Delighted, I unwrapped and pored over those books, filling them with underlining and notes. I loved God deeply, but faith was starting to get out of balance in my life and becoming a form of escapism. I thought about, read about, and spoke about little else. Prayer and worship provided me with a different reality to live in—a spiritual one. This otherworldly, ethereal realm was easier to focus on than the physical world I was finding so tough to navigate.
Like many evangelical Christians, I got up early each morning and did devotions for an hour, following a daily Bible reading plan. Gradually those morning devotions became more self-critical; I adopted a practice used by John and Charles Wesley, the founders of Methodism, who used to get together for meetings that they called the Holy Club. During those gatherings the Wesleys painstakingly assessed themselves using twenty-two accountability questions that explored how well they’d lived up to God’s standards each day. They listed the good character traits they wanted to see in themselves and examined where they’d failed to live up to them.
Inspired by the Wesleys, in a big blue journal I wrote out accountability questions each night. My perfectionism caught every flaw. I felt I had so much to make up for in life, because I believed I was inherently broken due to my gay feelings.
Alongside all of this, I was getting a steady stream of invitations to play and sing at churches and youth events, and the numbers attending were larger and larger. Other churches had started using my songs in their services too. “Hundreds of young people your age are looking up to you now—make sure you give them a great example to follow,” I was told by well-meaning people. It was exciting to see my music reaching bigger audiences, but responsibility weighed heavy on my shoulders, as did fear and shame.
I wanted to be a Christian musician and a worship leader. I wanted to set a great example and make those around me proud. I wanted to serve God and use the musical gifts he’d entrusted me with. It was terrifying to think of letting everyone down. If my church music career was to grow, I’d need to keep a perfect moral track record. The pressure was on.
On top of this, major change was ahead. High school was nearing its end, and in a year or so I’d be heading to university. Church leaders had warned me that many eighteen-year-olds had gone to university and lost their faith, which alarmed me. I had no idea what sort of ideas or people I would encounter in this future chapter of my life. I’d be away from my family, my church, my youth group; it would be a whole new start—which excited and scared me in equal measure.
Part II
Oxford
7
September sunshine bathed the sandy-brown Oxford buildings in a magical light. The stones seemed to glow, illuminated with golden warmth. Oxford is one of the oldest universities in the world, with its foundations dating back to 1096. That rich history seemed etched on every cobblestoned pathway, leaded window, and lofty spire.
My parents and I had packed our car to the hilt and made the three-hour drive from Canterbury to deliver me to my new student dormitory. I never imagined I’d attend such a well-respected university. My perfectionist tendencies had helped me study intensely for my exams and, somehow managing to get good grades, I’d secured a place. Still passionate about my faith, I’d decided my degree would be in theology (religious studies).
I was grateful that all UK universities charged the same fees, regardless of how prestigiously they ranked. I knew that in some countries, like the US, education at an Ivy League–like institution cost vastly more than at others. My family was not wealthy, so there was no way I could’ve afforded that. Thankfully, UK universities charged one standardized fee at that time, and which university you attended depended solely on your grades.
The initial semester was intense as we knuckled down to produce four-thousand-word essays every week. But there were lighter aspects of life too. I loved the traditions, quirks, and pageantry of the university. One of these was called matriculation, the official induction ceremony.
We had to buy specific clothing known as “subfusc,” from the Latin subfuscus, meaning “of dark, brown, or sober hue and color.” Shepherd & Woodward, a shop on High Street that had been selling academic gowns and robes to Oxford students for more than 150 years, was the go-to place.
As I look back now, it feels like when Harry Potter went shopping for school supplies in Diagon Alley. We needed a “gown made of black material with the style of a turned-over collar.” It could not have sleeves, but had to have “a streamer on each side with square pleating and hanging to the full length of the gown, which covers the normal lounge coat.” It was basically a black sleeveless cape with two long, trailing tails of material that streamed behind us when we walked.
Once all the Hogwarts-style clothing was taken care of, the rest was simpler. The matriculation ceremony was held in the Sheldonian Theatre, a circular building dating back to 1664. The round stone walls and domed roof looked stunning enough from outside, but walking in, we were treated to an even more amazing view. Cricking my neck to stare upward, I gazed at the exquisite ceiling fresco that depicts a wide-open sky, giving the sense that there is no roof at all.
Once we’d been matriculated, life mostly took place in our colleges. Oxford University is made up of thirty-eight individual colleges that function as halls of residence where students spend most of their time. Undergraduates had to choose which college they wanted to live in when they applied to Oxford, and I’d found that choice a simple one. A creature of habit, when I’d heard there was an evangelical college called Wycliffe Hall, I’d applied there. It struck me as perfect: I could live with fellow evangelicals and also be an undergraduate at Oxford.
Wycliffe had no bar—very unusual for an Oxford college, as most undergraduates spent their evenings chatting over pints of beer. To me this felt safe and familiar, and made leaving home feel less scary, as I was entering a culture very similar to the one I already knew back home.
Wycliffe Hall’s primary role was to train priests for the Church of England, putting them through Oxford theology classes. Wycliffe had never accepted eighteen-year-old undergraduates until the year I applied. Three boys also sent applications, so there were four of us straight out of high school. The vast majority of Wycliffe students were thirty or forty and training for a life in the priesthood.
My student days would be vastly different from those of the average Oxford undergraduate. Rather than broadening my worldview, my years there would reinforce everything I already believed. Some students and tutors at Wycliffe Hall believed women shouldn’t be allowed to preach or enter the priesthood, and on the issue of homosexuality the college was staunchly traditional. But back in 1997, when I walked through the college doors for the first time, those evangelical values were comfortingly familiar to me, and I fitted in quickly.
Most people at Wycliffe were friendly and well-balanced, and it was clear the college was producing good priests who would serve in churches around the world. But even during my first year, as a rather naive eighteen-year-old, I was taken aback by the ways some people weren’t practicing what they preached when it came to sexual morality.
A priest from overseas sat next to me at dinner one evening during my first year. To my shock, he sexually assaulted me under the table.
Because we were sitting on long wooden benches in the dining hall, packed tightly next to one another, there was no chance for me to move away. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he’d asked me quietly, as his wandering hands found their way up my legs. My face turned deep red, and I felt a mixture of shame, anger, and panic.
When this happened, I had no idea who on earth to tell. I wasn’t brave enough to talk to the college staff, fearful that I wouldn’t be believed. Days later, the same man pinned a female student against a wall, pressing himself against her and trying to kiss her. Soon afterward he was sent home. I heard of several incidents like this, involving trainee male priests, happening to others during my three years of study, and it left me shell-shocked.
Within
the college, lots of unmarried seminary students were having sex, and a handful of married students were having affairs with other students. The shiny façade of evangelical morality seemed to be crumbling in front of my eyes. This was not what I’d expected to see at an evangelical college.
Going to university hadn’t made any difference to my sexual orientation; I knew that I was still gay, and I still believed it was sinful and wrong. It felt increasingly strange, though, trying so hard to perfectly uphold Christian moral standards when those around me didn’t seem to.
The more aware I became of seminarians having affairs and premarital sex, the angrier I felt toward the college and the wider evangelical world it represented. It was a part of the church that stood on moral high ground, condemning gay relationships as sinful, yet I was seeing with my own eyes that it was failing to live up to its own standards.
During my time at Wycliffe Hall, two male priests in training were asked to leave because they had (allegedly) been involved in sexual activity with other men. Both cases were handled under a shroud of secrecy, and the subject remained taboo within the college. How can evangelicals judge gay people so confidently when they aren’t practicing what they preach? I often wondered, through tears, as I tried to process it all.
I quickly found a church in Oxford that I loved, called The Vineyard. It was a denomination founded in California by a man named John Wimber, who was passionate about faith healing and God’s ability to do miracles today. It felt a lot like the Pentecostal church I was raised in. Vineyard congregations were springing up all across the UK, known for their contemporary-style worship music, informal atmosphere, and the fact that they served donuts and coffee after every service.
This particular Vineyard congregation believed that women should not be allowed to preach or be senior pastors. Its view on homosexuality was equally traditional. Its outer aspects looked very contemporary—guitars and drums, casual clothes, and plates of donuts—but on the inside its belief system upheld the views I’d been raised with. While other Oxford students were playing sports, joining clubs, sitting at the bar, and generally getting a wider experience of life, my extracurricular activities only involved attending church or spending time with other Christian students at Wycliffe. Somehow, I’d managed to re-create my Christian bubble in a new city.
One thing proving very difficult was watching my fellow students pairing up. When I thought back to high school, those days seemed simple in comparison. Mine had been a girls’ school, so dating had only happened outside of the classroom. Now, at Oxford, it was happening all around me.
Every university event seemed to involve inviting a “plus one.” Coupledom reigned. There were dinners and dances and summer balls, and I wanted to go, but nobody went alone. I could attend with a male friend, but they would often end up getting the wrong idea and the friendship would be ruined. Heteronormativity (the assumption that heterosexuality is the only societal norm) was everywhere, and I was realizing it more and more.
I did go on a few dates in Oxford. When a charming trainee priest named Will invited me out for dinner, I was curious to see how we’d get along. He was popular—tall, blond, sporty, and passionate about his faith. Will and I went out for dinner and had a great time. It was clear that he was one of the nicest guys on the planet. But even with someone this intelligent and attractive, the feelings I thought I might experience just weren’t there.
Other male students asked me on dates: picnics in the park, boat rides on the river, and long evenings of fascinating conversation over coffee. I certainly couldn’t have been accused of not trying. Friends said, “Don’t worry. You just haven’t met Mr. Right yet.” But deep down I knew it wasn’t about that—I knew I was gay. Men were great company—in fact I often preferred male friends, because they shared my tomboy interests. I never felt anything beyond platonic affection for them, though.
Unknown to me, another world was only streets away. St. Hilda’s was, at that time, the university’s all-female college, and it attracted a large number of gay women. One of them, who would study in the year below me, was Ruth Hunt. Ruth would go on to be CEO of the UK’s largest LGBT organization, Stonewall. We never met during our student days; I only got to know her when I was thirty-four. Looking back, I’ve often wondered what might have happened if I’d met her back then and been introduced to her circle of friends and the university’s LGBT Society. She would, I’m sure, have shown me a different way of viewing things. Who knows what my life’s path would’ve been then? It’s funny how near, and yet how far, we can be from monumental change.
I would manage to go my entire three-year degree course without talking to or getting to know anyone who was openly LGBTQ+. This wasn’t hard as, in my first year, I was creating a pattern that I would maintain, and it kept me locked away among my evangelical community. I was either at Wycliffe Hall with the seminarians and priests, or at The Vineyard church, or in lecture halls where students barely spoke. If I had been introduced to any lesbians or bisexuals, I’d probably have run a mile in the other direction, concerned they would lead me into temptation. In my mind, it was a battle to fight, a slippery slope, a risk of being led astray—so the further I stayed away from it all, the better.
I knew nothing of LGBTQ+ history and the steady pace of change happening in the UK and beyond. I had no clue that there were thousands of other people out there like me, and that they were gathering together and challenging the status quo. Only years later would I read the rich history of the global LGBTQ+ rights movement and learn how many people had been fighting for my rights before I even arrived on the planet.
I would learn that, on a hot summer night in 1969, ten years before I was born, police raided the gay bars in New York on a mission to shut down those “rogue” establishments. An LGBTQ+ fightback took place at the Stonewall Inn that would give birth to the modern-day LGBTQ+ rights movement. One year later, in commemoration, five thousand people marched down Sixth Avenue, beginning the tradition of Pride marches that continue around the globe today.
Before 1962, homosexuality was classed as a felony in the US in every state. A few states had shifted on this by 1979 (the year I was born), but by no means had they all. In 1980, it was decriminalized in New York and Pennsylvania. By 1992, it had become legal in another handful of states. In 1996, homosexuality was decriminalized in Tennessee—a place I would later live and work in my twenties.
In the UK, some progress had been made with the 1967 Sexual Offences Act, but as one influential campaigner noted:
The criminalisation of homosexuality in the UK did not in fact end until 2013. . . . Not only was homosexuality only partly decriminalised by the 1967 act, but the remaining anti-gay laws were policed more aggressively than before by a state that opposed gay acceptance and equality. In total, from 1885 [to] 2013, nearly 100,000 men were arrested for same-sex acts.
The 1967 legislation repealed the maximum penalty of life imprisonment [for gay sex]. But it still discriminated.1
The 1967 act applied only to England and Wales, not to Scotland or Northern Ireland, and they adopted it only in the 1980s, so it was slow progress.
In 1988, when I was nine years old, Parliament passed the notorious antigay law known as Section 28. This stated that local authorities must “not intentionally promote homosexuality” or “provide teaching” on “the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.” At that time, Section 28 received strong political support from Christians in the UK who saw it as defending God’s standards for sex and marriage.
The act applied to all local authorities, including councils and the schools they were responsible for. Many teachers saw Section 28 as a ban on talking about gay relationships in their classrooms. As a result, at high schools like mine, same-sex relationships were never mentioned in any classes on biology or social education. It felt like an outlawed and taboo subject.
Because of this, if students thought they might be gay or bisexual, it was unlikely they’d fee
l safe confiding in staff or talking about it at school. From the teaching many of us received, it seemed like there was only one model of acceptable romantic relationship: heterosexuality.
Section 28 wasn’t repealed until November 2003, when I was twenty-three years old. So my formative teenage years were spent in a country where homosexuality was not just a taboo subject but one that parts of society were prohibited from discussing. During the process of repealing Section 28, Christians were a strong force behind the campaign to retain it as law.
Thankfully, in London, activists like Ian McKellen, Peter Tatchell, Michael Cashman, Lisa Power, Sue Sanders, Pam St. Clement, Isaac Julien, and Christine Burns were working tirelessly to get laws like these changed. Their tenacious work and that of many others led to the eventual repeal of Section 28 and a brighter future for everyone.
It would take until 2001, when I was twenty-one, for same-sex marriage to be legalized anywhere; the first country to do so was the Netherlands. In 2014, same-sex marriage legislation came into force in England and Wales, and the US legalized it nationwide in June 2015 as a result of the Obergefell v. Hodges case in the Supreme Court.
Those radical shifts all lay ahead. But for me, living in my evangelical hall of residence in Oxford, LGBTQ+ history wasn’t something I’d even heard of. My mind was shaped solely by church teachings, and thanks to Section 28, my high-school years hadn’t taught me anything different. The internet was in its infancy—I got my first email address when I arrived at university and we all thought it was groundbreaking stuff—but none of us spent time online, and social media didn’t yet exist.
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