Exactly one year after taking my first steps out of the closet I had finished graduate school, gotten an amazing job opportunity and packed my bags for a big move to the big City of Chicago. The year leading up to that move was, to date, the worst year of my life. I was adrift from my moorings in so many ways and feverishly grasping for something to hold onto be it my faith, my family, a relationship… Anything. The more I clamored for these things, the more they seemed to slip through my fingers only to be replaced with a deep-seeded anger and resentment that was welling up (and often boiling over) from inside. The excitement and hope brought about by the opportunity for “freedom” was tempered by a nagging desperation to find a place where I belonged.
Upon arriving in Chicago I had two existing connections I was counting on heavily to make the transition easier. One was a mentor of mine from an urban studies program I had been a part of during my last semester of undergrad. She had been in the periphery of my life since I was in middle school, but had become an important role model for me during my last year of college where I had studied urban ministry in Chicago under her leadership. I had no idea how significant a role she would play in my life a little later on, and had I known I might not have kept her at arm’s length while I put all of my eggs in another basket, which was with the boyfriend I had made in Chicago prior to moving there.
Needless to say, every last egg went in the boyfriend basket and within about three years those eggs had all been shattered. And so, a few years into my Chicago sojourn I found myself sitting in a pew at a place called LaSalle Street Church at the invitation of my mentor, with my basket of broken eggs in tow. And by this time that basket of broken eggs carried with it a dark cloud and a foul stench of anger, heartbreak, bitterness and resentment. I counted on that stench to keep people at arm’s length, even as I sat in the pew longing for a do-over, a chance at connecting back to a community of faith where I was worried I wouldn’t fit anymore.
I hadn’t abandoned my faith during those first years of coming out. In fact, it wasn’t even an option in my mind. But as a young gay Christian unwilling to deny his sexuality, finding an open and affirming evangelical church in the Midwest was about as easy as finding a PFLAG meeting at the Vatican.
I had visited numerous churches in Chicago during that time period, but services were inconveniently scheduled during the morning hours immediately following Saturday nights. I’m not sure who first planned this, but it certainly makes church attendance difficult if one’s first priority is to find his place among the fun-loving gay scene that is Boystown, Chicago. These boys definitely know how to party, they just don’t always know how to stop before the sun comes up.
Needless to say, the search for a church (half-hearted as the effort was) had not been successful, that is until my third or fourth visit to LaSalle Street Church over the course of about a six-month period. There was something different about this church. I only knew one person there, and although she introduced me to a few others I can admit that what really made me come back was the fact that people simply left me alone. I could come in late, sit in the back and leave before the dreaded coffee hour, and no one seemed to mind. I felt no judgment when I came in late, eyes bloodshot, voice raspy from dehydration. Eventually I started showing up on days other than Sundays… It wasn’t long before I even began showing up to church events that were scheduled (gasp!) on Friday nights. I didn’t know it yet, but something had shifted deep down inside. Hope had sprung up ever so slightly and the sweetness of it began to clear the stench from what had been dying inside of me a little bit more every day, for a long time.
I realize now that although some of the alienation I felt from the church was very real, a great deal of what I had experienced wasn’t a reaction to the revelation of my sexual orientation. Instead, some of it was a response to the anger and resentment that characterized my demeanor when I encountered people from the evangelical world. I was always prepared for rejection; so tuned into my loss of belonging that I had created a wall of cynicism that impaired even my own vision.
It’s almost laughable now when I think about my first interactions with people at this church. Everywhere I went I was that angry gay guy just waiting for someone to start a conversation about the Church and its impact on society. I eventually took part in a six-week study on human sexuality led by one of the many ordained ministers who attend LaSalle. How difficult I must have made that study as I sputtered and spewed my anger and resentment week after week, at times all but shouting “But I just want to HAVE SEX!” at the top of my lungs to a room full of patient but visibly concerned people.
What I was really doing was bleeding. My soul was wounded and just bleeding all over everyone. And you know what? They let me bleed. Nobody got bent out of shape about the mess. No one tried to tie on a tourniquet. They just let me bleed, and in the process the wound started to heal.
This is why LaSalle Street Church was home to my first breakthrough of belonging: This was not a “gay church” by any definition, nor was it a fundamentalist church in the business of making a political point. This was a church of self-proclaimed “Recovering Evangelicals” that had become a refuge for all types of people not belonging in other religious circles. This church embraced me through my anger, loved me to a place of healing, and then called me to live an integrated life of service to others. This was the community of faith that broke through to me.
Ten years ago I began searching for a place of belonging in the Church where I could be true to my faith and honest about my sexuality. I knew I had found that place in LaSalle Street Church, and now I’m so grateful to be connected to a faith community that took the hard road and has affirmed that spirit of belonging for so many others just like me.
Just last month I received word from a number of my friends at LaSalle (where I’m still a long-distance member) that the Elder Board had unanimously passed a resolution stating that LaSalle Street Church will not deny lay leadership positions to anyone solely because of sexual orientation, but instead will look at how his or her life reflects the core values of the Church community including authenticity, faithfulness and genuine service. To me, these are words of life and healing of a depth that I cannot even describe.
I received the good news about my church recently while in the presence of three people who have brought me to the second breakthrough of belonging in my adult life, a breakthrough brought about by a rich bond of friendship within the gay community.
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