Why I Traded My Cross For A Pride Flag

Ever since I was a kid, way back around 40 years ago, I have worn a cross around my neck as a symbol of my Christian faith. Over time, the nature of that cross and its meaning to me changed dramatically. In the 80s, the simple wooden cross reflected the simplicity of my faith. The many and varied crosses of the 90’s followed the pattern of a faith rapidly evolving with my own growth and social influence. There were long stretches where I wore no cross- not as a conscious choice but rather as an indication of how often I forgot to put one on.

It was not until well into the ’00s that I landed on what would become a very personal and consistent commitment to the discipline of putting on a cross. As I started researching the life of St. Francis of Assisi for a new book I was writing, I was inspired by his devotion to the marginalized, the liberty of simplicity he embraced, and his willingness to step into a faith rooted in radical mutuality with others (and creation). And so I began to wear a Tau cross- the symbol of the Franciscan order. For years, I did not miss a single day. Until last year. One morning I woke, got dressed and picked up the simple wooden Tau, hung on an unremarkable bit of thick string. I looked at it with genuine affection and familiarity, sitting there in the quiet while a storm raged inside. And then, in an instant, I opened my bedside drawer and gently placed the cross inside. I shut the drawer, knowing I would never wear it again and felt truly at peace.

A few months later, I ordered a dozen (knowing I would inevitably lose them on the regular) high-quality lapel pins of the Progressive Pride Flag. And now my daily ritual includes putting the pin onto my shirt or jacket with the same care and intentionality that I once reserved for the cross. It was an important decision for me, one that I feel absolutely no regret over.

It would be easy, in reading the above, to assume that I have put away the trappings of religion in exchange for a symbol of political ideology. For some, that will be seen as the brave move of a rational mind. For others, it will be seen as a betrayal of the sacred for the slippery-slope-prone profanity of “the left”. And both would be entirely wrong in their assessment. So why did I exchange the Cross for a Pride flag?

The cross, like Jesus himself, was arguably a radical disruption to the status quo of social and religious norms. Using the cross- a symbol of the violent oppression of the Empire- as a symbol of the faith was a subversive choice because it disempowered the threat of death by asserting the overwhelming power of love. Of course, over time, that meaning was lost. It was lost with the co-opting of Christianity by colonialist, empire-building forces. It was lost to the resulting theologies of atonement that sought to justify that very violence. But to many, that original radical meaning lingered.

And so, the decision to stop wearing the cross was not sudden for me. In fact, I had found that I was increasingly tucking it away out of sight in certain contexts. This was especially true with my First Nations neighbours as more and more information emerged about the unmarked graves for the indigenous children who died (and were killed) at state- and church-run residential schools across Canada. As a queer activist, I was also increasingly aware of how triggering Christian symbology and language could be to people traumatized by the church for their sexual orientation and/or gender identity.

My own experience with significant mistreatment from Christians- including gaslighting, lies, death threats, and more- was also a significant contributor to my growing discomfort with wearing a symbol that uncritically associated me with the source of my and others’ trauma and rejection. All of this made me open my eyes to consider what the symbol meant to the world around me. To the “religious insiders” of my faith, it could largely remain a unifying symbol of hope. Yet, for far too many on the outside, and within the context of culture and history, wearing it marked me as an unsafe, unreasonable, and unreliable person.

I started to understand that, with very few exceptions, wearing the cross no longer represented a risk to me. In a culture rife with Christian supremacy, it largely lent me social advantage with the privileged. It had almost become the very thing it was meant to subvert. Conversely, the Pride flag seemed to result in restoring that subversive intention. While it was one public marker that I was committed to love and advocate for my fellow 2SLGBTQIA+ communities, it came with real social and religious risks. Spaces that I was once unquestioningly welcomed into were now marked by thinly veiled disdain and even open hostility. In short, while the marginalized found in it an expression of hope, the powerful and privileged viewed it as a corrupting threat.

I am under no illusions that the Pride flag is a perfect symbol, uncomplicated by politics, ideology, and even other expressions of supremacy. Nor am I unequivocally saying that no Christian should wear a cross. Rather, this change has been a choice of faithfulness to the spirit of the life and teachings of Jesus. This is a decision that allows me to take up a visible symbol of my commitment to fight for the equality and flourishing of every person, especially those on the margins of power.

And so I exchanged the Cross for the Pride flag- not as a departure from my Christianity but as a return to the heart of Jesus’s call and example of radical love in the face of injustice. The flag serves as a daily reminder that I am accountable to that active love- not just with my fellow queer siblings but with all marginalized people. More than a symbol, it is a vow to confront and disrupt systems (and symbols) that are built of exclusion, supremacy, and ignorance- a vow to love and support others in the very ways I, too, would want to be loved.

Jamie Arpin-Ricci is a bisexual author, award-winning activist, and the Co-Director of Peace & Justice Initiatives. He is also pastoral leader at Little Flowers Community, a Mennonite church in Winnipeg, MB, where he has served a largely 2SLGBTQIA+ congregation for almost 15 years. He was forced to resign from his ministry of 25 years for being fully affirming, facing coercion and death threats. Arpin-Ricci has provided community and support to countless 2SLGBTQIA+ people around the world for years.