“It’s okay,” Wendy said. “Let it all out. It’s no wonder there’s a lot of pain in there.”
Once my tears had subsided, we walked back along the pier talking. She asked whether this had been something I’d ever expressed in my music. I told her about writing “Above All Else” in the Wycliffe chapel. And I told her about another of my songs, “Undivided Heart,” which had been a prayer that God would change me from gay to straight. I googled the lyrics, and she looked at them to refresh her memory.
UNDIVIDED HEART
Brokenness has brought me to my knees.
Face to face with all that’s dark in me,
I can barely see you through my shame.
Jesus, come and wash me white again.
Flood me with your healing light,
Help me choose what’s true and right.
Give me an undivided heart,
I want to love you with every part.
Give me an undivided soul,
I want to be yours alone, yours alone.
At the cross I find your open arms,
Reminding me there’s grace for all I’ve done.
With your blood you wipe away my past,
Taking on yourself my sin and scars.
By your power help me change,
Break off every single chain.
Give me an undivided heart,
I want to love you with every part.
Give me an undivided soul,
I want to be yours alone, yours alone.
You make all things new,
So take my ashes and make them something beautiful.
Do what only you can do,
Take my ashes and make them something beautiful.
We both stood looking at the words on the screen of my smartphone. It was interesting to consider what they’d meant to me in the past, and what they could mean now. Back then, I’d thought being undivided meant rejecting my orientation, seeing it as sinful and shameful, so I could be wholly committed to God. But now, in the light of all my biblical study, it meant something different. Being undivided meant accepting both my faith and my sexuality. God had never required this sense of fragmentation in me. He simply wanted me to be the person he’d created.
Looking at that song reminded me that I would no longer get to sing it in American megachurches or UK evangelical conferences if I took the step of going public with my sexuality. Wendy knew, as I did, that my well-known platform in that part of the church would crumble. It felt like such a cruel choice, but one I had to make.
We chatted about how and when I was thinking of speaking out publicly. I told her I hadn’t figured out the timing yet, but that I’d probably find a safe journalist and trust that person to interview me and tell my story. I knew it couldn’t be within the evangelical Christian press, as anyone interviewing me from that sector would likely skew the article based on vehement disagreement with me.
As we walked along the seafront, watching seagulls soaring in the sunshine, I knew I’d taken a monumental step in finally telling a friend that I was gay. Wendy dropped me back at the train station, saying, “You’re not alone in this anymore—and there will be plenty of others like me who’ll stand with you as you take this brave step.”
On the journey back, I felt glad, but also a little shocked, as it sank in that I’d finally said the words to someone outside the walls of a therapist’s office. And if I could tell Wendy and have it go well, maybe I could find the courage to talk to others too.
I knew coming out was going to mean the loss of my Christian music career and my place in the evangelical faith community. It was a devastating prospect. I had to start thinking about how on earth I would make a living when that happened. Otherwise, I’d be left without a roof over my head.
I had built my church-music career for the past fifteen years into something I’d imagined I would do for the rest of my life. The questions felt overwhelming: Should I retrain for a different type of work altogether? What else could I do besides music? What did I even enjoy?
For now, I needed something I could develop, alongside the worship leading I was doing at UK events. My delay in returning full-time to Nashville could be justified by the fact that I’d started taking worship conference bookings again in the UK, and strengthening my platform in the UK benefited album sales. All of this would give me a little more room before everyone expected me to return to American megachurches full-time and start work on a new album.
So what other career could I start to train in that would survive my coming out? The recurring answer coming to mind was my love of academic study and of writing. I thought back with fondness to my years at Oxford, reading in the libraries for hours and writing papers. Reading at the Brompton Oratory and at St. Paul’s Cathedral had reawakened all of that. Maybe returning to academia could be an alternative career for me? I began pondering the possibility of starting a part-time PhD. I also loved journalism and had been writing for American magazines, and on my own blog, for years about theology and current affairs. Maybe I could transition into a mixture of academia and journalism, as I faced the loss of my full-time livelihood in music.
Grateful that my health was now back to normal and that the scleroderma, although it had left a significant scar on my forehead, was now benign, I whirred into action. I submitted applications for PhD programs, went for interviews, and as a new academic year approached, I got the letter I’d been hoping for. I’d been accepted into the PhD program at Durham University.
Durham is a beautiful, historic city in the northeast of England, and its university ranked close to Oxford and Cambridge in league tables—so I was delighted to get in. Juggling this study plus continuing to lead worship at UK Christian conferences was a lot to handle and required constant train rides up and down the country, but it felt like I finally had a piece of my life that didn’t hinge on my appearing to be straight.
My area of research was an interesting one—the way technology, social media, and artificial intelligence (AI) are changing our behavior as a society. I was exploring the ethical implications that these new developments in human history brought with them. I had an academic background in ethics, plus a geeky interest in technology—I lived my life surrounded by guitar pedals, recording gear, and the latest gadgets—so this topic felt like a natural fit for me.
I read voraciously, absorbing every piece of research I could find in Durham’s libraries. I began writing blogs on what I was learning and also pitched articles to national newspapers like The Guardian and the Huffington Post commenting on current affairs in both the tech sector and the religious sector.
To my surprise, these articles gained traction. As I progressed through the PhD, my cell phone started to ring with calls from TV and radio stations. They were looking for young academic researchers with journalistic talent to appear on programs and discuss stories. They’d heard about my experience of speaking and singing to large audiences and felt I’d be comfortable on air. “We don’t always want professors on our shows, because they can get so lost within the confines of academia that they can’t explain things in a simple sound bite. We need people who are doing academic research—PhD or post-doc is fine—who are skilled at making complex things understandable to the public and who have their own opinions.” Grateful for their interest, I said yes.
As the months passed, these calls increased. Appearing on one show seemed to lead to another and another. I found myself going to the BBC or Sky News studios and radio stations at least once a week; it had quickly become a big part of my life, alongside singing and studying. We debated fascinating topics like cyberbullying and online abuse, how kids could safely engage with the internet, and the place of robots and artificial intelligence in the generations to come. In view of my theology background at Oxford, they also asked me to comment on religious affairs like the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI and the announcement of his successor, Pope Francis. I was also invited to do “Thought for the Day” regularly on BBC Radio 4’s Today prog
ram, a show reaching around 7 million listeners a week.
One Saturday morning, I sat in the Sky News greenroom, waiting to meet the man I’d been paired up with for a news program. He walked in, impeccably dressed in a blue velvet suit jacket, and said his name was Patrick Strudwick. I discovered that he was openly gay and frequently published groundbreaking articles on LGBTQ+ issues in national papers.
Patrick greeted me warmly, and we drank coffee while exchanging small talk. He was genuinely interested in who I was, the work I did, and my background. But I didn’t tell him about my sexuality—that remained something very private to me. After Patrick and I did the broadcast, he gave me his card and said I should stay in touch. I realized, as I drove away in an awaiting taxi, that I’d found a journalist who was himself gay and was someone I could trust.
Soon I’d be ready to publicly come out as gay. Through academia and the broadcasting work, I’d started building a different career alongside my music—one that would hopefully be there as a safety net, when leading worship and my place within evangelicalism imploded. Patrick had made a huge impression on me. I had a strong hunch that when I came out, I would go to him with the story; he seemed the perfect person to write the piece. This filled me with a sense of hope, but also with dread. I knew how much vitriol going public would create, and that losing my music career and my community would be the price I’d have to pay.
23
Big Ben chimed as I walked past, its magnificent stone tower rising into a pale-blue sky. I was headed into Parliament, to a gathering of female journalists held in the House of Commons. I felt humbled to be included, and excited to visit such a historic venue.
After airport-style security, I was inside the House of Commons and taken to a small wood-paneled room with oil paintings on the walls and a direct view of the River Thames. It was great to feel energized and healthy, and to know I was growing my professional network beyond church circles. Inside, about forty women mingled around, swapping business cards. I found myself chatting with some of the most fascinating people I’d ever encountered.
“Now, who haven’t you met yet?” one of the organizers said, wanting to ensure everyone made good connections. “Have you been introduced to Jane Czyzselska? She’s the editor of a magazine for LGBTQ women. She’s openly gay herself and highly respected for her work championing diversity and equality.”
Those words unnerved me—I hadn’t expected anyone to bring up the topic of sexuality that day. I was still very much in the closet, and even the mention of “LGBTQ” was enough to make me anxious.
“Umm . . . no, I haven’t,” I replied, trying not to look awkward.
She waved Jane over and left the two of us to chat. I panicked internally, thinking, “Jane’s a lesbian—so does that mean she’s got a flawless gaydar? What if she can tell . . . ? What if she looks into my eyes and just . . . knows?”
I shook her hand and tried to make small talk. She was delightful, and we had a great chat. Finding out that I was a Christian, she said she hoped the church would progress on LGBTQ+ equality issues. I nodded, thinking, Goodness, so do I, for my own sake as well as for others’.
We swapped business cards and said we’d keep in touch. Walking away, I felt relieved—her gaydar hadn’t figured me out. As Jane strolled off to meet others in the room, I watched her networking with the other women. As far as I knew, she was the only openly gay woman at that gathering. I noticed that she carried herself with a huge amount of confidence and dignity.
Everyone there was wearing tight-fitting dresses and dainty high heels with pointed toes. I hated dresses, but had started wearing them for TV work, as most women on screen seemed to. That day in Parliament, I’d walked uncomfortably around the room in my restrictive dress and pointed heels. Jane was wearing loose-fitting suit trousers and a pair of beautiful honey-brown, round-toed brogue lace-up boots. She looked professional and stylish, but in a way that was different from the other women there; she seemed authentically herself, effortlessly comfortable in her own skin.
I’d lacked LGBTQ+ role models all my life and had never been around openly gay people in my church settings. Meeting Patrick Strudwick had been really significant for me. Now, Jane was the first openly lesbian woman I’d been around in a professional context. As I watched her, it struck me how fearful and ashamed I was about being gay. Years of homophobic Christian teachings and sermons had left their mark. I was nervous about how I’d carry myself publicly after coming out.
But here was Jane, a woman who had absolutely no qualms about her identity or fear of what others thought. She was in Parliament, networking with some of the most powerful women in the UK, dressed in her own unique style and openly proud of being a lesbian.
A voice inside my head piped up: If she can do that, maybe you can too. Perhaps I could become that confident in my identity. Perhaps I could walk with my head held high rather than being fearful about what others would think and living under a cloud of worries and old shame. Maybe I could dress in the tomboy style that I’d always wanted to. I felt as though she’d given me a glimpse of a whole different reality.
Visiting the House of Commons had increased my interest in politics. Later that year, when an organization working to combine faith and political activism invited me to meet them, I jumped at the chance and found myself walking past Big Ben again and into Westminster.
As I entered the lobby in the Commons, a TV screen showed what was being debated that day in the chamber. To my surprise it said “Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill.” I knew that an MP named Maria Miller had championed this within Parliament, as the Conservative Party was considering trying to legalize same-sex marriage in the UK. Today, it turned out, was one of the readings of that bill.
“I’d love to see if we could poke our heads into the Commons debating chamber before we sit and meet?” I said to the man from the faith and politics organization as he greeted me in the lobby. “I’m still new to this place, so I guess I still feel a bit like a tourist, wanting to see all the sights,” I added, keen to stress that it wasn’t the particular debate that interested me, just the chamber itself.
He disappeared to have a word with the relevant people. Coming back brandishing a piece of paper, he said we were in luck. We walked along winding hallways decorated with oil paintings and up narrow stairs to the Commons viewing gallery. “We can stay for three or four minutes,” he said in a whisper as we pushed open the wooden door and walked onto the balcony.
When I looked down, there was Maria Miller standing at the dispatch box, speaking about the bill and how she believed it was time for the UK to embrace same-sex marriage. I watched, my heart pounding, grateful that I was able to witness such a special moment in LGBTQ+ history; the UK was slowly changing for the better.
Sitting there watching her, I felt so many emotions. I wished I could voice my support for LGBTQ+ equality in society, even if I didn’t say it was about me. Now that I was certain of my own theology, it was increasingly hard not to speak up for social justice. I’d wanted to talk to Patrick Strudwick about my new views, and to Jane Czyzselska too, but I’d been too afraid. I felt like a traitor, not doing my part. Plenty of straight people were adding their voices to the campaign for same-sex marriage, so perhaps it was something I could do before taking the bigger leap of telling the world I was gay.
The TV shows I often appeared on covered stories about LGBTQ+ rights from time to time. Sometimes I was asked for my opinion. In the past, I’d tried to deflect this topic, but now, I decided, I had to start expressing my new views. I knew this would create a lot of fallout for me, because the vast majority of evangelicals would consider me a traitor. One straight pastor, Steve Chalke, had stuck his neck out for this cause and been kicked out of the Evangelical Alliance, branded a heretic. I knew I was likely to get the same treatment.
It felt important, though. Inspired by that day in Parliament, I knew I couldn’t wait any longer to add my voice to the same-sex marriage campaign. Maybe it could b
e a way of tackling the coming-out process in stages: first I would come out in support of LGBTQ+ equality, and then, second, I would say that I myself am gay. I was nauseous at the prospect of both, but splitting the journey into two stages seemed like a slightly softer approach.
I led worship at several large Christian events around that time, and each seemed to happen in slow motion. I looked out from the stages at the sea of faces, listening to them singing my songs. I knew that this vast and precious piece of my life and identity was soon going to end. The crowds had no knowledge of my changed views on LGBTQ+ equality, and they assumed I was as traditional as they were. Once I voiced my support for same-sex marriage, I knew invitations to play at conferences would slow down. Then when I came out, I knew the doors would all slam in my face.
As I stood on those stages, I looked across at my UK bandmates and tears filled my eyes at the knowledge that I would no longer get to play with them at the large evangelical conferences that had become such a big part of our lives. The prospect of losing so much was heartbreaking.
When the right moment presented itself, I spoke out. It happened organically when the topic came up in a TV show. I said I’d come to the conclusion that the church should offer marriage to same-sex couples, and that I believed there was nothing in the Bible to condemn it. That same week, I published a series of blogs about it.
I wasn’t ready for the wave of criticism from fellow Christians. I knew my words would be negatively received, but I hadn’t expected such a tsunami. Comments poured in from evangelicals and Pentecostals in the UK, the US, Canada, and beyond. People said they were utterly shocked and disappointed in me, that I had clearly lost my faith, and that I would never be welcome to sing in churches again. Staff from the agencies and labels I was working with on both sides of the pond suggested that I should be very cautious; I knew I was on dangerous ground. My music career wasn’t totally over, but it would be irreparably damaged as a result of this step.
Undivided Page 18
