by Steve Austin
This particular morning, however, while she rubbed my back before I even opened my eyes, I knew it was now or never. In the warmth and closeness of her touch, as her toes ran down the back of my calves, I found more courage to speak my truth.
In the stillness of the morning, my heart pounded and nausea gripped me. But I remembered all the versions of me she had chosen to love so far. When I was a broke college kid, she loved me eagerly. I was a know-it-all Christian, and she loved me patiently. Through every mistake, misstep, and failure, she loved me mercifully. She loved me wholeheartedly, without condition. I had to take the risk that she would love me still.
That morning, we sat on the back porch in the cool of the morning. As rain pitter-pattered against the patio blocks, our conversation wound its way back to the sex from the night before, and we both blushed a little at just how much we enjoyed ourselves. I became emboldened because I saw the way she truly desired me, in spite of all she already knew about me. It was time.
I took the risk, and the power of confession took our relationship even deeper than I had hoped or imagined. My nervousness and shame almost seem laughable now. Why was I so afraid of being completely honest with this woman who nursed me back from death? Lindsey has proven her relentless love for me, time and time again, even at my darkest moments.
When my confession was over, we embraced and Lindsey planted the softest kisses on my neck. I felt wholly emptied, in the best way possible. She didn’t shrink back in fear. She didn’t pull away in disgust. She didn’t confirm any of the irrational fears shame planted in my brain.
In his relationship workbook, Five Dates, Mike Foster says, “...loneliness does not come from being alone, but from being unheard.”14 Learning to truly hear and be heard by one another is a transformative, healing experience. Sometimes it takes counseling and lots of good books to get there. Sometimes it takes practice, telling our “smaller” secrets as we build the courage to tackle our big ones.
These days, I’m learning to ignore the voice of shame more often. It’s easier to open up and own my truth now that Lindsey knows about it. Telling secrets works like that. We don’t need to tell everyone everything about us. That’s not healthy or helpful. But, by starting with the safest, most trustworthy people in our lives, we can slowly turn our secrets into stories that free us and those around us.
Author’s note: Sometimes you don’t feel quite ready to share your secret with your best friend or your partner. That’s okay, too. In that case, it may be time to hire a professional. Pay an unbiased third party like a counselor, therapist, or life coach. Don’t have the money? There are several clinics that work on a sliding scale, based on your income. You could also call the crisis line to get that heaviness off your chest. The Suicide Prevention Lifeline can be reached 24/7 at 1-800-273-8255.
Five:
When You Believe You Are Bad
Please call me by my true names,
so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once,
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.
Please call me by my true names,
so I can wake up
and the door of my heart
could be left open,
the door of compassion.
—Thich Nhat Hanh15
Ryan wasn’t out when we were in Bible college together. I’m sure people had their suspicions, but he never told anyone he was gay until years after he was expelled. While they officially dismissed him for smoking, I’ve always wondered if it had more to do with their suspicions about his sexuality. So did Ryan.
That experience turned Ryan’s world upside-down. My friend was filled with shame and pain. From his perspective, his dream of working for a church was forever crushed. If our little Bible college didn’t want him, how could God possibly love him? Heartache and anger were his constant companions as he internalized the rejection. He believed he was intrinsically bad, so he partied to numb himself. Alcohol, drugs, and wild living became his coping mechanisms.
We have remained friends through the years, and I’ve been privileged to hear more of his story. Once, I asked Ryan why his life got so rough after Bible college. He said something I won’t ever forget: “When you believe you are bad, you don’t act good.”
Ryan was desperate to accept and love himself as a gay man, to believe that God could love him in all of his gayness. He wanted to think that he was created with purpose and that there was room for him at God’s table, too, but decades of toxic theology told him otherwise.
Of course, Ryan’s not the only one. I’ve had similar, heartbreaking conversations with several dear friends. Through their tears, each confessed that trying to “act straight” was like living in a prison of secrecy and fear. These aren’t just kids; they are adults who are scared to death of being disowned by their families and ostracized by their churches and communities.
The fears aren’t unfounded. We’ve all heard horror stories about someone coming out and experiencing rejection, being shunned, and sometimes enduring outright violence, simply for being real about who they are. Is it any wonder people struggle to believe there is good in them, that they bear the image of the Divine?
And I can’t help but wonder why we do this to each other.
If people believe the lie that their lives don’t matter, it damages the soul and sometimes kills the body. People don’t want to live in a world (read: a family or a church) where they aren’t known, accepted, and loved. All people deserve love and justice. Perpetuating hate and fear through destructive theology or political ideology is damaging the collective soul of this worldwide community of humans.
No matter how we were raised or if we cling to faith of any sort, genuine love doesn’t have prerequisites. Grace doesn’t have qualifying criteria. Compassion has no strings attached. At the end of the day, it is more important to love my neighbors than to expect them to pass a litmus test on morality or religious fervor.
In the past, I’ve been a coward. I was more concerned with my own acceptance and belonging than standing up to help others receive them. I was wrong to hold back, and I am sorry. These days, I am learning to do better. I’m saying in no uncertain terms that it is wrong for any group of people to be demonized by any institution. I will not stay quiet any longer.
Please hear me: whoever you are, whatever you’ve done: you are not bad. If you’ve received that message, know it’s a nasty, hideous lie. Your dreams, your experiences—your joys and pains and sorrows and traumas and successes—are as unique as the stars in the sky, as varied as the number of hairs on your head.
When did you last look up at the night sky, taking in the wonder of all those twinkling lights? The vastness of that same beauty is contained in your soul, no matter where you’ve been or what you’ve been told. And just in case you’ve been plagued with a terrible case of forgettery, know that you are a priceless commodity. There’s not another person on the planet just like you. Even if you’re an identical twin, sharing DNA with someone who looks just like you, there’s still not another you. You are unique.
Unique [yoo-neek]:
adjective
1. existing as the only one or as the sole example; single; solitary in type or characteristics
2. having no like or equal; unparalleled; incomparable16
Gay or straight or something else entirely.
Black, white, or brown.
Freckle-faced or not.
Fat or skinny, tall or short.
Young or old, party animal or happily introverted.
Republican, Democrat, or Independent.
Single, divorced, widowed, or married.
Christian, Atheist, Agnostic, or none-of-the-above.
You have no equal. You are unparalleled, incomparable, a one-of-a-kind gift to this world. There’s space at the table for each of us. God and healthy communities have great big hearts and wide open arms. Th
ere’s plenty of room for everyone to fit. So stretch out, embrace your story, and in doing so, make this humongous mass of humanity just a little more beautiful.
Anyone that makes you feel devalued or ashamed because of your lived experience is not coming from a place of love. When you finally recognize that you are of intrinsic value just because you are a human being, you won’t allow anyone to diminish your worth any longer.
In the Christian circles where I used to spend time, people were conditioned by years of toxic theology to believe that they are evil. At the core of their being, people think they were born broken, even to the point of living under a curse. People have learned horrible things like, “God loves me, but must not like me.” A lifetime of toxic beliefs and self-destructive habits have convinced us that all we can do is “the best we can” while trying not to screw things up too much.
God in the Gay Bar
There’s a beautiful old building I used to drive past that would always catch my eye. The charcoal exterior of the A-frame stands out against the urban backdrop. I’ve heard the building is just two shotgun-style houses put together, but the design reminds me of the little Methodist church in the town where I was born. One Saturday night, I was invited into its sanctuary to celebrate a friend’s birthday.
Creaking stairs greeted me as I turned the decorative metal knob. Music boomed from within. I found smiles all around, people hugging and talking. Some were drinking, most were dancing, and everyone was having a blast. I’d been invited to step into my friend’s world. I’d just entered a gay bar for the first time.
It was dark inside, but there was joy in the air. I couldn’t shake the sense that this place was a real church. There were bar stools instead of pews, and bartenders standing in for ushers, but I recognized the feeling permeating the club. It was a feeling of safety, of love, of community, of belonging. I walked into that old churchy building, converted into a gay club, and I found God.
The place was a safe haven for those who had been cast aside from most traditional worship. Many had even lost their families. But there, nobody had to fight to be seen or struggle to be afforded the dignity many of us assume is ours from birth. In this sanctuary, my friends were able to be entirely themselves, congregating in the name that is above every name: the name of Love. And that name is too great to ever be labeled “worldly” or “godly,” “sacred” or “secular.”
Love is just Love.
As the night progressed, the music grew louder and the drinks stronger. The dance floor was filled with familiar faces, and my dearest friends spun, shook, and smiled, weaving themselves in a beautiful tapestry of peace and freedom. It was more than just a party; it was a spiritual experience. My friends were living into their identity, knowing that in a few hours, they would return to straight America. Many would once again hold their authentic selves at a comfortable distance, not wanting to offend their neighbors, co-workers, or those who sit with them on more familiar pews.
I watched them dance and I could feel Immanuel, God with us. My friends were the most alive I’d ever seen them. With lifted hearts and heads, the room was filled with laughter and our entire beings overcome with the joy of the Lord. Outside that bar, my friends are judged, cursed, and worse by so-called Christians who are “preaching the truth in love.” But inside, they find a shelter from the storm, a community of peace, safety, and love. There’s really only one word to describe what they find in that club: God.
And inside that club, they recognize the truth about who they are: valuable, wonderful, made in the image of the Divine. They are reminded that they are, at the deepest level, good. After all, that’s what God supposedly said when we were created: this is very good.
My favorite thing about Jesus is that he came to offer an invitation. He promised that the underdog would have a front row seat in His radical new kingdom, where the last are first. Jesus and those who followed him were square pegs who refused to fit into a round hole, just like Ben’s Legos.
In proclaiming really good news to the poor, offering freedom to those in captivity, new sight to those who had been blind, loosening the chains of bondage for the oppressed, embracing women, Samaritans, gentiles, and lepers, the message of Jesus was a big “hell no” to the way things had always been and the lies we’ve always believed.
When religious people stop expecting people to fit their mold, agree with their politics, or live up to their social expectations, they extend freedom and joy to all of God’s people. And isn’t belonging what we all want? Isn’t that what Christ offers us?
For a group of people so disenfranchised from the Church, a gay bar is a place where everyone is equal. It’s a place where “Love is Love” isn’t a cliché slogan on a rainbow bumper sticker. It is believed and lived. Love is universal. And the most rebellious thing a student of Jesus can offer another human being is Love.
If you’ve felt ostracized due to your race, religion, sexuality, gender, disease, or disability, hear me again: you are not bad. You don’t have to run anymore. You are safe here.
I told you in the beginning that this isn’t a book about religion or theology, but a book about people. Still, I cannot write an honest confession or a self-help book without telling you that if you are a part of any setting (religious or otherwise) that is more obsessed with perfection, cleanliness, and cultural norms than making everyone feel welcome, it is toxic. If real people don’t feel safe enough to enter the sanitized sanctuary, place of business, or home, it’s missing the point.
All any overwhelmed person wants is rest. Love. Mercy for our travels. Friendship. Compassion. Most of all: acceptance. We aren’t necessarily looking for answers. Just a place to take off our shoes, bow our heads, and rest, as we breathe in peace that no one can take away. Countless people are hiding in church pews and at dinner tables with their own families, fearing exactly what happened to my friend Ryan. They’re confident that if anyone knew their secret, they would be ousted.
In today’s context, I think Matthew 25:35-36 would read something like this:
I was LGBTQ+, and you welcomed me to the Table. I was homeless, and you gave me a room. I was Hispanic, and you welcomed me. I had HIV, and you visited me. I was a divorcee, and you didn’t exclude me from fellowship. I was a woman, and you told me that my voice mattered. I was black, and you listened to me. I was depressed, and you held me close.
It’s time to loosen the death grip on our precious moral stances and open our hands and hearts to those around us who are longing for love and acceptance. Now, more than ever, we should love the person in front of us. We can no longer depend on the church or the government to do what they should. Grace is beckoning each of us to step out, speak up, and make room for everyone.
I wish we could find grace to be unique, to embrace the story of us all, the great big circle and links that bind us together. Lord, bind us together. We need the weirdness, the history, the art, the passion, the music, the queerness, and the glitter. We need the richness, darkness like the soil, the dancing, the rhythm, the soul, and the persistence.
Dr. Howard Thurman said, “Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”17
We need you. Don’t back down in your resistance to the lies. You can love and be loved in return, exactly as you are. We need you at the table and there is plenty of room for you.
Come. Let’s share our stories. Let’s celebrate the ways we are alike, and glory in our differences. Let’s listen to the sounds of friendship, harmony, and grace. Grace has made space at the table for all of us.
six:
Criticalizin’
A man with a hump-backed uncle mustn’t make fun of another man’s cross-eyed aunt.18
—Mark Twain
My great-grandfather was a towering man. He had the deepest voice I’ve ever heard and the biggest heart I’ve ever seen. He was als
o educated, speaking at least three languages fluently. Granddaddy’s education and mastery of language didn’t make him a snob; he was still an unassuming Southern gentleman. But he loved to toy with words, purposely switching letters to create new versions of words or putting the emphasis on the wrong syllable, much to the dismay of his prudish and often-critical wife.
Grandmother grew up dirt poor, and, as a result, seemed to have hardened around the edges. She could find fault in anyone, including her wonderful husband. Grandaddy was the perfect complement for Grandmother. He was soft-spoken, patient, and kind. Opposites, it seemed, did attract.
Grandmother was always on his case. She never seemed to tire of finding some new complaint about Granddaddy. But as the story goes, one day Granddaddy had enough. She followed him up the stairs, like a chihuahua barking and nipping after a tired old hound dog. Apparently, Granddaddy had been criticized for the last time. He turned around at the top of the stairs and, in the most stern voice he probably ever used, said, “Woman, why don’t you stop all that criticalizin’?!”
The Voice of the Inner Critic
I left a full-ride scholarship my sophomore year of college to pursue ministry in the church. Of course, people said, “You’ll look back in ten years and realize this was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.” (If only that was the worst of my worries.) Those words rippled into my life for the next fifteen years. Although I’d followed my heart, I hated to disappoint people. The approval fix was a big deal for me.
When things aren’t going well, I still hear that voice. When the money runs out before the end of the month, I hear the voice of my inner critic saying, “You should have stayed in school.”
It shows up in small, sinister ways. If I ever get sick and have to miss work for more than a day, I feel the pressure of the old-school American male. The pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps, good-old-boy voice says, “Man up! Get your ass to work and stop being a pansy!” I think of the physical toughness and work ethic of my dad and grandfather: they were incredible providers who never seemed to miss work. They even worked holidays and birthdays because a man who never used his sick days was admirable, at least under that old system.