My Hope for LGBTQ Christians in Non-Affirming Churches
Some of us feel fully at home in our churches: we worship, chat, serve, pray, and grow without hearing hardly a whisper of the lie that we don’t belong. Sure, the love there isn’t always perfect, but by and large it’s been good enough to cast out our fear.
Others of us find ourselves in churches where we feel less at home. Behind all of the smiles and extended hands, there stands a wall of unjustified concerns and hurtful judgments. We try to climb over, around, or underneath, all the while hearing “Love the sinner” whispered or shouted, all the while knowing that our love is not a sin. Here, we grin and bear it as best we can. Here, love and fear always go together.
If you believe this to be your cross, I won’t tell you not to carry it. As much as I like to give advice, I’m not going to tell you that you should leave your church, or that you should stay—and neither should anyone else. You know yourself, your situation, and the Spirit’s leading in your life better than anyone else does, and at the end of the day, it is your life. Don’t care how overused the phrase is: you do you.
I just want to tell you about when I decided to leave, as well as share my greatest hope for you if you decide to stay.
One Sunday morning, several years ago, I visited one of my two home churches back in Texas. This was the church of my adolescence, where I attended youth group, sung in the worship band, taught the children, interned...you know, all that stuff. At the time, I had recently come out as gay. Not everyone there knew, but many did. When I stepped into the sanctuary, I was ready to face the wall.
It just so happened that one of my closest friends from high school was also visiting from out of town that morning. We greeted each other with a big hug, then sat next to each other in the sanctuary. With him at my side, all feels well with my soul.
Until the pastor starts preaching. The end of Romans 1 is his text. The whisper will soon become a shout, I know. No way over, around, or under this now. I brace myself for impact.
But a surprise hits me first: as soon as the pastor starts reading verse 26, my friend puts his arm around me. He is very tall and has very long arms, so his gesture is conspicuous—and unashamedly so. I hear indignation in his slow, heavy breath. The warmth and weight of his forearm at the bottom of my neck makes me feel protected. His fingers curl and clasp around my shoulder, like a mother who comforts her shaking child. He kept his arm around me for the entire sermon.
I haven’t returned to that church since then, and I don’t plan to go back anytime soon. Although I maintain gratitude for the many gifts that the church gave me in years past, I can be grateful without returning, without making myself vulnerable to abuse yet again. Those gifts have traveled with me as I have explored and settled into other, safer spiritual homes. Some days, I miss it. Most days, though, I say, “Good riddance.”
But again, I am not writing to tell you to follow in my footsteps. Instead, I am writing to tell you this: if, for whatever reasons, you feel called to remain in a church like that one, be sure that you have a friend who will do for you what my friend did for me. Have a friend who isn’t afraid to touch you, hug you, tell you that they love you. Have a friend who you don’t have to persuade (or even ask) to support you. Have a friend who is eager to stand wholeheartedly and unapologetically at your side, whatever the consequences. Have a friend who will push against the wall with you, or try to sneak behind it with you, or sit in front of it and cry with you—whatever it is that you feel like doing on any given day. If you don’t already have a friend like this, find one. Make one. Make them your spiritual home.