Less than six months later, I would be gone from that church. Not because I was gay, but because I’d been publicly calling attention to our collective lack of love, care and support for the LGBTQ community. As a spiritual community, we needed to do better.
Years earlier, while working at a different church as a young minister, I joined AVOL (AIDS Volunteers of Lexington), serving as a caregiver for queer individuals with HIV and AIDS. Initially, I was questioned by board members who wanted to know if I had ulterior motives of “saving someone’s soul.” I told them I didn’t. After that, they passed me through, and I met Phillip.
I did Phillip’s laundry, took him to doctor’s appointments, and attended his very gay birthday party with my 6-month-old baby girl. I tried to get our church involved in the upcoming annual AIDS walk — a tangible way to put our message of love, hope and service to work. I posted a sign-up sheet in our church lobby. Unfortunately, though not surprisingly, no one from our church showed for the event.
Sixteen years later, I’d grown weary of the church’s reticence and downright opposition to including LGBTQ people in spiritual communities. So, I began having conversations, mostly behind closed doors, and over time, was seen as a sympathizer.
In April 2015, I wrote and published an essay about Caitlyn Jenner, encouraging Christian people to embrace our transgender brothers and sisters by listening to their stories, using their chosen pronouns, and loving them in real ways. Within 48 hours, I received an email from leadership asking that I retract my public statements, which is when I knew it was time to go.
Our church welcomed 8,000 people each weekend. It was a megachurch. Each weekend, I stood before a massive crowd, singing my guts out about the love of God. But I knew if I stayed, I’d never be able to sing over my queer family or safely invite them into that space. I couldn’t do it anymore.
I wasn’t thrown out. Instead, I was told they wouldn’t tolerate my publicly saying things about welcoming queer people. But it was too late. Something had changed in me. I couldn’t make that promise. So, I resigned.
I imagine leadership was relieved.
He walked away. He wasn’t fired.
This was the story. This was how we shared it with the congregation. It never got ugly during this time of transition. I would never have done that, and neither would they. Instead, we walked quietly away from each other.
