disciples went to Galilee, to the mountain to which Jesus had directed them. When they saw him, they worshiped him; but some doubted. And Jesus came and said to them, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, and teaching them to obey everything that I have commanded you. And remember, I am with you always, to the end of the age." (Matthew 28.16-20, NRSV)

I just lay there in the snow, laughing.

It was a crisp, cold, blue day in northern Utah. Snow had freshly fallen, the greatest snow on earth. In Utah, the snow is usually powder, great for skiing and snowboarding. Fantastic for sledding in.

It also packed well. You could make a good, good snowball out of this stuff. It packed tight, going from soft, pillowy snow, to hard pack that could do some damage to windows and faces.

The day was gorgeous, my favorite kind of winter day growing up.

And I lay there in the snow, laughing, with snow stuffed up pants by a sixth grader.

I laughed the whole time he packed snow up my pants. I was always told that if I didn’t show the bullies that they were bothering me, they would stop.

They didn’t.

He—I don’t even remember his name—performatively continued to pack both my pant legs with that powder that becomes hard pack with some pressure. The crowd of other kids watched. All I could do was laugh, because crying would make it worse. At least that much was true.

When my pants were full and hard enough that I couldn’t bend my knees, he stood over me, grabbed a handful of snow, and then proceeded to rub it violently in my face.

With that, the crowd dispersed, he finally ceased his torment (for that time), and I was left alone in the snowbank, still laughing, because there was nothing else, I could do.

Eventually, I got up and began the long, lonely process of trying to get the hard-packed snow out of my pants before it all melted and I was left with sopping wet pants for the rest of the day.

This was just one time for me in elementary school. I was the target of every bully every year. The bullies didn’t stay the same either. I went to a private school, and there was a rotation of students every year. I was one of the few who stayed for all seven years.

Each of those years that I remember is riddled with torment, bullying, and danger. No teacher could save me. I didn’t have any friends to come to my aid. I was just a small kid with oversized glasses who was a bit hyper and bored in a school I actually liked. I didn’t like sports and spent my recesses either playing house with the girls, or off by myself in some imaginary world I was always dreaming up.

In other words, a target. I was different enough not to belong.

Those experiences of bullying (which continued up until tenth grade) gave me a foundational identity of being an outsider. I was never one of the cool kids, never popular, never had more than two friends. Literally. I was an outcast, someone who didn’t fit in anywhere, and since I didn’t have a place, I had to stand lonely, center stage for all to point and laugh at.

That identity has haunted me throughout my life. I see myself as someone who doesn’t belong, who doesn’t fit in, who is different, weird.

Even in the churches I volunteered with, places where I was a leader of music, a teacher, a preacher—even in these places I felt different. I was totally into Jesus and theology and the Bible, but the church forms we had, I never felt comfortable with. I didn’t like the sing-along songs followed by a seminar speech. I wanted more; I wanted a place where people were connected beyond Sunday mornings and the occasional prayer service of Bible study. I wanted a place I could belong fully. Where all of me was accepted and I didn’t have to fight for my place.

And I fought for my place in churches. Teaching and preaching came naturally to me, and churches would gladly use those gifts. But as soon as I got burned-out or stepped back in any way, I was forgotten. No one came to check on me. They just filled my position—always a volunteer—and moved on without me.

There was nowhere to belong, nowhere that would accept me not for what I could offer, but just because it was where I belonged.

The first time I heard Pink Pony Club by Chappell Roan was at a karaoke birthday party where I only knew the birthday boy well. There were a few acquaintances, but no one for this introvert to feel comfortable around. So, I didn’t really participate; I stayed in my safe corner drinking my beer.

But I watched.

I listened.

When you grow up as an outcast, you get good at watching people, hearing what they’re saying under and between the words.

Then this pop song—not really my vibe at all—began to play. The singer was talented. Everyone began dancing. I think I was the only one in the room who had never heard this song before.

Once again, an outsider.

As the song played on, my breath caught, and I found myself fighting back tears.

“I’m just having fun / on the stage in my heels / it’s where I belong.”

The longing in my heart rose to the surface

It’s where I belong.

Chappell had found a place she belonged. A place she was accepted fully and without hesitation. A place that celebrated her. A place where she fit.

And in that moment, in a karaoke room filled with strangers and pop music, I heard the story of someone finding the gospel.

Could I find it?

If Chappell found a place to belong in a queer club, could I find my belonging, my place, where I can keep dancing?

This is the hope of the outcast, of the weirdo, of the bullied, the left out: there is a place you belong.

In the song, Chappell finds this place on the stage of a club, where she can dance in her heels, letting her full self be seen.

What if this was the message Jesus commissioned his disciples with? What if Jesus meant for discipleship to be the way we learn to belong to each other? What if this Trinitarian baptism was an action of embrace and acceptance?

Jesus has just announced his sovereignty over all things, and now he is sending his disciples to make more disciples through baptism and teaching them to listen and follow through with the commands Jesus has given.

Make more disciples through baptism. This catches my eye. I was taught that baptism was an outward sign of an inward reality. God has brought liberation to this person, so they are baptized in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit.

But…

What if baptism wasn’t about salvation? What if it wasn’t about some sort of inner grace that the person has received? What if baptism is an announcement?

If the apostles are told to make disciples of the nations through baptism, then baptism becomes not a sign of some personal salvation. Rather, baptism becomes the celebration that this person has found where they belong: in the community of God.

The kingdom of God is where we all belong. Not in some generic way. No, we belong in our heels, on the stage, singing, dancing, making a production and a show of everything we are and all we carry within us. The kingdom of God is our Pink Pony Club, the place that calls to us, that we dream of, that is good to us. It’s the place we belong.

Here, we are invited to keep dancing in the waters of baptism, those waters of death and life that once passed through become the doorway through which the community of the kingdom of God declares that we are one of them. These are the waters of acceptance, of embrace, of belonging.

This changes what the Great Commission is.

We aren’t to go out and conquer in Jesus’ name. We aren’t extending his sovereignty. All authority is already his. We are not pushing forward the borders of the kingdom, claiming ground for some sort of colonizing holiness.

We are to go and make disciples, people that follow Jesus into baptism and then to the place they belong, the kingdom of God.

We are immersed, baptized in the name of the Creator, the Redeemer, the Sustainer. We are baptized into the friendship, the community, that is the Trinity. We, and the community of the kingdom, are taking part in the dance, the life, the heartbeat of all that God is. And it is from within this divine community that we extend our hands to the outcast, the disinherited, the lonely, the forgotten. We are inviting the oppressed, the suffering, the fearful into this place of love where they fully belong.

This is the great commission: In the name of the Father, Son, and Spirit, accept people into their belonging.

Where is your Pink Pony Club?

Where do you belong?

Where can you bring others so they can find their belonging as well?

Capitalism tells us we’re only as good as our labor. White supremacy tells us we are only valuable as we relate to whiteness. Patriarchy demands we uphold the powerful oppressors who rule with violence. Baptism gives the finger to the entire system, and walks into the club where “boys are girls can all be queens,” where we are celebrated no matter who we are, who we love, how we’re oriented, what we have to offer… it is all gathered up through the waters of baptism, where we rise into the embrace of the community.

The gospel tells us we all belong. Any other message is lying to you.

You don’t have to be bullied by the systems of dominance and violence. None of us do. We belong together, free from the oppressive powers and principalities that animate this world’s systematic hate.

We belong to each other; that’s how we get out of this.