This page, where I struggle to birth my thoughts into words and craft my journey as the wife of a bi guy into a narrative you will understand, has become a precious and healing space for me. In an effort to bring hope to others, I try to be open and transparent. In a culture that is all about image and perfect presentation, this is not easy. Sometimes it’s difficult to be honest. I am often misunderstood and judged. As a couple, we have been the brunt of much gossip. It’s hurtful and I’ll write more about that another day. Suffice it to say that even if my story is misunderstood and misconstrued, I know it will also be heard by someone who desperately needs to hear it.

So, today I am going to be upfront about something else. I went to church today. It’s been a minute since I entered the doors of a church. And, while I’m not ready to change that, I did go today because I wanted to hear Austin speak. It was beautiful, authentic and real. And while that is not the point of the narrative today, it made me realize that it’s probably time to stop hiding this part of my life from you.

Because I know I’m not the only one.

Why I stopped going to church

There are a number of reasons I stopped going to church. Since Austin has come out, I have realized just how many churches are not welcoming to the queer community. I have a hard time being comfortable in places where minorities are uncomfortable or marginalized. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it. And yes, I know there are some churches that are welcoming to all people. Yet that is only a part of the larger picture that I am struggling with.

Let me be clear, this is not about any, one particular church. It is about the big C as a whole. To be honest, it has a lot to do with the 81% of white evangelicals who voted for and elected a president who is the antithesis of what I believe a good leader should be. I’ve been looking around in disbelief for the past several years, unable to reconcile what I am seeing and hearing with the values drilled into me since birth. To love God with all I have and then to love those around me with the same depth of love I have for myself.

A god of violence

What I see instead is a culture that has fallen at the feet of a god of violence. A culture that places the safety and value of one set of people far above the rest. A place where white unborn babies must be preserved at all cost, yet black and brown babies who die motherless in cages somehow have gotten what they deserved. A culture that treats the “other” as disposable. An economy of enormous privilege and wealth grown on the backs of slavery, yet we cannot acknowledge the depth of the racism that systemically holds back entire groups of people.

We have become a collective mob, wanting to build a virtual (and physical) wall to keep out anyone who is different. Preservation of self and safety has been made into a holy thing. Here white men are excused again and again for terrible acts of violence against women. Justification is almost always given for those who take the lives of black people. The list could go on and on.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a Trump hater. I’m actually grateful for him because he exposed an ugly truth about the culture I am a part of. He is a problem but more importantly, he is a symptom of a sick culture. I’m angry with those whose preservation of their own safety and security is their #1 commandment. Who justify violence when it protects their interests. And while you may try to tell me that this is just human nature, I have a history running through my bones that tells a different story.

Descendant of Refugees

Centuries ago, my ancestors were literally on the run for their lives. Persecuted for their religious beliefs, which went against mainstream Christianity of the day, they were hunted down for refusing to be a part of a church that fell at the feet of a God of violence. I can hear their steps echoing in the mountain passes of the Swiss alps as they fled north to the French Alps. My bones can feel the chill, passed down 9 generations. A chill that has turned into a resolve that peace is never borne from violence. Eventually, a few of my ancestors became refugees, emigrating to these United States.

So, yes, I am the descendant of refugees, of immigrants, of a people so committed to a life of non-violence that they left everything behind to start again. Yet I look around and I see entire communities of other descendants who are now justifying violence (unless it is against white unborn babies). I feel a terror in my bones, a howl of utter grief in my soul and I cannot be silent. Nor can I adhere to a gospel of violence. Of racism. Of exclusion.
It was either throw out the baby and the bathwater or open my eyes and see that the bathwater was toxic and was trying to turn the baby into something it was not.

Replacing the god of violence

I personally think people have both misunderstood and misinterpreted from the beginning. While I still have more questions than answers, I came to the point where I could no longer believe in a god of violence. And, because I still believe there is a God, I came to the conclusion that the fault lay in humans, not God.

And so I have stepped away and filled up my Sunday mornings with quiet. I have given my soul permission to breathe in, savor and settle into my truth. And it has been utterly beautiful and freeing. Not going to church has given me space to find and worship the Divine.

This is where I am at. It may not make sense to you. It may even offend you. But this is my journey and I must follow it. Just as I must break the silence and honor the grief that howls in my soul.

I leave you with a bit of poetry that sums it up.

Finding the Divine

I find the Divine in the quiet of my room.
Mystical truth on the pages of a book.
Intoxicating beauty in the bird’s song.
In snowflakes melting like butter on my cheeks.
I find her swirling in the waterfall and
Singing in the wind.
An ancient song still recognizable.
I see them in the eyes of the queer
Who blesses me, offering holy communion.
I feel him in the hands of a child,
Calling me to wonder and curiosity.
Divine grace falls on me like a winter shawl
As I take in the hospitality of friends who are other.
Her glorious strength is found in the circle of women
Who grace me with their stories.
And I am in awe.

The ocean breathing in and out as
Waves crash and then caress the sand.
Divine splashes everywhere.
Mountain strands that loom and ripple
Breathing glory that calls to mind
An ancient story. Never-ending. Grace and glory.
But, when I enter your big fancy churches
I cannot hear the ancient story anymore.
Because all I see is you.
And your quest for safety and security
Trumps the call to care for the earth itself.
Until the earth burns and its bodies cry,
Turned back from our borders and
Treated as if it were their fault they were born
Where they were born.
While the god of violence watches from his throne.

The Divine whisper is lost in here.
Stilled. Ignored. Silenced. Gone.
Because the Divine does not want to be safe.
Or rich. Or famous.
It lives in the tents of the refugees
And over the hills
Where they run for their lives.
It holds the babies left alone in cages and there it rages.
Divine grief rolls down the cheeks
Of those who are other.
It welcomes all who are outside.
Alone in the cold.
It huddles on the other side of the world
In all the places our missiles are pointing at.
Among the broken and the cast-out.
The Divine is there and you never noticed.

Click on the button above to send me an email and I will let you know when new posts are up! If you or someone you love is in the closet, or if you are struggling with your own guttural grief and need someone to talk to, email me. I may not have time to answer you but I will read it and hold you in my heart.