Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  The logical side of me understood the mechanics of why I couldn’t be a full-time worship musician anymore; I knew how the system worked. Christian record labels couldn’t invest money in artists who were considered morally controversial, and being gay placed me in that category. No one was directly admitting, “We’re firing you because you’re gay”; that would look like discrimination. It was all far more subtle. Health reasons were a useful scapegoat, despite the fact my scleroderma had been successfully treated and was now totally benign. Everyone was even-tempered and polite throughout the process, though, so at least there was no tangible animosity.

  Christian contemporary music runs like a giant machine—unless your singles are played on the vast religious radio networks and unless megachurches and big Christian festivals book you, you won’t sell enough albums to keep a major record label happy. Those doors all slammed shut as soon as you came out as gay.

  I’d considered making an album with an indie Christian label on a tiny budget and playing to small rooms of liberally minded people, but that wouldn’t keep a roof over my head. I’d also considered venturing into mainstream nonreligious music, but starting from the ground up with a totally different audience would be a vast undertaking. Plus, I was in my thirties, which felt too old to start an entirely new genre of artistry. My life had been poured into a specific musical niche, and my audience had now shut me out. On top of this, my American work visa was specific to that one form of employment in religious music and touring. The career was over; I had to accept that and let it go.

  The new career paths I was exploring, the PhD and work in TV, radio, and journalism, were some comfort. But money was extremely tight as they paid so little, and big questions about the future remained. How would I make ends meet? Could all of this evolve into a sustainable career?

  On top of that, a boycott of my songs was gathering momentum. Churches in the UK and the US were contacting me, saying, “We’re so appalled that you’ve come out as gay—we’ll never sing your songs again.” This reduced me to tears countless times. It felt as if my songs had been thrown in the trash, even by churches where I’d regularly sung and shared a precious sense of community. They knew songwriters got paid a small amount each time a song was used in church (a copyright system known as CCLI), so they were also hitting my financial survival by championing the boycott.

  Today, I felt lighter, though. I was landing back on American soil because I’d received a message from the Gay Christian Network, a US-based organization that supports LGBTQ+ Christians and their allies. They’d asked if I’d be a keynote speaker at their January conference. I could hardly imagine getting to stand in a room of two thousand LGBT-affirming Christians. I knew it would be a healing experience.

  The event, in Portland, Oregon, was everything I’d hoped for. It felt like walking into a totally new world. Here, LGBTQ+ people were in the majority, which was amazing, as we were used to feeling like a minority everywhere we went.

  The times of sung worship were just like the ones I knew so well, with drums, electric guitars, and contemporary songs. A few people waved rainbow flags as they stood and sang. We heard from inspiring speakers, spent time praying together, and got to know each other over coffee afterward. Several times I had to pinch myself. Was this real or was it just a dream? I felt as though I’d come home at last.

  On the second night, during the worship time, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when a song began. I recognize this song, I thought. And then I realized why: it was one of mine.

  I hadn’t even picked up a guitar since my interview had been published. None of the churches or conferences I’d played at over the years had sent me their usual booking invitations as I was now far too controversial. “Sorry, we just don’t agree with your new sinful lifestyle,” they’d written to say. “You’ve made your choice, and we have to make ours too.”

  But as the worship band at the Gay Christian Network started playing my song, tears fell down my cheeks. It meant so much that they’d chosen my music. Hearing my lyrics and melody sung by other LGBTQ+ Christians and their supporters was deeply moving.

  “Glory to God, glory to God, glory to God forever”—the crowd sang the chorus over and over. We reached the last part of the song: “Take my life and let it be all for you and for your glory, take my life and let it be yours.” I sang those words, still struck by how different it felt to hear them in a gay-affirming venue. Worship music and LGBTQ+ equality merged in that brief moment, and my heart soared.

  The final day of the event arrived, and I read through my script one more time as I downed a cup of tea. Suddenly my phone flashed with a text message: “Are you aware that Westboro Baptist is coming to picket?” I hadn’t been, but I quickly googled their website to find out if it was true.

  Based in Topeka, Kansas, Westboro Baptist is the most well-known antigay church in the world. Its members have been outspokenly protesting for the last twenty years. They travel around the country and are instantly recognizable with their GOD HATES FAGS banners. As British journalist Louis Theroux put it: “In the annals of strange religious groups, Westboro Baptist occupies a place of some distinction.” Their website tells people where they’ll be picketing that week, enabling local people to join in and swell their numbers.

  As I pulled up the Westboro website, I was startled. It mentioned me by name. Westboro protesters knew I’d be speaking at the Gay Christian Network, so they would be flying from Kansas to Portland to picket specifically before my speech. This was more than I’d bargained for at my first appearance stateside since coming out.

  Walking from my hotel to the conference venue, I heard them before I saw them. A man with a loudspeaker was preaching a damning message about homosexuals going to hell. As they came into view, I saw the GOD HATES FAGS signs waving. I was surprised to see how young many of them were; two girls who looked about eighteen were holding placards saying FAGS BURN IN HELL.

  Stepping through the line of protestors, I felt nervous. Westboro church members were known as nonviolent, but I had no idea who else their website advert had encouraged to come along. They’d named me, so if anyone knew what I looked like, perhaps I was in danger. I decided friendliness might be a wise approach, so I smiled at the protesters and said hello to the two youngest ones. They looked at me awkwardly, brandishing their FAGS BURN IN HELL placards.

  “I just wanted to say hi,” I ventured. “I’m the keynote speaker tonight, the one you named on your website, but I’m really not the evil person you think I am.”

  They didn’t say a single word. They just stared straight ahead.

  “Well,” I said with a smile, “I hope by meeting each other we can remember we’re supposed to be Christian family, not enemies.” Someone nearby snapped a picture of me standing in between the two girls, their offensive signs still held high.

  I headed on toward the Oregon Convention Center. Seeing another line of people, my heart sank. Surely not more Westboro people, I thought. Getting closer, I saw the message on their placards was the exact opposite: GOD LOVES YOU JUST THE WAY YOU ARE and YOU ARE QUEERLY BELOVED. They were local Christians who’d heard Westboro was coming to picket and decided they would organize a counterprotest, sharing a message of love.

  As delegates arrived for the conference, they had to walk through Westboro’s picket line. But they also walked through the “wall of love”—Portland Christians shouting that God loved LGBTQ+ people unconditionally, offering free hugs, and handing out rainbow ribbons. It was beautiful and a stark contrast to the hatred.

  Several online news sites, including the Huffington Post, picked up the photo of me standing between two Westboro protesters, with their signs waving; we were an unlikely threesome indeed. They also reported on the Portland Christians forming a wall of love as a counterprotest. The topic of faith and LGBTQ+ equality was getting a lot of coverage in mainstream media these days; it was an inflammatory issue right now.

  As I gave my speech that night, I told
my story. I also talked about theology, especially what I’d learned back in Oxford about the Christian mystics and their focus on mystery and wonder. I tried to lighten things with moments of humor too, and we all laughed as much as we cried. It was an emotional keynote speech for me and one I knew I’d never forget.

  My sister looked at me with a smile as I sat in her kitchen, back on the southeast coast of the UK, drinking tea. “So what about dating?” she said. “I mean, now you’re ‘out,’ have you started to think about seeing anyone?”

  “Well,” I replied slowly, “there is an American girl I met through a mutual friend. She’s been a huge support recently, and she’s gay. I love chatting with her on the phone. She said she comes to the UK for work trips sometimes, so I’m hoping it might turn into something more.”

  My sister grinned. “Does she like you back?” she asked.

  “Umm . . . I think she might,” I said.

  “I bet she does,” my sister said with a wink.

  I blushed and grinned. It was amazing to talk openly about the idea of dating a girl; I’d never been able to speak to anyone about this before. Most heterosexual people had been chatting about crushes or love interests since their teens, and now finally I could do the same.

  The American girl I liked, Mackenzie (not her real name), came to London on a business trip, and we decided to meet up for dinner. When we decided that it would be an official date, I was terrified and delighted in equal measure.

  It brought up so many questions for me, which showed the naïveté and sheltered nature of my past. What did gay people do on dates? What did lesbians wear? And what about the gender roles I’d been saturated with in the Bible Belt, where the man always paid the bill and opened the doors for the woman? Who paid on a lesbian date?! Did both people open doors?! It was hilarious and confusing in equal measure, and I found myself floundering, with no blueprint to follow.

  She let me choose the restaurant, so I picked an Asian place. “I wonder if she’ll think I’m strange for not drinking?” I worried. Alcohol was not approved of in Pentecostal circles, so it had never been part of my life. Wycliffe Hall had been one of the only Oxford colleges without a bar, and when I moved to Tennessee, the vast majority of Christians were strongly against drinking, so I’d fitted in well. In this new situation, I was worried she might think me weird.

  Another topic concerned me too: my background in the abstinence movement. Would that come up over the meal? What did I think about all of that now? I hadn’t had to think about it much until the prospect of dating loomed.

  It would be ironic, I thought with a smile, if I’m too gay to belong in the evangelical church, but I’m too traditional to fit in with the LGBTQ+ community. Hoping that wouldn’t be the case, I finally chose an outfit and got ready to leave.

  Thankfully, the date was a great experience. Mackenzie wore an outfit a lot like mine—dark jeans and a shirt. Conversation flowed easily, the hours flew by, and from that first evening it was clear we were falling for each other. We spent every spare moment together during the week she was in town. She also met Wendy and they got on like a house on fire, and we Skyped my sister, Jo. It was great to see that Mackenzie got a thumbs-up of approval from them both.

  We were slightly daunted by the prospect of a long-distance relationship with an ocean between us, but we committed to try and make it work. Often, I returned home to my London apartment to find she’d sent me flowers, and I looked forward to our evening phone call all day. It was such a life-giving experience. I’d spent so long figuring out the theology of being gay; now I was getting to experience it—I had a girlfriend, and it felt amazing.

  Long-distance relationships are challenging, of course. Some days it was tough—I’d waited so long, and now the person I was falling in love with was in a different country and a different time zone. We couldn’t go on dinner dates, watch movies, or attend events together. All we had were phone calls and Skype. But somehow the energy of it all carried us along.

  I had several speaking invitations at American LGBTQ+ conferences in my calendar, so Mackenzie and I were able to see each other there. She flew into each city, and we spent our downtime hanging out. I loved speaking at those church gatherings, as ministry was still my passion, and it was the best feeling to finish my work and then have Mackenzie waiting to take me out for dinner.

  It dawned on me that this was simply normal life for the straight worship leaders and pastors I knew. They got to do their vocational work in church and have the company and support of their significant other; they didn’t have to choose between the two. Something so normal for most heterosexual Christians was brand new to me after a lifetime of being barred from it, and it was wonderfully healing. Finally, I was living the life I’d always longed for.

  Mum, would you like to meet my . . . girlfriend?” I asked nervously. Now that we’d been a couple for a while, it felt right to have my parents meet her.

  “Of course,” she said. “We may be on a journey with all this, and we might not see eye to eye about theology, but you’re still our daughter and we love you dearly and want to be part of your life.”

  I told them when Mackenzie’s next London visit would be, and we marked a date on the calendar to meet up. Dad was happy to come too, as were my sister, Jo, her husband, Tim, and my nephew and nieces.

  Battersea Park was the place I’d chosen for this get-together, a leafy green oasis in the middle of London with direct views across the River Thames. As we gathered at the park entrance, I said, “Mackenzie, meet my family,” introducing each of them in turn. Everyone began chatting easily and naturally. I exhaled, relieved. It was going to be a good day.

  It did feel surreal, though, walking around Battersea Park—seeing my parents chatting with her, and my little nieces and nephew asking her to join in their games. My youngest niece grabbed Mackenzie’s hand and walked along, hand in hand with her. It was adorable. Years ago, I couldn’t have imagined this scene would ever exist. We rented bikes and rode around, then hired boats on the park lake and splashed and laughed as we avoided the ducks and raced each other around the bends. It was perfect.

  As time went by, dating long-distance began to take its toll. Eventually we reached a crunch point: her career was in New York, and she couldn’t leave it, and I loved England, and being near friends and family, too much to move stateside. We knew long distance couldn’t continue forever, and neither of us wanted to relocate, so we’d reached an impasse.

  After hours of phone calls, considering all possible options, tearfully we decided it had to end. We chose to stay friends rather than allowing the experience to leave a bitter taste; I knew I’d been lucky to have had a great introduction to what a relationship could be like.

  29

  No breakup is easy, and despite how conciliatory it had been, the relationship left me with things I needed to process. The biggest one was this: although I now believed being gay was fine, I couldn’t get rid of the “tapes” playing in my head telling me that I should still feel shame any time I was affectionate with a woman. Decades of being taught it was sinful to express romantic intimacy toward someone of the same sex had lodged deep in my psyche, creating a Pavlovian connection.

  After a few months passed, Mackenzie and I both began going on dates with other people. I found the same thing happened to me, whoever I was seeing; affection and intimacy instantly triggered shame.

  Most people start dating when they are in their teens, but, like a lot of Christian LGBTQ+ people, I hadn’t had that opportunity. Many of us lived in the closet, desperately trying to get free from our so-called sinful attractions. Some had been brave enough to secretly date people of the same sex, but others, like me, had been too scared, because we remained within traditional church communities. It was weird to try and get the hang of dating in my thirties, when most people had been doing it since they were in high school. Harder still, though, was my inability to shake off the feelings of shame.

  I had adored Mackenzie.
A couple of other girls I dated in London grew to mean a lot to me too. Despite that, the physical aspect of all those relationships proved tough. Anytime I was close to a girl, what should have felt meaningful and affectionate was overshadowed by guilt. Whenever they touched me, I suddenly felt as though I was outside of myself, watching from a distance, dissociated.

  The desire was all there, and I found these girls beautiful inside and out, but there was a disconnect between me and my body. Thinking back, I’d always viewed my body as the enemy. Since I was thirteen, life had been a battle against my sinful attractions, and I’d done all I could to shut my body down and feel them less and less. I’d imagined, when I came out as gay, that everything would be instantly fixed, but I was realizing it wasn’t that simple.

  Now in my thirties I felt little response, even with women I found incredibly attractive. I seemed frozen in time, having shut myself down years ago. Messages of shame filled my mind and left me distracted and stressed out. This was heartbreaking after waiting so long to be in relationships; I wondered if I’d ever be free to enjoy being affectionate and intimate, or whether the impact of my past was just too powerful to undo.

  I knew I needed some help to talk this through, so I called Christopher, who’d counseled me previously, back when I had had my breakdown and the chemo treatment.

  It was good, and yet painful, to be back in his office. “I hoped I was starting a brand-new, happier chapter of life when I came out,” I said to him, “and that I wouldn’t need to be sitting in your therapy chair anymore. But I’m finding the teachings I was raised with are still having an impact, creating shame that I just can’t shake. And I feel so dissociated from my body.”

  Christopher was his usual sensitive self. He asked questions, but mostly just let me talk. As our sessions progressed, I realized that it wasn’t surprising that three decades of indoctrination were difficult to undo. I also realized that it wasn’t just shame about being gay that was affecting me; it was fear and anxiety connected with sexual attraction in general. The purity movement (True Love Waits) had impacted so many Christians my age, straight and gay, and thousands of us were left trying to recover from its influence.