The Church Failed Me

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[TRIGGER WARNING: This post contains references to suicide which may be triggering to survivors.]

I have a distinct memory of that night. It was a muggy evening in mid-August. The crickets and the frogs were orchestrating their North Carolina summer night song, and the mosquitos flitted about in the dull yellow glow of the church parking lot lights. As I got into my car, my hands were trembling too badly for me to put the key in the ignition.

I had just finished teaching the high school Wednesday night Bible study class. I had been those kids' unofficial youth minister for a couple months. I was used to talking with them about uncomfortable matters, but this night was different. During our lesson, someone brought up the topic of homosexuality. Instantly, question after question started pouring in. They wanted to know what I thought about it. They wanted to know what our church thought about it. They wanted to know what God thought about it. 

As they each struggled to talk over one another, I took a moment to gain my composure. My heart was racing. My stomach was churning. I felt a sheen of sweat beginning to form on my forehead. I had been doing my very best to keep up my image. The good, "Godly" young lady. The "brave" young woman who stepped up to be the youth leader after our pastor died. An inspiration. A role model. I didn't feel much like a leader in that moment, being bombarded with the kids' slew of questions. I was absolutely petrified. How could I say anything to these kids about homosexuality without giving away the fact that I was queer?

I was desperately tempted to yank the blanket off of the back of my chair and hide underneath it. But as I looked around the room, at each of those kids' faces, I could see their sincerity. This was something that was clearly important to them. They had friends who were queer. They had family members who were queer. Heck, some of them may have even been questioning their own sexuality. It did not matter how afraid I was––I owed it to them to talk about it.

After several failed attempts to start a sentence, I finally closed my eyes and just took a breath. God, I prayed, please just help me say the right thing. I opened my mouth and, though my voice did shake, I spoke. The more I spoke, the more easily the words came. I admitted to them that I didn't have a concrete answer to each of their questions, but I could tell that they simply appreciated being able to talk with someone about the subject, without being silenced or having their thoughts and concerns glossed over or diminished. I could not believe it. They really got it. There was no screaming of Bible verses. There was no promise of damnation. They simply listened and exchanged ideas, and it felt as though everyone walked away with a better understanding of one another.

When that Bible study was over, I was scared to death. Not because we had talked about homosexuality, but because it left me with a strong feeling in the pit of my stomach that I could not ignore. That night, I truly felt called to teach the Christian Church about homosexuality, from the perspective of someone who was experiencing it first hand. When I left church that night, I was afraid, but I felt empowered. I felt like I had finally found my life's purpose.

For a while, I attempted to follow that purpose. I studied every single day. Biblical scholars, university professors, renowned scientists and psychologists, and spiritual leaders––I read every scholarly source I could find on homosexuality. I was passionate and dedicated. I had hope that I could truly make a difference in the church.

It did not take long for that hope to fade. I soon began to feel I was fighting a losing battle. I remember looking into the eyes of the people who would argue against me. There was such anger, such fear, and such absolute disgust. It was very difficult not to take that disgust personally, when I knew that, deep down, I was "one of them."

I did my best to stand by my belief that homosexuality was just a natural part of who some people were, but my spirit soon began to wither. Every single day, I was plagued with the fear that I was going to be damned to hell for all of eternity. My anxiety eventually grew so strong that I had to step down from my position as youth minister. A few weeks later, I ended up in the hospital for attempted suicide.

That point in time was my rock bottom. I felt so terribly alone, and I was surrounded by dozens of other people who felt just as terrible. I talked with them. I learned their stories. Person after person opened up to me, telling me about what had happened to cause them to end up in that place. And every single person I spoke with had a story that revolved around one central theme: feeling unloved and unaccepted. My heart broke for those people. We laughed together. We cried together. We held each other's hands. We did our best to help each other repair the damage that had been done to us by an unkind world.

That hospital stay changed me forever. It was in those gray, listless hospital halls that something inside of me died. It was in that quiet, dark hospital room that I endured those painfully long nighttime hours, in which I desperately tried (and failed) to ignore my roommate's muffled cries. It was as that dingy, stained ceiling stared back at me that I realized the prayers I prayed didn't feel real anymore. It was in that rigid hospital bed, underneath that scratchy beige blanket, that I lost all of my faith in Christianity.

To the church leaders or church members who may read this and think, "But I don't hate gay people!", let me challenge you to take that a step further. It isn't enough to just think there is nothing "sinful" about the LGBTQ+ community – you must speak up. I've got news for you: the overwhelming message that the LGBTQ+ community receives regarding the Christian Church is not one of acceptance. What we experience in the news, across social media, and via most personal interactions is disgust, condemnation, or, at the very least, discomfort. So, if you are one of the "different ones" who does truly support our community, for God's sake, please share that sentiment. If you want to bring more people "into the fold", you absolutely must speak up. It is your responsibility to properly represent the message of God to the world. It isn't enough to think it. Church leaders, especially, I urge you to share your feelings of acceptance with your friends, loved ones, and congregations. And if you're too afraid to share it publicly, at least be willing to share it privately if someone comes to you asking for guidance. There are lives hanging in the balance. All it may take is one word of love and acceptance from you to keep someone safe from suicide.

Here I am now, several years later, and I am happy. I mean, really, happy, in a way I have never been happy before. Happy I didn't die that night. Happy I trusted my gut and finally embraced who I was. And happy I will never have to feel that burden of religious fear again. I am long gone from Christianity and although I usually don't say "never", I know I will never return. "The Church" lost me because of how it treated me as a queer woman. I desperately wanted to hold on to the faith that was deeply important to me, while still being able to be true to who I believed God had created me to be. But the Church failed me, miserably. By the time I realized there was a growing number of churches out there that didn't think I was going to burn in hell for eternity, it was too late. The damage had already been done, and I had such a bitter taste in my mouth that any possibility of me ever being able to reconcile my "faith" with who I was as a queer woman was ruined.

That being said, it is refreshing to know that religious folks' minds are beginning to change. It gives me hope that maybe future generations of religious queer folk won't have to pick between their faith and their sexual orientation or gender identity. Maybe, in the future, our queer folk will have a place they feel like they truly belong – not a place where they are simply tolerated, but embraced. Maybe, future generations of religious folk will not just talk the talk of being "Christ-like", but actually walk the walk as well. I have hope that, one day, us queer folk will be cherished for all of the precious gifts and unique perspectives we have to offer.

If you are thinking about suicide, or have a loved one you are worried about, The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is available 24/7 across the United States. Please call 1-800-273-8255.

If you are a young LGBTQ+ person in crisis, The Trevor Lifeline offers a safe, judgment-free place to talk. Please call 866-488-7386.

If you are looking for a Christian church that will be accepting of you no matter your sexual orientation or gender identity, try looking for Presbyterian, Evangelical Lutheran, Episcopal, or United Church of Christ churches in your area. Many churches of these denominations are affirming congregations. If you are looking for a spiritual community not directly associated with one specific religion, try looking for Unitarian Universalist churches in your area. Virtually every UU church is affirming. Gaychurch.org provides an Affirming Church Directory™ which is very helpful for finding such churches near you.

I Will Not Apologize

Photo by Tiduckman

If I asked those of you who know me to describe me with one word that sums up my nature, I wonder how you would respond. I imagine most of you would say “passionate”, “dramatic”, or perhaps “tough”, “assertive”, or “unabashed”. And while I would instinctively consider each of those terms a great compliment, you would be wrong. Don’t worry, it’s not your fault. To most of you who know me, that is how I present myself to you - loud and proud, unapologetic, and tenacious. But, oh, how I must tell you, I am an actress - an out and out fraud. That seemingly unwavering vigor you see on a regular basis is simply a thick skin I wear to protect me from the outside world. Underneath, there is nothing more than a tender, weary little girl whose spirit is so delicate its a miracle she’s still alive.

I am too soft for this world, and I learned that as a child. This world did not make sense to me. Everything was too fast, too restrained, too austere. I couldn’t understand why everyone didn’t get misty-eyed from a gentle sunset, or fall apart at the slightest sight of suffering. But I quickly discovered that people who did do those things would never “make it” in this world of ours. They were too frail, too easily stepped on or overlooked. I learned that I had to be tough to fit in. I turned my tender heartache into biting sarcasm and dry humor. I carefully concealed my fears, pain, and fragility, and only allowed it to come out occasionally in a poem or a painting, never to be shared with another soul. I transformed my sorrow for the world into a passionate outcry against injustice. As the years went by, I became a master at adapting my wispy, sentimental heart into something more acceptable in the eyes of our world. And I have done this so much so that I have almost completely lost myself in the process.

Out of nowhere, it just hit me this morning, and it has left me utterly breathless - if my inner soul saw my outer likeness, I don’t think the two would recognize one another at all. Nothing has changed internally since those many years ago. My heart still breaks at the slightest touch. All it takes is a beautiful morning sky, a moving story, a clichéd love song, or an adorable animal, and I’m in tears, sometimes for hours or even days. My soul is as gentle and fragile as the wing of a butterfly. And what is so terrible about that? I have been so ashamed of that for so long, because I have been worried that people will write me off as weak or acquiescent. But what I have missed in the process is that being sensitive is my most precious gift. That sensitivity gives me doorways into worlds that many people will never be able to even catch sight of. To continue to stifle that vulnerability would be a grave injustice to myself and the world. Yes, our world needs those loud, brazen people to break through barriers and blaze trails for others. But this world needs us sensitive flowers just as desperately.

Photo from Times Higher Education

To borrow a metaphor used so often by a dear role model of mine, Glennon Doyle, we are the canaries in the coal mine. Our sensitivity to the more subtle, emotional facets of life can help others become more gentle, and more connected with one another and with all of the universe. I am finally beginning to see my true self as something to be nurtured and cherished, not concealed and altered. To hell with “fitting in” with the “real world”. That is not who I am.

I think my heart was just meant to break. Instead of fighting against that, and trying to be something I am not, I must boldly hold up that broken heart in my trembling hand and show the world: This is okay. There is nothing wrong with being soft. There is nothing wrong with being different. Even just writing these words it feels as though an enormous burden has been lifted from my shoulders. So, I take a vow today to start gently peeling away the layers of hardness I have worked so long to pack on. Today, I make a promise to myself to stop apologizing for who I really am, even if it means I “fit in” less with the world. I challenge you to do the same.

~Ember