Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  As a nonreligious person, Christopher was intrigued by how staunch and severe the True Love Waits ethos had been. I brought in an old copy of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, the flagship book from the purity movement, and we chatted about its contents. We also watched a documentary made by Matt Barber, an American guy who’d grown up around those teachings and was processing his experiences. Barber’s film was an interesting assessment of the American church culture that had crossed the pond and influenced me and others in the UK’s Pentecostal and evangelical circles.

  Christopher and I did a Google search on Joshua Harris, author of I Kissed Dating Goodbye, and found that Harris had received so many negative letters about the damage the book had done to people that he and a small team were creating a documentary to interview people who’d been affected by the book, and also to share his revised views. So many people wanted this exposé documentary to be made that they’d raised over $40,000 on Kickstarter to fund it.

  All of this made one thing clear to me: thousands of other Christians were dealing with similar issues as they processed what the purity movement had programmed into them, whether they were straight or LGBTQ+. For so many of us, all forms of romantic affection were tinged with fear and shame.

  Outside of therapy, I chatted about this topic over coffee with a straight friend, Emma, who’d been raised in a British evangelical church. Emma told me her marriage was on the verge of divorce and that she felt it was because of over-the-top teachings on sexual abstinence that had been drummed into her during her teens and twenties. Back then, various books and sermons left her feeling guilty whenever she felt sexually attracted to her Christian boyfriend. The couple gritted their teeth, pushed those feelings away, and managed to save sex for marriage.

  On her wedding night, Emma couldn’t switch off the guilt and shame she’d always associated with sex and found herself in floods of tears, on the verge of a panic attack. The couple couldn’t consummate their marriage, and as the months went by it had created growing tensions for them. Sobbing as she told me this, Emma said the issue looked as if it would cause them to divorce. She desperately wished the connection between sex and shame had never been woven into her mind and body by the church. My heart ached for her.

  Another friend, Kate, whom I knew from a Pentecostal conference I used to attend, confided in me that she had a similar situation. She was straight and married and had been diagnosed with a medical condition called vaginismus, an involuntary contraction of the vaginal muscles that disallows penetration.

  Her doctor had asked her why she thought she’d developed this. Both Kate and her doctor concluded it was because she’d had such a deep-seated fear of sex before marriage; she was frightened that she’d “go too far.” Her church had taught that sex outside of marriage was a grievous sin, so she’d disconnected herself as much as possible from all sexual feelings. As a result, her body had shut down. Now married to a man she loved, she couldn’t undo the association. And it was breaking their marriage apart.

  Kate pulled up an NHS article and let me read more about her diagnosis: “Having feelings of shame or guilt around sex could contribute to vaginismus. For example, you might feel uncomfortable with sex if you have had a very strict upbringing where it was never discussed, have been told that sexual desire is wrong, or are affected by cultural or religious taboos around sex.” She also showed me a piece from Psychology Today that reported vaginismus was frequently caused by “religious values that conflict” and “negative messages or beliefs about sex.” She cried as she talked about it all and told me she was seeing a therapist as she tried to unpack the fear-based teachings she’d heard throughout her teens and twenties.

  Daniel, a guy who’d grown up in a charismatic Anglican church, told me that every time he had sex, it left him with strong feelings of shame afterward, as if he’d disappointed God and committed a sin. No amount of therapy had been able to deprogram the association forged in his Christian youth-group days, when he’d read books like I Kissed Dating Goodbye and been told at UK youth conferences that masturbation was a sin and that his sex drive was something to fight against and suppress.

  Daniel had been married, but was now divorced, and said the big reason he and his wife had rushed into walking down the aisle at twenty-one was because they were too scared they’d “slip up” and commit the sin of premarital sex. After hurrying into that commitment, they later realized that they weren’t suited as life partners at all. A messy divorce had followed with pain on all sides.

  A new friend, Alicia, told me that she’d been raised in a British church youth group that taught sex outside of marriage left you as “damaged goods” that no godly husband or wife would want. When she was sexually abused by an older man, she saw herself as “damaged goods” and her self-esteem plummeted. She believed her hope of finding a godly husband was over.

  Alicia ended up in a string of abusive relationships because she believed she didn’t deserve any better; she was “damaged,” according to church teachings. Now in therapy, she was making progress, but it was devastating to hear what she’d been through.

  All these stories broke my heart. I wondered what resources were out there to help us all find healing. Christopher, my therapist, was a lifesaver and helped me immensely as we talked each week. I also tried to read anything I could find on the topic—and discovered there was a lot. Dianna Anderson, a bisexual Christian, wrote an entire book on her journey as she tried to undo the influences of the purity movement. Her book, Damaged Goods: New Perspectives on Christian Purity, was extremely honest and left me with much to think about.

  Sarah Bessey, a straight Canadian author, blogged bravely about the topic. She told of the shame she was made to feel by the church when she lost her virginity before she was married: “I was nineteen years old and crazy in love with Jesus when that preacher told an auditorium I was ‘damaged goods’ because of my sexual past. Over the years the messages melded together into the common refrain: ‘Sarah, your virginity was a gift, and you gave it away. You’ve ruined everything. No one honorable or godly wants to marry you. You are damaged.” Her conclusions today were that “virginity isn’t a guarantee of healthy sexuality or marriage” and that “there’s a lot of baggage from this whole purity movement.”

  Another great book I picked up was by Amber Cantorna, the lesbian daughter of a Focus on the Family executive. She grew up around an especially severe version of purity culture and shared her recovery process in the memoir Refocusing My Family. As I read these stories, they each helped at different points in my healing process. They were invaluable and a crucial reminder that I was not alone.

  Many church youth groups still teach teenagers today that masturbation is a grievous sin, and that adult couples who are dating should avoid even heavy kissing, in case it “leads to more.” These pressures create a lot of anxiety and guilt, especially in kids whose minds are still forming. Sex and sexuality are gifts from God, and the way that Christians talk about them needs revisiting.

  I respect the choice of anyone who wants to date or not date, to save sex for marriage or not. But the manner in which these topics are addressed in churches needs far more care and consideration. Well-meaning theology about respecting sex can, if delivered badly, create indelible associations between intimacy and shame. I’m living proof of that, as are many others.

  Thousands of Christians are dealing with the fallout from this today—gay and straight, married and unmarried—and it’s a discussion the church needs to have. I don’t know exactly what the answers are, nor am I pushing a particular agenda beyond LGBTQ+ equality. I just see the damage in myself and in many of my friends and hope Christian teachings about sex can be thought through with increasing levels of wisdom and sensitivity.

  30

  I’d lost so many friends when I came out, and I was grateful to be making new ones. Especially meaningful was getting to know gay couples who’d been together for years. I’d never seen what a civil partnership or long-term commitme
nt between two men or two women could look like, because such a thing hadn’t existed within my church circles. Same-sex marriage had become legal in the UK in 2014, so lots of couples were tying the knot. Finally, I had the role models I’d lacked my entire life, the quality of their relationships was evident, and these men and women were a joy to be around.

  I was enjoying spending time with a married lesbian couple named Eliza and Sam. Eliza had grown up in a Christian family, the daughter of an Anglican priest, so sometimes we chatted about faith. One day over coffee she asked me, “Since coming out, have you found a good church where you feel welcome and supported?”

  “In all honesty,” I replied, “I haven’t. I’m still looking; it’s a bit of a work in progress.” I felt in limbo about church, and it was something I felt awkward talking about.

  The services I was used to in evangelicalism were a world away from the ones that more liberal LGBT-affirming churches held. I missed what places like Holy Trinity Brompton offered: big gatherings of people with lots of energy and enthusiasm, worship bands with drums and guitars, home groups that met during the week, and ministry times where people offered prayer. That was where I felt at home stylistically.

  I’d visited several big evangelical churches in London since coming out, but each time I’d quietly exited, in tears, halfway through the service. It was immensely painful to see people I knew standing at the front, leading the songs I used to sing. I knew I’d never be welcome to do that in those churches now that I was openly gay. The feeling of exclusion was crushing. Sermons also covered painful territory; one made a throwaway comment that “of course, marriage can only be between a man and a woman,” and moments like that caused too many traumatic triggers for me.

  A few friends had said, “You must visit my church. It’s small, but it’s LGBTQ+ friendly, and sometimes we have guitars . . .” Most of those churches were across the city, though, and I was keen to find somewhere close by, so I could get involved in local parish life. After a while I realized part of my problem was deeper: I was afraid to trust a church community again, wary of putting myself in the care of priests and pastors when so many of them in my past had been responsible for causing me so much damage.

  I needed to step back and heal before I could plug in to a new congregation, and I needed to choose one carefully when I did start attending. This wasn’t “church shopping”—as though I were choosing a new TV set in an electronics store. It wasn’t about being picky, but about finding somewhere I’d be genuinely safe.

  In the meantime I decided to attend services at cathedrals. They were big and anonymous. I could worship without having to meet anyone else, and the more I went, the more I began to love the stunning architecture, choral music, and incense. It seemed to reflect the themes of mystery and wonder that had resonated with me in my studies at Oxford. Choral Evensong became my favorite service—especially as it allowed me to sleep in on Sunday mornings—and this became my weekly habit, alternating between St. Paul’s Cathedral, Southwark Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey.

  There was one evangelical-style service I did feel safe attending. It was a bimonthly event run by and for LGBTQ+ Christians and allies. It reminded me of a smaller, but equally great, version of the Gay Christian Network conference in Portland. The services happened on Saturday afternoons and felt like an oasis. A hundred and fifty of us sang songs led by a band with guitars and drums, then listened to an inspiring sermon, and prayed for one another. It was the closest thing I’d found so far to a spiritual home.

  As I kept attending those LGBTQ+ Christian worship events in London, it seemed natural that I might want to get back into music again. A few people had said, “We’d love you to lead worship here if you feel able,” but something was stopping me. Like the unbreakable Pavlovian link I’d developed between shame and romantic intimacy, there was also a link between singing and the homophobic church environments in which I’d always played.

  The Californian sermons that promoted Proposition 8 had left especially deep wounds—having to listen to such degrading comments about gay people, then sing my songs without saying a word. For me, my music had become associated with being silenced and shamed, and it only reminded me of the evangelical environments where I was no longer welcome.

  The pain of it crushed my creativity, and I didn’t want to even look at my guitars, let alone play them, so despite encouragement to try leading worship again, I just didn’t feel able. I kept noticing my three expensive guitars sitting in a corner of my flat. I’d needed high-quality instruments, and they’d been professional workhorses over the years. Now they lay there gathering dust, untouched since my interview had been published. I could hardly believe I hadn’t played them for so long.

  Money was tight as I tried to build my new career, and every now and then my bank balance dropped below empty. Finally, I made a decision: I would sell all my guitars. If I ever decide to sing again, I can replace them, I thought, as I created three eBay listings. I posted the links on Twitter and waited to see if anyone would buy them.

  They all sold within hours and went to great homes. My sadness was tinged with happiness, knowing they would be enjoyed in the next chapter of their lives. Mostly, though, I was just relieved to see my bank balance climb out of a deep overdraft.

  Maybe I would sing again someday, but if I never did, I had to be okay with that too. The association between music and painful church memories was just too strong. Until that changed, it was important to take that pressure off myself and let the healing process continue.

  London’s Portobello Road Market was buzzing with activity. I was meeting Wendy there for lunch, but I wasn’t feeling well. In fact, I hadn’t been feeling well for weeks. We began walking around, but I felt awful.

  “I think I’m going to fall over,” I said to her suddenly, grabbing hold of a nearby railing. “I feel so exhausted and dizzy.”

  Adrenaline had carried me through the initial phase of my coming out process: the media mayhem, the vitriol, my keynote at the Gay Christian Network, meeting Westboro Baptist, and my relationship with Mackenzie. Now that those things were over and my calendar was less hectic, I’d hoped my life was just beginning. I’d been healthy and energized throughout all of that, but now, suddenly, all my stamina had disappeared.

  “Maybe you have the flu?” Wendy suggested. But it didn’t feel like any flu I’d had before. My body wouldn’t function, and that day at Portobello Market was a good example; we had to get a taxi after walking around for only ten minutes. The world was swimming, and I’d felt short of breath. Wendy suggested maybe I should see a doctor.

  The following day, I went to a medical clinic, and they ran various blood tests. “Let’s see if you improve soon,” the doctor had said. I knew I needed time off to rest, so I cleared my schedule and slept for a week. But once I stopped, I couldn’t get going again.

  My strength had totally disappeared, my brain felt slow and foggy, and everything ached. Even with thirteen or fourteen hours of sleep, I still felt exhausted. Trying to resume my usual work, I was dozing off at my laptop, and every muscle in my body hurt. My mobility was rapidly decreasing, and I felt like I was turning into a ninety-year-old woman.

  After a couple of months, I was referred to two fatigue specialists. They monitored me and tested for other conditions, and finally at the end of a long series of appointments I was given two diagnoses. I had fibromyalgia, and I had myalgic encephalomyelitis (ME), also known as chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS).

  “You have all the symptoms,” one doctor explained. “Muscle dysfunction, a vast reduction in normal activities, cognitive slowness, painfully tender joints, sleep that never feels restorative, exhaustion after exercise, swollen glands, slow digestion, and constant immune issues . . . Fibromyalgia is responsible for the majority of your chronic pain and muscle weakness, and ME is responsible for the majority of your fatigue, but it’s complex, as they overlap and share symptoms too.” I listened, taking it all in.

  “Yo
ur autoimmune system is in chaos,” he told me, “and adrenaline is a prime problem here. You must’ve been under so much stress during your coming-out process—especially from the vitriol you’ve faced from people in the church, and losing your career, then needing to rebuild it. It’s sent your sympathetic nervous system into high alert, stuck in ‘fight or flight.’ In your weakened state, some kind of virus may have got in and triggered these conditions. Whatever’s happened, you’ve definitely developed fibromyalgia and ME.”

  “What’s the treatment for these diagnoses?” I asked, hoping something could be done to help me.

  “There aren’t any cures that we know of,” he replied, looking apologetic. “They’re complex illnesses, and there’s no consensus yet on exactly what causes them. They may be triggered by trauma, or immense stress, or some form of virus. No one knows exactly what kick-starts these diseases into action, but I’m sorry to say that neither has a known cure yet.”

  He handed me some printouts to take home with me. They were the NICE (National Institute for Health and Care Excellence) guidelines about these conditions. I scanned them, realizing it was not good news at all: “The physical symptoms can be as disabling as multiple sclerosis, systemic lupus erythematosus, or rheumatoid arthritis” and “place a substantial burden on people with the conditions, their families, and carers.”

  “So there isn’t a cure for either?” I asked again, still trying to process it all.

  “Sadly not,” he replied. “From now on, it’s about finding ways to make life as manageable as possible, learning that your capacity is far less than the average person’s, and trying to find the right pain medications to help you cope.”