My name is Mark. I’m gay. I’m a Christian. And I love Jesus Christ and believe Jesus loves me. I knew this statement would be too controversial for the nondenominational Christian church I attended for 6 years. I’d have said “been attending” if I decided not to leave.
When I was 7 years old, my father died of colon cancer.
When I was 15, I told my mother I was suicidal and gay in the same sentence. At that moment, all she heard was that I was gay.
When I was 21, I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder II and received the medical explanation of my difficulty coping with life’s hardships.
My life, in short, has been a complex journey, navigating the intersections of grief, faith, and sexual identity. June is a unique time that many consider celebratory. Of course, Pride is the month-long celebration of the LGBTQA+ community. But, there’s also Father’s Day, the celebration of Father’s. While I always enjoy celebrating my sexuality in June, Father’s Day has always felt like a bitter footnote. Some years are easier than others, and depending on where I am in my journey through grief, I can either cope and feel comfortable or fall into a quiet depression.
On June 2nd, I wanted to be baptized at my church. I was baptized as a Roman Catholic, but that was when I was an infant. As an adult who has returned to the Christian faith, it felt significant for me to be baptized and share my grace story. In April, the cozy world I thought I knew began to crumble. My church was offering a class called “Faith and Sexuality,” and they claimed to teach “biblical truths” of same-sex attraction. I cringed inside because I could already recite the verses they’d probably take out of historical context to map onto our current political moment. I confronted my preacher and asked him what was being taught in the class. What is the conclusion if a church is non-LGBT-affirming? Does it stop at marriage equality? Going into that meeting, my main concern was this: If a church is non-affirming, what is the implication? Is the implication that God doesn’t love gay people? Is the implication that all the sermons, worship music, and prayers aren’t for me, a gay man? Aren’t for any of the queer community? I asked my pastor these questions, and he responded,
“Well, I know you’re an English guy, so we can get into semantics. What does it even mean to be ‘affirming.’ What do I have to affirm? I affirm you as a brother in Christ, but I gotta be honest with you, Mark: I can’t affirm your lifestyle.
I smiled a polite smile, too polite, too stunned to express anything.
“But you know,” he continued awkwardly, “We’re all sinners. I do believe Jesus loves you. I love you as a brother in Christ. But you still have to turn away from your sin. We all do. Every day.”
“So you wouldn’t be comfortable baptizing a gay man?” I asked.
“I would!” He spat out. “I would. Truly. I would feel comfortable baptizing you. You know, some people do private baptisms. It happens all the time. We could do that.”
“But, a baptism is a public declaration of faith,” I replied.
He blinked and stared for a second. “Well, I would feel comfortable baptizing you. But you know, I want to protect you. I’m not sure how the congregation would feel. I can’t control who comes in the doors or their reactions. And I gotta be honest, I’ll have 40-50 hours of work having to reply to emails asking me questions.”
“The main point of my grace story is that I believe Jesus loves me. I believe Jesus accepts me for who I am.”
“I believe that too. I do. But you know, I think two men can have companionship, but to go as far as to have sexual relations–”
“What?” I stammered.
“Well, I don’t think two men should have sex. It’s wrong, it’s against the original design God planned in Genesis.”
“I’m not here to talk to you about sex. We aren’t Catholics; I don’t need your validation. I don’t need you to absolve my sins. My sex life is between myself and God.”
“Right, I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, you know, marriage is supposed to be between–”
“I don’t care about marriage. I don’t care about sex. I’m sitting here asking you if I, as a gay man, have Jesus’ love without condition.”
Once again, he paused, almost looking embarrassed. “I gotta say, Mark, I’ve never talked to a gay person who’s asked me these questions, questions beyond marriage and sex.”
“Does Jesus love me, a gay man?” I repeated.
“Well, yes.” He conceited. “But…”
“All I want to do is tell my story and let other gay Christians and others in the LGBTQ+ community know that they’re loved.”
“You know,” he began, “I agree. And I hope in ten years, we will have more and more people from that community coming to our church.” An awkward silence passed. “You know, why don’t you draft your grace story? I’ll have to share it with church leadership, but we can see about letting you get baptized.”
I haven’t returned since, though it’s not that dramatic since it has only been about a month and a half.
I left the conversation, suppressing my pain and anger. I made many concessions and even agreed to write a draft of my grace story, which, I should mention, is the moment for many Christians when they believe and feel accepted by Christ.
My mom wanted to come to my baptism; this felt awkward because the first part of my story is how she initially did not accept me for who I was, told me I was going to hell, told me never to bring a boy home, and wept for the thought that I was gay. How my mother first reacted to me coming out of the closet was a wound for a while but has since healed into a scar. Our relationship is better now, but she refuses to acknowledge that she didn’t always accept me.
“Mom,” I said over the phone, “You know you won’t like the first part of my story.”
“Why not?” She asked in disbelief.
I let a long silence pass over the phone, rolling over in my mind what I should and shouldn’t say. Finally, I said, “Because you didn’t accept me at first. You told me you would help me get therapy for my suicidal thoughts, but instead, you brought me to the catholic priest, and he gave me a packet explaining how ‘homosexuality’ was a disease. That was what made me leave the church. That’s what made me turn away from God at first.”
Silence.
“I don’t remember that. I’ve always loved you and accepted you.”
Silence without recognition.
“Well,” I said, giving up, “I’ll let you know what I decide to do.”
My least favorite hypothetical is thinking about whether my father would have accepted me or not. So many people, family members, and friends say that he would be proud of the man I am. They say he would’ve loved me and accepted me. Sometimes, I wish he’d be the hero in my story, standing up for me when I faced so much discrimination. I wish he’d hear what happened at my church, storm the doors, and yell at the preacher. I wish he’d punch the priest who tried giving me conversion therapy when I first came out. I’ll never know. Maybe he, too, would’ve reacted like my mom.
I’ve started attending an LGBTQ+-affirming Episcopal Church. Within three weeks, I felt more accepted and as if I belonged more than ever at the church I had attended for six years or the Catholic church I had attended for 18. The priest is a woman. I met with her last week to ask her questions about the church.
“We here at St. Peter’s welcome everyone. We also want to ensure we go beyond welcoming and hope people feel like they belong. I don’t believe being gay is a sin, and we accept you for who you are here. I’m sorry; I’m so sorry for all the hurt you’ve experienced. Jesus loves you.”
For the first time in my life, at a church, she told me what no other preacher or priest had ever told me: a simple sentence: “Jesus loves you.” And she didn’t follow it up with, “but.”
I hope my new church, St. Peter’s, will be a place I can truly feel accepted as part of the body of Christ, and not just an asterisk.
If you or someone you love is experiencing suicidal thoughts or idealization, help is available. The Trevor Project provides 100% support care via phone, text, or site. Learn more by visiting thetrevorproject.org.
COMING OUT SOBER: Welcome to Coming Out Sober! I’m Tamar Medford, your guide through the wild ride of sobriety and self-discovery. My mission is to create a safe, supportive space for those navigating sobriety and LGBTQ+ identities. I aim to inspire others by sharing my story and exploring our unique challenges. Together, we’ll break down barriers, challenge rigid beliefs, and celebrate living authentically. Whether it’s through personal anecdotes or reflections on societal norms, I hope to foster a community where everyone feels seen, heard, and loved.
Here, you’ll find stories from me and others about living sober and out loud. Let’s dive into the hilarious, heartbreaking, and everything in-between moments of breaking free from booze and societal norms.
Coming Out Sober Fun Fact! A handful of Sober Curator Contributors identify as being in the LBGTQAI+ community. With this new Coming Out Sober column, you will hear from multiple voices and perspectives from our Sober Curator Contributor community.
Call 988 to reach the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. It provides free and confidential support 24 hours a day, seven days a week for people in suicidal crisis or distress. You can learn more about its services here, including its guide on what to do if you see suicidal language on social media. You can also call that number to talk to someone about how you can help a person in crisis. For crisis support in Spanish, call 1-888-628-9454.
For support outside of the US, a worldwide directory of resources and international hotlines is provided by the International Association for Suicide Prevention. You can also turn to Befrienders Worldwide.
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