It was a church service to celebrate the 4th of July. I was reluctant to go, but my mom thought I would enjoy the music. Every now and again it seems fitting to attend church with your mother, so I relented and even looked forward to hearing the pianist.
The service
went well at first. The patriotic music ceremony included a moving
tribute to veterans. As promised, the pianist played beautifully.
Then it came time for the pastor to preach his sermon. He walked up to the pulpit and began. I can’t remember exactly what he said, to be honest, but I certainly remember how it made me feel. He was complaining about President Obama’s calling a lesbian couple to congratulate them on their marriage. It wasn’t even what he said that disturbed me so; it was the tone of utter disgust in his voice. There was also a disdaining, self-righteous rumble from some of the congregation.
Then it came time for the pastor to preach his sermon. He walked up to the pulpit and began. I can’t remember exactly what he said, to be honest, but I certainly remember how it made me feel. He was complaining about President Obama’s calling a lesbian couple to congratulate them on their marriage. It wasn’t even what he said that disturbed me so; it was the tone of utter disgust in his voice. There was also a disdaining, self-righteous rumble from some of the congregation.
I sat stunned and mortified.
I used to live in fear that this would happen. As a timid, shy, gay child growing up in a southern baptist church, I shouldered intolerance time and again. And I shouldered it alone. I kept myself locked in the closet, but it was anything but secure. Honestly, I can only remember a few times homosexuality was directly mentioned in sermons or sunday school or youth assemblies, but they occurred. There were plenty of jokes and slurs (not directed at me, but they hit, anyway) throughout my growing up in church, as there were everywhere back then. I can remember, specifically, one summer I was home from college, and I went to a college group sunday school class, and the speaker talked specifically about how everyone, including the church, was becoming TOO tolerant of "the gays."
Regardless, I associated church with shame, guilt, and unworthiness. Sometimes worship services made me literally nauseous. I enjoyed the hymns, but there was something sad and weighted about the praise and worship songs. I remember thinking to myself, "This doesn't apply to me. I'm gay. I'm bad." I was a very sad little boy, and church was a huge source of that sadness. No child should ever have to feel that way. Especially not in church.
I went through several phases of "praying the gay away" and bargaining with God growing up. I always knew I was gay even before I knew what it was. I can't explain it, but I knew. I thought when I became a Christian at eight-years-old, it would go away. It did not. I thought if I "surrendered my life to Christian ministry and service" (at a ridiculously and amusingly young age), it would go away. It did not. I can even remember having suicidal thoughts and how scary that was, even though I never would have acted on those thoughts. I resorted to rededicating my life several times. I remember once at a Disciple Now, I was so filled with shame I convinced myself that I hadn't REALLY become a Christian the first time since I was so obviously still gay as a tinseled Christmas tree. It all seems so preposterous now, but I was so scared and convinced at the time that I was bound for hell; it all seemed only natural.
I would even go out to Lake Brownwood during my first year of college (of course I went to Howard Payne University -- baptist) to pray -- no -- beg God to make me "normal" and straight.
I'm so glad He didn't. It never went away. God, instead, convinced me that She loved me as is. I am a whole human being. I am a compassionate, funny, quirky, musical, literary, gay person, and that is absolutely fantastic. I wonder how my childhood, adolescence, and even adulthood would be different if I had realized that decades ago.
I should emphasize that there are many people in that church who were angels through all the years I went there. My family could not have survived and thrived after my father's death if it wasn't for our church family. I especially remember Joe Browder taking me aside at church camp when I was little. He saw that I was in turmoil. I will never forget his looking me straight in the eye and telling me that Jesus loved me, Rusty Weeks, no matter what. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I believe that now more than ever. I believe that God loves every last one of us equally and wonderfully. Why would there be a God otherwise?
I used to live in fear that this would happen. As a timid, shy, gay child growing up in a southern baptist church, I shouldered intolerance time and again. And I shouldered it alone. I kept myself locked in the closet, but it was anything but secure. Honestly, I can only remember a few times homosexuality was directly mentioned in sermons or sunday school or youth assemblies, but they occurred. There were plenty of jokes and slurs (not directed at me, but they hit, anyway) throughout my growing up in church, as there were everywhere back then. I can remember, specifically, one summer I was home from college, and I went to a college group sunday school class, and the speaker talked specifically about how everyone, including the church, was becoming TOO tolerant of "the gays."
Regardless, I associated church with shame, guilt, and unworthiness. Sometimes worship services made me literally nauseous. I enjoyed the hymns, but there was something sad and weighted about the praise and worship songs. I remember thinking to myself, "This doesn't apply to me. I'm gay. I'm bad." I was a very sad little boy, and church was a huge source of that sadness. No child should ever have to feel that way. Especially not in church.
I went through several phases of "praying the gay away" and bargaining with God growing up. I always knew I was gay even before I knew what it was. I can't explain it, but I knew. I thought when I became a Christian at eight-years-old, it would go away. It did not. I thought if I "surrendered my life to Christian ministry and service" (at a ridiculously and amusingly young age), it would go away. It did not. I can even remember having suicidal thoughts and how scary that was, even though I never would have acted on those thoughts. I resorted to rededicating my life several times. I remember once at a Disciple Now, I was so filled with shame I convinced myself that I hadn't REALLY become a Christian the first time since I was so obviously still gay as a tinseled Christmas tree. It all seems so preposterous now, but I was so scared and convinced at the time that I was bound for hell; it all seemed only natural.
I would even go out to Lake Brownwood during my first year of college (of course I went to Howard Payne University -- baptist) to pray -- no -- beg God to make me "normal" and straight.
I'm so glad He didn't. It never went away. God, instead, convinced me that She loved me as is. I am a whole human being. I am a compassionate, funny, quirky, musical, literary, gay person, and that is absolutely fantastic. I wonder how my childhood, adolescence, and even adulthood would be different if I had realized that decades ago.
I should emphasize that there are many people in that church who were angels through all the years I went there. My family could not have survived and thrived after my father's death if it wasn't for our church family. I especially remember Joe Browder taking me aside at church camp when I was little. He saw that I was in turmoil. I will never forget his looking me straight in the eye and telling me that Jesus loved me, Rusty Weeks, no matter what. NO. MATTER. WHAT. I believe that now more than ever. I believe that God loves every last one of us equally and wonderfully. Why would there be a God otherwise?
As soon as
I realized the topic of this pastor's rant, I shut down and stopped listening. This was the same man who had shaken my hand and welcomed me to this church numerous times. This was the man who stood at the altar and proclaimed to the congregation once before that "all are welcomed and loved here!" I looked
over at my mother, who looked like she'd been slapped as she mouthed, “I’m sorry. I
didn’t know. You should go.” How could she have known? I know she wanted to get up and leave with me.
I shrugged
my shoulders and looked over at my 8 and 11-year-old nieces who were also there with us. “I have to leave; I’ll see you at
lunch.” They just looked up at me blankly -- confused. Looking back on it, I wish
I had asked them if they wanted to leave with me, but it all happened so
fast.
I have felt blatantly marginalized for being gay, since I came out, a total of three times. The first time I was tutoring a group of students that weren't actually in my class. I went over to redirect a seventh grade girl who wasn't working. As I walked away from her desk, I heard her whisper, "gay motherfucker," under her breath. The second time I was at the House of Blues to hear Joshua Radin perform. There were some drunk girls behind my group, and we couldn't hear Josh over their inebriated rambling. I turned around and asked them to be quiet. A guy next to them said, "You fucking faggot." My friend Latoya heard him say it, too. As harmful as these instances were, they paled in comparison to the indignity I suffered that day last summer in church.
I was PISSED.
The angry part of me wasn't angry for myself. I was angry for all of the little kids sitting in that church who were gay. I was angry for the ones who were questioning, too. I was angry that any child in that service was hearing it. And I was angry at the people in the congregation who were encouraging the hurt that spewed from the pulpit with their rumbling grunts. How could this be happening in 2013?! In a holiday service? I do not need anyone to feel sorry for me, but I am asking you to feel for those kids.
The church had stadium-like seating, and we were seated to the right side of the auditorium and just a few rows back. In order to make my most graceful exit of the auditorium (“sanctuary” doesn’t seem appropriate for me, here), I walked down the steps towards the pulpit and made my way around the corner. So when I rounded the corner, I was facing the entire congregation seated on the ground floor. This was a long, lonely, awkward, but empowering walk. I have no idea how a human being can feel completely annihilated and liberated at the same time, but I did. I walked proudly with my head held high out of that giant red room. I tried to look people in the eye as I was marching out, but no one seemed to return my gaze. I did not look back.
I do not plan on going back unless I go to pay respects to someone who passes, like Joe Browder. That church is filled with Christ-like, wonderful people. I'm convinced of that. But how could I go back into that building with a shred of dignity and self-respect? I probably should have gone back one last time and given that pastor a piece of my mind or just sat down calmly and talked to him about my concerns regarding his sermon. I have no idea if he has a clue that his words hurt anyone.
It's time to let this one go. Gay people aren't going anywhere. And some of us are getting married. Let go of the "Love the sinner, hate the gay sin" BS, too. I'm not even going to justify that with words and the justification of my disgust over it. I'm also fed up with people's assertions that their right to vote against a gay person's right to marry is religious freedom. That's my freedom you're trying to take away.
So much going through my head as I kept walking out of that church and through the enormous, hot parking lot to my car. When I sat in my car, I put in a mix cd and played "All I Ever Have to Be" by Amy Grant (Written by Gary Chapman -- See YouTube link below), and the words meant more to me than ever. I wish I could have hugged every kid in that service and played them that song. It pretty much got me through childhood and adolescence.
I also posted something on Facebook that still resonates with me and hopefully many of you, as well. "I'm glad my faith is stronger than the words and walls of man." Then I drove to the Chili's parking lot in Casa Linda and waited on my family and friends for lunch. When we were finally seated, my oldest niece sat down next to me and reached over and squeezed my hand.
I have made it my life's mission to do my best to pour light on others and the world instead of casting shadows. My being gay has only given me even more lenses to see the world through and enabled me to shed and share more light. Peace to all.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, they will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." -- Maya Angelou
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohkdMXx_JlQ
When the weight of all my dreams
Is resting heavy on my head
And the thoughtful words of help and hope
Have all been nicely said
But I'm still hurting wondering if I'll ever be the one
I think I am -- I think I am
Then You gently re-remind me
That You've made me from the first
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst
And I realized the good in me is only there because of who You are
Who You are…
And all I ever have to be is what You've made me
Any more or less would be a step out of your plan
As you daily re-create me help me always keep in mind
That I only have to do what I can find
And all I ever have to be
All I have to be
All I ever have to be is what You've made me.
Amy Grant Gary Chapman Copyright New Spring Publishing
I have felt blatantly marginalized for being gay, since I came out, a total of three times. The first time I was tutoring a group of students that weren't actually in my class. I went over to redirect a seventh grade girl who wasn't working. As I walked away from her desk, I heard her whisper, "gay motherfucker," under her breath. The second time I was at the House of Blues to hear Joshua Radin perform. There were some drunk girls behind my group, and we couldn't hear Josh over their inebriated rambling. I turned around and asked them to be quiet. A guy next to them said, "You fucking faggot." My friend Latoya heard him say it, too. As harmful as these instances were, they paled in comparison to the indignity I suffered that day last summer in church.
I was PISSED.
The angry part of me wasn't angry for myself. I was angry for all of the little kids sitting in that church who were gay. I was angry for the ones who were questioning, too. I was angry that any child in that service was hearing it. And I was angry at the people in the congregation who were encouraging the hurt that spewed from the pulpit with their rumbling grunts. How could this be happening in 2013?! In a holiday service? I do not need anyone to feel sorry for me, but I am asking you to feel for those kids.
The church had stadium-like seating, and we were seated to the right side of the auditorium and just a few rows back. In order to make my most graceful exit of the auditorium (“sanctuary” doesn’t seem appropriate for me, here), I walked down the steps towards the pulpit and made my way around the corner. So when I rounded the corner, I was facing the entire congregation seated on the ground floor. This was a long, lonely, awkward, but empowering walk. I have no idea how a human being can feel completely annihilated and liberated at the same time, but I did. I walked proudly with my head held high out of that giant red room. I tried to look people in the eye as I was marching out, but no one seemed to return my gaze. I did not look back.
I do not plan on going back unless I go to pay respects to someone who passes, like Joe Browder. That church is filled with Christ-like, wonderful people. I'm convinced of that. But how could I go back into that building with a shred of dignity and self-respect? I probably should have gone back one last time and given that pastor a piece of my mind or just sat down calmly and talked to him about my concerns regarding his sermon. I have no idea if he has a clue that his words hurt anyone.
It's time to let this one go. Gay people aren't going anywhere. And some of us are getting married. Let go of the "Love the sinner, hate the gay sin" BS, too. I'm not even going to justify that with words and the justification of my disgust over it. I'm also fed up with people's assertions that their right to vote against a gay person's right to marry is religious freedom. That's my freedom you're trying to take away.
So much going through my head as I kept walking out of that church and through the enormous, hot parking lot to my car. When I sat in my car, I put in a mix cd and played "All I Ever Have to Be" by Amy Grant (Written by Gary Chapman -- See YouTube link below), and the words meant more to me than ever. I wish I could have hugged every kid in that service and played them that song. It pretty much got me through childhood and adolescence.
I also posted something on Facebook that still resonates with me and hopefully many of you, as well. "I'm glad my faith is stronger than the words and walls of man." Then I drove to the Chili's parking lot in Casa Linda and waited on my family and friends for lunch. When we were finally seated, my oldest niece sat down next to me and reached over and squeezed my hand.
I have made it my life's mission to do my best to pour light on others and the world instead of casting shadows. My being gay has only given me even more lenses to see the world through and enabled me to shed and share more light. Peace to all.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, they will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." -- Maya Angelou
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ohkdMXx_JlQ
When the weight of all my dreams
Is resting heavy on my head
And the thoughtful words of help and hope
Have all been nicely said
But I'm still hurting wondering if I'll ever be the one
I think I am -- I think I am
Then You gently re-remind me
That You've made me from the first
And the more I try to be the best
The more I get the worst
And I realized the good in me is only there because of who You are
Who You are…
And all I ever have to be is what You've made me
Any more or less would be a step out of your plan
As you daily re-create me help me always keep in mind
That I only have to do what I can find
And all I ever have to be
All I have to be
All I ever have to be is what You've made me.
Amy Grant Gary Chapman Copyright New Spring Publishing
