The Three Little Pigs (The Remix): How NOT to Respond to Someone Struggling With Sexuality

Some people respond well to big news.  Some do not. And some struggle miserably.

I had a relatively positive response to my “coming out”, especially considering that I waited until I was thirty years old.  I knew that I was gay for my entire life.  But others had come to know and expect different things from me, some placing me on an unachievable pedestal.  Some people saw through the façade, but others were quite surprised when I told them about my sexuality.

As discussed in my last post, my family responded terrifically well.    My parents and siblings accepted the news with grace and love and have continued to support me in this journey.  There were some concerns at first, mostly concerns for safety and protection.  Not because they were afraid I would be beaten or killed…wait...that sadly still happens to homosexuals in the United States today.  Maybe this was a concern.  As progressive as our country wants to appear, there are still vast numbers of people who adamantly oppose the LGBTQ community, not to mention horrible systems of injustice for people of color, the poor, women, immigrants and others. Family concerns also centered on how the church would react, considering that faith has always been important to me. Other concerns were more comical.  I remember one family member asking if this meant I would start wearing make-up and coming home in dresses; I had to assure them that I, in fact, enjoyed being a man and had no intentions of ever changing that. 

The support extended beyond my nuclear family.  All of my grandparents responded similarly.  Most of my aunts and uncles in like-manner, some of them helping my mother through the first couple of months.  I experienced tremendous love and support from my cousins, several of them expressing it through written or verbal sentiments.  My family proved to be a network, a web of encouragement.  I feel so lucky.  I feel so blessed.  I feel so privileged.  There are many other people who have gone through the same struggle for identity, and they too had to come to terms with their sexuality.  And when they told their families, they experienced nothing but hatred and rejection.  For them, my heart breaks.  It breaks for those who lost loved ones.  Loved ones whose dogma and convictions superseded love and goodness, who could not reconcile differences or accept change.  It breaks for children who are kicked out of their homes and have no place to live.  It breaks for those who experience malice and bullying.  For those who could no longer face the harassment and took their own life.  For their suffering.  For their brokenness.  For their unnecessary shame. 

For me, it was a mostly positive experience. But there were a few who did not handle the news well.  A few who could not get past their own agendas or feelings or convictions or beliefs.  Some who were unwilling to compromise.

I’ll walk you through three such examples.  I will avoid using names.  I encourage you to read with empathy.  Whether you agree with my sexuality or not, place yourselves in my shoes.  And place yourself in the shoes of everyone who has had to do this, especially with those who were not loved in the process.

Before I share these experiences, I want to emphasize that I understand that there are plenty of people who do not agree with my sexuality.  Who do not agree with the decision that I have made.  Who have different political opinions.  Who have different religious beliefs.  It is not my expectation that everyone agrees.  That everyone supports.  That everyone compromise their convictions.  However, I do expect to be treated as human.  I do expect people to treat me with dignity and respect, in the same manner that I treat those with whom I disagree.  I expect to sit and have mature discussions, expressing opinions and beliefs, and honestly listening and trying to understand one another.  We can disagree, but that doesn’t make either one of us less human.  It doesn’t make one better than the other.  It doesn’t give one the platform to stand, judge and condemn.  People who hold beliefs and are unwilling to hear and respect the beliefs of others are dangerous. And often judgmental. And often very hypocritical. 

So this is The Story of the Three Little Pigs. The remix. Three examples of how not to support someone wrestling with their sexuality.

The first was a friend.  A close friend.  In fact, probably one of my best friends at the time.  We had met each other at church and both served on the music ministry.  Slowly, my involvement and responsibilities began to increase.  Eventually, I was leading worship regularly.  Sometimes weekly.  Sometimes three to four services a week.  I supported his family.  I supported his ministry goals. He supported my involvement with the church and even spoke at my ordination service.

When I turned thirty, I decided that I wanted to record a short album.  I’m not the best singer. But I love praise and worship.  And I had written several original songs, about seven in total.  I wasn’t expecting the music to become a smash hit or to make me a superstar.  But I was at least going to promote it in my direct sphere of influence. I had decided that I did not want to live life with regrets.  With lists of “What would have happened if I…” or “I wish I would have…”

So I decided to record the songs.  And I requested the help of this friend.

He said yes, and we began working. 

We began recording the music during my year of self-reflection. When I decided to “come out” to my family, I wrestled for a couple of weeks as to whether I should tell this individual.  I knew his convictions about homosexuality and was afraid of the repercussions of telling him.  After a while, I decided that it was the right thing to do.  It was right to share my decision with him and to allow him to make the proper moves accordingly.

So I did.  We were about to work on my music one night, and I told him that I needed to have a serious discussion and share some things with him before moving forward with the project.  We called another mutual friend, and we made our way to TGI Fridays. 

The conversation lasted for over two hours.  I shared it the exact same way that I did with my family.  I shared my lifetime struggle.  I shared my theological belief, stressing that I did not think homosexuality was a sin as traditionally viewed by evangelicals. 

I wasn’t met with empathy.  Not with compassion.  Not with grace. There were times that I think he tried to express those things, so I’ll give him a little credit.

Throughout the conversation there was a fair share of “Bible thumping” and theological discourse.  Reminder’s that homosexuality is sin.  That God is totally holy and completely pure.  That in His holiness he does not tolerate sin. That as His children, we are called to be obedient.  That we must adhere to the Scriptures.  At times, it felt like he thought this was my first time hearing the Bible.  I had to assure him that I knew the few verses to which he was referring and that I was very aware of his view of homosexuality.  I tried to express my theological beliefs and point out an alternate view of Scriptures.  I tried telling him that I did not think homosexuality was sinful, and indeed, if I thought it were, I would choose to abstain and “fight it”. But it fell on deaf ears.  Ears that were not open or willing to hear what I was saying. 

He also shared some of his struggles in life and compared them to mine.  It was an attempt to relate.  And, if he had struggled and conquered, or was at least still fighting, shouldn’t I?  He strongly encouraged me to “fight the temptation”, girding myself up with prayer, Bible study, counseling, or whatever else might help me to “win”.  That if worse comes to worst, I should commit myself to a life of celibacy and remain loyal to God’s plan for my life, even if that meant living single and experiencing deep loneliness. 

I tried pointing out how easy that advice is to give when you’re not walking in those shoes.  He was married.  He had children.  He experienced and was experiencing the type of love that I desired.  At one point, he went as far as saying that he would follow God to any extent, even if that meant forfeiting his wife and children.  I began seeing the absolute waste of time that the conversation had become.  Because, in fact, God was not calling him to forfeit all that he held dearest to him.  And I don’t think that God would.  And if God did indeed, for some reason beyond human logic, ask him to forfeit wife and children, the decision to do so would be much more difficult in the moment.  And until that moment came, he was unqualified to give the advice he was giving.

After two hours, it was evident that the conversation needed to stop.  Again, I was encouraged to fight and stave the temptation. And he promised to be there for me.  To pray through the struggle with me.  After all, brothers are there for each other in the midst of great struggle and temptation.  The next day, he did not reach out.  Nor the next.  Or the next.  In fact, it was nearly two weeks later when I heard from him again. 

Exactly what I thought and felt during our conversation was true.  He was passionate and concerned in the heat of the discussion.  But he would go home.  His life would go back to normal. He wouldn’t struggle through the “temptation” with me.  He would forget about it.  Now, I’m sure that he didn’t actually forget about it.  And I’m sure he was praying for me in his personal prayers.  But in reality, the tangible stuff, I was left walking alone.

He eventually told me that he could no longer work on the recording with me because he did not support my lifestyle.  So, it stopped dead in its tracks.  I find this comical.  Sad. But comical.  My sexuality disqualified everything else about me that had been respected for years.  He forgot about my love for God.  My love for God’s people.  All the previous ministry that we had been involved with together.  All of the times that I prayed for him and with him.  All the times that I encouraged him.  Nope, I was gay.  And that was more than enough to cause him not to continue working with me. 

I was told that we would remain friends; however, if I were to get a partner, he would spend not time with us as a couple.  We would not be doing double dates with him and his wife.  I wish this wasn’t a mountain that people had to die on, but it is.  I don’t think that my homosexuality should nullify the friendship.  But it did.  And the friendship died.

The second story, much like the first, happened in church.  This time with a pastor.  And again, it was because I felt an obligation to be truthful.  I had been attending a church in New Jersey.  I had recently begun singing on the praise and worship team.  Jeez, it sounds like the first story all over again!

I knew the church was quite conservative.  So I decided that it would be best to have a conversation with the pastor.  I knew it was likely that I would not be “allowed” to serve in ministry any longer.  But I didn’t want to be living a double life.  I didn’t want to have to sneak around.  Live in lies any longer.  Put on any more masks.  No more charades. 

I set up a meeting.  It was the first time I had really spoken personally with him.  I will give him a lot of credit.  Before I unloaded my “news”, he took time to try getting to know me personally.  And when I did tell him that I was gay, he did not blink or bat an eye.  He did not become uncomfortable.  He did not throw Scriptures in my face.  He did not try to relate with me. In fact, he apologized.  He apologized that I had struggled for so long. He apologized for the hurt that I experienced.  He apologized for my suffering, for my brokenness.   He said that he would never know what it was like to do so.  As we spoke, I felt loved.  I felt cared for.  I felt valued. 

But it wasn’t perfect.  During our conversation, the pastor asked about my childhood.  Two questions arose, and I have should have expected them.  He asked about my father. And he asked if I had been raped or molested.  And after telling him about my pretty stellar childhood and my unbeatable father, he told me that I was an anomaly.  I will remind you, I am not an anomaly. 

He strongly encouraged that I do counseling.  He asked if I had started “living the gay lifestyle”, and if not, if I would be willing to struggle for the next sixth months under the care and concern of a pastor who could better understand my struggles.  He told me that he would be reaching out to some other pastors and counselors to find someone who could best walk me through it. 

So when I left, I was waiting to hear from him.  Waiting to see which pastor was going to try to “save me”.  And he never responded.  He never referred me to another pastor or counselor.  He never called me back. He didn’t e-mail. 

Once again I was left alone in a struggle that I had been fighting alone for a very long time.  And once again it cemented in my head that much of the Christian church completely misunderstands the LGTBQ struggle and community and has incorrect theology that leads to blatant prejudice.

He would allow me to continue serving in ministry; however, he said that if I did choose to actively engage in a homosexual lifestyle, our conversation would look very different.  I no longer serve at or attend the church.

The third story, much like the other two, is rooted in the Christian tradition.  Shocked?  I didn’t think so.  And, like the other two, it stemmed out of my desire to maintain my integrity.  I worked at a Catholic school.  And once again, I knew the church’s position about homosexuality.  I knew that there was a risk that I could be fired, but I took that risk in order to be open, honest and transparent.

When I finally told the priest, it was a mixed bag.  The meeting was already going badly because of other issues that had happened that week.  In the midst of the chaos, I told him.  Because he was already upset, he told me that I had no right to question if he would understand.  How dare I assume that he wouldn’t?  Slowly his anger quelled, and he began speaking quieter and softer.  And I genuinely felt loved and accepted.  I felt cared for.  I felt secure.  Finally, finally, I had told everybody that I felt obligated to tell.

Well…….

It went downhill from there.  I remember sitting in an evaluation with the priest and the other two school administrators.  It was supposed to be a professional discussion about my performance at the school; however, the priest began asking personal questions.  I had never had a discussion with the other two administrators about my sexuality, although it sure felt like the administration had discussed it.  How are your life changes affecting your work here?  I found myself sharing things I thought I would never have to share in a professional meeting.  And the things that I shared were completely misconstrued.

For example, at one point, I admitted that I was experiencing things in my life for the first time.  Things that thirteen and fourteen year olds experience.  I was referring to things like “first love”.  The first kiss with a man.  First time holding his hands. Later I learned that it was interpreted as sexual things, even though that was not true.  I didn’t trust the other two administrators   At all. And I was beginning to lose my trust and respect for the priest. Why were these conversations being had in the first place?  I thought this was a performance review?  Why is my personal life the topic of discussion?

It went from bad to worse.

Contracts were about to be renewed.  The priest called me into his office.  A three hour meeting took place.  He began asking very personal questions.  I was told that he needed faculty that he could trust, that were not coming to work drunk.  He made assertions that I was doing illegal drugs, drinking heavily, and attending wild sex orgies.  At one point, he even asked if I knew what bondage and submission was.  And he proceeded to ask if I was into whips and chains and such.  He brought up inappropriate posts that had been made on Facebook, such as a picture of my partner and me with a caption of “Just the two of us”.  I know.  Promiscuous.  Dirty.  Dangerous.  Offensive.

Of course I defended myself.  After all, the priest had known me for four years.  I had to sit and assure him that I never, not one time, had come to work drunk. I did not do illegal drugs.  I was not going to orgies.  I was not a sexual deviant.  I had to tell him that not all homosexuals were.  He responded by telling me that I didn’t know his experience with the homosexual community.  Apparently, as a gay man, I was unqualified to comment on the gay community at large.  And apparently all gay men are not committed to meaningful relationships, only desire raunchy sex, and get fixed with drugs and alcohol.  I had to remind him that I still held my Christian values closely.  I was still attending church and involved. I still read the Bible.  I still prayed.  I still valued marriage and fidelity. 

Ultimately, he said, he needed to consider the well-being of the students.  After four years.  I had taught three different subjects, mostly theology courses.  I had coached track and volleyball.  I had planned cultural heritage celebrations.  I created a retreat system.  I planned prayer services.  I assisted with liturgies.  I had taken students on trips to New York, Philadelphia, Washington D.C., Baltimore.  I assisted with college visitations.  I helped with after school activities.  The list goes on.  But yes, I must be a threat now.  Because I was gay?

In this meeting, I kept going back to my professional performance.  Was I not doing my job well? Were there improvements that I could make? But this verbal assault had nothing to do with that.  It was all targeted to my personal life. 

The next day I was in his office doing morning announcements.  Afterwards he asked me how I felt about the conversation from the day before.  I told him that I was feeling quite negative.  The next hour consisted of the priest yelling at me.  Full volume.  Red in the face.  Veins in his neck.  He told me that it was his duty and obligation to uphold the Catholic tradition of the school and maintain safety for the students.  He told me that I was too sensitive, that he needed to walk on egg shells with me, that I could not handle difficult conversations.  This is laughable.  I think I take professional criticism pretty well.  Not perfectly.  But of course I’m going to respond with sensitivity to the discussions that he was holding.  They were deeply personal and extremely intrusive. 

He essentially informed me that I had nowhere to run, that the archdiocese would not support me due to the Catholic Church’s position.  He took credit for the amazing way that he handled the situation, and the blame was entirely laid on my shoulders.  He had done nothing but love and support me.  And then he asked why I wouldn’t “let him in”.  That I was so cold that I would freeze hell over.  That I was distant. 

I was furious.  Angry.  Hurt.  Betrayed.  I spoke with my partner immediately after the conversation.  I called my parents and vented.  A couple of friends encouraged me to file a lawsuit, and apparently I would have had a pretty strong case. 

Instead, I determined it was time for me to leave the school. It was time for me to move on to a place where I was fully accepted and not encouraged to live in a shell. And I have done just that.

There is a fourth and final story that I would like to tell.  One that I think exemplifies how to respond, even in the midst of personal beliefs.   Still, to this day, I am not 100% certain of this individual’s personal opinions about homosexuality.  We have never sat and deeply discussed them.  I have been friends with her for years, since I moved to New Jersey. I’ve visited her family.  She has visited mine.  At one point, we were very close. 

One night when she was visiting the city, my partner and I met her and another old friend at a bar.  Both of these women were deeply compassionate and supportive.  I expressed my thanks to them.  And later, I said in a text, “Thanks for being loving!”  Her response: “It would be harder to not love you, Jason.”

Those words have stuck with me to this day.  In fact, this was one of the most significant moments in the months that it took me to disclose my sexuality to everyone.  “It would be harder to not love you, Jason.”

I don’t know if we disagree. Don’t know if we agree.  Don’t know her theological opinions.  I have a guess but am not totally confident.  But she chose love.  She could have judged.  She could have Bible-thumped.  She could have ended the friendship.  She could have ridiculed. 

Instead, she loved.

She chose to love.

And that is what each of us must choose to do every day.  We must choose to love.  We may not agree with someone’s religion or sexuality or political opinion or a host of other things.  But we choose to love.  We choose to find the “human” in each and every person.  We choose to uphold the dignity of each one.  This doesn’t mean that you have to “like” every person, in fact, you won’t.  But you always have the opportunity to love.  And sometimes love is absurd.  It won’t make sense.  It is irrational.  But we can choose it anyway.  Mercy.  Kindness.  Compassion.  Patience.  Forgiveness.  Grace.  Community.  Longsuffering.  Goodness.

Love.

Journey: Not the Band, A Walk In Sexuality

The great divide between the religious and homosexual communities deeply saddens me.  At times it seems like the chasm is too wide to cross, wounds so deep that healing seems impossible.  These wounds are experienced and inflicted by both sides.  Both of these communities have spectrums, but at each of their extremes are passionate people with firm convictions unwilling to yield, respect, or listen to the other.  On the one hand, many homosexuals experience a deep dislike and mistrust of the church and people of faith; they are unwilling to acknowledge the traditions and beliefs of Christians and other faiths.  But Christians are entitled to their beliefs.  They are entitled to disagree with particular lifestyles.  They are entitled to their opinion, worldview, and moral system.  On the other hand, there are many Christians who have inflicted great harm to the entire LGBTQ community.  At the hands of many evangelicals, homosexuals have been deemed the great enemy of the church, a serious threat to the health and well-being of societal morality.  A fire-and-brimstone sermon about the abominable lifestyle that leads the sinner to an eternity of damnation and suffering.  Love.  Mercy.  Compassion.  Many virtues taught throughout the Bible completely discarded to hold fast to “Christian values”. 

I have seen and experienced both sides of the aisle.  I have met Christians who instantly discredit my faith when discovering that I’m gay.  People have indeed told me that I can’t be Christian or am not suitable to serve in ministry due to my “lifestyle”.  And I’ve met homosexuals, in fact people from all walks of life, who have discredited my faith, complaining that Christians are close-minded, judgmental, hypocritical individuals.  They disassociate with me and condemn my faith as a crutch for the weak. 

The reality is that there are many value systems in the world.  Many of these systems clash with one another.  They don’t always agree.  But that should not nullify love, compassion, empathy, mercy, or friendship.  Two adults from opposing belief systems should be able to sit with one another and have a healthy, respectful discussion without name calling or belittlement.  They probably won’t come to a consensus.  They most likely won’t change their beliefs.  But they could at least respect the other’s opinion, not counting it against them as a mortal flaw. 

Last week I walked you through, quite quickly and imperfectly, my faith journey.  Yes, I believe in Jesus.  I believe Jesus is the Son of God, in fact, God Himself in the flesh.  I believe he was born without sin, lived a life without sin, died on the cross for my sin, and rose from the dead to conquer sin.  I believe that my life has been redeemed through Him.  My faith has taught me the importance of serving others, most importantly those in greatest need.  My faith has led me to love people in ways that seem unreasonable.  My faith has given me great hope, joy, strength, courage, and peace. My faith has instilled in me a passion for justice and equity. This week, I will walk you through my other journey, again, quite succinctly and imperfectly: my sexuality.

Let me first be clear, this is not a theological discussion about the moral implications of homosexuality. It is not an attempt to convince you to believe what I believe. However, I will include three links to articles that I think address some of my personal beliefs.   To be as pithy as possible, I would fall into the label of Progressive Christianity, in that I do not believe homosexuality is a sin as traditionally viewed by evangelicals. 

The first link is to a blog written by a Christian pastor.  I love his words. I strongly encourage you to take time to read them. Click HERE

The other two go into a very brief and incomplete discussion that challenges the traditional view of homosexuality.  Article 1  Article 2

Before I begin my journey, I would encourage you to read my last two blogs to get a better, more complete understanding.  If you’ve already read them, let’s move ahead!

I “came out” at the age of thirty.  I went through thirty years of my life living with masks, trapped in a prison of confusion, insecurity and shame.  Thirty years of intentionally living without authenticity, petrified of allowing people to see the real, true me.  An intense internal battle, a war raging to find freedom and truth.  Peace and love.  Thirty years of treating the world as a stage, living the life of a character, no matter how convincing or mediocre the performance.  A struggle for identity.

But I did not become gay.

I have always been gay.

No, homosexuality, for me at least, was not a choice.  It is all that I have ever known.  From the moment I experienced sexual attraction, it has always been for the same sex.  Nature.  Not nurture.  Not a product of my environment.  Not a consequence of unfortunate events.  I can’t explain it.  I’m not going to try to justify it, because it does not need to be justified.  No need to feel guilty.  No need to feel dirty.  No need to feel shame. 

The typical story begins with young boys and girls starting to discover their own body.  The cootie stage is always comical.  They begin experiencing puberty and hormones, and it’s all downhill from there.  Boys find girls irresistible. Girls crush on young boys.  Sweaty palms at the first chance to hold hands.  A first kiss.  It’s all so “natural”.  But my natural was different. 

I very clearly remember the first time I recognized that something was “different”.  I was in fifth grade.  It was unmistakable.  All of those feelings and behaviors that young boys and girls feel about each other, that awkward attempt to flirt, started within me.  Attraction.  Nervousness.  Desire.  But it wasn’t for a young girl.  Nope.  It was for a friend of mine.  A boy. 

Some of you are squirming in your seats.  You feel uncomfortable. You don’t understand.  That’s OK.  Because the same way that you feel is how I try to comprehend heterosexual attraction.  I don’t experience it.  It doesn’t make sense to me.  Don’t get me wrong, I find beauty in women.  But beauty and sexual attraction are two very different things.  A desire to love and be loved is not synonymous with beauty.  Truly, I can look at a woman, a woman with whom most men would be infatuated, and I will recognize her stunning beauty.  And then it stops dead in its track.  Yup, she has a great body.  And that’s where it ends. 

Those feelings and desires and attractions only grew as I matured.  They didn’t go away.  It wasn’t a phase.  It wasn’t taught to me.  It wasn’t even introduced to me.  I simply experienced it.  Naturally.  Organically. 

No, it was not a choice.  Trust and believe, if it was a choice, I would have never chosen it.  Choice?  Really?  You think I would choose to experience the thirty years of loneliness and confusion and self-hatred and bullying?  You think I would choose to regularly be reminded of my sinful choice?  You think I would willingly choose ostracism?

The older I got, the stronger the feelings.  The stronger the desire.  It didn’t go away.  It didn’t change. 

I chose to pretend.   Nobody would know that I was gay.  I would put on the best show possible.  Honestly, it wasn’t very convincing.  There were plenty of people, from sixth grade on, who would tease me, sometimes quite intensely.  Some would laugh.  Joke.  Question.  But it was obvious that I wasn’t the best theatrical performer. When I was confronted or teased, I adamantly refused.  Sometimes angrily.  With deepest conviction I would refute the assertion.  This masking, this charade, this staging was extremely unhealthy.  I can clearly remember hating myself, loathing my sexuality.  Confused.  Why can’t I be normal?  Why can’t I be like everybody else?  Why do I have to be this way?

Sexuality is part of our identity.  Sexuality is natural.  Sexuality is human.  And I was denying it.  I was denying my identity.  I was denying my humanity.  Not only denying.  Destroying it.  Tearing apart my humanity.  My self-worth. 

It probably didn’t help that I was extremely involved with the church.  A church that preached very traditional and conservative beliefs.  These beliefs became indoctrinated within me.  Not only was I experiencing the harassment, I was being told how bad of a sinner I was.  Quite regularly.  It wasn’t intentional.  The church wasn’t aware that I was gay.  But homosexuality was sin.  Sinners are bad.  Sinners go to hell.  Homosexuals aren’t Christians.  They can’t be! God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve.  It isn’t natural.  It’s a choice! How do people so willingly choose to live in sin?  It wasn’t this simple; I’m being quite juvenile in my description.  Everything was so convoluted in my head.  What I was being taught and what I was experiencing wrestled one another tirelessly in an epic battle. 

This experience continued throughout college as I attended a conservative Bible school.  Very. Conservative. 

I used to try forcing myself to like women.  I know that sounds silly. 

I would repeatedly tell myself that I was attracted to women and wanted to with be them and marry and have children.  I tried subliminal messages, to myself of course.  I would view naked pictures of women while trying to force myself to be heterosexual.  I know that sounds ridiculous, but I was broken.  Lost.  Hear me loud and clear: homosexuality is not something that needs to be cured!  Young gay men and women may need counseling, but that is to help them work through the process of a society that still has not accepted them.  Peers that will bully them.  Adults who will tell them that their sexuality is wrong and that they need help. 

Later in my life people tried convincing me to attend counseling as a tool to “fight the temptation.”  What would counseling do for me?  I had a wonderful father figure, incredible family, and an amazing childhood.  I was not raped.  Molested.  Abused.  Neglected.  Touched by a male family member.  How was I going to explain why I was attracted to men?  I could explain what I was attracted to, but now why.  Are “straight” people encouraged to explain why they are attracted to the opposite sex? I believe that recommending counseling to homosexuals as a form to overcome their sexuality is born in pure ignorance, not matter the intentions.

I tried dating women.  Sincere, honest efforts to date. Pure intentions of living a heterosexual lifestyle, no matter how miserable it would make me.  I never dated in high school.  I went to events such as homecoming or prom with females, but this was always with a really close friend. There were two relationships with women in my adult life.  One I treated much more like a best friend than a serious partner.  We would spend a lot of time together, but the physical aspect of our relationship was non-existent.  There was no spark.  No flame.  No interest.  No desire. 

The second relationship was serious.  Even if I was “straight”, I’m not sure the relationship would have lasted.  We had some great moments together.  But the relationship also had its rough spots.  Mountains instead of mole hills.  Once again the relationship lacked physical intimacy.  After roughly a year and a half, I decided to call it quits.  Not because I decided to “come out”, but because I was not happy.  The relationship was not coming easily, even aside from the limited physical aspect.  There were too many fights.  Too many disagreements.  She was actually a wonderful person, but I think our personalities simply clashed in some ways.  In other ways, they blended together extremely well.  To this day I wish we could be friends but completely understand why this is not possible.  Will and Grace is just a sitcom, not real life. 

I spent the next year in prayer, reflection, meditation, study, and research.  Was I going to pursue another relationship with a woman?  Was I going to choose to live solo and alone for the remainder of my life?  Was I going to “come out of the closet”? 

When I did decide to “come out” to family and friends, several people strongly encouraged that I call the woman that I had been dating to apologize. Keep in mind that this was a year and a half after we had broken up.  Not a week.  Not a month.  A year. And a half. I was so confused!  Apologize for what?  When we were together I gave it my best effort.  I struggled for the relationship. I was committed to the relationship. I was as good of a partner as I could be.  I was faithful.  Actually, from the outside, our relationship probably seemed quite healthy and normal.  I didn’t break up with her because I was gay; I broke up with her because I didn’t think the relationship was right. So what was I apologizing for?  Because I’m gay?  As if it were my fault?  As if I had done something wrong? If I had mistreated her or cheated on her or had been sneaking behind her back or a host of other things, I would understand calling for forgiveness. 

So let me question all of you good ole heterosexuals.  Have you called every one of your exes to apologize that the relationship didn’t work?  Even though you tried.  With your best effort.  And the relationship just didn’t work.  I didn’t think so.

In my year of prayer, meditation, study and reflection, I had to do some serious soul searching.  What did I want for my life?  Did I want to commit to a life of celibacy?  Why is homosexuality a sin?  Surely the answer must be more than “Because God said so.”  What is the context in which homosexuality is discussed in the Bible?  How did ancient culture and traditions affect the writers and writings of Scripture?

And I had to wrestle with the silence of God.  His lack of movement.  My entire life I beseeched God.  If homosexuality was so sinful, then I wanted it gone in order to live a pure and holy life.  If it was of such evil, I wanted it to be removed.  I prayed.  I fasted.  I pleaded.  On my knees.  I begged.  I cried. I wept.  I worshipped.  I studied Scripture.  I even mentioned it during a special “bondage breaking” counseling session with a church pastor.  God’s response: nothing.  Silence.  He didn’t remove it.  He didn’t “turn me straight”.  He didn’t answer the prayer. Silence.  Never once did I question God’s faithfulness.  Not his goodness.  It never made me doubt him.  Or his power.  But it did make me question the sinfulness of homosexuality.  If it were such an abomination, such a lifestyle of sin, why would he not intervene for one of his children?  And it wasn’t a day or week of praying and fasting and pleading.  It was years.  Decades of silence and failed intervention. Honestly, I think Christians have placed a disproportionate weight on homosexuality.  And I think we’ve got it wrong.  For years.  Centuries.  Millennia.     

So after the year of reflection, I decided to “come out” to family and friends.  Close friends only at first.  The very first person that I told was a friend from church with whom I sang praise and worship.  To say that she was supportive is an understatement.  She gave me the strength and courage to tell my family.  It was also my first conversation, ever, with someone about my preferences and attractions.  At thirty years old, I felt like a twelve year old.  I also told some close co-workers who had become friends.  And again I experienced unwavering support. These friends actually journeyed with me when I expressed interested in a guy for the first time.  We used to sit in the office, and I would share my experiences with them at these critical beginning stages.  The story is actually quite hilarious but one that we don’t have time for now.  But we would laugh.  And laugh.  And laugh.  And I probably looked like a middle schooler bubbling with excitement and energy with butterflies in my stomach and hearts in my eyes.

And then it came time to tell my family.  My sister had recently given birth to my niece, so I already had plans to go home to visit.  I called before leaving and told my parents that I had something to discuss with them.  Upon arrival, they took me to a local restaurant, where I opened up and shared my life journey.  Later that day, I sat down with my siblings.  I remember halfway through sharing my story, my sister-in-law came and hugged me.  And we cried together. My brother, who I was most nervous to share with, expressed undying support, with a hint of comedy (as always).  The conversation continued the next day, where fears were able to be shared and questions were able to be answered more fully.  There were legitimate concerns, but they were expressed with empathy and compassion.  My family covered me with grace and mercy those days.  I have never experienced the love of God in a more profound way than the way my family loved me through that conversation and the months to come. 

I am forever grateful.  Forever indebted to the family and friends who chose to journey through life with me. I remember an individual telling me not to choose homosexuality because it would ruin my life.  It would destroy my relationship with God.  I would wreak havoc in my relationships with friends and family.  However, the complete opposite is true.

Never has my faith been more genuine.

Never have I been more joyous and happy.

Never have I been more secure.  Confident. 

Never have I been more in love.

Never have I been committed to humanity.  To justice.  To peace. To equity.  To equality.

Never have I been more whole.

Never have I been more me.

And I love me.  For the first time.  I am happy with myself.  I accept myself.  I love myself.

 

 

Journey: Not the Band, a Walk of Faith

We all have multiple identities.  Not multiple personalities.  Not like Bourne Identity in that we are all special agents for some secretive government agency with dozens of passports and aliases. Our identities all intersect with one another in a complex system, sometimes in seemingly contradictory ways.  Awareness of them allows us to be self-enlightened.  They educate and inform us, sometimes very subconsciously, about our interactions and relationships with other people.  Pending on our circumstances or situation or location, one identity may take precedence over another.  And a different identity may become prominent in other settings. 

It has taken my whole life to even begin grasping and understanding my own identities.  My understanding is limited and still growing tremendously.  Identity 1: Male.  Identity 2: White.  Identity 3: Christian.  Identity 4: Homosexual.  The list goes on but these are some examples. These are much more than descriptive adjectives.  They are much more than classifications or categorizations.  They are identities.  They dictate my self-perception.  They inform my worldview.  They form my relationships.  They shape my perceptions of others.  I never stop being any of these things.  Together, they form the complete me.  

Take the color of my skin.  It is much more than just the racial group with which I identify.  Knowingly or unknowingly, and quite sadly, the color of my skin has played an integral role in my life.  I didn’t ask to be privileged, but I am.  Born into a messed up system of inequality and injustice.  A system that my generation did not create but continues to perpetuate.  Peggy McIntosh wrote a piece in 1988 that still rings true today titled White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack.  Some of the things include, but are not limited to

·         If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing a home in an area which I can afford and in which I would want to live.  My neighbors would most likely have a neutral or positive response.

·         When I am told about our national heritage or about “civilization”, I am shown that people of my color made it what it is. 

·         I can be sure that my children will be given curricular materials that testify to the existence of my race.

·         I do not have to educate my children to be aware of systemic racism for their own daily physical protection.

·         I am never asked to speak for all the people of my racial group.

·         I can easily buy posters, post-cards, books, magazines, greeting cards, toys and dolls that feature people of my race.

·         I can remain oblivious of the language and customs of persons of color who constitute the world’s majority.

·         I can be pretty sure that if I ask to talk to the “person in charge”, I will be facing a person of my race.

She continued.  These are just eight of fifty statements that she made describing every day examples of how my skin color has played a significant role in my everyday life.  And in 2016, that list could be extended.  These things affect my self-esteem and self-perception. They shape the way that I view my own people, culture and country.  They dictate the way that I view others and others view me.  Again, being White is much more than just an adjective; it is an identity.  And if you disagree, maybe you have never been exposed to other cultures and races and ethnicities.  Maybe you have never had to experience life outside of your “Whiteness”.  Maybe you are one of those people who has lived a life in relative seclusion in a radius of 25 miles with people who look and talk and think just like you. 

The same could be said about my identity as a male.  Tied with my color, white men are the least likely to experience systemic oppression.  Sorry Beyonce, girls do not run the world.  Women are still competing for equality.  Don’t believe me, just look at the debate about equal pay in the United States.  Women make far less than their male counterparts.  And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  My faith, my main stream Protestantism gives me privilege.  I can be confident that my sacred religious events are counted as national holidays.  I don’t have to associate my religion with radical extremists and be feared that I am a domestic terrorist. 

I suppose that the one area where I face an uphill battle is my sexuality.  Yes, heterosexism is real and dangerous.  Though marriage equality has passed, there is still a very real effort to reverse it, which would affect my ability to marry the person that I love.  My morals and values are called into question based on sexuality.  People debate whether I should be able to have children or adopt.  They don’t take into account the awesome qualities that would make me a great father; instead, the mere fact that there would be two fathers in the home automatically disqualifies me from creating and growing a family.  In jobs that I have had, I have had to worry that my sexuality would be grounds for termination. 

White. Christian. Male. Gay.  Identity.

One of the identities that has played a significant role in my life is my faith.  It has proven to be a rock, an anchor.  And it has evolved.  I’ll try to walk you through my journey as succinctly as possible.  Buckle down for the journey.

In my early youth, my family attended a small Methodist church in the countryside.  We weren’t avid in our faith, but I do remember singing duets with a family friend.  I also vaguely remember children’s church in the church basement.  And I’ve seen pictures of my brother and me participating in some form of a play.  I’m assuming it was around Christmastime.  My face is poking through a cutout in a green tree.  But that is about the extent of what I remember.  I would not consider us a devout Christian family in my early years.  We moved at the beginning of my sixth grade year, and we became even less so.

At some point in middle school, a friend of mine invited me to a church youth group.  I decided to check it out, and forever my life was changed.  At the time the church was named Spring Lake Wesleyan Church.  The youth pastor was Steve Deur.  There was something special there, a form of community which I hadn’t experienced.  The music was great.  The games were exciting.  The messages were poignant and relatable.  At first, I think I kept going because I was making friends and feeling included in a group of people with whom I felt very comfortable and confident. But that began changing as I continued attending. 

Towards the end of middle school, I was heavily involved with the youth group.  In fact, I slowly became a student leader.  I attended every week.  I sang on the youth worship team.  I participated in a leadership development group with the youth pastor.  I attended all of the fall, summer and spring retreats.  I went to the regional conferences in Chicago and Indiana.  And before my senior year I traveled to Australia on a two week mission trip.  The friends that I met in youth group became a close-knit group of inseparable kids.  We hung out together frequently.  Our activities were harmless, but we always had a great time.  And we supported one another.  I was so committed to the church that I decided to stop playing soccer my junior year to focus on my faith.  And after graduating high school, I served as an intern with the youth ministry before attending college.  Slowly but surely my family also started coming to church on a weekly basis.  My father participated in their monster Easter production.  My sister became very involved with the middle school youth ministry.  I have incredibly fond memories of the church and the amazing opportunities that it afforded me.  It helped to shape my character and faith in very profound ways, ways that are still affecting me today. 

During my junior year, our church had an intern serving in the youth department.  He attended Moody Bible Institute.  And by the time his internship was finished, I was convinced that I wanted to attend.  And I knew that I wanted to spend my life in service to the church as a youth minister.  My mother and I visited Moody in Chicago one winter day, and my fate was sealed.  I fell in love with it instantly.  I was so determined to attend that I only applied to Moody.  If I had not been accepted, I was willing to work for a year and re-apply.  Thankfully, I was accepted, and I shipped off to Chicago in August of 2002.

I could rant and rave about my experiences at MBI.  Some of my fondest memories are from my time there.  I’ll be concise.  I sat under incredible professors who taught the Word of God with passion and conviction.  During chapels and conferences I listened to world-renowned preachers.  I experienced deep fellowship with like-minded men and women. I had never encountered Christian brotherhood, and have not since leaving, to the extent I did at Moody.  I was shaped and groomed and molded and matured. 

In retrospect, I think the most influential aspect of my education at Moody was PCM, Practical Christian Ministry.  Essentially, they are yearly internships.  Students are placed at various locations throughout the Chicagoland area to serve on a weekly basis.  My first PCM placement was in Cabrini Green at the Chicago Fellowship of Friends.  Cabrini Green has, for the most part, been torn down; however, it was life-changing for me.  At one time it was one of the country’s largest public housing projects, and one that failed miserably.  Extremely low income.  Infested with crime.  Gang warfare.  It was my first time working in such an environment.  I worked with children and teenagers from the community, and my heart was instantly attached.  And, without coincidence, all of my PCM placements followed in the same light: Inner City Impact, Circle Urban Ministries, and Bridgeport Community Center.  My passion for youth ministry evolved to desperately wanting to work with and serve inner-city youth.  And I have been doing so ever since, mostly in the academic arena.

Upon graduating college in 2006, I moved to West Orange, New Jersey.  I served as a temporary youth pastor for a local church.  I bounced back and forth between churches for some time in a state of disarray and confusion.  Eventually I landed at Christian Love Baptist Church in Irvington under the leadership of the late Rev. Dr. Ronald B. Christian.  Never have I ever experienced such a church.  I had small involvement with the youth ministry, but most of my time was spent with the music ministry.  Occasionally I was asked to preach, and sometimes I participated in wakes or funerals or hospital visitations.  I attended every Sunday and Wednesday.  And at the height of my involvement, I would be at all four Sunday services.  In 2011, I participated in some classes to train me for ordination.  And in December of 2011, I was officially ordained as a reverend. 

Obviously, faith and religion has played a huge impact in my life. 

This faith has changed and evolved in several ways.  First, recall the community in which I was raised.  The church was very reflective of that community.  White.  Middle Class.  Relatively conservative.  I moved to Chicago and began searching for a church home.  Most of my initial attempts were at churches that were very similar to my upbringing.  But when I started serving in Cabrini Green and other neighborhoods, I realized that I wanted more.  I wanted a church family that represented the Kingdom of God, with people from every tribe, nation and tongue.  I found it unfortunately sad that the world of faith was extremely segregated.  So, I tried out something new.  I visited a COGIC church in Chicago: St. Luke Church of God in Christ. 

To say that my pursuit of a diversified church was not successful is an understatement.  The church may have had some diversity in ethnicity, but none racially.  I was essentially the sprinkle of diversity in the church.  I might have stuck out like a sore thumb. It was my first time in a black church. I slowly began getting involved with the church choir, which ended up being a weekly commitment in rehearsal and Sunday morning worship.  It was my first time in a Pentecostal setting.  I didn’t know what an “evangelist” was.  No, not like Billy Graham.  It seemed like a lot of women worked in hospitals because many were dressed like nurses. No, they didn’t work in a hospital.  I witnessed things I had never seen.  I never heard someone speak in tongues.  I never saw someone dance or run around the church.  I never heard someone prophesy. I never experienced a “praise break.” Praise was exuberant and joyful and contagious.  I became hooked and fell in love with the congregation.  I felt loved and accepted, even though so different on the outside. 

I remember when I graduated college and was preparing to leave Chicago.  The church was so kind and sent me off with a beautiful departure.  I recall one of the directors of the music ministry speaking of my involvement over the past four years and his skepticism of me when I first approached him to become involved.  He had initially questioned my sincerity.  He thought I was joking.  And he explained how this perception changed over my time spent serving there.  Initially I was taken aback.  Why would he question me?  Why would he think I was joking?  At that time I think I was blind to my privilege.  But now my privilege smacks me in the face.  His questioning makes so much sense.  The skepticism too.  Especially given race relations in Chicago.  I’m embarrassed at how ignorant I was, and in some ways, still am.  I am ashamed at how entitled I must have looked. 

On breaks or visits home, I would visit a COGIC church in Muskegon: Holy Trinity.  I was never involved with ministry, but I used to get a kick out of their video ministry.  Their cameras used to pan the congregation during worship and preaching.  My face seemed to regularly be seen on the screen.  I think it was an attempt to show their "diversity".  In this once instance, all White people looked the same.  Oh wait, that’s because it was the same White person.  I think I was recruited for every ministry.  Men’s ministry.  Children’s ministry.  Young adult ministry.  Music ministry.  Even women’s ministry.  OK, not really the last one.  Looking back, I can’t help but giggle. 

My time at Christian Love was relatively similar.  There was a lot of ethnic diversity; there was little diversity in race.  There were a few other White men and women sprinkled throughout the congregation.  And there were a few Hispanics.  But a majority of the congregation was Black.  I’ve come to realize the beauty in diverse forms of worship.  I’ve seen the power of various styles of preaching.  I’ve witnessed differences in theological beliefs.  It has placed within me a deep anticipation for the Kingdom of God, when people from all races, tribes, tongues, and languages live together in perfect community in love, peace, justice and equality.  I love the image that is painted in the book of Isaiah:

A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse;

from his roots a Branch will bear fruit.

The Spirit of the Lord will rest on him—

the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding,

the Spirit of counsel and of might,

the Spirit of the knowledge and fear of the Lord—

and he will delight in the fear of the Lord...

…The wolf will live with the lamb,

the leopard will lie down with the goat,

the calf and the lion and the yearling together;

and a little child will lead them.

The cow will feed with the bear,

their young will lie down together,

and the lion will eat straw like the ox.

The infant will play near the cobra’s den,

and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest.

They will neither harm nor destroy

on all my holy mountain,

for the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the Lord

as the waters cover the sea.

I’ve also had some significant changes in my theological beliefs.  I grew up in conservative, evangelical churches.  In fact, some would label them as fundamentalists.  Biblical literalists.  The world and all that is within it was created in seven literal days.  Adam and Eve were real people.  The entirety of the world was covered in water by the flood.  And that’s just the first few chapters of Genesis.  As I began teaching in a Catholic school and studying some of their doctrine, it introduced me to an entirely new outlook on the Bible, and one that made so much more sense to me.  Most of the Bible is not viewed as literal; although, quite comically, the sacrament of communion is. This form of Biblical interpretation opened me up to new ways of looking at Old Testament Scriptures such as Judges and Kings and creation accounts.  Stories that I had read for years held deeper meaning, and I found new themes in books that I thought I were so familiar.  I read the Gospel narratives through new a new lens. 

To be clear, I did not become a Catholic.  But I can appreciate their faith tradition.  A lot of it makes perfect sense to me.  Much of my early church experience focused on developing personal faith.  What makes for a good Christian?  And the answers seem so Sunday “Schoolish”.  Personal Bible study.  Devotions.  Personal prayer life.  Listening to Christian worship music. Going to church.  Telling people about Jesus.  So on and so forth.  Are these things important? Of course!  Of course, for the development of my faith, deeper knowledge of the Divine, and restoration of my soul, I should study the Bible and find myself in prayer and worship the Holy through music. 

But it must be more than that.  It must be more than simply developing my personal faith relationship.  It must be more than just telling people about Jesus and thinking we’ve done enough.

Essentially, I started becoming frustrated with the church.  Church started feeling like an exclusive country club.  Believe what we believe.  Live like we live.  Worship like we worship.  Pray like we pray.  Do the things that we do.  And if you don’t, you’re not a good Christian.  You don’t fit the mold.  Uniformity.  Not unity.  Uniformity.  Everybody look the same.  Talk the same.  Do everything the same or otherwise you can’t be “one of us.”

But there must be more.  There must be more than just showing up to church every Sunday.  There must be more than attending small groups.  Than serving on a volunteer team.  Than having personal devotions. 

Studying Catholic doctrine instilled in me a deep passion for social justice.  The idea that God cares about justice seemed so new to me.  And it’s not some passing, distant care.  Not a, “Yeah, I guess I should kind of care about that.”  He seems passionate about it, on a level that extends far beyond my limited human understanding.

God seems to care for creation; therefore, I should be committed to preserving and protecting it diligently.

God seems to care about all people on the earth; therefore, I should diligently seek to preserve and protect all people.  I should care about racism.  I should care about prejudice.  I should care about people from other faiths.  Again, not some passing care.  Deeply involve myself in preserving their humanity.

God seems to care about the unlovable.  So should I.  But often, it seems like the church distances the unlovable from their “inside circle”. 

It goes beyond caring; it extends to action.

I should feed the hungry.

I should clothe the naked.

I should give drink to the thirsty.  Food to the hungry.

I should defend the oppressed.

I should visit the imprisoned.

Refugees.  Immigration reform.  The unjust “War on Drugs”.  Police brutality (and no, I’m not saying that the police are evil).  Criminal justice reform.  Islamophobia.  Women’s Rights.  Global poverty.  Chronic hunger. Human Trafficking.  Child labor. These are things that I should commit to changing.  And not once a year.  Not a special fundraiser or clothing drive.  A deep, passionate commitment to using my faith to affect society.

Like all things in life, I think there needs to be a balance.  As a Christian, I think I need to be involved with a church, find myself studying the word and immersed in the worship of my God.  But I think I need to stand for those who cannot stand for themselves.  Defend those who cannot defend themselves.  Love those that nobody else loves.  In real, tangible ways. 

Of course my faith will continue to grow and develop and mature.  And of course I will continue to pursue the knowledge of the Holy.  The truth is, the more I study faith, the more questions I have.  God is a mystery.  Thinking that I have “figured Him out” is futile.  He is holy. He is divine.  He is immortal.  He is, and will always remain, the greatest pursuit of my life.  I look forward to the day where my faith becomes sight! 

In closing, I want to honor the late Rev. Dr. Ronald B. Christian.  A pastor who, although imperfect, loved people.  All people.  Who was unafraid to minister to absolutely anybody who walked through his doors.  Who pursued justice, peace and equity.  Who taught me to love others.  Who taught me to love myself.  He embodied so much of what I want to become in faith.  In service to others.  In dedication to love.  In commitment to mercy and forgiveness.  Rest in peace!  Rest in Heaven.  Rest in the Father’s embrace.