Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of Lizzie Lowe, a fourteen-year-old British girl who tragically took her own life in 2014 because she feared telling her Christian community that she was gay.
Research statistics show that lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBTQ+) young people are far more likely to self-harm, suffer from mental health issues, and contemplate suicide than their heterosexual peers.
For Lizzie and the countless other LGBTQ+ young people who have ended their lives out of fear and shame: We will remember you. Your stories matter. We carry you in our hearts.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Preface
Chapter One
Part I: Beginnings
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part II: Oxford
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Part III: America
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Part IV: Returning Home
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part V: Into the Unknown
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Author’s Note: Resources and Disclaimers
Acknowledgments
Appendix: A Benediction for Inclusive Worship
Notes
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Preface
This is a book about me, and also not a book about me.
It’s a memoir about the battle I’ve fought to make peace with who I am and to unlearn a lifetime of shame and fear. In my case, this centered on the vast tension between being gay and being Christian.
When I asked on social media, “What would you like me to include in my memoir?,” hundreds of you responded. A common theme was: “I identify as part of the LGBTQ+ community too. I wish there were more books I could relate to about growing up dealing with identity struggles. Reading those would make me feel less alone.” Others of you said, “I’m straight, but I want to understand what it’s like to be gay, so I can be a better ally. Your story could provide one example of that.”
Some messages I received said, “I believe the Bible teaches that same-sex relationships are sinful. Can you explain how you understand the Bible on this topic?” Others said, “I’m nonreligious and work in the corporate world, where I’m championing diversity. Your memoir could shine a light on the harm it does when you can’t be your authentic self at work. It could encourage businesses to take better care of their staff’s well-being.”
I decided that all of these suggestions were important, so I chose to use them as my guide. Also, I decided that unless I was going to get vulnerable enough in the writing process to wonder whether I should really be putting certain things in print, the book was unlikely to help anyone. So prepare for me to share (and perhaps overshare) about the highs and lows of my teens, twenties, and thirties; about how I finally found the courage to come out, leaping into the unknown; and about what life has been like since.
Some of you, I hope, will feel a resonance—a sense of “me too.” Others of you reading this who believe that LGBTQ+ equality goes against the teachings of Bible, thank you for giving this book a chance. I hope you’ll keep the door of your heart open as you travel through its pages.
Right now, the issue of same-sex marriage threatens to split the global church. In news headlines, in political campaigns, and on social media, people with polar views are debating this heated topic. It’s reaching boiling point. Juggernauts like the Anglican Church, with its 85 million members worldwide, teeter on the edge of a split. This book is only a drop in the ocean of that vast situation, but it’s my attempt to show that LGBTQ+ people of faith, and same-sex marriage, should be fully affirmed.
So, yes, this is a book about me and my story.
But it’s also a book that’s not about me. At least, not only about me.
It’s about something far bigger and wider—about themes that are woven into all of our human DNA: our need to find a place to belong, our fear of becoming vulnerable, our longing to be authentic, the shame we feel about aspects of who we are, and the way others’ criticisms can paralyze our ability to live and love.
So, this might be a story about you too. About the ways you feel awkward about, embarrassed by, or ashamed of parts of your identity, or the way fear holds you back and stops you from attempting to dream big. Diversity can be tricky: the very things that make us stunningly unique can also be the things we hide in the closet because they cause us to feel different from the crowd.
The shapes these differences take are as diverse as we are. Perhaps it’s that you can’t talk about your struggles with mental health; you’re dealing with anxiety or depression and don’t want colleagues at work to know. That part of your identity is firmly locked in the closet, even though deep down you wish you could be open about it.
Or maybe you’ve always known you are trans, but haven’t dared tell anyone, fearful that no one in your life will understand. Or maybe your battle is similar to the one I faced; you’re gay and terrified to come out.
Or perhaps it’s about neurodiversity. You’re on the autistic spectrum and don’t want to mention it for fear that people will treat or think of you differently. Maybe it’s about gender roles; you might be a teenage boy who dreams of becoming a ballet dancer (like the fabulous Billy Elliot), but you’re afraid your friends (and enemies) would endlessly tease you and make life unbearable if you chased that dream.
Of course, it’s totally fine to keep these things private if it feels safer; only you know what’s right for you. Not everyone needs to “come out,” and you can be perfectly happy, healthy, and whole without taking that step. What is crucial, though, is this: we need to love and accept who we are. It’s about making peace with ourselves.
It’s about finally feeling comfortable in our own skin, not allowing others to make us ashamed or embarrassed of things that are part of our beauty, our diversity and uniqueness. When we take those pieces, shattered by shame, and dare to be ourselves, we find healing. We’re not forced to choose between aspects of our identity. We become whole and “undivided.”
Isn’t this just a bunch of selfish navel-gazing?” critics may ask.
No, it’s quite the opposite. We can only love others well when we live from a place of wholeness.
The Christian faith teaches: “Love your neighbor as you love yourself”—the implication being that we must learn to love ourselves first, in order to love others from a place of health and well-being. Otherwise, it’s like pouring a glass of water from a broken jug; our fragmentation affects everyone.
Entrepreneur and inventor Steve Jobs, in his 2005 address at Stanford University, said, “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life . . . Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice . . . Have courage.”
He’s right. When fear and shame push us to copy t
he crowd, we risk living someone else’s life. Everyone loses when that happens; we won’t be the best family member, coworker, or friend we can be unless we’re authentic and whole.
So becoming “undivided” is not just about us: When we make peace with ourselves and are no longer fearful or defensive, it changes how we engage with the world. If enough of us do this, the ripple effect will go far and wide, from neighborhoods to nations.
Often, we humans run away from what we can’t relate to, from people who seem different to us. It might be someone from a different political party, a refugee from a far-flung nation, someone from a different socioeconomic background, or someone who is LGBTQ+. We build walls, bunker ourselves away, and allow stereotypes to govern the way we view the people we don’t understand. This is rife in global politics and in the church right now and requires urgent change.
Fear of the “other”—fear of the person who is different from you—is something I’ve felt personally and painfully. One moment I was seen as an insider in my evangelical Christian world; the next, I was treated as an outsider. People I’d known my entire life suddenly saw me as different, because my orientation did not match theirs. I felt their suspicion and coldness as they stepped away. They didn’t see me anymore—they just saw someone who was different from them, and they relied on broken stereotypes and judgments. Experiencing this firsthand has fueled my desire to see society change.
So, as well as becoming “undivided” on an individual level, I hope we can break down the walls that divide us societally. If we exchange our fear of others’ differences for a love that transcends stereotypes, it could have vast impact.
I’ll bring this preface to a close and let you dive into the book itself. As you read on, whoever you are and whatever the reason this book came to be in your hands, my hope for you is this: May you find the courage to be yourself in all your uniqueness. Then, free from fear and shame, may you live and love from that place of healing and wholeness.
Never underestimate the change you can bring to the world around you. Authenticity and vulnerability have a powerful domino effect. If enough of us try to live in an authentic and vulnerable way, who knows what might happen. The world could become a very different place.
1
Blinking in the bright lights, I stared out at twenty thousand people. The stadium was filled to capacity, and they sang along to one of my songs, “Yesterday, Today and Forever,” at the top of their lungs. I was in my late twenties and living in the US, and although I’d been recording and touring for a decade, I still treasured every time I was able to play and sing.
The volume of so many voices always takes my breath away. It sounds like a waterfall—thunderous. Crowds that big have an energy all their own, and emotion hangs in the air like a tangible mist.
I motioned to my band to bring the music down to a softer volume and, taking the microphone, I asked for the arena lights to be dimmed. I then invited the crowd to get out their phones and hold them up. Doing this creates a beautiful moment at any concert; each phone shines a tiny speck of light, and they join together to illuminate the darkness, like thousands of glowing candles, or stars in the night sky.
I’m sure all songwriters feel deeply moved when they hear people using their lyrics and melodies to express themselves—I certainly always have. It meant even more to know that people were using my songs to connect with God, as the events I played at were faith based.
I stood back, watching the sea of faces and listening to the beautiful thunder of twenty thousand voices. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I captured the moment in my mind: every voice, each harmony, every sparkling light. They sang and sang, and I listened, soaking it all in. I could’ve watched them forever. It was like visiting a loved one for the last time, knowing you’ll never see that person again; you struggle to take note of all the details in an effort to ward off the inevitable dimming of the precious memory with time.
I knew that someday very soon I would lose all of this. Something in me was breaking, and I couldn’t keep going much longer. There were things I needed to say—and doing so would bring it all crumbling down.
But in that brief moment, my heart was at peace. The crowd and I were one as we sang in the darkness.
If I close my eyes, even now, I can still hear them singing.
One week after that stadium event, I sat on an overnight flight to England, headed to a Christian conference where several thousand people gathered every year. Despite trying, I hadn’t slept a wink as my mind raced with emotion. My body ached from months of touring and constant jet lag, but far more painful was my inner world: I was heartbroken because the girl I’d secretly fallen in love with had just got married.
I say secretly fallen in love with, because she never knew about my feelings—no one knew. Nobody in my life had the faintest idea that I was gay, as I’d never dared talk about it, despite the fact I was now in my late twenties. So, unknown to anyone but me, these feelings had grown the more I’d got to know this smart, vivacious, and creative American girl.
We’d become close friends over the years, so I was the first person she called when she met the guy she’d ultimately marry. I got to hear every detail of their relationship whether I wanted to or not—their first date, their first kiss, and a year later the evening he got on one knee and proposed. Wanting to be a good friend to her, I’d been there to watch the couple walk down the aisle in a New York church. As they drove off at the end, headed for their honeymoon, my heart was shattered at the loss.
I was grateful that a UK trip had come up; I knew it would be a helpful distraction from the pain. The sleepless flight wasn’t helping, though, as memories of the wedding played on my mind all night. Jammed into my coach-class seat, staring out the window into the darkness, I felt my heart free-falling into nothing, as lonely and endless as the cold midnight sky.
A lifetime of secret sadness was washing over me. This certainly wasn’t my first heartbreak. I felt stuck in a recurring cycle of unexpressed feelings, repeatedly watching the women I’d fallen for walk away with someone else. It wasn’t that they’d rejected me—they’d never even known how I felt because I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t tell anyone.
Since childhood, the church had taught me that homosexuality was an “abominable sin.” As a result, I couldn’t accept my own gay orientation. As an adult, my only survival solution was to shelve my feelings, keep them entirely private, and assume I’d never be able to date or marry. This way I could still belong to my faith community, keep my livelihood—the church-music career I loved—and not risk losing everything and everyone.
I was only twelve or thirteen when I first realized I was different, and knowing how “sinful” these feelings were caused waves of shame to crash over me. At that age, I’d felt shame before—when I’d lied to my parents about something small or failed to do school homework. But the feelings around my sexuality were different. This wasn’t shame about anything I’d done; it was shame about who I was.
I’d first fallen in love around my fourteenth birthday, and, in the way of teenagers, I fell hard. Everything she said was magical. Everything she did captivated me. Our class had been together for a couple of years already, but as with most kids, puberty brings a totally new perspective on people you’ve been next to every day and never noticed.
Suddenly, I realized how incredibly blue her eyes were, how gracefully her body moved, and I could pick out the sound of her voice from another room. I wanted to be around her, to matter to her, to hear her thoughts on everything and anything. It was unlike anything I’d ever felt before and definitely a world away from the platonic emotions I had for boys.
One fateful day she confided in me that she’d met an amazing guy and that they were dating. The moment I heard this, it felt like all the lights in my world went out. I went home that night and sobbed into my carpet, utterly heartbroken and weighed down by the shame of my “sinful attractions.” After hours of crying, my thoughts kept tu
rning to suicide. I told God I’d rather end my own life now if I had to continue to live with the tension of being gay and Christian; it was just too much to bear. If this was just the first of many such broken hearts, I could tell it would eventually leave me in pieces too shattered to mend.
There was a lot of pressure on me during those formative years from another source too—my profile as a young Christian leader. In my late teens I was already singing in front of hundreds of people at worship gatherings. As that grew to national and international exposure, the pressure increased. I was a role model—parents encouraged their kids to buy my CDs, and pastors told their youth groups to follow my example. I was terrified at the thought of disappointing them all. What if they knew who I really was? Being put on a pedestal felt as much like a prison as it did a privilege.
Year had followed year, and heartbreak had followed heartbreak as reliably as the changing of seasons. I sensed the future held more of the same, and if that was the life ahead of me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to live.
My peers were now marrying and starting families as we all progressed through our twenties. They were moving forward with their lives, celebrated at every step by their families and their faith communities—bringing a partner to church for the first time, getting engaged, getting married, announcing a pregnancy, baptizing a child. Every heterosexual social milestone was met with smiles and church ceremonies.
I felt frozen in time. No one would have celebrated my feelings, had I expressed them. No one would have celebrated my milestones if I’d gone on dates, brought a female partner to church, gotten engaged or married. For straight people, finding a spouse and starting a family were viewed as blessings from God. For anyone gay, these exact same steps were seen as sinful and something to be ashamed of.
Because of this, I’d never acted on my feelings for girls—not so much as even the briefest kiss, despite the fact I was nearing thirty. All of it was locked away inside as I tried to impeccably do the right thing by my Christian values. As I saw it, I’d chosen God instead of these attractions, pursuing holiness instead of sin. I’d boxed my feelings up and put them on a high shelf in my psyche, leaving them there—I believed—permanently. But I had no idea how deeply it would damage me.
Undivided Page 1
