Photo credit: Albin Hillert/WCC
It’s been over a decade since I first joined the Church of Sweden as a policy adviser, a role that has taken me down paths I never expected. One of those paths brought me to the heart of a project that has deeply challenged my understanding of faith, sexuality, and the lingering effects of colonialism.
When I was asked to contribute to the Uppsala Festival of Theology shortly after joining in 2013, I knew I was stepping into something significant. The theme I was assigned was both urgent and delicate: exploring human dignity and human sexuality within the context of faith. This wasn’t just an academic exercise—it was a confrontation with centuries of cultural and spiritual conflict, particularly the ways in which sacred texts have been weaponized against diverse sexual orientations.
Confronting Misinterpretations of Sacred Texts
The first realization that struck me was that none of the Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, or Islam—explicitly condemns people based on their sexual orientation. When we commissioned scholars to examine these texts, what emerged was clear: condemnation is not rooted in scripture but in centuries of interpretation shaped by cultural and colonial biases. It became evident that faith communities have long used interpretations, rather than the actual words of sacred texts, to enforce discrimination.
This project eventually gave birth to our book, Behold, I Make All Things New, which examines how sacred texts can actually promote human dignity. But our work didn’t stop there. As we delved into this dialogue, it became apparent that our focus on Abrahamic traditions was too narrow. The world, after all, doesn’t just consist of these three faiths. We expanded our lens to include what we termed the “Karmic faiths”—Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism.
The Distorted Legacy of Colonialism
What we discovered in this second phase was a revelation, and at times, profoundly unsettling. Take the notion of Hinduism, for instance. We learned that Hinduism, as a singular religion, is a colonial construct. The British needed an umbrella term to group thousands of diverse religious traditions in India. Similarly, the very concept of “curry,” which we associate with Indian cuisine, doesn’t exist in India. It was a term created by the English to lump together anything spiced. The more I learned, the more I saw how colonialism distorted and oversimplified the complex tapestry of cultural and spiritual identities.
In Africa, we saw a similar colonial impact in places like Rwanda. The German and Belgian colonizers simplified and classified the population into Hutu and Tutsi, categories that didn’t exist before their arrival. These artificial divisions fueled decades of conflict, including the horrific genocide. Colonial constructs have been devastatingly effective at creating lasting damage, and the effects ripple through generations.
A Fluid Understanding of Gender and Sexuality
One of the most eye-opening experiences for me was confronting Western concepts of gender and how they clash with indigenous understandings. In Africa, for instance, the Khoisan people never assigned gender in the way we do. Gender fluidity is inherent in their worldview. Individuals were not fixed in categories; instead, gender was contextual, connected to one’s role or task. A person who hunted was assigned a gender associated with that activity, but this classification wasn’t permanent. It made me realize just how much colonialism has imposed rigid gender binaries that are foreign to many cultures.
And then, there’s the story of Tiwonge Chimbalanga in Malawi. Tiwonge, a trans woman, was imprisoned alongside her male partner, Steven, for their engagement, a violation of colonial-era laws. What’s tragic is that her rural community had always accepted her as a woman. It wasn’t until Western journalists introduced the concept of “gay” that all hell broke loose. The word itself, loaded with Western connotations, caused more damage than good. This story is a vivid reminder that colonial influence didn’t end with independence; it lingers in the language and laws that shape identities today.
Indigenous Spirituality and the Sami People
Our exploration also brought us to Scandinavia, where the Sami people’s spiritual traditions were violently suppressed. As a representative of the Church of Sweden, I had to confront the harsh truth: our own church had a hand in this colonial aggression. Sami children were taken to boarding schools where their spiritual practices were stripped away, and their understanding of sexuality was erased. We couldn’t even find a Sami person in Sweden who still practiced these spiritual traditions openly; that’s how effective the erasure had been.
It was a moment of reckoning for me. Our work with the Sami made me see that the damage wasn’t just physical or cultural—it was spiritual. These communities had lost not just their land but also their spiritual identity, and we were complicit in that.
The Hope of a Different Understanding
Yet, amidst this heartbreak, there were moments of profound beauty. Learning about the Ovahimba people of Namibia gave me a new appreciation for the depth of indigenous spiritual practices. They believe that each person has a unique song, a melody that connects them to their community and roots. When someone in their society does harm, they are surrounded by their community, who sings their song to remind them of who they truly are. It’s a restorative, rather than punitive, approach—one that emphasizes reconnection over punishment.
The Ovahimba also have no fixed concept of gender. A person’s role, not their gender, is what defines them in a given moment. For example, a woman can hunt if she chooses, but she must then renounce her life-bringing role. These ideas are so radically different from our Western constructs, yet they make so much sense in the context of their worldview.
Moving Forward with Humility
Our journey culminated in understanding that the labels and identities we use in the West often do more harm than good when applied elsewhere. This realization was both humbling and frustrating. On the one hand, terms like “LGBTQ+” can bring visibility and funding. On the other, they fail to capture the rich, fluid nature of many indigenous experiences of gender and sexuality. Imposing these categories is yet another form of colonialism, even if it comes from a well-meaning place.
What we need, more than anything, is to listen. We have to honor oral traditions and resist the urge to categorize and simplify. The work we’re doing is about giving voice to those long silenced and acknowledging that our Western framework doesn’t always have the answers.
In the end, this project taught me that the fight for human dignity and the recognition of diverse sexualities isn’t just about changing laws or interpreting texts. It’s about decolonizing our minds and our faiths, allowing communities to reclaim the identities that were once stripped from them. It’s a journey of unlearning and relearning—a journey I’m still very much on.
