I sat in the top bunk of my tiny dorm, quietly caged in my own thoughts. Over the last four months, I had zealously torn through stacks of books on theology, biblical interpretation, psychology, and history. It ultimately led me to an apex. I had climbed the fence and now sat looking on either side. Inevitably, I needed to get down. I took a deep breath before I said the same three words that had haunted me for the last four years.
“I am gay…”
However, there was a different tone in the sound. These words were not thick tar sticking to my throat and burning as I coughed them out. This time, I was not describing a fault in my genes, my upbringing, my parents, or my church. I wasn’t degrading myself. I wasn’t outlining a vice to be uprooted or a stronghold of my sinful spirit that I needed to overcome. I was simply stating a fact, like the color of my eyes or the way I’ve learned to copy my mother’s laughter. A part of my cohesive sense of self was no longer “contrary to the sound doctrine” but “fearfully and wonderfully made.”
I followed with the seven words I never thought belonged in my mouth.
“…and God wanted it that way.”
It may sound odd that a label can be important or hold a special meaning in someone’s life. Although labels are useful, they more often carry benign or even negative effects. However, for better or worse, the complex nature of labels in unavoidably intertwined with the modern LGBT+ community. The very acronym LGBT+, LGBTQ, LGBTQA, or any other abbreviation relies on the labels of those within the community. This appears paradoxical in light of recent movements away from labels among LGBT+ youth and certain portions of the community in general. The arguments on both sides of this issue are plentiful and intricate, enough to warrant a separate discussion altogether. I hope I can explain one of these factors which influence my personal attachment to that uncannily powerful three letter word.
Throughout my life, the term “gay identity” was synonymous for vice. It was something to disdain politely, refute firmly, and avoid altogether. Late at night, I would desperately remind of this. I feared the day that I might break down in my own selfishness and fall away from God’s design for my life. Behind that fear, however, was a more subtle reason for my constant self-affirmation of my brokenness before God. I dreamed, in futility, that somehow it might not be true. Somehow I would be able to love someone, and be loved in return. Somehow I wasn’t fated to a lifetime of waiting for God to finally make me something he could love in totality. Every night I shut these thoughts away, pushing them as far away as I could, and dedicated myself to following God rather than my innermost hopes. Every night until that tumultuous October evening.
I remember the self-hate lifting off my shoulder. The expansive joy of seeing myself, my whole self, as something God intended, rather than an accident which he longed to remedy. My hopes and desires were not opposed to God’s will and love. Rather, they were beautifully intertwined; God’s design was to “give me hope and a future,” not to seal these things away. These intricately entwining senses of peace, joy, ecstatic anticipation and genuine acceptance all found a home in the word I had formerly detested. The label I wore in forlorn dread became a symbol of everything I had formerly lacked.
I do not believe my story is unique. Although not everyone in the LGBT+ community originates from a religious background, the world can still be rather unkind. We often come to relate a part of ourselves with a deep and agonizing sense of brokenness and unworthiness. No matter how small that part of ourselves may appear, to ourselves or anyone else, the weight of its damnation is staggering to uphold. When this weight vanishes, over weeks and months, years and lifetimes, that little piece of ourselves can seem a little more precious. Something which we longed to forget, ached to redeem, fought to remove, and perhaps finally waged war to understand and accept, is set at peace. That peace may stagger and wane, but it does not have to fade.
Two years ago I went to bed in peace. Though nightmares may beset me for a time, I have yet to awaken.
