It was crushing. I couldn’t believe how two-faced people could be. Only days earlier, many of them had been posting on Facebook and Twitter how much they loved my songs and enjoyed seeing me on tour. But as soon as I made my pro-gay theology public, they called me every name under the sun. Doors were already slamming in my face.
Expressing these views before actually coming out, I had hoped, would show me people were more open-minded than I’d expected. But it proved the opposite. At moments, I wondered if I should abandon the next stage of my plan, to personally come out as gay. The wave of criticism and abuse was alarming, showing me that the Christians I worked with around the world were still staunchly against same-sex marriage. Many of my relatives were horrified that I was expressing these pro-gay views, suggesting I stop talking about it and reexamine my theology. No one had any idea it was about me and my orientation, though; simply holding the views themselves was a one-way ticket out of evangelicalism. Coming out as gay would be a thousand times worse.
Needing some support, I headed to Kent to visit my sister, Jo. I loved being around her and her kids. They were still young, and it was fun to read them stories, watch Disney movies together, and be Auntie Vicky. One evening, when the kids were all tucked in bed, Jo and I sat having a quiet cup of tea.
Breaking the silence, she said, “You know, if you ever brought a special someone home one day, to meet the wider family, it wouldn’t matter to me if it was a guy or . . . a girl.”
I was really surprised and had no idea where her comment had come from. I’d never talked to her about my orientation. She knew that recently I’d been saying supportive things about same-sex marriage online and on TV, but no one had connected the dots and imagined that it related to me. People didn’t seem able to conceive that an evangelical poster girl might be dealing with something like that. Gay people were seen as out there, located far away, not inside the walls of churches or standing on stage leading worship for thousands of evangelical conference-goers.
Somehow my sister had a hunch. Perhaps it was a sibling thing, a special connection.
Oddly enough, I’d been sitting on her sofa that evening feeling immensely sad that I never got to bring a partner home to meet my relatives. “Do you have a boyfriend, Auntie Vicky?” one of my nieces had asked earlier. I wished I could have said, “Actually I don’t like boys. I like girls. And maybe one day I’ll have someone special you can meet.” But all I could reply to my niece was, “No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” as I felt my cheeks burning with awkwardness.
Jo was, it seemed, the one person in my life who’d had a vague hunch about my orientation. And I was totally knocked off balance as I tried to figure out how to reply to her. Though we were both raised in the same Christian home, my sister isn’t someone who identifies as religious anymore, so she didn’t have any faith-based reasons to oppose same-sex relationships. I probably could have told her long ago, but I hadn’t wanted her to have to carry such a big secret when my wider family didn’t know.
That night, I still wasn’t ready to talk about it, perhaps just because the moment had come so unexpectedly. Turning pink, I just laughed it off and said, “It’s great to know how open-minded you are about things like that.” In true British style, I said, “Would you like another cup of tea?” and hurried awkwardly into the kitchen to put the kettle on. I said nothing further about it all evening.
When I went to bed, I lay awake for hours. I was taken aback that she’d mentioned my orientation out of the blue, but it was a weight off my shoulders to know she would accept me unconditionally when I finally confirmed her suspicions. If only everyone was as understanding and unconditionally kind as my sister, I thought. I knew most of my friends, relatives, and church colleagues would have totally different views. Faith can be a wonderful thing, but it can also build huge walls between people—even blood relatives—and I knew most of mine held lifelong beliefs that homosexuality was wrong and sinful.
Jo’s comment was a good reminder that I did need to tell my family before I came out publicly. It was only fair; I didn’t want them to hear it from a newspaper interview. I knew my parents would need time to process it before everyone else found out and was asking them questions about it. But likewise, I needed them to keep it confidential, and I didn’t want them to feel alone with that heavy information for longer than a couple of months.
This played on my mind in the weeks ahead. After a lot of thought, I concluded that I would talk to my parents and sister in the spring of 2014, then do the interview with Patrick in the summer. Finally having a timeline made me feel sick with nerves. But I also sensed I was, at last, glimpsing light at the end of the tunnel.
24
April 2014 brought with it some unexpected and devastating news. My grandmother was very ill and had been taken to hospital. It looked as though she was close to death, so we were asked to visit as soon as possible.
Walking into the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Margate, Kent, and following a nurse to the ward, I saw my grandmother—or Nanny, as we always called her—lying on a hospital bed. She was a frail shadow of the person she’d been, so weak and pale. The nurse said she’d been slipping in and out of consciousness all day.
My mum and dad had been to visit a lot that week and said that Nanny had been awake and talkative the previous day. But during my time there, she didn’t stir much and barely opened her eyes. At one point when I was talking to her, it seemed as though she smiled a little and squeezed my hand, but I couldn’t be sure.
It was heartbreaking not to be able to chat like we usually did. I already missed her warm, mischievous smile and the way she’d hug me and want to hear every detail of my life. We knew she was beginning to slip away from us, and the hole she was leaving in our hearts was going to be vast.
As I stood at her bedside, grief hit me, and tears ran down my cheeks. Mum noticed I was crying, and this started her off too. We stood, hugging, as we watched Nanny fighting for her life and struggling for breath. She’d be leaving us soon—and I knew this might be the last time I ever saw her. It was, as she would die a few days later.
Being in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Margate reminded me of my own entrance into the world. It was the hospital where I’d been born. It seemed so strange to think of the full-circle nature of life. I’d come into the world in that building in 1979, and my grandmother had visited me in the maternity ward. Now full circle, in 2014, here we both were in the same building again, and I was saying good-bye to her. It made life feel so brief and fragile. My mind sped forward. Would this be the same hospital that I would lie in, someday in the future, when I breathed my final breath? Our time on earth suddenly felt so limited; many things that seemed to matter faded away in the light of this.
Mum, Dad, and I wiped our tears and said good-bye to Nanny as we headed out of the ward. These thoughts of life and death had created an urgency for me. I needed to talk to my parents about my gay orientation. In our grief and sadness that day, it felt as though our hearts were open to each other in a deeper way than usual.
In the car I fixed my makeup, as I was going to be part of a radio program in Canterbury that same afternoon. My parents were driving me there and dropping me off. The program was a BBC Radio 2 special about Easter on the theme of pilgrimage. Clare Balding, one of the UK’s most well-known broadcasters and a national treasure, would be the presenter interviewing me. She’s the most famous openly gay woman in British media, the UK’s equivalent of America’s Ellen DeGeneres.
When we arrived in Canterbury, Dad found a parking spot and waited with the car, while my mum walked me over to the hotel where I’d meet Claire Balding and the BBC producer who would be recording the program. We had a few minutes, so Mum and I stood outside the venue, the Falstaff Hotel, a fifteenth-century building with beautiful wooden beams and leaded windows decorating its white frontage. As we made small talk in the spring sunshine, it felt like the right moment to get vulnerable and tell her what I’d needed to say for so long.
Through tears, I told her I’d known I was gay since I was twelve or thirteen and that I finally needed to come out. I knew the news would be hard for both her and Dad—a real shock. I was also aware it would put them in a difficult position with their own evangelical Christian community. Previously I’d been loved by churches around the world, but now I would be seen as a heretic; my parents would constantly be asked for their views on it all and put in difficult situations. All of this raced around in my head as I told her about my orientation.
Mum was shocked and surprised by my news. Despite being taken aback, she remained her gentle and thoughtful self, reassuring me: “This is a lot to process, but we still love you unconditionally, of course.” It was a bombshell; I knew it would take a long time for her and Dad to come to terms with it.
In a stroke of amusing unlikelihood, in the middle of this intense conversation, someone walked up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. “Vicky, it’s Clare. It’s great to see you.”
It was Clare Balding, arriving at the hotel for the BBC recording. “I’m really looking forward to recording the show with you today,” she said with a smile.
I introduced Clare to my mother, enjoying the moment of light relief in the middle of such a serious conversation. Clare had no knowledge of what we’d been talking about, but her timing couldn’t have been more ideal. Smiling, I thought, How many people can say that halfway through coming out to their mother, the best-known lesbian in the UK popped up and gave a cameo appearance, like an advertisement for the fact you can be gay, out and proud, and have a happy successful life? I laughed at the timing of it all.
Clare excused herself, saying she was heading inside. “See you in a few minutes in the lobby,” she called back. Mum and I continued our chat, and she was tearful as the news continued to sink in. As well as impacting our family, she knew it would also change my career, irreversibly.
“I’ll talk to Dad about it,” she said gently as we parted ways. I had no idea what she was going to say to my father or how they would deal with it together, but I was glad she would tell him instead of me needing to have a second “coming out” conversation that day. Mum assured me they wouldn’t tell anyone else until I went public, which I really appreciated. I knew that secret would be a lot for them to carry, but she said they’d be grateful for the privacy and space to process it together before it hit the news.
Walking into the Falstaff Hotel, I felt dazed. I’d just come out to my mother after all these years of holding that secret inside. My sister, Jo, needed to know too, and I wanted her to hear it from me, so I dialed her number and told her. As expected, she didn’t have a problem with it and just said she wished I had been able to talk about it back when I was in my early teens. She was pleased I’d finally taken the step.
Just as I finished chatting with my sister, Clare Balding and her producer appeared in the lobby. I finished the call, grateful for Jo’s unconditional acceptance. Trying to switch my brain into broadcasting mode, we headed off to begin the BBC recording. I said nothing to Clare or her producer about all that had just happened to me; I still wanted to keep the information within my close family for now.
As the BBC show was a discussion about the theme of Easter and of pilgrimage, we were recording it outside, walking a path that led to Canterbury Cathedral. As we walked and talked, I couldn’t help thinking how relevant that theme of pilgrimage felt to me—in my own journey as a pilgrim of faith, I’d just taken a very significant step toward greater authenticity as I trusted God’s leading and moved forward in obedience.
My taxi pulled up at the Old Palace, a tenth-century stone building nestled in the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral. The Old Palace has been the official Kent residence of the archbishop of Canterbury since those distant, ancient times.
The BBC recording had gone well, and I was looking forward to spending the rest of the Easter weekend with the family of Justin Welby, the archbishop of Canterbury. The Welbys had become friends of mine, especially their eldest daughter, Katharine, and I loved their company.
I had never spoken to them about my orientation—nor would I during that stay. I hoped it wouldn’t affect our friendship when they finally found out. (Thankfully, when I did tell Katharine later that spring, her response was overwhelmingly kind. She was deeply saddened that I’d had to carry such a weighty secret for so many years and assured me it didn’t change anything in our friendship.)
That Easter weekend, I just wanted to enjoy their company. I would stay with the Welbys on Saturday evening, and then on Sunday I would join them at the cathedral for the annual Easter service, at which Archbishop Justin would preach. That night, after a lovely dinner together, I headed to bed. My room had a direct view of Canterbury Cathedral; towering into the sky, it was illuminated by lights that switched on at sunset. It looked majestic. Gazing at it through the leaded windows, I reflected on what an intense day it had been.
Finally, my parents and sister knew I was gay. And, quite coincidentally, I was spending the night in one of the oldest and most inspiring church buildings in the country. It felt like a comfort after such a scary step. Somehow it felt symbolic too. Having followed God’s lead and spoken out about my orientation to my family, I was sleeping in the shadow of Canterbury Cathedral itself—the heart of Anglican geography. Rather than driving me away from God or the church, my coming-out journey was taking place in the shelter of God’s love and mercy.
Today’s date in the church calendar felt relevant too: Easter Saturday, the day when Christians remembered Christ in the tomb, silent in the darkness. It’s known as a day of waiting, a day of mystery, a day of experiencing the pain of Jesus’s death and the tension of not yet knowing he would rise. I’ve always had a deep connection with Easter Saturday, as it felt so much like my spiritual journey: the mystery of not knowing what to do about my orientation and the “dark night of the soul” that I’d experienced so potently over the decades as a result of it.
As I thought back through years of sadness and struggle—the day on the London Underground when I’d nearly jumped, the unending isolation and heartbreak, the weight of the shame and fear I’d had to carry—it felt like I’d been a “dead person walking” for as long as I could remember. It was as though I was partly wrapped in “grave clothes”; so much of who I was could never be fully alive.
Yet today, on this sacred date on the Christian calendar, I had finally said what I needed to say to my family. And tomorrow was Easter Sunday, the day Christians celebrated the resurrection of Christ. It was known as the day everything had changed, the moment the world had been made new.
A surge of emotion filled me as I realized my Easter Saturday was almost over—both literally and figuratively. The journey of being able to live authentically was beginning and tomorrow, Easter Sunday, marked “resurrection day.” I would be able to attend the cathedral service and celebrate the Easter message with an added sense of joy. In that tenth-century room, with the cathedral bells ringing out the hours, I fell asleep exhausted but smiling.
The Easter morning service at Canterbury Cathedral, led by the archbishop, was powerful. I shed a few tears as the choir sang its anthems and the organ echoed through the cavernous building. As we recited the liturgy, “Christ has risen—he is risen indeed,” it held even more significance for me than usual. Part of me had come back from the dead. It was a new beginning.
Returning from that trip to Canterbury, I felt a kaleidoscope of emotions: relief that my family knew; inspiration from the Easter service; gratitude for the friendship of the Welbys; but also fear that relationships like those, and my entire ministry, might soon hang in the balance when I came out publicly.
25
Rainbow flags fluttered in the breeze as I walked through Soho, the bustling LGBTQ+ district of London. It was an area of the city I’d always felt nervous to visit; it raised so many emotions—seeing others openly walking around hand in hand with their same-sex partners. It was a place I’d longed to go, ye
t had never felt I could.
Today it felt like the right location for the meeting I was about to have. I’d given my parents a couple of months to process the news about my orientation, while no one else knew. Then when spring became summer, I’d emailed the gay journalist I’d met at Sky News, Patrick Strudwick. Not telling him exactly what I wanted to meet about, I’d simply said, “I have a story that might be of interest to you.”
We’d agreed to meet at a café on a Soho street corner and, grabbing a seat in the window, I watched as people walked by. Soon the annual Pride march would take place here, and the streets would be full of thousands of people walking, and dancing, through London campaigning for equality and respect.
Patrick arrived, and although it was lovely to see him again, I was on edge with nerves. Knowing I would struggle to tell him my story without crying or dissolving into anxiety, I’d decided to type it up and print it out. So after we ordered coffees and exchanged small talk, I reached into my bag and pulled out the pages.
“So about the story . . .” I began. “I’ve got some information printed out for you to read.”
His eyebrows rose; it must have seemed strange that I couldn’t just tell him. But, being his usual easygoing self, Patrick just smiled, took the pages, and began to read.
It felt like an eternity as I clutched my coffee mug, watching him scan through all that I’d written. I knew when he’d reached the part about me being gay, because he took an audible breath. He’d had no idea, and aware of my successful Christian music career, he knew what an internationally controversial and life-changing step coming out would be for me.
Finishing the last sentences, he looked up, tearful. “I’d love to be the one who helps you tell this story,” he said. “And I’ll do my absolute best to get it out to as many people as possible. I believe you’re going to help thousands of LGBT people of faith find their own courage and freedom.”
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