Closed Eyes Behind Rose-Coloured Glasses

Five Years After the Mandated Signing of the Community Covenant

Anya’s eyes widen as she stares down at the chapel speaker from the hard, plastic benches in the gymnasium bleachers. Did he really just say what she thought she heard?

Initially, the eleventh grader had been looking forward to hanging out with her friend Sierra and exploring the university her friend went to. Now, Anya’s not so sure. Is this what everybody here thought?

The speaker continues on, “You see, it’s a tough, on-going battle. One of my close friends—a strong believer in the word—his son just came out. Yes, it’s a tragedy. We can only pray for the day he finds his way back to God and the church.”

A sinking feeling slithers down Anya’s stomach. This is not a safe space.

Back at home later that night, during dinner, her parents ask the inevitable question: “How was your day?”

Resolve hardening, Anya stares down at her full plate of food, eyes burning.

“I am never going to Trinity Western University.”

Fast forward seven years later, Anya (she/they) is completing their third year of TWU’s nursing program. However, their initial qualms with TWU’s attitude towards—and interactions with—the queer community still stand. Since 2018, it is no longer mandatory for incoming students to sign the infamous Community Covenant. How has this decision changed the school’s environment in regard to LGBTQ+ members feeling accepted and free to be themselves on campus?

Listening to the different stories of older TWU students who did sign the covenant compared to the experiences that new queer students are having on campus, it is clear that making the Community Covenant optional to sign was a progressive step in the right direction, but it was just that—the first step of a much longer journey.

TWU’s Community Covenant is a “contractual agreement and a relational bond” that outlines what a proper Christian community should look like on campus. It demonstrates how “to live according to biblical precepts” in order to “optimize the University’s capacity to fulfill its mission and achieve its aspirations.” Overall, it encourages members to pursue truth, treat everyone with respect, think critically and respond constructively to complex perspectives in the world.

“It is an undeniable fact that many queer students call TWU home. What is it that draws people from all walks of life to TWU in the first place?

The covenant’s stance becomes more controversial due to its definition of marriage; the document entails that individuals will abstain from “sexual intimacy that violates the sacredness of marriage between a man and a woman.” Although this statement points towards TWU not being a safe space for members of the LGBTQ+ community, it is an undeniable fact that many queer students call TWU home. What is it that draws people from all walks of life to TWU in the first place?

It was the acclaim of TWU’s nursing program that won Anya over in the end. When they recall back to signing the covenant while first applying to the program in 2019, they did so with a heavy heart. Anya was not made aware of the policy change and recalls that it was still a part of the strenuous application process despite it no longer being mandatory. Putting their professional aspirations over their personal beliefs, Anya did not attach any meaning behind the action, saying, “I just closed my eyes while I signed it.”

The eventual journey that ended the mandatory signing of the Community Covenant began in 2012 when Trinity Western University announced its plans to establish a School of Law. After getting the proposal approved by the B.C. Ministry of Advanced Education and the Federation of Law Societies of Canada, TWU planned to welcome its first class of law students in the fall of 2015.

Plans came to an abrupt halt in April 2014 when the Law Society of Upper Canada (now the Law Society of Ontario) and the Nova Scotia Barristers Society voted to ban TWU graduates from practicing in their respective provinces. Unless TWU altered its conservative Christian view of marriage, the societies maintained that the Community Covenant was discriminatory towards the LGBTQ+ community, which would threaten the integrity of Canada’s legal system. Following in these law societies’ suit, the Law Society of British Columbia reversed its initial accreditation in September 2014.

In response, TWU took the three societies to their prospective provincial courts in 2015, stating the societies were infringing on the right to freedom of religion. The Nova Scotia and British Columbia courts ruled in favour of TWU, stating that the denial of accreditation was unreasonably based on a lack of evidence. However, the Ontario court ruled in favour of the law society, stating that the society was upholding the right to equality and was not infringing on freedoms of expression or association.

The Ontario and B.C. rulings were appealed to the Supreme Court of Canada and appeared in court on November 30 and December 1, 2017. In June 2018, the highly anticipated debate between religious freedom and equality came to a head, as the Supreme Court ruled 7–2 in favour of the law societies. Overall, the Supreme Court stated that it was within the public interest to ensure equal access to legal education and diversity in the legal profession. They maintained that the Community Covenant would deter LGBTQ+ students from attending TWU at best and pose a significant threat to their well-being at worst.

Two months later in August 2018, Robert Kuhn, the president at the time, released the decision that signing the Community Covenant would no longer be mandatory in following with the school’s “desire to maintain TWU as a thriving community of Christian believers that is inclusive of all students wishing to learn from a Christian viewpoint and underlying philosophy.” This decision was not made lightly, as opponents critiqued the decision as a shift away from the traditional values of Christianity, while supporters praised TWU’s openness to change.

The only way to truly understand the effect the Community Covenant had on students is to ask them directly.

In comparison, when Morgan Ross* (they/them) came to TWU in 2021 from the U.S., they had never heard of the Community Covenant. Admitting that they wore rose-coloured glasses for the majority of their first semester, it was not until they applied for a leadership position for their second year that they became aware of the covenant’s existence.

While they do not have a problem following the stipulations of the covenant due to their asexuality, they take issue with its pointed implications. Ross sees the love TWU extends to its students as contradictory to the unconditional love and forgiveness of Jesus, saying, “You have a lot of buts attached to your love.

‘I love you, but . . .’” Instead of a document that lists the specific dos and don’ts of Christian living, Ross would love to see the covenant open a conversation about moral values: “What do you value? Why do you value it? How are you going to stand for this?” also felt alone due to a fundamental lack of deeper understanding and reliability. One TWU was a venue to vent her righteous anger while also funnelling it more productively to create positive change. She figured she had nothing to lose by going but everything to gain.

Now, Rabanes describes One TWU as a metaphorical family, united by shared experiences. In addition to the organization’s three foundational pillars—educate, advocate, relate—Rabanes’ personal mission as a leader “is to meet the needs of the most vulnerable.” Her passion shines behind her eyes as she said, “I would put my whole career into [One TWU] if I could live off of it.”

TWU alumnus Ivon Hayes* (they/them) signed the covenant when they came to the school in 2017. While they admit there were some positive experiences seeing allyship on campus, they were few and far between. Mainly, Hayes felt like the TWU environment did its best to avoid mentioning LGBTQ+ topics; in turn, this erasure made them feel isolated from TWU’s well-touted community.

Hayes mentions that while the Community Covenant says it promotes the exploration of different worldviews in theory, in reality, the practice looks much different. “You have a certain number of pre-set conclusions you’re allowed to reach,” they said. “You’re allowed to think critically within this little box, but you’re not allowed to look back at the assumptions that start your thinking process.”

Looking back at their time at TWU, Hayes admits they probably would have come into their gender and sexual identity earlier with less pain if they had attended a different university. “Given who I was when I was 18, and where I was, I can’t even imagine myself picking [another university] even though a large part of me does regret picking [TWU] now.”

As someone who is non-binary, Ross comments that “it’s really weird having to figure out how much effort I want to put into living outside of the binary when everything at Trinity is so painfully binary.” They continue with a sigh, “It’s the little things that chip away. . . . It’s always guys and girls, husbands and wives, men and women of the church—and me somewhere in there.”

Across the board, it does seem to be TWU’s community and faith-based education that draws in the majority of its potential students. This appeal is no different when it comes to students who happen to be queer as well. The main difference is, however, that LGBTQ+ students need to put more time and energy into curating their own circles of community where they know it is safe to be their authentic selves.

One TWU is the grassroots, non-profit organization—which is independent from TWU—that offers support and community to queer students on campus. This club understands the hardships of identifying as queer in a religious institution and strives to create a safer space for queer students and alumni to exist, grow, and explore their gender, sexuality, and spiritual identities.

Queenie Rabanes (she/her), a co-leader of One TWU since 2019, first joined One TWU in 2016 in order to combat the steadily growing sense of isolation that she experienced during her first year at TWU. Although she felt loved by her friends, she

Rabanes reveals that One TWU has so much potential for growth and outreach; yet, she is frustrated by the opposition the club receives from TWU. The hardest part of being a leader is knowing that there are students struggling alone with no idea that One TWU exists. They are not a ratified club on campus, as one step in the ratification process includes disclosing the members of the club—a security risk One TWU leaders are skeptical of making. Therefore, with One TWU’s denial of ratification, TWU’s administration does not allow the organization to put up posters or freely advertise the club’s existence, which also aligns with the administration’s goal to not offend any students or parents who hold differing perspectives on the LGBTQ+ community.

“[TWU] sees us, but they don’t understand our mission,” Rabanes admits in a regretful tone. While progress has allowed One TWU a space at the table to share their thoughts and frustrations, Rabanes says the “margins are very, very small. . . . It’s only an attainable spot for people with a similar voice.” Operating under the assumption that their next move could be their last, One TWU functions within a sphere of tension in relation to the school: both want what is best for students but have drastically opposing views on what this end goal looks like and the means by which to achieve it.

One TWU challenges students to see the inherent human worth in everyone and the detrimental effects of homophobia. The future Rabanes dreams of seeing is one where TWU’s actions would follow its words and “would use [its] privilege and power to create an environment safe for those who are oppressed”—something many queer students think can be improved upon on campus. As evidenced by its past actions, Trinity Western University has the capability to enact change to prevent future hurts, which would hopefully help repair past harm that it has already caused. The question is will it? And what does this look like going forward?

Katie Smith* (she/her), a second-year English major, believes the answer lies in ending forced theology. Taking one step back to look at Christian history, it becomes evident that Christians do not agree on many points; however, there is always core dogma that unites the religion. Smith’s issue with the Community Covenant is that it dictates people’s theology without room for discussion, opinions, or dissent. “Unity and [homogeneity] are not the same thing,” she said, leaning forward in her seat. “You can be different and still have unity. You can be different and still have respect. You can be different and still be a healthy community that promotes Christian ideals.”

Smith is grateful that, as a student, she did not have to sign the covenant when she applied to TWU, as she would not have attended the university otherwise. Signing away her rights was where she drew the line.

Smith’s predicament brings to light a startling question: how many queer students was the Community Covenant driving away before change occurred in 2018? How many prospective students were not willing to fight to simply exist? This severe lack of diversity directly translated to TWU having limited queer voices to advocate for change. It is only within the last few years that campus life has begun to see an increase in diversity and allyship. fortunately, she does not see higher levels of TWU’s administration being receptive to open discussion and close relationship in order to establish lasting and impactful change. “It might be they think they’re portraying strength and courage to stand by their beliefs despite these ‘crazy times,’” Levale said, miming air quotes, “but what I think true strength and courage is—from my little experience—is opening up the portal to receiving criticism. That’s courageous right there because it’s hard.”

However, the issue of enforced homogenous belief is still prevalent at the higher levels of Trinity Western University. It is still mandatory for staff and faculty to sign the Community Covenant. This forced lack of diverse perspectives persists in the individuals who are supposed to facilitate opportunities for critical thinking during an essential time of development and growth in young adults.

At the end of the day, students can try as hard as they want to create a safer community within their university experience, but ultimately, that power resides in TWU’s administration and what steps they are willing to take to ensure this reality. Across the board, it seems that students are thankful for the gradual shift towards more open-minded communication but are pessimistic about further changes being implemented in the future. Instead of hopeful enthusiasm, most of the interviews conducted were shrouded in a forlorn sense of exhaustion. “Going to school, especially with mental health issues, is already so much of a fight,” Ross said, slouching back in their seat. “I don’t want to fight to exist as well.”

For instance, when Tausani Levale (she/her) first came to TWU in 2019, she looks back and describes herself as “a fresh mind to mould.” She said, “I felt a lot of pressure to conform to a certain Christian standard.” As the captain of the women’s rugby team, the expectations did affect her, and she left TWU after two years in the position. But Levale could not stay away and, this year, is back as a volunteer coach: “I poured so much of my heart into that team, and I really care about leading the next generation of strong women.”

The key word here is volunteer, as to be paid for her role, Levale must sign the Community Covenant— something that she is not willing to commit to. Integrity has always been central to who she is as a person: believing in what she stands for and abiding by that decision. While she appreciates TWU’s mission—especially in the sports-related field—Levale also knows that her beliefs do not align with those of TWU. “My future is not here at Trinity,” she said, shaking her head with a grimace.

Levale believes that empathy, patience, and love are necessary to understand what true acceptance is. Un-

In a disheartening turn of events, TWU has recently denied One TWU from holding their annual stories night event on campus. This decision from administration has created outcry from students, alumni, and the general community, as people are beginning to speak up against the unfair and marginalized treatment that queer students receive on campus (read more on page 3). Is this denial a preliminary glimpse into what the future holds in store for queer experiences at Trinity Western University? “I would hate to see that [TWU] aren’t actually the ones that are initiating God’s love,” Levale said.

It is important to recognize that change is not only coming but is already upon us. It is our responsibility as Christians to extend Christlike love in all we do, listening with compassion and having conversations that close the door on past harm to strive towards healing and forgiveness. When the door truly opens to genuine diversity, TWU will gain valuable opinions and insights that will revitalize the community instead of letting it stagnate in exclusion and bigotry. “I really hope that you’re not completely reactionary to this major change in history,” Levale said, addressing TWU directly, “before you fall behind.”

Art is Dead: How TikTok Killed Steve Lacy Diego Bascur

Now onto Mr. Lacy, the smooth guitarist from Compton. From his impressive time with the alternative R&B band The Internet at the young age of 15 to releasing a series of increasingly successful solo projects, Lacy’s career has been on the rise. Steve Lacy is a talented musician who has taken the time to put his soul into everything he creates. Gemini Rights, his latest album and second studio-produced project, brought Lacy to a new frontier in the music world. His most popular tracks, such as “Bad Habit” and “Sunshine,” became incredibly famous on TikTok and adjacent platforms, causing him to become a more widely-known artist. His album also garnered him a Grammy award for Best Progressive R&B album.

However, his tour, Give You the World, seemed to be less encouraging, and Lacy was hit with a harsh reality. On many occasions during the tour, fans were unable to sing more than a few lines of his songs. Several videos show the artist expressing his frustration, pointing out this fact during his performance. Videos show Lacy asking to see a phone from the crowd and then smashing it on the stage, or walking off stage after feeling disrespected. Unfortunately, these same songs which gave Lacy his popularity simultaneously corrupted his work as well. When the bulk of listeners are only exposed to 10 second snippets of a song, an empty fandom is created.

We killed music.

We did it: art is dead. We dug the grave, we buried it, and then we filmed a ten-second video of us dancing on the grave to a high-pitched re-edit. How did it come to this? How could we let ourselves arrive at this barren place? We are reduced to mindless consumers, scrolling and scrolling, tapping and tapping, sinking deeper into a black hole of media, all while craving more and more. Zombified and attention deficient, we sit back and let all that is beautiful in this world whither up and die away. To sum up, Tiktok killed Steve Lacy.

With the emergence of platforms such as Vine, Musical.ly and now TikTok and Instagram reels, society has been introduced to a new form of media. Quicker and easily digestible content now feeds our attention. This media now shapes the way entertainment is portrayed and, in consequence, influences the very nature of art itself. We have succumbed to a lesser form of media consumption and demand the most in as little time as possible.

These platforms reflect a fast-moving world of innovation, a train hurtling down tracks going in no particular direction and with no sign of stopping. Places must be travelled to as quickly as possible, a task must be performed with the max amount of efficiency, and interactions must be had with the most amount of stimulation as possible—or not be had at all.

It is kind of like we are the Blob, from that old sci-fi movie, absorbing everything that crosses our path into a giant mass until everything is the same: until all is the Blob. These platforms promote a uniform surplus of hollow content which never allows for any tangible connection or real reflection to be had on a piece of work.

Though at times an opportunity to gain attention, there are some artists who feel they have been forced to promote their work on a page like TikTok. Forced into a cage to appease the public, their art becomes nothing but a stimulant for our hungry eyes. Music artists have expressed their frustration with their labels, as some claim their music would not be released until they could produce a viral video featuring their songs. Singer/songwriter Halsey explained in a video that her record label would not release her new song unless they could “fake a viral TikTok moment” for promotion. She added, “I just want to make music, man. I deserve better to be honest.” With the everpresent greed of record labels fueled by the eternal crave of the consumer, art has become modified, warped to fit onto a screen for ten seconds.

Maybe in those videos of Lacy throwing tantrums, he realized what had been done to his creation and how TikTok mutilated his art. At what cost did this fame come, and if he could, would he want to take it back? Perhaps a spotlight is meaningless without substance, deep appreciation, and genuine connection. I think that is what inspires art and fuels the artist to some extent: a reaction of raw emotion to raw creation so that passion can stay alive like oxygen to a fire. Maybe if we keep blowing on the fire though, needing more and more, craving bigger and better, it will just go out. . . . it will just die.

Hobo Johnson in his song “I want you Back” writes, “And now I’m just laying here dead on my couch / Facebook and Google have their tubes in my mouth / And as they generously feed me my ads for the day / For the week, for the month / I think we’re f—ed.” Commence the feeding. Art is dead.