Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  27

  Over the next two weeks, interviews continued at a steady pace. Now that I could finally speak up about LGBTQ+ equality, I wanted to take every opportunity I could. I hoped I might change hearts and minds within the church and also reassure other LGBTQ+ people that they were not alone. I began to lose track of how many interviews I’d done, shuttling back and forth from BBC studios, to Sky News, to the offices of magazines. Some of the international broadcasts were done in other languages using translators, and I did my best to stay on top of it all.

  Sitting in a tall building overlooking London’s Leicester Square, I prepared to go on air at LBC. It’s one of the UK’s most popular talk-radio stations with a current listenership of over two million people. They were doing a phone-in where listeners could ask questions or make comments about my story and the situation of LGBTQ+ equality in the church. Several callers were antagonistic, saying I wasn’t a Christian anymore and should be ashamed of myself. Little did they know how ashamed I had always been of myself, until the moment I came out. I refused to let their hurtful words sink into my heart and remained courteous but firm in my responses.

  Next, Jacob (not his real name) phoned in, saying he was a Christian too: “I read Vicky’s story,” he began. “I’d sung her songs . . . and to see someone like that come out as gay and as Christian . . . Well, I thought, why can’t I do the same?”

  I listened intently as he continued to tell his story. “I’ve been struggling with my sexuality and my Christian faith for years. I’m twenty-one,” he said. “I felt I could tell my non-Christian friends and be accepted, so that was okay, and a big step in itself. But the teaching in church felt so condemnatory . . .”

  How sad, I thought, that he could easily tell his non-Christian friends about being gay, but that he had to keep it a secret from his church community. I could relate to his sense of fear and trepidation and was delighted he’d finally taken the leap. Hearing him say that I’d helped him make that life-changing decision was so meaningful that it moved me to tears.

  “Do you want to say anything to Vicky?” the radio host asked. Jacob took a breath and talked directly to me—it was an emotional moment for us both.

  “Yes. Hello, Vicky,” he began.

  “Hi, Jacob,” I replied.

  “Vicky, I just want to say a massive thank-you for your example, for taking such a bold step and helping so many people, including myself, because without you we wouldn’t have stepped out.” I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “I hope your step helps speed up change—it has already,” he added.

  Deeply touched, I replied, “Wow, thank you so much . . . You encapsulate my hopes for having spoken out, that it can have a domino effect, that we can break the taboo within the church, that God loves us exactly for who we are.”

  As the phone-in ended and we neared the end of my interview segment, the radio host asked why I was still choosing to remain a Christian. “You went through some massive traumas at the hands of the church, didn’t you?” she questioned.

  “Yes,” I replied. “But I love the church, and I consider it my family. It’s extremely painful when families inflict damage on one another, but I’m choosing not to walk away. I want to stay in the church and have open and honest dialogue. Hopefully, someday, we’ll see LGBT equality become the norm, although that seems a distant dream right now.”

  Jacob’s call had a big impact on me. Among all my fears about coming out, I’d had one hope: that it would encourage other LGBTQ+ people of faith to take the same step, leading to change in the church. I was only a tiny drop in the ocean, but hopefully I could make a difference. Hearing my coming out had helped Jacob showed me that this was starting to happen, and that meant the world.

  Opening my laptop that night, I caught up with the mountain of messages coming in through my website and from Facebook. I read one email after another:

  “I’m a Christian and never felt able to tell anyone I was gay—but I read your story and tonight I came out to my family.”

  “I’m bisexual and Muslim. I was scared, but I spoke to my parents and to my imam after reading your interview, and as of today I’m openly bisexual.”

  “I never thought I’d be able to find the words to tell my churchgoing mum and dad that I like girls, not boys. But I cut your interview out of the newspaper and left it on my mum’s bed with a Post-it note that said, ‘This is my story too.’ It was the only way I could think of coming out to them, and it worked. Thanks for helping me to be brave.”

  Emails and social-media messages like these continued to arrive. LGBTQ+ people, young and old, from the UK, the US, Africa, India, South America, and Europe wrote in, and I was touched and taken aback by the number of them.

  My post-office box was full too. Handwritten letters told the same story: people of faith who’d been in the closet all their lives had felt encouraged by my step and had come out. I thumbed through the letters, treasuring each one for the individual life it represented.

  In the mayhem of that “media month” I attempted to reply to as many of these messages as I could. I tried to link up those living in far-flung places with LGBTQ+ organizations in their own country or city, so they could find support. The most heartbreaking letters and emails came from young people in countries where it remains illegal to be gay—and my heart still aches for them today as they continue to try and navigate their journeys.

  The sympathetic interviews, emails, and letters were an encouraging aspect of coming out. But alongside them, painful, negative responses also poured in. My evangelical community in the US and UK had, for the most part, slammed the door in my face. Every time I saw a damning assessment of me in an article or on social media, it felt like another punch, knocking the air out of me.

  Some justified their anger and judgment toward me as a reflection of God’s own character, quoting Old Testament passages where God punished those who worshipped idols or chose a life of sin. Hearing this theology brought back the feelings I’d had as a child, when I’d read picture books about Noah and the flood, or Sodom and Gomorrah. It left me with much to think about.

  They did have biblical evidence that God had condoned violence and destruction in the past and quoted the book of Revelation, which says that he will deliver judgment again in the future. They also referenced the crucifixion and “penal substitution,” saying that God “did violently punish to pay the debt of sin, even in the case of his own son.” I couldn’t escape the fact that they had vast amounts of scripture to support this attitude; the wrath and judgment of God were woven throughout the Bible, and they saw it as license to justify their aggression. It didn’t sound like the God I’d always known and followed, but it was hard to rebuff as they quoted verse after verse from the Bible about him doling out violence, murder, and punishment. It was hard to process.

  My face-to-face interactions with Christian friends and former ministry colleagues were also extremely difficult. The way they looked at me had changed. Their eyes used to communicate love, welcome, and easy friendship, but now there was an element of distance and distrust. It was subtle, but it was there. I was suddenly a stranger to them.

  Around these evangelicals, I felt like an awkward relative at a party, the person everyone tries to avoid. People made small talk and then excused themselves. “Got to dash—I’m so busy today,” they’d say, looking uncomfortable. They only seemed to see one label on me now: gay.

  Op-eds, blogs, and videos continued to appear online criticizing me. Seeing familiar names of people I’d known well and considered friends in the bylines of these articles was heartbreaking. Churches I’d played at, that had felt like second families to me, made public announcements on social media distancing themselves. They told their congregations I’d never be welcome to sing or speak there again. Tour promoters said they were closing their circuits of megachurches and Christian festivals to me. Religious bookstores said they were pulling my products from the shelves.

  I’d hoped pastors and leaders I�
�d worked alongside for years might pick up the phone and say, “Wow, what a big step you’ve taken. I might not agree with you, but I’m concerned. How are you coping? Are you okay?” Instead, most just published Facebook posts or media articles saying I was wrong and that I was promoting sin.

  Belonging is such a basic need for humans. We all require a tribe, and losing mine felt like the ground had given way beneath my feet. Yes, I had lots of love coming in from more liberally minded people, but the judgment from my former world was crushing. My social and professional network was still predominantly evangelical, and they’d left me out in the cold.

  I felt stuck between worlds. I knew that in the future I’d get to know some liberal Christians and that I’d start hanging out in the LGBTQ+ community as my friendships with people like Jane and Ruth grew, but at that moment I was in limbo, dumped by evangelicalism and not yet integrated into a pro-LGBTQ+ social network. I was somewhere in the great divide, walking through no-man’s-land.

  I’m ordering a set of CDs for you,” my grandfather told me. “There are forty CDs in the series; each is an hour long. It’s a Christian preaching series about homosexuality, how the Bible teaches that same-sex relationships are sinful, and how you can be healed from it.”

  The visit to see my grandad—the first time we’d met up since I came out—was one I knew might be painful for us both. If there was one person in my life who represented faith to me more than any other, and had inspired me in my own Christian journey, it was him, so this visit felt huge.

  Throughout the years he’d told me I was his pride and joy, and even his hero, as I had such a prominent role in the global church with my songs. He was my hero too; he was the missionary trailblazer I’d aspired to be like when I was little. I utterly adored this man.

  My heart sank when he mentioned the set of theology CDs. I’d had so many Christians critique and reject me over the weeks since my interview had gone live, and I was reaching breaking point from it all.

  He sat in his big recliner, keeping his legs elevated, as Parkinson’s disease was causing him pain and tremors. As always, he was surrounded by his large-print Bible, a giant mug of Bovril, and several Christian books. His eyes had gotten worse lately, so he now had an MP3 player loaded with sermons he could listen to. Faith was everything to him, and, especially since my grandmother had passed away, he spent all his time reading and praying.

  “So what do you think?” he asked, taking off his glasses and looking me in the eyes with a loving but concerned gaze. “I’ll buy the forty CDs, and we can sit and listen to them together over the next few months when you visit.”

  I knew there was no way I could sit through those CDs. I simply could not handle any more of that rhetoric—even though I’d usually do absolutely anything for him because I loved him so much.

  “Grandad, I understand where you’re coming from,” I said falteringly. “I know your beliefs on this . . . but I can’t listen to those CDs with you.” I was disappointing him, I knew, and I felt my chest tighten.

  “It’s extremely painful to be around that sort of teaching,” I tried to explain, struggling to stay composed. “I’ve heard those views all my life, and I’ve finally found the freedom and peace to step into a new direction. So I am asking you—even if you can’t agree with my theology—to respect my choice and know that I’ve based it on the views of well-respected Bible scholars.”

  He looked worried and tearful. I could hear the concern in his voice; he believed I was walking away from God’s path. I didn’t doubt for a second that he wanted the best for me, but it was difficult to hear that he wanted me to change. That strange tension was one I was having to navigate with many people from my Christian world.

  I sensed Grandad needed to get things off his chest, so I let him talk. He shared his concern that I’d lost my faith, that I was not going to heaven anymore, that I was leading thousands of people astray as they followed my example. “If you have to accept you’re gay,” he said, as he brought his concerns to a close, “then at least commit to singleness and celibacy and serve God that way. Will you do that?” he asked.

  My memory rushed back to all the wonderful times we’d shared over the years: visiting Zimbabwe, splashing each other in the spray from Victoria Falls, and holding baby crocodiles in the safari park. I recalled the sermons I’d heard him give in our Pentecostal church when I was little, how proud I’d felt that the man in the pulpit was my grandad—and the mischievous smiles he’d flash at me as I sat watching in the front row. I remembered how delighted he and Nanny had been when I first played them “The Wonder of the Cross,” the hymn I’d written for them. It was their favorite song, and we’d sung it at my grandma’s funeral at her graveside. I thought of how many times Grandad had hugged me tightly and said, “You can do it, kiddo!” or “You’re my inspiration.”

  Since my Oxford days, he’d often asked for my views on how to interpret the Bible. These conversations had been so much fun over the years. He’d ask, “Do you know what this Greek word means?” or “How do you think this psalm should be interpreted?” I could sense the days of our Bible-based conversations were over. I’d known everything would feel different after I came out, and it already did. We didn’t love each other any less—it just placed a huge, awkward elephant in the room.

  “You can choose a life of singleness and celibacy,” he said again. “That’s the only way to honor God in this difficult situation.” I took a breath, aware this answer wasn’t going to be easy either. I wish I could have said yes, that I could have made him proud of me, but I had to follow my conscience.

  “Grandad, I believe the Bible says celibacy is always a choice, never a demand.” I felt confident in that theology; St. Paul wrote clearly on it. Looking him in the eye, I continued: “Because I believe same-sex relationships are holy in God’s eyes, I don’t feel it’s right to place restrictions on myself or any other gay Christians.”

  I pulled out my Bible and talked about everything I’d been reading in the Brompton Oratory—St. Peter’s vision in the book of Acts and the Gentiles’ hearing they were accepted into God’s kingdom. “Why would anyone be barred from something that God has called ‘clean’ and ‘holy’?” I asked him.

  “You’re just seeing what you want to see in the Bible, darling,” he responded with gentleness. “You can argue anything from its pages if you want to make it fit your narrative.” He respected my academic background and my personal faith, but this new way of understanding felt too different from what he’d always believed.

  Nearing ninety years old, he was getting tired and needed his afternoon nap. I loved him as much as ever and didn’t want to upset or stress him out. He was frail and needed to rest.

  Before I got up to leave, I remembered a helpful quote I’d read recently—something Billy Graham had said. Graham was perhaps the most well-known evangelist in the Christian world and someone respected by the majority of Christians, so he seemed a good person to draw from.

  “Grandad,” I said, “Billy Graham has a quote that might help us here. It goes like this: ‘It’s God’s job to judge, the Holy Spirit’s job to convict, and my job to love.’” I read it twice.

  “Can you leave it with God to judge me, if he needs to, and just focus on you and I loving each other? Our ‘job description’ as Christians is to love. God’s job description is to judge. Sometimes we get our roles mixed up; judging other Christians isn’t something that should be our focus. We have plenty to keep us busy—learning to love others the best we can.”

  This quote changed the atmosphere, and Grandad thought for a while. “I suppose we do get our job description muddled up sometimes,” he said with a smile in his eyes. “God is the one we’re answerable to ultimately. And you’re right, we are supposed to love unconditionally . . .”

  We sat for another moment as he pondered it all. “Maybe that’s the best way,” he said. “I could leave the judging to God, putting that in his hands, and just love you as my granddaughter.�
��

  I stood up and gave him a big hug. Our theological differences hadn’t changed, but it seemed like we’d found a bridge across them. Hopefully, that could keep us connected. He would try to surrender his need to judge or correct me, trusting God would do that if necessary, and he would respect the ways I had come to understand the Bible. We could move ahead and not fall out, remaining part of each other’s lives.

  “I might not understand it all or agree with it, but I still love you so much,” he said, squeezing me as hard as his frail body could manage. “You’re so precious to me.”

  As I walked toward the door, he added, “If your grandmother was still here, she’d want you to know that she still loved you dearly too. She understood the Bible the same way I do, but despite that, I know she’d also say that our love for you is unconditional.”

  My eyes welled up, and I gave him a teary smile.

  True to his word, since then he has never brought up anything judgmental or corrective; he just does his best to love me unconditionally. Grandad is a hero to me and always will be. In our relationship I’ve caught a glimpse of something wider too: it’s given me hope for the parts of the church that don’t theologically agree. Yes, that’s a complex situation indeed, but perhaps there is a way for the church to remain united, and to see love triumph over judgment.

  28

  The plane touched down bumpily on the tarmac, shaking me out of sleep. Landing back on American soil for the first time since coming out as gay was a strange feeling. It was a country I’d lived in for almost a decade, so I was returning to a familiar place, but in an unfamiliar new season of life.

  Walking through the airport brought back memories and the painful reminder that my Christian music career was over. I’d spent ten years carrying my guitar on flights around the world, but this time I was traveling with no musical instrument in my hand. I’d be speaking, not singing, from now on. My entertainment lawyer was liaising with the record label in the process of formally dissolving my contracts, and it was heartbreaking to let it all go.