Facing the Music

by Jennifer Knapp

  I went on to spin a yarn so long and deceitful that, to this day, I am marked by the shame of it. I explained how my feelings for her were friendly, and framed my esteem for Karen as merely superficial. I made it seem as though I viewed her role in my life as a kind, feminine Christian mentor. That, yes, while I would admit that I loved her very much, it was like a sister or a dear friend. I tried to weave the truth into my lie, that I very much cared for her and, at the same time, not at all.

  I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience. It felt similar to how people who die briefly talk about floating above the room and watching the world react to their lifeless bodies. I found myself somehow hovering over the room like a ghost, watching the drama unfold beneath me. I watched as I prattled on and on about just how unimportant my relationship with Karen was. I watched from overhead as Rolly and Sandy appeared to evaporate into nothingness. From that distance, I could see the damage my lies were inflicting. There were bodies everywhere. Mine, Karen’s, Rolly’s, and Sandy’s.

  If there was a positive to come from all my lying, it was that now I recognized that I wasn’t just friends with Karen. I could no longer deny that I wanted something much more substantial than casual friendship. Regardless of what I was willing to confess, my mentors made it clear that I had to choose.

  If I were a true Christian, I would sever ties with Karen, and thereby willingly eliminate any sexual temptation. For them, being gay was a deniable impulse that God, if I allowed Him, would help me to overcome. I was to choose my faith over my sexual orientation. I would be ruined otherwise.

  I left that room feeling as though my life had spiraled out of control. I had walked into that hotel room in denial of my own feelings for Karen and left no longer unaware of my true longing. Regardless of their hopes, my mentors had forced me to confront the questions I had regarding faith and homosexuality. I was accountable now, and no longer able to ignore the theological questions. I didn’t know if I had the courage to follow my convictions and confess that I didn’t believe that being gay was a sin. I was unprepared for a single-Scripture-hurling war of words to defend what I believed. What I believed had nothing to do with sexual identity or gender. I believed that no matter who we are, who we love, it is how we love that matters. I had made that premise the backbone of my public message. I believed it to be divine inspiration. Now I was on the hot seat, my faith in question, my reputation at stake, and it appeared that I was crumbling.

  Regardless of my own sexuality, I had sullied the whole affair with my lies. Maybe Rolly and Sandy were right in saying that these temptations came to me due to my lack of Christian virtue. After all, I was a liar.

  I was devastated. In the years that followed, I would replay the night over and again in my mind, still regretting my behavior. My fear of uncertainty led me down a path that was unnatural to my character. I might not have had a say in being gay, but I could choose not to be a liar. So far as I could see, my integrity had nothing to do with my sexual orientation but, rather, could only be measured by how I responded to truth.

  It would take me years of revisiting our conversation to unravel the life lessons from it. There seemed like a crack in the universe that I was responsible for, but it was widened by something more than my being gay.

  I had broken the trust between myself and my mentors. I dishonored and disrespected them on the deepest level by not telling them the truth. It took me years of mulling over my regrets of that night to comprehend the tragedy of what had happened. I judged them as being incapable of nurturing who I truly was. I assumed that they could not grow beyond their current understanding of homosexuality as a sin. I assumed that all they wanted to do was change me. In my lies, I assumed that they could not love me as I was. I had assaulted their deepest faith by devaluing their ability to love.

  To my thinking, I had betrayed Karen as well. In a strange twist, I realized that I was marginalizing the value and importance that Karen had in my heart. I didn’t yet know what, if anything, our lives would look like together, but I had a fondness for her that went beyond sexual attraction.

  By minimizing my relationship with Karen, I saw my actions as betraying my true respect and admiration for her as a friend. From my vantage point, my lies implied that Karen was a person of little value to me. Shamefully, I took a line that said that I didn’t care enough about her feelings for me to tell the truth about how I really felt about her.

  If I truly loved her, loved her in such a way that is beyond the surface of physical attraction or lust, surely I would have defended her worth to others? If she mattered to me, surely I would speak truthfully and without reservation? Karen had found her way into the marrow of my being. I loved her. I wanted her to love me back.

  In the end, my dishonesty said more about my character than it did of any circumstances that I would use to justify myself. Christianity had reminded and inspired in me a deep desire to be judged for what was accurate and true about my nature. Being gay wasn’t a moral problem to me, but how I was handling it with others was. Whatever my sexual orientation turned out to be, I had to get back to that place of honesty. I vowed never again to manufacture anything to the contrary. If I was to be judged, it would be for what is rather than lie for what I hope to be.

  Sadly, cancer would take both Rolly and Sandy before I found the courage to take responsibility for my actions. We will never again have the chance to visit and share with each other the value of our uniquely lived experiences. I cannot share with them the positive impact of their confrontation and how it has shaped me into the woman who still reaches to live with integrity. Nor did I get the chance to criticize their approach.

  Perhaps the latter is best left untested. What is done is done, but our estranged relationship is a reminder to me that I cannot write the stories of others. Had I the courage to be forthright in the beginning, I might have discovered that they could have taken a journey alongside me and come to be a part of my partner and my celebration of love—a relationship that, in the future, would turn out to be just as rich, meaningful, and life-giving as I hoped for when I looked to Rolly and Sandy’s marriage as an example.

  Were they here today, I would thank them for sharing joys of their union, as I would hope to share my own.

  seventeen

  I left the confrontation with my mentors feeling dejected and muddled. The few confidants I held dear in my personal life had failed me as much as I had failed them. Many had offered their opinions, prayers, and counsel, yet nearly all seemed to have only one idea, that I was duty-bound to function as a musician for God alone, that anything less would be a betrayal of the blessing that was so graciously afforded me in my second life. But what life did I have, I wondered?

  Was it a Christian life? I didn’t call myself a Christian just for the sake of it. It wasn’t a word I used lightly. To use the term indicated that I had experienced a specific spiritual paradigm shift in my life. I wanted more from the experience than simply blending into, and profiting from, Christian culture.

  I wanted a meaningful life. I could remember a time when I truly wanted to give, serve, and bring other people to the kind of joy I had once known. Maybe I had given too much? Maybe I had nothing of merit to give? I seriously questioned whether I had done any good while in CCM. At the end, I only felt weak and deceitful.

  I had invested my future in Alabaster and that was in ruins. And, now, it was starting to look like I was gay. Everyone around me seemed to travel in only one direction, toward a conservative school of religious thought, hyperfocused on Jesus. It was a world I could only see as punishing for those, like me, who found the path too constrictive for personal growth.

  I was stuck in a loop of contradiction. I deeply respected and had been moved to be a part of the positive impact Christian music could have in the lives of those on a spiritual journey, so much so that I put every ounce of my passion into the songs that shared in that experience.

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p; I found hope when I shared the doubts and fears that had accumulated in my travels with faith. It was an honor to be given invitations to listen to stories from fans about their journeys. It was such a surprising blessing to know that I had, inside me, a gift that, when freely given, could help another person feel a little bit better about themselves.

  Music is such a fascinating thing. It’s amazing how a single song can so strongly teleport us to a place and a time in our lives that we thought we had forgotten. For those of us drawn in by music, there is a soundtrack that plays through the movie of our lives. It’s as if all we have to do is turn up the volume, close our eyes, and we are there, capable of remembering and reliving what had been only a hazy recollection.

  How incredible that I got to be a part of that! I was grateful, humbled to the core, astonished, even, that I had ever been asked to play a single note. I respected the privilege and always sought to live up to the task of offering my very best.

  I was devastated when I realized that I had nothing more to give.

  All I could think about was the kind of humiliation awaiting me if my private spiritual crisis became known to the Christian public. I was more than aware how intolerant the Christian industry can be of those who fall short of their standards.

  When I attended my first Dove Awards in 1996, CCM scuttlebutt was atwitter about Michael English and his supposed fall from grace. Michael was a highly decorated CCM artist who had been crowned both Dove’s Male Artist and Male Vocalist of the Year. After news of his extramarital affair had surfaced, English willingly forfeited his honors and returned his Dove Award to the Gospel Music Association. For further punishment, his records were pulled from the shelves and his songs removed from radio station playlists.

  While his personal tragedy did not ultimately end his career, he seemed to be wearing a scarlet letter. The gossip and disdain I heard from the mouths of Christian music aficionados and industry gatekeepers was clear. CCM artists must forever remain above reproach.

  I would see it again in the late nineties when, following a divorce, the queen of Christian pop, Amy Grant, was put through her own crucible of Christian judgment. Like English, retailers attempted to rebuke her by pulling her records from the shelves. Apparently her character was so flawed as to render her music flawed as well. Every news piece, every editorial, every Christian press item pointed to the shame of her spiritual failings.

  I didn’t want to find myself the centerpiece of another public shaming, but I also found the general principle completely nauseating. Believe it or not, Christian artists are not immune to the normal circumstances of life. There have been many who have found themselves navigating their own private challenges of divorce, drug or alcohol abuse, extramarital affairs, or even rumors of being gay.

  That’s not to say that any of these qualities makes any one person inherently bad, or even un-Christian. It simply makes them human. If maintaining the highest perceived standards of lived Christian excellence was required for being a CCM artist, then I had to admit, I was not it. I didn’t want to be responsible for pursuing a career in that environment, when I knew myself to be incapable of perfectly maintaining such standards. The only good thing I felt I had left to achieve was to leave quietly and, as much as possible, leave without adding yet another scar to the image of Christianity.

  For the last year of my CCM career, I attempted to put a gag on my personal sufferings, and go about my business as if nothing were wrong. Whoever Karen and I were going to be, or not be, had to wait. Whether I was a going to be a Christian any more, only God knew. I couldn’t even see my way to keep music as a meaningful experience in my life. I was walking through a wasteland of loss and despair. I put my own needs on hold, waiting for the final show where I could, at last, lock my guitar in its case and walk away.

  On September 10, 2002, in Abilene, Texas, I did just that. I played my set, waved to the crowd, walked off the stage, and put my guitar in the case for the last time.

  All my demons were latched securely in my guitar case. That day I vowed that I would never play again. I gave up on music, Christianity, and my career. I was nothing, again, and I welcomed it. I was exhausted and faithless.

  Whatever came next had to be out of the public eye. I wasn’t fit for consumption. I needed solitude in order to rebuild. I needed to find my own voice again, if I had one.

  The tour bus deposited me in Nashville for the last time. With nothing to do, no concerts on the horizon, and no plans to speak of, I secluded myself in my Kingston Springs home, severing all communication with the outside world.

  The exception was Karen. She had moved in earlier that year to help me get across the finish line. Well, I had made it, but to what end? I was spent. Lord only knows what damage I might have done to myself without her watchful eye.

  “It’s all in how you look at it,” Karen tried to be positive. “It’s not the end. It’s a beginning.”

  Having Karen around was a mixed blessing. I loved that she was there every day. She helped me feel safe. However, I was embarrassed to be so vulnerable and needy.

  I was unkempt, sleepless, and despondent. The silence I had imposed on myself seemed to be hurting more than it was helping. Normally, at times like this, I’d grab my guitar or a pencil and paper, anything to release the thoughts and emotions in my head, but this time, I couldn’t. I trapped them all inside, afraid to let them out for fear they would destroy me.

  As the weeks progressed I became more and more depressed, and at times, I contemplated suicide. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to live, I just couldn’t see what I had to live for. Everything that I had put my heart into had left me barren. It didn’t help that I had nothing constructive to do. In the past, I might have picked up my guitar and played through the pain or scratched away for hours in my journal. I had cut myself off from all of the support mechanisms and joys that had sustained me through hard times. There was a lot to process.

  Karen and I had begun openly to explore the potential of our relationship, which was exciting, but with the specter of shame looming in being discovered as a fallen gay Christian, I was scared. Every part of me wanted to hide and keep our growing love a secret, especially to the Nashville CCM world. At home alone, or outside the ’Ville, my feelings for her were without equivocation. I loved her, and there wasn’t much more to say. Yet if we so much as stood too close together while shopping at the local grocery store, I’d find myself trembling in fear. Every ­admonishing, antigay, Christian conversation replayed itself in my head, telling me that there was something wrong with me. One minute I would be fully present, loving and kind, the next, distant, making hope-killing comments.

  My head was a tangled mess of passion, admiration, uncertainty, and fear. Fear of failure, fear of love, fear of God. What if I were wrong? What if my love for Karen was unholy? How could any love be unholy? Was what was in my heart for Karen really love? How was I to know if I didn’t follow it until the end?

  I had so many questions, and all I knew to do was to face them one by one. I had never given my heart to anybody the way I wanted to share it with Karen. I had only given my body, but knew that I wanted more than just sex now. I had been celibate for over a decade and I was hopeful that Christianity had taught me something about what it meant to love another person.

  If it was true that no Christian could choose to be gay, then something had to give. Maybe people were right—maybe I wasn’t a Christian anymore? If being gay invalidated my faith, if not wanting to be in CCM anymore was a sign of my moral failure, then what was there to argue? I only had the energy left for truth. I needed to move forward. I wanted to love. I was a liar when I said otherwise. I wanted to love Karen and that was the truth of it. I knew it. God knew it.

  Together, Karen and I took a much-needed vacation to the Bahamas. We bathed our souls in the warm waters of the Caribbean. The distant horizon of the sea evaporated into the infinite clear blue s
ky. The local rum was sweet and relaxing, greeting us each morning in some cocktail that stole away my worries in ways that seem only socially acceptable on holiday. I fished, jet skied, snorkeled, and skinny-dipped my anxieties into oblivion. I began to dream of what life with Karen might look like, if we could make it. I fell asleep in her arms every night, released to dream of our future. She loved me, she said so, and it was a healing elixir to my weary soul. It was all so romantic and the possibilities limitless; I didn’t want it to end.

  Flying back to Nashville was excruciating. Going back to Kingston Springs was akin to shacking up in a haunted house. I locked myself away from the voices that I knew would curse the love I had for Karen. In the privacy of what was becoming our home, I was alive and caring, but outside it, I felt edgy and two-faced. I wasn’t lying about my life, but I didn’t let the cat out of the bag either. As our relationship deepened, it was obvious that Karen was becoming a major part of my life. Attempting to be stealthy, I began to use the genderless we.

  On the phone with my mother, I would talk about what we had been doing. We took a trip to the Bahamas. We were living together. We were thinking about taking a long trip across the country.

  Finally, Mom had had enough, “Who is this we you keep talking about? Is the we a she?”

  I went quiet. The familiar shock wave worked its way through my whole body.

  “Jennifer, are you and Karen in love with each other?”

  Oh, man . . .

  “Jennifer, are you gay?”

  For the first time in my life I found the courage to share aloud to another human being the joy bursting from my heart: “Yes, Mom. We are a thing.”

  I waited for any uneasiness to subside, but Mom jumped right in there, as if the universe had failed to shift in any remarkable way for her, as it had for me. Shaking, I shared with her a glimmer of the fear, as I awaited her response, but she reassured me there was nothing of the kind. Without pomp or circumstance, she simply said, “I’m just happy that you are happy. That is all I’ve ever wanted for you kids, to be happy.”