Dear Sarah*,
I visited a new church last Sunday. It made me think of you. The minister got up, and he announced that the church had a float in the Mardi Gras. I saw two women holding hands in the congregation. I tried to hide the fact that I cried.
That church service made me think of you, because it was the opposite of what we were supposed to be achieving together. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about our weekly catch ups. I went to that corner café in Annandale the other day, and I found myself terrified that you would be there. I spent those six months we met, explaining to you how I felt so uncomfortable in my own skin. I opened up about my dating life and the shame I felt, the girls I wanted so desperately to be allowed to love. I convinced myself that being cis, and celibate was the only way that I could approach God and the church. You were my solution to the turmoil I felt inside. I could not be a lesbian. There was leeway in my internal experience, sure.
But externally, there was a mould to fit.
At one point, I remember you offered me a six-week program that you had designed, in which I could mourn my loss of love. One designed for women with “same-sex attraction”. A program through which I could express grief over the fact that I would give up my ‘desire for a romantic relationship’, and find joy in the Jesus I was being presented with. I think it was supposed to be cathartic?
I cancelled on you the last time we were supposed to catch up, and then I never really heard from you again. It’s been at least six months. I feel a sense of relief. The last two months that we met, dread would build in my gut before we caught up. I would come away from the hour feeling heavy and exhausted. I pushed the time between our meetings longer and longer. Yet, in a strange way, I’m a little sad that I haven’t heard from you. While there is anxiety in the thought that you’ll reach out to catch up again, I’m also reminded that I was just your job. Another woman you were helping— sponsored by a board of straight men, and a church that’s left me (and so many of my friends) with lasting scars.
I’m not a Christian at the moment. I don’t trust the God I was brought up to believe in, and I don’t trust the God I was supposed to be dedicating my life to.
In embracing my queerness, I have never felt more myself. I feel genuine freedom, more than I ever felt when I was supposed to be ‘free in Christ’. I’m starting to build another community of people around me, and it’s beautiful. I’ve had conversations with friends who also grew up in our church and have since left for their own reasons. Right now, this is the lightest my “burden” has ever felt. I think Jesus made it much heavier than it was supposed to be— or perhaps that was our church.
Part of me wishes that being a Christian was as easy as just going to an affirming church. It’s not, currently. Maybe it will be eventually. Maybe I’ll add to my community a church that has a float in Mardi Gras, one where I can hold a girl’s hand.
In the meantime, I think I can hold joy in this queerness as well as one day holding joy in faith. I don’t think I’ll ever go back to my evangelical roots, the ones I fought for with you.
Truly, I do wish the very best for you— whether that’s in the faith you have now… or a broader one, where you do feel both freedom in your faith and who you love.
Perhaps one day we’ll meet again.
Sincerely,
Lili
*name changed
