Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  We sat in silence for a while, then chatted about the practicalities: when he would do the interview, which newspaper he would pitch the article to, which date we should aim to have it printed by. We decided to shoot for publication in mid-August.

  A few days later, I took a taxi to Patrick’s house. Greeted at the front door by his cat, Liza, I walked into the lounge, and we got ready for the interview. Turning on his audio recorder, he placed it on the arm of the sofa, and we began. We talked and talked, much of the conversation heavy and emotional.

  One lighter moment made us erupt into laughter. Liza the cat, clearly feeling she wasn’t getting as much attention as she required, launched herself from the floor, leaped onto the arm of sofa, and sent the recorder flying. Both the cat and recorder fell to the floor in a comedic heap. It was good to have something to make us smile.

  Leaving Patrick’s home, I was relieved and nervous in equal measure. My story was told. It would now be written and printed, and there was no going back. I had no regrets, but it was tangibly real. Only a few weeks remained of life as I knew it. Patrick would keep me updated on his writing process and on which newspaper had accepted it. All I could do was sit tight and wait.

  Part V

  Into the Unknown

  26

  “I’m heading off on my summer vacation,” Patrick told me. “The story’s written, and a national newspaper has accepted it. They’re really enthusiastic about having the exclusive interview—and it’ll be published within the next few weeks, depending on which day it fits best with their other stories.”

  I hadn’t seen the piece yet, but I knew Patrick’s journalism was always excellent. Working with him had been such a positive, healing experience, and I knew I was in safe hands. He gave me the email address of the newspaper editor who would be publishing it, and I told him I hoped he had a great holiday.

  Meanwhile, to calm my nerves, I decided to reach out to a few LGBTQ+ leaders. I would need allies around me when everything hit the fan. I emailed Jane Czyzselska, the magazine editor I’d met in Parliament, and she said she’d love to meet and talk. I also contacted the CEO of Stonewall, Ruth Hunt, and she was happy to get together too. I told both of them about my career in the American Bible Belt, that I was gay, and how frightened I was about how the church would respond and what my future would be. Both were incredibly kind and supportive. Being around them sent a shot of courage flowing into my veins.

  They made a few calls to others, for which I was really grateful. As a result, Clare Balding and her partner, Alice Arnold, invited me over for tea. It helped a great deal to sit in their kitchen, come out to them, and then hear their encouraging words (and to eat cake, which frankly helps with any life crisis). Another well-known lesbian, BBC news anchor Jane Hill, also invited me for coffee and an empowering chat. I was so grateful for their kindness and their confidentiality. It was wonderful to have this growing group of women around me who had navigated their own public coming-out journeys and were there to steady me.

  Patrick sent me a text from his vacation saying the publication of the article would be in the next couple of days. The newspaper editor confirmed this, and I gritted my teeth, ready for the moment to arrive. As is normal for newspapers, due to a few last-minute changes the publication day was moved later, and then earlier. My heart missed a beat as I read an email telling me the interview would be published online tonight. It would also be printed in the following morning’s paper.

  I was a bundle of nerves. It was all happening, and I only had a few hours to go. Home alone, all I could do was pace up and down in my tiny studio flat. I called Wendy. Then I called my sister, Jo. Their support was keeping me sane.

  I put on my pajamas and climbed into bed with my laptop. I knew that as soon as the piece went live, all my social media accounts would blow up with messages, and my former career within the evangelical church would be over. I just sat there, hitting “refresh” on the newspaper website over and over as ten o’clock approached.

  And suddenly, there it was.

  I knew the piece would be significant in Christian media, but I hadn’t expected it to explode in mainstream media to the degree that it did. The topic of LGBTQ+ equality and the church had been in the news a lot recently, and my story was carried by that momentum. As social media buzzed, the piece began to go viral in the UK, the US, and beyond—all of that before the newspaper article had even appeared in the next day’s print edition.

  I switched on the late-night news. Journalists were discussing the front pages of tomorrow’s papers, as they’d just arrived hot off the press. Shocked, I saw that the newspaper carrying my coming-out story had advertised it on its front page. Its “sister” newspaper, produced by the same company, did too. I’d never imagined my story would get that kind of placement, with my face on the cover. As a result, it was discussed on air that night as commentators reviewed the front pages.

  I got little sleep that night, watching messages fly into my inboxes. America was wide awake, as it was the middle of the day there. Responses flooded into my social media channels and through my website’s contact page from Christians who said how appalled they were. They told me how sinful I was to “give in to the lie that I was gay” and that I should be utterly ashamed of myself and never darken the doors of a church again. Others said I was a danger to the church, leading people into sin, and that I’d be better off dead. Some even went as far as to hurl death threats at me.

  Along with these were messages from pro-gay Christians who did their best to make themselves heard amid the shouts of damnation. Their encouragement meant the world to me. They were from more liberal parts of the church, and although their words helped, it was my evangelical community that I longed to be affirmed by. Sadly, evangelicals were the loudest in telling me that I was wrong and was now destined for hellfire and damnation.

  Waves of love came in from the LGBTQ+ community, telling me how welcome I was and how excited they were to have me as one of the family.

  Reading these messages felt like being in an emotional tumble dryer—I felt joy, pain, gratitude, and heartbreak as I read so much hate and so much love.

  Early next morning, my phone rang and rang with interview requests. People had seen the print edition of the paper and wanted to discuss it. Grabbing a notebook, I could tell that my calendar was going to be very full for the next week. I was also trying to stay on top of social media, but every time I hit “refresh,” the amount of new comments, shares, and mentions was too fast moving to keep up with. It actually felt a little frightening, like riding a roller coaster and hanging on for dear life. Channel 4, a UK prime-time news channel, invited me onto the six o’clock evening broadcast to debate a Christian who believed that being gay was a grievous sin.

  And we’re live,” the studio manager shouted, as we all took our places on set. The intro music played, and the show began. I was on after several other guests, so I paced around the greenroom nervously. I still hadn’t heard exactly who I would be debating that night, and I was curious to know.

  “Okay, Vicky. We need you now,” a friendly floor manager said, beckoning me into the hallway. We walked toward the studio, and during a prerecorded segment they fitted me with a lapel microphone. “You’ll be debating a man called Scott Lively,” one of the producers told me. “He’s coming to us live from the US on Skype.”

  I had a few seconds to grab my phone and google Scott Lively’s name. It sounded familiar. My eyebrows rose as I read about him. He was a pastor who, according to the New York Times, met with the Ugandan government in 2009, right before they introduced the Anti-Homosexuality Bill, under which anyone found guilty of a homosexual act could receive life imprisonment or, for serial offenders, even the death penalty. Lively denied any involvement whatsoever with the Ugandan Anti-Homosexuality Act and denied allegations that he supported the harshness of the penalties it carried.

  In 1995, he’d written a book called The Pink Swastika: Homosexuality in the Nazi Party, whi
ch argued that gay Nazis were the driving force behind Hitler’s movement. Rather than leaving these ideas behind him or softening them as the years went by, Lively continued to develop the book, defending its thesis with more and more research. Today, I discovered, The Pink Swastika existed in its fifth edition and contained views more firmly expressed than in the initial printing.

  Lively was featured in a documentary called Sodom, which aired on a Russian TV channel funded by Vladimir Putin’s government. In 2013, he wrote an open letter to Putin, congratulating him for taking “a firm stance against this scourge by banning homosexual propaganda in Russia” and praising him for “setting an example of moral leadership” against this “destructive and degrading sexual agenda.” In 2014, Lively was sued in US federal court for crimes against humanity for allegedly conspiring to persecute the Ugandan LGBTQ+ community. The case was later dismissed in 2017 on jurisdictional grounds.

  This was a lot to take in, as I scanned my phone’s internet browser during the couple of minutes before we went on air. He was far more extreme than I’d imagined—I had no idea what he would say to me or what line of argument he’d take.

  The anchor interviewed me first, putting me at ease and showing sensitivity. They played a short film we’d recorded earlier, and then the large studio screen was filled with the face of Pastor Scott Lively. Lively was asked for his response to my interview, which he’d been watching by live link. I felt sick as I waited to hear what he’d say.

  “I have a lot of sympathy toward Vicky herself. My sister was a lesbian, and, in fact, I was the person that she came out to as a teenager, and I was the person she turned to later when lesbianism had almost destroyed her. And she became a Christian and overcame lesbianism. So I have a lot of sympathy for people who struggle with the challenge that Vicky is facing. I’m very sorry to hear that she has given in to the lie that she is a homosexual instead of continuing to try to overcome this challenge that is in her life.”

  “So you’re living a lie, according to Pastor Lively,” said the anchor, turning his head toward me. “Vicky, what’s your response to that?”

  It was difficult to hear a Christian pastor promoting the same painful teachings I’d been exposed to my entire life, but I remained as composed as I could, determined I would not get tearful on TV.

  “That’s what I’ve been raised to believe,” I responded, “but psychologically it’s very damaging to people—it makes you feel as though you’re fighting against yourself. Many conservative Christians, maybe Scott too, would agree that it’s actually a kind of demonic thing, so you begin to look within yourself, thinking actually these feelings are not only bad, but I’m being controlled by the devil.” My mind spun back to the exorcism experience in my teens. “I think, actually, it’s about coming to terms with who you are and realizing we need to accept our sexual orientations as a God-given gift rather than making it sound like it’s a battle between who you’re meant to be and who you are,” I added.

  Scott Lively responded, “All of us struggle with various temptations. . . . But we are called to rise above the temptations and follow the guidance of God. He gave very, very clear, explicit instructions about sexuality—he established the one flesh paradigm in Genesis 1:27 and 2:24 that ‘therefore shall a man leave his family and cleave unto his wife and they should become one flesh.’ And all sexual activity outside of that covenant that he’s established for us to have between one man and one woman is illicit and wrong. Just because you have temptations, strong temptations, to go outside of that bond doesn’t legitimize them.”

  He added: “I’m a married man, I’ve been married for thirty-three years, but, being a man, I’m attracted to women other than my wife, but I’ve never given in to those temptations, and I’m just asking Vicky to do the same.”

  I bristled. Many evangelicals over the years had told me being gay was comparable to the way heterosexuals also had to “control their lustful impulses,” and now Lively was saying the same. The parallel was illogical: for me, and countless other gay people, it wasn’t about controlling lust—it was about wanting a spouse and a soul mate for life, just like any straight person might hope for.

  “It’s a very different situation,” I responded to Pastor Lively. “If you’re a straight person and you say . . . it’s wrong . . . as a Christian to have sex outside of marriage, so [you’re] going to commit to one person of the [opposite] sex, that actually gives you the hope of having a life partner, of finding one person and committing to them. But if you’re saying that a Christian gay person . . . can’t have sex [or marry] outside of that heterosexual paradigm, there is no hope for them to have a life partner.”

  I wanted to say, Check your privilege! You’re straight; you have the church community cheering you on as you date, get engaged, marry, and raise a family. Sure, you can’t just sleep around once you’ve committed to someone, but how is that small restriction in any way comparable to being barred from marriage entirely, for life? I knew how isolating it felt, never being able to enjoy a relationship, get married, or create a home with someone special. It was in no way comparable to straight Christians “controlling their lusts.” The parallel was nonsense.

  Lively chimed in with his next argument: “It’s a false premise. There’s no such thing as a gay person—it’s just an identity that you adopt.”

  “So you do not think that people are born gay?” I replied. He’d made a statement that was even more controversial than I was expecting.

  “Absolutely not,” he responded emphatically. He did not believe in gay people.

  “So how come I can’t change the way I feel?” I asked, struggling not to show pain in my voice. “I believe that God has made me the way that he has made me. It’s taken me thirty-five years to come to terms with that, and I believe it’s actually part of my God-wired identity.”

  “Vicky,” he said, “God has the power to help you to overcome your homosexual inclinations. First Corinthians 6:9–11 . . .”

  Interrupting, I answered, “That kind of teaching has been so damaging to me, and it damages so many people. . . . It’s one of those things that can really psychologically scar people.”

  “Vicky,” he replied, sounding frustrated, “you keep referring to psychology rather than spirituality. I think that’s your problem. You have adopted the thinking of the world, including the idea that being criticized damages you.”

  “Like science, you mean?” I responded. “So science is not God-ordained—God didn’t give us a brain, or an intellect—psychology for you does not reflect God’s intellect in us as humans? Because I would say . . . God gave us that ability, so . . . the studies into sexuality are very much important.” It seemed absurd to me: he was denying the value of psychology and putting it at odds with faith.

  “True science and biblical theology are perfectly consistent,” he replied. “Don’t you care what God thinks?” He later continued: “My position is the biblical one.”

  I’d heard so many times that the evangelical view on sexuality was “the biblical one” and that it trumped all others; it left no room for asking questions or considering other ways of interpreting the text.

  “There are many biblical perspectives though—and I think that has to be acknowledged,” I said. “I’m doing a PhD in theology . . . and I love the Bible.” It mattered to me that he knew I was academic and that I took the Bible seriously. It was my love of the Bible that had kept me in the closet until the age of thirty-five. It was equally my love of the Bible that convinced me, during my studies in the Brompton Oratory and at St. Paul’s Cathedral, that we had misunderstood those texts and that being in a same-sex relationship was something God could bless.

  The anchor checked the time, knowing our segment was almost up. “One final question for you, Reverend Lively,” he said. “Have you ever had any homosexual thoughts yourself?”

  After a pause, Lively said, “Fortunately for me, I have never experienced same-sex attraction. But I understand. I was an alc
oholic and a drug addict—that was my challenge. I had temptations to indulge in substances of various kinds, and by the grace of God I surrendered my life to Jesus Christ and I was healed and delivered from that—just as many of my friends have been whose temptation was homosexuality . . .”

  I raised my eyebrows—he had just compared being gay to alcoholism and drug addiction. In fact, that was the way it had been spoken about my entire Christian life. Same-sex relationships were not a viable Christian way of life; they were something to try and escape from, something damaging that held you in a grip of addiction and brokenness, like drink or drugs. I’d heard far worse over the years, though. Plenty of traditionalist Christians had said the sin of gay sex was on a par with bestiality and pedophilia. It was crushing; I wanted to please God with my life, yet I was being compared to people who had sex with animals or abused children.

  Lively snapped me out of my thoughts. “Vicky, you do not need to succumb to the flesh, you can overcome that . . .” Even in the closing seconds of the show, he was raising his voice, urging me to embrace the teachings of the Bible and walk away from sin.

  And that was it. The big screen with Lively’s face on it went blank. The show moved on to its next segment, and I was led back to the greenroom. The runner helped untangle my microphone, removed it, and thanked me for being part of the broadcast.

  Stepping into the awaiting taxi and heading home, I was utterly exhausted. I knew I didn’t need to take Scott Lively’s vitriol to heart, because I was secure in my decision and in my faith. But he represented the demographic of Christians I had been part of for years, and I knew that just as he condemned me, most of them would too. My email inbox, sadly, was proof of that. I exhaled, watching the lights and sights of London rush past through the taxi window. My first full day as an openly gay person had been a roller coaster.