Rainbow Journey Series: Course Correction
A GPS update to get us back on track
“Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.” Excerpt from Ruth 1
The week before I started grad school, I broke up with my college boyfriend. We’d been together for a little more than two years and everyone expected us to get married. It was a mutual decision; we realized that my theology was evolving in a way he couldn’t get on board with and we parted ways amicably. Little did I know, he’d be the last guy I ever dated.
A week later, I walked into my first class of seminary–early, as I didn't want to miss a thing. I noticed a classmate sitting by herself. Being the “no one gets left out” kind of person I am, I sat next to her and started asking questions about where she did her undergrad, what classes she was taking, and so on. Her name was Haley Cawthon.
Years later, she told me how incredibly annoyed she was by that conversation. You have to understand that on the Myers-Briggs personality scale, I’m a more-or-less balanced mix of introversion and extroversion. At the time we met, Haley tested 100% introvert, 0% extrovert. On top of that, she is not a morning person– at all. Unsurprisingly, her internal dialogue during our first conversation was “who is this person and why the hell is she talking to me?” Don’t worry– I won her over quickly.
We had several classes together that semester. Since I had several friends in the year ahead of us (they were classmates of mine in undergrad who also came to Atlanta for grad school), I invited Haley to study with us. As we discussed our shared interest in books, movies, and class material, we quickly became friends.
Photo by Antony Freitas on Unsplash
The summer after my first year of grad school, I spent about three months abroad. For the two of those months, I stayed in Kathmandu, Nepal to do my contextual ministry placement (a degree requirement for my concentration). For those curious, I blogged about the experience here (please don’t judge my writing too harshly– I’ve grown as a writer in the decade since).
What I didn’t share in that blog was that summer was also the awakening of my queerness.
One of the main cultural differences in Nepal compared to America is how people walk with friends. Kathmandu is incredibly crowded with narrow sidewalks; I’ve seen wider bicycle lanes. In order to not get separated from their friends, people link arms as they walk. It’s perfectly normal for pairs of straight same-gender folks to link arms together while walking through crowds. I understand the practicality of it; you’d have no hope of maintaining a conversation otherwise. But that’s not what my hormones understood.
One day after church, a group of friends that I’d made and I went for a walk. One of the women in the group (about my age and stunning in her outfit that day) linked her arm in mine and touched her hand to my palm, just like she would with any of her female friends.
For her, it was an everyday experience; for me, it was an epiphany.
The reaction was chemical, visceral, and surprising. My cheeks flushed. My hands immediately filled with sweat. I had butterflies in my stomach like I’d never experienced with any guy.
My mind flashed back to all the times in undergrad that my friends and I shared platonic cuddles while watching movies, held hands, and kissed each other on the cheek. While they all seemed at-ease, I had knots in my stomach. That summer in Kathmandu, I finally started to understand why.
Throughout that summer, I actively wrestled with my sexuality. I’d gotten to a place of healing from the abuse I endured that I could now see sex as a beautiful, intimate gift from God. I began to imagine what it’d be like to have that level of intimacy with someone (no one in particular, just generally). But now, I was envisioning sharing that intimacy with a woman. I wasn’t quite sure how to handle it.
When I got home that August, I withdrew from my friend group. I shared a little of this experience in my Pentecost piece earlier this year and in Chapter 4 of my book, but to summarize, I essentially cut myself off from my community while I figured out my queerness.
I read books. I prayed. I hid the books I read. I prayed some more. I talked about it in therapy. Outside of class and church, I didn’t see much of my friends. My queerness was something I had to figure out on my own.
Photo by Brazil Topno on Unsplash
By this point in my religious education, I was confident that being gay isn’t a sin. I knew most of my friends would be supportive of me being gay; there were only a handful of people I was genuinely worried about coming out to.
I was more worried about how being gay would affect my career in ministry. I knew once I started coming out to people, I couldn’t take it back. Word would spread; doors would close. I knew I had to answer three questions: 1. Did God actually make me gay? 2. If so, is this something that I can hide so I can have a successful career? 3. Is this something I want to hide?
The answer to question number one came most easily: yes, undoubtedly. The answers to questions two and three were harder to get to.
The more I reflected on myself, the more I knew I desired a relationship. I’ve always been a community person. I couldn’t envision my life without eventually finding someone to marry. I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to keep that happiness from my friends, my colleagues, or the world. I didn’t want to lie about who I was or the joy I felt whenever I found someone.
But I figured until there was someone in my life I could envision myself spending the rest of my life with, there was no reason to “broadcast” my queerness– even after I created a dating profile where I labeled myself as bi or when I went on a few dates with a woman a classmate introduced me to. I didn’t lie about who I was, but, outside of my close friends, I wasn’t forthcoming about being gay either. I didn’t feel a need to be incredibly “out” until I was in a serious relationship.
At graduation, everything changed.
I hadn’t seen Haley at all that day. Unknown to me, she’d gotten a haircut– the first one she was ever truly excited about. It was short, well above her ears. She was also wearing a bright pink, male-cut button up dress shirt, brown pants, and dress shoes. As she took the stage (twice) to receive her outstanding research awards, she stood tall and proud.
I saw a confidence and self-assuredness in her I’d never seen before. For the first time, she looked comfortable in her own skin– radiant. It was like witnessing the Transfiguration on the mountaintop, and I was one of the lucky few invited to witness.
And my heart skipped a beat.
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
I’d known that Haley had had feelings for me for a while (in fact, I rather unkindly shot her down about a year before). As a result, the feelings I experienced scared me at first. Was this just a crush? Would it pass? I didn’t want to string her along only to break her heart later; that would destroy our friendship. The more I tried to push the feelings aside, though, the more I couldn’t get her out of my head.
When we spent time together, it was always the most natural feeling in the world. Only now, I noticed the way her nose crinkles when she laughs, the endearing way she gently rocks back and forth when she’s deeply concentrating on what she’s writing, how her eyes are like pools of coffee sweetened with honey.
I couldn’t deny it any more: I was in love.
One night that June, Haley came to my apartment to watch a movie. Actually, I insisted that she come over because she had never seen the movie Mean Girls and I was adamant that we needed to correct that error immediately. After the movie finished, I worked up the nerve to tell her what had been on my mind for weeks:
“I kind of want to kiss you.”
“Okay… what does that mean?”
We then had a long conversation about what changed with me, what we both wanted in a relationship, and if we legitimately thought this relationship would work. We were both afraid of what would happen to our friendship if a romantic relationship didn’t work out, but we were willing to give it a chance.
We kissed– and it was pure bliss.
Once we committed to being in a relationship, everything locked into place; it was the most natural thing in the world. How had we not been dating this entire time? We got engaged five months later, but I think that the first night we kissed we both knew we were in this for the long haul.
I finally had my answer to question number three: we couldn’t contain our joy, and I didn’t want to live in a world where I had to hide my love for Haley. We publicly came out on Facebook a few months after we started dating with overwhelming support from friends and classmates.
Unfortunately once we came out, the church where we were both members rescinded their invitation to ordain me. Shortly after that painful conversation, Haley and I made the decision to move to St Petersburg, FL to help a friend of ours start a church. Sadly, a grim financial situation (and the revelation that we are not wired to handle the Florida heat) led us to move back to Atlanta for work just a year and a half later.
During that time, we got married –a small ceremony where I grew up so my family could attend, as we were still speaking at the time. Things haven’t always been easy, but our commitment to love each other through the ups and downs has made an immeasurable difference in my life. Haley calls me on my BS when needed, encourages me in my call as both a minister and a writer, and finds the best ways to help my inner child heal (I don’t know many adult couples who have Nerf guns hiding around the house to surprise each other with, but we’re one of them). She also challenges me to grow in ways I never imagined I would.
Haley has made me a better person. I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to find the perfect words to capture just how thankful I am for her, but I anticipate I’ll never quite get it right.
Photo by bhuvanesh gupta on Unsplash
My wife and I just celebrated eight years together and will celebrate our seventh wedding anniversary this fall. It’s also roughly the same amount of time since I saw or spoke to some of the people who meant more to me than words can describe. The man who stood in the gap to be my father figure during college told me that, because I’m gay, we’d have to be like Paul and Barnabas, never to speak again. His daughter (who’d been a close friend of mine) told me in our last phone conversation that she was praying that God would break my heart.
Haley’s family cut her off at the same time. Her story is her own to tell, so I’ll forgo sharing details. I’ll only bear witness to the pain it’s caused.
That’s the paradox of queer self-discovery; the rapturous joy of authenticity is too often accompanied by the cruel pain of betrayal. I think Semler captures this feeling best in their song “Jesus from Texas:” “Oh what a terrible honor it’s been, to learn that my blessings are things you call sins.”
I wonder if Jesus felt the same way about Judas. If, even though he anticipated the betrayal, he hoped against hope that Judas still loved him. If, although he predicted it, Jesus didn’t actually believe it would happen until he saw Judas lead the Roman guards to the garden of Gethsemane. Was that why he didn’t simply send Judas away? Kill the friendship? Cut ties before the painful betrayal could happen?
Maybe Jesus was in denial. Maybe Jesus wanted to give Judas a chance to rise to the occasion. Or maybe he was foreshadowing to us the same stubbornness that Thomas would later show: Jesus couldn’t believe that Judas would betray him until he saw the actions with his own eyes and heard the treacherous words with his own ears.
That’s the tension hope can bring into our lives as queer people. We likely know the people in our lives who will reject us once we come out, cast us aside in order to preserve their social collateral. Because we love them, we stay the tiniest bit in denial, looking for the tiniest sliver of proof to indicate that we’re wrong. But we usually aren’t. When they figure it out and drop us like a sack of potatoes, it hurts all the same.
But the beautiful surprise is in the people who show up for us. For Jesus, it was those who came to the cross and committed to keep his message alive. For LGBTQ+ folks, it’s the relationships we didn’t expect to find.
Through accepting my queerness, I’ve met people whom I would have never met otherwise. I’ve reconnected with folks from undergrad who were closeted, too. These people are changing the world with their scholarship, being the hands and feet of Jesus in their communities, and preaching the Gospel with hope and fervor.
Through accepting my queerness, I’ve been able to invest in a marriage that’s only changed my life for the better. Through accepting my queerness, I’ve been able to see God from a richer, deeper perspective– one I would have never seen otherwise.
These are blessings straight from God, and I will give thanks for them every single day.
Next week, I’ll conclude this Pride Month series by exploring gender identity and how that’s allowed me to meet a much bigger God than the god I learned about in my youth. Make sure to subscribe so you don’t miss it.
I loved knowing more of your story, Kali. This was so beautiful.