Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  “Are you okay?” the pastor asked, as I stood there silent and visibly shaken.

  “Not really,” I said as I walked away. I’d gone there expecting a great time of worship and fellowship, but it had turned into a situation that felt painful and discriminatory; it was one I’d never forget.

  The feeling of not belonging was one that frequently swept over me in those traditionalist churches. It often felt like a double dose; I was treated like a second-class citizen because of my gender, and underneath that I felt unseen pain about being gay. In those circles, to be qualified as a pastor you needed to be male, and to do anything in church leadership, you needed to be straight.

  A few churches hired me to do regular Sundays. One of them, in the heart of Texas, wanted me to lead once a month and be considered one of its leadership team, a part-time staff member. The idea of belonging somewhere sounded good, so I said yes, but I discovered only too late that this church was even more traditional than I’d expected.

  The man who’d had this part-time role before me was known as the Worship Pastor, but when I took the position, the title had to be changed to Worship Director (because, of course, women couldn’t be pastors). I also discovered that in that denomination, male staff were paid, on average, double what women were for the exact same role. It was part of their theological ethos: men were the breadwinners of any family, they said, so a woman’s salary would be smaller because she was the helper in the marriage, not the leader or the primary earner. I was shocked to find this out. I asked other women on staff about it and discovered a number of them had tried to challenge the practice but had failed.

  If change were ever to come to these denominations, it would take years and years. I knew one thing: I didn’t have the strength to stay in those environments much longer. After three decades of being in churches that saw women as second-class citizens and thought LGBTQ+ people were grievously sinful, this discrimination had worn me down, and I was reaching breaking point.

  It had already damaged my mind and my emotions a great deal; I was anxious, lonely, full of shame, and constantly on edge. What I hadn’t imagined was that it might also affect my body and my physical health. Sadly, I’d discover in the months ahead that it would.

  18

  Trying to stay positive, even when things are tough, has always been important to me. Amid all the struggles, I constantly tried to look for the best and to remind myself how grateful I was for the good stuff. Lighter moments did present themselves, especially when I was out on tour, and these were like oases. Anything that made me laugh was worth its weight in gold, as it helped me keep my sanity intact. Touring was certainly a very unusual work life, and as a result it brought with it its fair share of amusing incidents—things you couldn’t invent, even if you tried.

  One summer, my band and I were invited to play at a country fair. I’d never been booked for an event like that before, so I accepted out of curiosity. We arrived and were rehearsing when a voice came over the loudspeaker telling us to quickly finish our sound check. “The opening act has arrived—they need the stage,” the voice said urgently. “Can you guys wrap up now?”

  We obediently stopped, unplugged our guitars, and headed backstage. Whoever the opening act was, they had to be a big deal, as it was unusual to get hurried out of a sound check like that. Perhaps they had lots of complicated instruments to tune or some other special requirement.

  A moment later, the strangest sounds echoed around us. I could have sworn it resembled barking—but I thought, surely, that was impossible. Walking toward the noise, I saw a large van parked right next to the stage. The vehicle had bright red lettering across its side, saying: THE ROCKET DOGS: THE PREMIUM CANINE CIRCUS ACT. The back door swung open, and a troupe of dogs, large and small, all poured out. Ushered up onto the stage, they began running in synchronized patterns and doing tricks, catching Frisbees out of the air.

  The organizer of the country fair strolled over and slapped me on the back. “So here’s our opening act—aren’t they great! Have you ever seen such entertaining animals?!”

  I walked backstage to my band and explained to them that, yes, before we led people in a worship service with our forty-minute music set, the opening act was a pack of circus dogs. An hour later, the event began. It was, most definitely, the strangest transition between artists I’d ever faced in my music career. The pack of barking animals did their tricks for twenty minutes, then exited the stage. I walked on, opened with a prayer, and played a hymn. You just couldn’t invent a weirder mix.

  I thought that was going to be the most awkward part of my performance at that country fair, but I was wrong. During one of my slower worship songs everyone sat down, so I’d closed my eyes and sung the whole thing with my eyes shut. When I finally opened them, I realized that there was a person standing at the front—and that he had, in fact, been standing there throughout the entire song. It was a six-foot-tall man in a chicken costume.

  Perhaps he’d worn this outfit because it was a country fair. Who knows? But he had decided to dance and gyrate during my slow song, waggling his tail feathers suggestively in my direction. All the while my eyes had been closed, and I had been imagining the crowd engaged in a moment of prayerful worship. The whole audience had, however, been watching the giant gyrating chicken and wondering when I’d realize he was there. That experience with Mr. Chicken Suit combined with the opening act of the Rocket Dogs made it a truly unforgettable gig and a story that my bandmates told over and over again.

  Another amusing, and embarrassing, standout moment from American touring was the night I played at Disney World Florida. Once a year, the entire park was taken over by a huge Christian music event. I’d been invited to play in one of their best venues, which had a hydraulic stage that rose up from about eighteen feet below ground. This was supposed to create a dynamic effect at the start of the concert—smoke would be pumped out, the stage would rise out of the floor through the fog, and my band and I would emerge, singing.

  We had a run-through that afternoon, and all went smoothly. I was impressed by the technology, and we were excited by the novelty of it all. Unfortunately, when seven o’clock came around and the room was packed with people ready to hear us, it did not quite go as planned.

  My band and I took the stairs down to the floor below, where the hydraulic stage was accessed before its epic rise. Taking our places, we heard the announcer upstairs say, “Welcome to Disney! Put your hands together for Vicky Beeching.” That was our cue to start playing, so the drummer clicked us in and we began the song. The stage started to rise, and we rocked out to our loudest song. When we were about halfway up, suddenly there was a peculiar grinding sound. Without warning the hydraulics locked, and the stage stopped moving.

  We were stuck with just our shoulders and heads protruding above the floor. We looked like half-visible meerkats peering out of a hole. We tried to carry on with the song, but looking around in panic, we stopped playing. Awkwardness reigned. We couldn’t climb out or go back down. We just remained there in the silence, waiting for someone to rescue us.

  Eventually, after the longest three minutes of my life, they managed to get the hydraulics fixed and pull the stage back down. My band and I hid in the greenroom for hours afterward, exploding in bursts of embarrassed laughter. We were horrified that thousands of people had seen our debacle. It was a choice of laughter or tears, so we opted to laugh. All those years of touring certainly gave me good stories to tell.

  A year after my chat with Wendy and Simon over our hot chocolates, I was back at the Spring Harvest conference, singing and enjoying the event as much as ever. Scanning through the conference schedule, I was surprised to see two new names on the list of speakers: Andrew and Brenda Marin, an American couple who led an organization called the Marin Foundation in Chicago. The brochure said that the Marins worked to build bridges between the church and the LGBTQ+ community in Boystown, a well-known gay neighborhood in Chicago.

  Though it was an evange
lical conference and traditional in values, Spring Harvest had decided to take a bold step and invite them. This was, most likely, possible because Andrew did not publicly state whether he believed the Bible supported same-sex relationships or not. Instead, he saw his role as that of a neutral mediator, a human bridge between the gay community and the church, encouraging dialogue and urging both sides to listen. He was trying to break the taboo that prevented the church from talking about this huge issue.

  Andrew was straight and described himself as formerly being “the biggest Bible-thumping homophobe” he knew. After his three best friends all came out to him as gay in the space of a few weeks, he became increasingly aware of the chasm between the church and the LGBTQ+ community. Andrew considered himself an unlikely candidate to help bring change, but he knew something needed to be done. As he was walking with his best friends through their journeys, he now had a foot in both worlds—LGBTQ+ and Christian—and wanted to help bridge the gap. So he and Brenda had moved to Boystown and started their organization.

  Back then, it was extremely rare for evangelical churches on either side of the pond to openly discuss LGBTQ+ issues. Churches preached against homosexuality. But fostering discussion about how to improve relationships with LGBTQ+ people? Or considering whether they’d gotten their theology wrong? That had never happened. At least, not at any event I’d been a part of. I was very aware that Andrew and Brenda were breaking new ground.

  Instantly, I hit it off with Andrew and Brenda, but I also felt nervous. What if, because they had spent so much time with gay people, they could tell this was my “issue” too? What if they had superpowered gaydar—radar for sensing who was gay—and figured me out? To my relief, they never did, and as the week went by, our new friendship grew.

  Part of me wanted to attend Andrew and Brenda’s seminar at Spring Harvest, but part of me was afraid that it would raise questions if I were seen there, as I was the mainstage singer and everyone would recognize me. Creeping in partway through, I stood at the back and listened, as though I were just drifting past the venue on my way to a band rehearsal.

  Andrew had given the microphone to several people in the crowd who told stories about their own journeys, either as gay Christians or parents of gay children. I was amazed this was allowed. It was heartbreaking to hear how isolated they felt without Christian LGBTQ+ role models or safe places to discuss the issue with faith leaders.

  I bought Andrew’s book Love Is an Orientation and devoured it. I also gave copies to a few relatives and friends, to test the waters. Had any of those close to me softened in their views on LGBTQ+ issues? Several refused to read it, and the handful who did said they were worried about Andrew—that he wasn’t clear enough that homosexuality was a sin, as he didn’t openly condemn same-sex relationships. My experiment to see if people’s minds were changing had proved they were not.

  Although the Marins were hailed as brave voices raising important pastoral issues about how we should care for LGBTQ+ people, there was no sign of theological change in the air within UK evangelicalism. There were complaints that such open-minded discussions weren’t suitable for Christian conferences, where the Bible was “taken seriously.”

  Politically, the UK was gradually moving toward the recognition of same-sex marriage in British law, and the traditional wing of the church was extremely unhappy with this. A campaign group, the Coalition for Marriage, had shared its message from the Spring Harvest stage, asking attendees to sign their nationwide petitions to block same-sex couples from tying the knot. I could tell the entire topic was gathering momentum in both the public and religious spheres. It was getting harder to ignore or outrun it, and my internal levels of stress and anxiety were getting higher.

  Back in the States, a similar political battle was unfolding. California’s Proposition 8 had taken everything to a frenzied level. “Prop 8” was an attempt by those opposing same-sex marriage to overturn the 2008 California Supreme Court ruling that had made it legal. Its supporters argued that only marriage between a man and a woman should be valid or recognized in California, hoping to nullify the victory that gay and bisexual people had won in May 2008.

  In churches across America, many pastors used their pulpits to speak about that political issue and tell their congregations what they should do. Most of those sermons described “God’s intentional design for marriage,” which could only ever be between one man and one woman. Californian churches booked me regularly, and I found myself hearing those sermons again and again.

  One Sunday, I was singing at a traditional church south of Los Angeles. I led a few opening songs, and then the pastor stepped up and began to preach. He spoke about Prop 8 and said that “the devil planned to destroy humanity through homosexuality.” Blushing at the mention of same-sex relationships, I squirmed in my seat, but there was no escape—I was the visiting singer, so I had pride of place, sitting right in the front row.

  The pastor said that, by allowing gay marriage, California was “on a collision course with hell.” As supporting evidence he casually mentioned: “The UK is already far further into this slide; after all it’s basically a Muslim country now, and rampantly gay.” I felt the eyes of the congregation turn to look at me, expecting me to nod in affirmation that his words were true. Instead, I stared awkwardly at the floor, thinking, “What a ridiculous statement.”

  He ramped up his rhetoric by saying that homosexuality was shameful—the worst of all sins; it was unnatural and sinister; no Christian following Jesus would ever have those desires or want to live that “lifestyle.” My face was, by now, burning with shame. Tears began forming in my eyes.

  I knew I couldn’t go on like this. I was, most definitely, gay. I’d still never acted on it despite the fact that I was almost thirty. I’d prayed for twenty years to be different, to be free from this “shameful sin,” but nothing had shifted.

  The isolation I knew so well swept over me. If the people in this church building knew I was gay right now, they’d march me out of here and tell me never to come back, I thought.

  My tearful moment of reflection was interrupted when I heard my name being called out, echoing from the loudspeaker. The pastor had finished the sermon with a flourish, shouting, “Brothers and sisters, hear it from me: the devil wants homosexuality to take over the world, but we will fight him in the powerful name of Jesus.” He paused for a breath, then said, “And now the lovely Vicky Beeching will come and play a few of her songs as we finish. Please give her a warm welcome to the stage.”

  Everyone was applauding and looking at me. Brushing away the tears, I put on my “professional face” and walked to the stage. The lights shone in my eyes, and I went through the motions of singing the two closing songs. The service ended, and I was met by a flood of people walking toward the stage. They lined up around the room, several hundred of them, wanting hugs, photos, and autographs.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the pastor hugging and greeting the church members as they waited to speak to me. I thought, How can churchgoers this warm and loving not realize how damaging and militant their views on LGBTQ+ people are? They weren’t even just preaching that Christians couldn’t marry same-sex partners; they wanted to bar the entire nation from this human right. I tried to smile for hundreds of autographs and photos, but inside I was in pieces.

  Evangelicalism was my home, and I wanted to belong. I wanted to let the kind, encouraging words people said about my music soak into my heart. But I felt an increasingly thick glass wall growing between myself and the faces I saw singing along to my songs. That Sunday at church was a prime example.

  Faith-based organizations opposing same-sex marriage were gaining momentum, and more would spring up in the near future. The National Organization for Marriage in America, founded in 2007, played a pivotal role in promoting Prop 8. The UK’s Coalition for Marriage, launched in 2012, would do its best to stop gay marriage from becoming legal in my homeland.

  Because of this growing political push, I found
myself singing in more and more settings where antigay messages were preached. Despite being right at the center—literally standing in the middle of the stage—I felt increasingly cut off from everyone in a culture that used to feel like family. “What if they found out my secret?” I wondered, terrified.

  Everything in me wanted to interrupt those awful sermons and shout that LGBTQ+ people aren’t just out there, but in here as well—within the church—and that I was one of them. Doing that would cost me everything: my entire livelihood, my record deal, my US work permit, which was tied to my work within the church, and perhaps all of my friends and family. It felt horrendous to hear these toxic sermons, not be able to say a word, and then have to stand and sing as though I endorsed it all.

  Inside, I felt as though I was psychologically being ripped in two. My stress levels were skyrocketing, and I’d noticed I was feeling not only emotionally exhausted from it, but increasingly physically exhausted too. My body was signaling to me that I had to stop living this way; something had to give.

  19

  Saddleback is one of the biggest megachurches in the US, with a weekly attendance of over twenty thousand people. When I heard I’d been invited to sing at their big annual worship conference, I was delighted.

  Blow-drying my hair in a hotel room, I was rushing around to get ready for the Saddleback event. I looked in the mirror and noticed something strange; a white mark had appeared on my forehead. The heat of the blow dryer had made the rest of my forehead bright pink, but one patch, about two inches wide and stretching from my hairline to my eyebrow, was white.

  Baffled and worried, I looked again. I had no idea what it was or what I should think. It wasn’t bleeding. It didn’t hurt. But there it was: a stark white ridge running down my forehead, as though I’d covered that area with sunblock and then got the rest of my face sunburned. I grabbed a brush and began styling my hair so that my bangs (or “fringe,” as we say in the UK) hid that part of my face.