By Jay Stracke
Her name was Gloria. She always sat a few pews in front of me and my family at Sunday service. As the music from the church band swept across the congregation, her arms would rise, her eyes would close, and a peaceful smile would grace her face.
After worship ended, we’d walk up to visit her. She would wrap her arms around me and tell me that she loved me. Her smile, which only moments before was soft and serene, now burst with warmth and light. Love poured out of her.
Gloria was everything I believed a Christian to be—an exemplar of love and kindness.
Soon, that idea would be shaken.
Several years later, fists clenched and heart heavy, I stared at the paper before me—a pop quiz for my high school’s required “Christian Ethics” course. In bold lettering it read: “You are approached by someone handing out gay pride pins. What do you, as a Christian, say in response?”
By then, I already knew and understood my identity as a queer man. I understood who I was and who I loved. Pen in hand, I inked the words I long wished were spoken to me.
“I’m proud of you. I love you.”
A week later, our tests were returned. I was reprimanded for my response and reminded that, as a Christian, I needed to take such opportunities to guide people toward Jesus.
I felt myself crumble. I was tired. I had grown too used to hearing these types of hateful sentiments. Many of them came quietly, others came as shouts. Some were subtle, but many were blatant. Several were masked as compassion, but each and every one was hurtful. And soon, this glory, this beauty I knew God to be, was slipping away from me. I didn’t want to believe that I would be condemned, nor that my mere existence was an egregious error in the world God had envisioned and intended.
In my pain, I had forgotten about Gloria. I had forgotten about the love that she shared.
As a result, for many years, I renounced my faith. Fundamentally, I believed that who I was and what I grew up believing could not coexist. Yet, I still clung to the hope that a greater power existed—one who comprised nothing but charity and benevolence. I hoped that love flowed from this power like a river, much like it did from Gloria so long ago. So, I vowed that I’d honor that power through loving whole-heartedly and nothing else.
But I soon discovered that this wasn’t enough for me. I longed for the spiritual home my childhood church once provided.
It was through meeting other queer people of faith that I realized I was wrong in believing a harmony between identities couldn’t be achieved. It was through finding a church that celebrates queer identity, learning of another that fights for transgender rights, and through the faithful, honest compassion exhibited by those near and dear to me that I discovered these two worlds don’t have to exist separately from one another.
So this is a thank you letter, a love letter and a reminder to all who are queer and of faith, of no faith, or like me, are still on their journey, that faith isn’t linear. It isn’t clear cut, and it can come from within you. It is what you choose, what you make it to be, and what you believe. And I believe in love. I believe in second chances. And I believe in giving faith a second chance.
Let all that you do be done in love. (1 Corinthians 16:14)
