Undivided

by Vicky Beeching

  After the event, we stood chatting as we said our good-byes. The rabbi had been deeply moved by hearing my story during the panel discussion. She told me a quick story, and it’s one I’ll never forget:

  Rabbi Zusya of Hanipol was an influential eighteenth-century Jewish teacher. As he lay on his deathbed, he couldn’t stop crying. His followers stood around him asking, “Rabbi, why are you so sad? After all the good deeds you have done, surely you’ll receive a great reward in the afterlife.”

  Rabbi Zusya replied, “I am afraid. When I get to heaven, I know God is not going to ask me, ‘Why weren’t you more like Moses?’ or ‘Why weren’t you more like King David?’ I’m afraid that God will ask, ‘Zusya, why weren’t you more like Zusya?’ And then, what will I say?”

  I loved that she told me that story. It was a powerful reminder that, for those of us who believe in a Creator, we honor that Being by respecting the way they designed us and by allowing our uniqueness to shine. I’d spent a lifetime trying to be someone else. Not only was that damaging me, it was also offensive to the God whom I believed had designed me and woven me together.

  The closing line of that powerful Jewish story often echoes around my head: “Zusya, why weren’t you more like Zusya?” It’s a heartwarming reminder that God longs for us to simply be ourselves.

  32

  “So, Vicky Beeching, welcome,” the host said with a smile. I’d agreed to do a radio interview in London about faith, sexuality, and mental health. They wanted to ask what I’d learned over the years since I’d come out.

  “Your songs have been sung in churches around the world and, despite knowing you’d lose that career, you came out as gay. How do you feel about your life now that a few years have passed?” he asked.

  I thought for a moment, wanting to be honest. “I’m delighted I took the step—I’ve never regretted it for a moment. I feel far more comfortable in my own skin. Some things are still difficult, but the good vastly outweighs the bad.”

  He nodded. “What have been the highlights?”

  “Definitely the way other LGBT people of faith came out after reading my article in 2014, and the way that’s continued ever since,” I said, thinking of the emails and letters that still arrived every week. It seemed like a domino effect; it was bigger and longer lasting than I’d ever imagined.

  “Fantastic. What else?” he said.

  “I love getting to walk alongside young LGBT people in their journeys—some in person, some by email—seeing them find the courage to be themselves. Also, doing keynote speeches in corporate environments is meaningful to me too; so many organizations are keen to make their work culture more diverse.”

  “One question that’s come in from Twitter,” he said with a chuckle. “Have you found Miss Right?!”

  I smiled. “Not yet, but I’m open to meeting her someday,” I said. Since Mackenzie, I had dated a few women, but none of them had developed into anything serious. “One thing is crucial,” I added, laughing, “Miss Right needs to like Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings movie marathons.”

  He laughed and followed up with his next question: “What are your hopes for the future of the Church of England? Do you think they will allow same-sex marriage someday?”

  “I hope so—and I’m doing all I can to play my part in influencing that change. It’s a slow, uphill climb, though. Lots of people are working hard to help that become a reality; there’s an increasing number of openly LGBT Christians and we’re all vocal about the need for change.”

  Refilling my water glass, the host posed a new question: “What lessons have you learned from your journey?”

  “Well, I’ve certainly learned what it feels like to move from being an ‘insider’ to being an ‘outsider’ in a very short space of time. For me, that’s been about the evangelical community closing the door. Previously that part of the church felt like my home. That experience has opened my eyes to the way we turn so many situations in life into ‘us versus them’ scenarios, where we push away anyone who seems different from us.”

  He nodded, gesturing for me to keep speaking.

  “I’ve found myself considering who else is made to feel like an ‘outsider’ by the church. It’s a strange feeling when you realize you’ve been labeled ‘unsaved,’ yet you know that you are a decent person with a strong personal faith. It’s got my brain spinning about who else is labeled as an outsider by Christians—and whether those people are feeling the way I do.”

  He looked intrigued.

  “Churches provide very narrow boxes in deciding who’s in and out when it comes to being a ‘true believer.’ As a child, my church taught that only Pentecostals were truly saved; other Christians were not. I was taught that Catholics definitely weren’t true believers—and to be very wary of high church Anglicans, as they were spiritually dead and influenced by religious spirits. It’s amazing that even inside the church, we’re drawing such offensive lines, based on different kinds of Christians.”

  He nodded.

  “Today,” I continued, “there are over thirty-three thousand denominations within Christianity and many feel that only their brand of belief is ‘the true faith.’ Evangelical churches believe only those holding to evangelical theology are ‘saved.’ Charismatic churches often believe that only Spirit-filled Christians really know God. Many churches consider divorced people to be outsiders, as divorce is seen as going against the teaching of the Bible. Those from other religions are not saved, because they haven’t accepted Jesus as their Savior. The general public who hold no views on faith are, likewise, seen as destined for eternal damnation. That’s a lot of people on the ‘outsiders’ list.”

  The host looked thoughtful and said, “Have you come to any conclusions about it?”

  “Well, I don’t believe it’s possible to really understand this until you have personally been labeled an outsider. It’s far harder to grasp it from the shelter of the inside. I don’t know my conclusions yet, but it’s left me with a lot to think about . . .”

  He nodded. “If they are wrong on you, then there’s a high chance they might be wrong about others too, right?”

  I smiled. “Exactly.”

  Thinking for a moment, he asked, “Do you think that theme of insiders and outsiders has relevance outside the church—like in wider society?”

  “Absolutely,” I replied. “Politics is rife with that culture right now. There’s an urgent need for us to build bridges across the great divides in culture and politics. We need to get to know the people we disagree with, to meet as fellow humans and listen to each other’s stories. Listening with an open heart is everything. That’s when prejudices and stereotypes hopefully begin to dissolve, and we realize we have more in common than we imagined.”

  “Good point,” he responded, “especially in US and UK politics at the moment.” He pulled a face that expressed the complexity of them both, and I nodded.

  “We expect people to fall into such narrow categories,” I said. “I was told I could be gay or Christian, but not both. And these either/or boxes appear all over the place. Like, being told you can either be a boy or a ballerina, but not both. Or you can either be a successful career woman or a great mother. I think we need to throw away the either/or boxes we place each other in and allow people’s uniqueness and diversity to shine.”

  He looked at the clock, then said, “In the couple of minutes we have left here on the show, tell us about your other passion—mental health awareness.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “I’ve learned that there are many ‘closets’ we can feel forced to hide inside. One relates to sexuality, but there are many others—one of them is mental health. When I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety, I realized I was scared to be honest about that in my corporate keynotes, in case people mistakenly thought they made me ‘unreliable’ and ‘unsuitable’ to book for freelance work. It slowly dawned on me that I’d put myself in another closet; finally I was openly gay, but I now had a new aspect of myself I did
n’t feel able to speak about! Since then, I’ve made the choice to be very open about my mental health issues—and doing so has felt really liberating. Whenever I speak about it publicly, people tell me they also want to ‘come out of the mental health closet’ and talk about their struggles too, so it’s encouraging to see the taboo breaking down.”

  “Excellent,” he replied. “Any final thoughts before we end?”

  “I guess, overall, I’ve learned that life is short and that fear can hold us back from taking the steps we want to. Dreams we were excited about when we were younger get put on the shelf and traded for something safer and more sensible. If we don’t pay attention to that now, maybe we never will. I’ve learned that authenticity is powerful. Not just everyday authenticity—like being a decent person—but a much deeper kind that’s raw and costly, a more radical type of authenticity. Vulnerability is powerful too, and equally difficult to practice, as we take down the walls and make ourselves visible and open to people. I hope my story will be a reminder to anyone who hears it that sometimes you’ve got to leap into the unknown. And often when you do, it turns out better than you thought and a whole new world opens up.”

  He grinned. Switching off the microphone, he thanked me for being a guest on the show. Leaving the studio, I reflected on how much I’d been through, and how much I’d learned throughout my crazy journey so far. It was hard to sum up my life in a thirty-minute radio program, but interviews like that were a useful chance to step back and consider it all.

  Looking at social media, I saw the usual flood of criticism I received every time I went on radio or TV. Christians who opposed LGBTQ+ equality said I wasn’t a true follower of Jesus and that I should be ashamed of myself as I championed a “life of sin” and “led a generation into hell.” Despite their belief that I was abandoning true faith, I felt God by my side as much as ever before, perhaps even more so. His heartbeat was for justice and equality, and I felt him with me, helping me at every step.

  33

  My dad had bought a brand-new pair of shoes. Usually, he wore simple black ones, but he’d splurged on some fancy brown leather brogues. “It is a really special occasion,” he’d said as he’d laced them up.

  It was June 2017, and I was walking into Lambeth Palace, the London residence of the archbishop of Canterbury, with my parents for an award ceremony. To my amazement, I’d been recognized for my contribution to church music and would be receiving a medal from the archbishop himself at this public event at the palace. When the letter had arrived in the mail, I found myself welling up with tears. I’d never thought an openly gay person would get an award of that sort from the archbishop and his team. It felt like a healing moment.

  The Church of England remained in difficult tension. It still officially taught that same-sex relationships were sinful, and none of its priests were allowed to conduct marriages for couples of the same gender. But there were also signs of hope.

  Discussions were being held about what the future should look like; some LGBTQ+ people were being asked to tell their stories. It was slow progress, but momentum was building. A while back, the archbishop had even acknowledged in an interview that some gay relationships were “stunning” in their quality of love and commitment. Those of us campaigning for same-sex marriage were encouraged by these glimmers of hope, but we also battled exhaustion and heartache, as it seemed so far from being a present reality.

  As I walked through the huge wooden doors at Lambeth Palace, the occasion felt even more meaningful because I’d been able to invite my parents. I was glad they could see that my faith was still affirmed by people as senior as Justin Welby, despite the fact that my music career was over and I was no longer welcome to sing in evangelical congregations or at conferences. The award was in recognition of the role I’d played in the past and the fact that my songs had been sung all around the globe. It meant the world to me, and it helped remind me my musical legacy still mattered and hadn’t been entirely tossed in the garbage by everyone.

  Lots of people were inside, seated in a wood-paneled room, each nominated for something different. To my surprise, at the table opposite us was Kallistos Ware, the Greek Orthodox bishop with the snowy beard who had taught me Contemplative Spirituality at Oxford. He was receiving an award for services to theology—and well deserved it was. I leaned over and said so, enjoying reconnecting after all these years and hearing him speak in his pleasantly booming voice.

  Other worship leaders were there too—faces from my past. They were people I used to stand alongside on conference stages. It was good to see them again, although it brought back the painful reminder that coming out had meant I no longer got to do what they did at evangelical conferences, so it was bittersweet.

  Mum and Dad looked great in their new outfits; I was so glad we were sharing the experience. When the ceremony began, I watched as the first few people’s names were called; each walked to the front of the room where Archbishop Welby stood. He shook their hand, then placed a medal, on a bright blue ribbon, around their neck. I wondered if I’d get tearful when my turn came.

  My name was called, and I stood up and walked forward. There were no other openly LGBTQ+ people there nominated for awards, and I worried I might get disapproving looks. Some of the attendees were deeply traditional, and I wondered what they were thinking. I walked ahead as resolutely as I could, looking at the floor.

  When I lifted up my eyes, I saw Archbishop Justin in front of me. He placed the ribbon and the medal over my head and around my neck. At that moment, I couldn’t keep a tear from escaping. It felt like such a healing and hopeful gesture. But I was also sad. Sad that the church was not yet ready to fully affirm LGBTQ+ people, and aware that my award would generate a lot of criticism from Anglicans around the globe (which it did after the event).

  I tried to hold all of this in tension and focus on the positives; standing in Lambeth Palace in that moment, I knew that small steps would lead to bigger change. If the archbishop’s team felt able to give an award to someone openly gay and in favor of same-sex marriage, things were moving forward.

  When I returned to my seat, my parents leaned over and whispered, “Well done. We’re so proud of you.” They were still on a journey about theology, but their love for me remained unconditional.

  Walking out of Lambeth Palace, we strolled over Westminster bridge and looked out across at the river at Big Ben and the setting sun.

  “Today was a big moment,” my mum said. “It’s a reminder that even though your music career is over, it impacted a lot of people. And that some people do still listen to your songs and use them in churches around the world, even if they don’t agree with you on LGBTQ+ theology.”

  I nodded.

  “Last week, I played one of your songs at a worship meeting, and people found it so helpful,” she added.

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “‘Undivided Heart,’” she replied, “the one about wanting to be totally committed to God. I absolutely love that chorus.”

  Give me an undivided heart,

  I want to love you with every part.

  Give me an undivided soul,

  I want to be yours alone, yours alone.

  “Ah, that one,” I said with a smile. That song kept cropping up at significant moments in my journey. Originally the words had been a prayer that I’d be set free from my gay orientation. But since coming out, I’d made my peace with the song and had come to see it in a new way—as a song about wholeness, about holding on to both my faith and my sexuality.

  It meant a lot to know my mum had played the song to others and that people had found it inspired them in their faith. As I looked out across the River Thames, I reflected on how the title of that song summed up where my journey had finally brought me after all these years—a place of wholeness where I could be myself, totally undivided.

  “Maybe that should be the title of the book I’m writing for HarperCollins,” I joked. “Undivided Heart . . . or maybe just Undivided.”
<
br />   “That’s not a bad idea,” said my dad. “I think Undivided would make a very good title. Perhaps it will be.”

  We stood on the bridge, watching the sunset light up the Westminster skyline. I was still wearing the medal I’d received at the Lambeth Palace awards, and as I touched it I felt a surge of hope for the future of the church.

  There were lots of us now, LGBTQ+ Christians and allies, all working to bring change. It was a movement that would keep pressing on, relentlessly, until love won the day. We were all in it together.

  As the last traces of pink and red shot across the evening sky, my parents and I stood thinking about the day and all it symbolized. We had been on quite a journey together, and despite our differing views we were still united by a bond of unconditional love.

  My life wasn’t perfect. Many people in the church still considered me deeply sinful for being gay and campaigning for same-sex marriage, and that was immensely painful. My health was still up and down with fibromyalgia and ME. But there was also a lot to be encouraged by, as the Lambeth ceremony had reminded me.

  Minds and hearts were genuinely softening. People were open to hearing about new ways we could understand the Bible. Conversations like the one I’d had with my grandfather had proved to me that it was possible to disagree but still coexist, focusing on a love that crossed ideological divides.

  Who knew what other positive steps were just around the corner? We were a generation seeing LGBTQ+ history being made in front of our eyes. I knew someday the church would unanimously support same-sex marriage; it was just a question of time.

  The chill of the evening air moved in, and Big Ben chimed as the stars appeared one by one. My parents and I took one last look at the river as it shimmered in the moonlight and walked toward the station to catch our train home.