The debate around religious discrimination reform is built on the fallacy that religion and queerness cannot coexist.
Conflict between religion and queerness only exists because religious institutions have for so long been permitted to traumatise queer people—particularly children—without retribution.
After a handful of years of blissful peace, Australians have recently been confronted with the return of debate surrounding religious discrimination reform. This tall task attempts to consolidate regulations regarding the right for religious institutions to discriminate against certain members of society—most prominently, queer Australians.
Throughout the ill-fated recent history of religious discrimination bills, it is striking how much of the fuss is built on the notion that religion and queerness cannot coexist.
Scott Morrison’s attempt to change discrimination laws for religious institutions made waves during his tenure as prime minister, garnering criticism from both conservative religious groups and queer advocates.
In 2022, the Coalition drafted a “Religious Discrimination Bill” that aimed to simultaneously restrict discrimination against minority groups in public life, while also maintaining the ability of religious groups to discriminate against members of their communities based on their belief systems. This included the right for religious institutions to refuse service and support to certain groups based on their sexuality, gender identity, marital status or pregnancy. Central to the debate was the inclusion of a clause in the bill protecting “statements of belief”: a notion that proved too vague for either side of the argument.
Queer Australians and our allies were especially concerned by the proposed legislation, as it would have federally codified the right to discriminate against queer people for our identities by undermining state and territory discrimination laws.
Journalist Alastair Lawrie covered the issue extensively at the time, highlighting the uneven discourse that centred the concerns of queerphobic religious leaders over all others affected by the proposal. He notes that:
“There was no engagement with any of the people who stood to lose the most, from women, to LGBTI people, single parents, divorced people and people in de facto relationships, and people with disability.”
Lawrie also wrote a heart-wrenching piece about his personal experiences with institutionalised homophobia at religious schools and the decades of trauma it caused.
Ultimately, after much controversy, the bill was permanently shelved.
Diametrically opposed
Throughout debate of both bills, Labor and the Coalition—as well as many political commentators—have taken for granted the idea that religion and queerness are diametrically opposed. They would have you believe that any laws that safeguard queer people are inherently taking away protections from religious groups, and vice versa.
This framing utterly ignores the complex intersection between queerness and faith, and in doing so does a disservice to both queer Australians and Australians of faith.
It also implies that religious institutions and queer Australians have equal stakes in this matter.
Thankfully for lovers of incredibly stupid politics, during his 2022 election campaign Anthony Albanese promised to resurrect the concept of a religious discrimination bill and personally escort its shambling corpse to parliament.
Predictably, Labor’s take on the concept has been just as ill-fated as the Liberals’. In March, Albanese announced that the bill would be shelved if it did not receive support from the Coalition. He cited ongoing social tension as the reasoning, with apparent concern regarding increased scrutiny of religious groups in Australia. This hesitancy to politicise religious affiliation comes in the wake of Israel’s ongoing assault on Palestine and the associated rise in Islamophobia and anti-Semitism. At the time, there was speculation that this was a move to pre-emptively position the Opposition to take the blame for the bill’s inevitable failure.
The most controversial aspect of the legislation was the proposal to remove section 38 from the Sex Discrimination Act, which “allows religious educational institutions to discriminate against students and staff based on their sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, marital or relationship status, or pregnancy.”
Finally, on Monday, Albanese announced that the bill was dead in the water. He claimed that the decision was based on inopportune timing, as well as concerns regarding “social cohesion”—a common refrain from the Prime Minister in allusion to growing tensions surrounding Israel’s assault on Palestine.
At the same time, queer advocacy groups expressed concern at Labor’s failure to adhere to their election promise to safeguard queer and other vulnerable groups from discrimination. Equality Australia CEO Anna Brown stated,
“Our community’s needs have again been overlooked and blatant injustices ignored… This news is devastating to every Australian waiting for better protections including gay and trans teachers, pregnant women, people who are divorced or in de facto relationships, as well as people of faith.”
Discrimination is not an inherent aspect of faith
Despite what these arguments would have you believe, discrimination is not an inherent aspect of religious faith, and rejection of religion is not an inherent part of queerness. It is notable that the only religious perspectives sought out in this debate are those who equate religion with the right to discriminate: a socially extreme position rejected by many Australians of faith.
It is evident that this is not a matter of the right to religion, but rather the right to discriminate cloaked with the legitimacy offered by institutional religion.
Discourse surrounding religious discrimination reform is grounded in a common political fallacy: that the legal protection of one group must come at the cost of the rights of another. Such arguments perpetuate the sort of “us versus them” mentality that results in harmful culture wars. With this in mind, it is certainly strange that Albanese would claim that shelving the latest bill is in the interests of “social harmony.”
It would be naïve to imply that there is no tension between religious institutions and the queer community. Religious schools in particular have a long history of homophobia and transphobia, traumatising queer students and ultimately alienating them. Lawrie’s piece on his experiences in a homophobic religious school is heart-rending not just because of the suffering he endured, but also because he is far from the only example of such trauma. His experiences are not isolated, but representative.
In such environments, homophobia comes from the top down: the institutionalisation of prejudice encourages queer students’ peers to bully and harass them, because their institutional authorities tell them that this is just. The path to healing from such experiences is long and harrowing, and many young queer people do not survive it - there is a reason we are twice as likely to attempt suicide than our heterosexual, cisgender peers.
The framing of religious discrimination reform as an issue of religion versus queerness only serves to uphold this alienation of queer people from religious communities. Religious discrimination reform would not restrict religious adherence aside from its use to justify prejudice - the failure to reform discrimination laws will result in the continued traumatisation of queer Australians.
Successful reform would result in religious leaders having to grit their teeth and accept queer people into their communities. It would also mean that future generations of queer Australians would be safeguarded from the kind of discrimination and bullying that has immeasurably harmed our community for decades.
Conflict between religion and queerness only exists because religious institutions have for so long been permitted to traumatise queer people—particularly children—without retribution. Given this pattern of abuse, it is entirely unsurprising that many members of the queer community hold negative opinions of religious institutions in general. The conflict between queer people and religious groups is not a level playing field: it is the result of discrimination on one side and trauma on the other.
Additionally, the idea of religion versus queerness utterly erases the existence of Australians of faith who do not hold queerphobic views, and, importantly, the existence of queer Australians of faith. Faith leaders have argued for their right to discriminate, but what about the rights of queer, religious Australians to engage with their faith communities without fear of retribution for their identity?
Ultimately, it is clear that the issue of religious discrimination reform has not been blockaded by an immutable conflict between religion and queerness, but by a fixation on the interests of queerphobic religious leaders, with their interests being prioritised over the safety of all other Australians.
For all Albanese’s concern about social cohesion, it is clear that Australia cannot move forward to protecting faith and queerness by holding them as opposing forces. Queer people cannot see justice as long as we consider discrimination to be an inherent part of faith, and Australians of faith cannot be properly served as long as policy only reflects the most extreme positions.
Dr Maurice Quirk is an academic, writer and transsexual living in Sydney. They hold a PhD in Religious Studies from the University of Sydney. They tweet too much at @redactedquirk.
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