Soy Made Me Gay

You know there is always that one testimony every month that makes everyone feel really awkward, avoid eye contact and makes everyone shift uncomfortably in their seat?  Well, I decided to get that one out of the way early this month.

I just wanted to let everyone know why I am here.

My entire life, I’ve on some level known that I was gay.  Growing up gay in the church was really hard.  Living gay and active in the church can be really hard.

But no matter what I want to be true, no matter what I hope to be true, no matter what I think to be true, I know that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true.  It’s a knowledge that is impossible to take away from me.  (I’ve tried.)  I know President Monson is a prophet of God.  I know the Book of Mormon is true.

I don’t say all this to solicit pity (although I do enjoy a good pity party), guilt, or to shock.  I say this because no matter what our individual situations, the church is amazingly, frustratingly, inconveniently, wonderfully true…so what else matters?

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I walked passed the bishopric and the stake president (of course he would happen to be there) and down the aisle to my seat back in the chair section.  A third of the way there, I realized that I was looking down.  “Hold your head up!” I forcefully told myself, “You are not ashamed!”  I held my head up as I walked back to my seat.  When I slid into my chair, one friend put his arm around my shoulders, another smiled at me through teary eyes, and another turned around and gave me a smile and a thumbs-up.

So why did I out myself to my entire ward yesterday?

1. To let other gay Mormons know that they aren’t alone.
   I don’t know if there are other gay members of my ward, but if there are, I wanted them to know that there are other gay members out there, doing our best to live the gospel.  Loneliness and isolation are the kryptonite of the gay Mormon.
2. To help remove some of the stigma associated with homosexuality.
   I didn’t plan on it, but I was asked to help bless the sacrament yesterday.  I wanted to be the first one to bear my testimony (rip off the band-aid) and before I went up, I realized the significance of what was going to happen.  I was going to stand up from behind the sacrament table and, in front of the bishopric, the stake president, and my ward, reveal that I was gay.  I wanted to help dispel the myths that if you are gay you are a sinner (well, no more than anyone else at least) and unworthy of participation in the church.  I wanted to show that gay people aren’t disgusting pervs.   I wanted everyone to know that you shouldn’t be ashamed, and I am not ashamed, of being gay.
3. To raise awareness.
   I’ve had people tell me that they thought I might be gay but dismissed the idea because I was active in the church.  I wanted people to know that gay Mormons are out there.  It’s a lot harder to hate a group of people when one of them is sitting next to you in Elders Quorum.
4. To bear my testimony.
   I wanted to come out in testimony meeting because I wanted everyone to know what I believe.  Plus, a lot of my testimony was built while I was sorting out my sexuality.  It is a part of my testimony like my mission, youth classes, and everything else in my life.

Oh, and by the way, my real name is Clint.

I stumbled across an article today online that featured my high school.  It was written several years ago while I was on my mission.  The article was shocking for many reasons (the first being that it featured the tiny school at all).  Mostly, I was surprised by what the article revealed about myself.

I went to a small all-white private school in the rural south.  It was founded in the late sixties when the public school system integrated.  I always knew that the school (and several others scattered about the area) was founded because white parents didn’t want their kids going to school with the black kids who were in the majority.  Part of me always thought that, while the school may have been started based on racist fears: that was a long time ago.  There were several at the school, of course, which still went there because of racist motivations, but most everyone went there to get a higher quality of education than the public school provided.  If a black family wanted to send there kids to my school, they were welcome to, but they just didn’t want to.  Like the churches in the area, the two groups fundamentally didn’t want to mix, so they didn’t.

Most of the racist rhetoric from my youth I’ve since rejected, but one thing I always thought until today was that if a black family did come to our school, they would have been enrolled – their money was just as good as anyone else’s, after all.   It didn’t happen because, like the white parents, the black parents didn’t feel comfortable with their kids being the minority in school.

The article interviewed a man who had served on the board of our school.  I knew him.  At the time of the article, the school had been closed down for about a year due to lack of enrollment.  The man sadly talked about the broken windows and vandalism that had befallen the school since it closed its doors.  I saw a picture of a room that I had passed every day that I went to school there, from kindergarten to the 12th grade.  Once a break room, I had helped to turn it into a computer lab using (of course) outdated equipment.  The interviewer asked the man about race at the school and pointed out that if the school had encourage black families to enroll their kids, then the school might still be open.  The man admitted that it was probably true, but there were several on the board that were dead set against it.  I don’t know if any black families tried to enroll their kids at my school, but I realized that if there had been, they would likely have been turned away.  I was genuinely shocked.

I was naïve.  I always assumed that if it came down to it, people would have done the right thing and allowed black kids to enroll.  It was a shock to realize that people would have rather seen the school closed due to lack of numbers than open its doors to black families.

I often say that I hated high school and well, I mostly did.  Growing up gay in the rural south can really, really suck.  Crap, growing up in the rural south can really suck.  I acknowledge that there were a lot of people at my school that were really good people.  But a lot of those really good people were upholding a racist society because they were afraid to change.  Including me.  I didn’t clamor to be sent to a public school.  To this day I’ve never had a close friend who was black or even talked at length with a black person that wasn’t a coworker or college professor (In America.  Strangely enough I served my mission in a country with a large black population without any hesitation whatsoever).  This is coming from someone who has lived in the south (where white people are generally in the minority) his whole life.  Lack of familiarity has caused me to not be completely comfortable around black people.  I am, in effect, a racist.

But I want to change.

There was a time that I was very uncomfortable around gay people.  If a guy was effeminate, it was even worse.  But I don’t anymore.  The change happened when I became friends with several actively gay men.  I realized that, just like any other group of people, you have gay guys that are shady, untrustworthy, and cruel, but you also have gay guys that are genuine, honest, and extremely kind.  Now, simply being gay, itself, is no longer a factor for me in choosing people to be around.   I want it to be the same for me with black people.

By admitting that I am a racist, I don’t want anyone to think that I look negatively on black people or wish anyone harm, nor do I go out of my way to avoid black people.  I took African American literature courses in college and watched black-directed films in an effort to understand African-American culture.  I know that black people are the same as other people – I simply don’t have enough personal experience to make me 100% comfortable.  In order for that to happen, I have to leave my comfort zone and make an effort to get to know black people on a personal level.

I have a strong knee-jerk reaction against a lot of the anti-gay rhetoric out there.  A lot of it I find offensive because, well, I am gay and I my personal experience screams to the contrary of much of it.  But a lot of the propaganda I have heard before while growing up.  But instead of “gay person” being the subject, I heard “black person”.  For example, I heard in my youth that black people weakened society because they had weak families and were inherently promiscuous.

Hmm…that one sounds familiar.

There were parts about high school that I loved.  A couple of years ago, I was visiting my parents and drove past the site where my school stood.  It had been torn down and I felt a pang of nostalgia for the friends and experiences I had there.  (It’s not like we were marching around with torches and white robes.)  But even as I type this and even as I feel that same nostalgia, I am glad that the school no longer exists.  It was fundamentally a holdout in a racist system that really needs to be abolished.  True, the students that went there just migrated to the neighboring all-white private schools in the area.  No change really happened and the rural south will continue to die culturally unless we realize that we are strengthened by our differences, not weakened by them.  I can’t change other people, but I can change me.

I want to be kind to everyone,
For that is right, you see.
So I say to myself,
“Remember this:
Kindness begins with me.”

“Kindness Begins With Me” Children’s Songbook, 145.

Hi Cliff,

I have a question for you related to this post. If you don’t want to respond here publicly, you can email me the response (or not if you don’t want to at all).

You mention that you reached a point where you felt like God, knowing your situation, would accept whatever decision you made and keep on loving you. From what I’ve learned by reading other people’s experiences regarding this issue, this is a somewhat common feeling amongst those faced with this choice. Even those who choose a different path claim that God stays with them as they are true to their best selves and I believe them.

What is your interpretation as to why there is such a difference between what the Church says will happen and what happens in reality? Do you think this is a situation in which the Church simply feels its doing what’s in the best interest of the group and leaves it up to individuals to receive personal revelation concerning their own lives? What are your personal beliefs of what will happen in the future with this issue?

That said, I do not ask these questions to get you to question your personal choice. I kind of take the C.L. Pearson approach, which is everyone makes their choice according to personal feelings and we wish them the best. I’m just curious as to your thoughts.

-M

I had a bishop one time that was talking about one of his kids who was faced with the large decision of where they should attend college.  The daughter went to her father, the bishop, and asked him what she should do.  He gave her some pros and cons of the schools on her list, but she pressed him further asking specifically what school she should attend.  The father flatly refused.  He said that it was her decision, not his, and he wasn’t going to be blamed if she went to a school and hated it.  It was her decision.

I feel that the place that I came to with the Lord was similar.  I believe that He knew that whatever decision I made needed to be truly mine if it was going to stick at all.  He let me know the pros and the cons, but in the end the decision was mine and He wasn’t going to let me blame Him for my choices.  The decision was made and I truly felt that it was mine and was the right thing for me to do.

But what if my decision had been different?  What if I had decided to leave the Church behind and pursue romantic homosexual relationships?  Would God have still loved me?  Would He have still been with me?  I believe that, yes, He would have loved me and still been with me. Why?

Because He is my Father.

My earthly parents have never abandoned me or shunned me because of my decisions.  Even faced with the potential of me leaving the Church, they let me know that I was always welcome in their home, but there would be “ground rules” if I brought home a boyfriend.  God would have likely done the same thing.  I was still His son and was always welcome, but there would be some things that I would have to forfeit (most of which was Church-worthiness related).  He would “accept” my decision in the context that He would respect it as being my decision, but I also believe Him to strive to encourage me to live the best life I could framed in the decisions that I had made.  I don’t know that for a fact because my decision was the one thing and not the other.  All I know for sure, I guess, was that the Lord wanted me to make the decision for myself and whatever I chose He would love me as His son.  I don’t believe God to be the great abandoner that we sometimes make Him out to be.

As for the “what is your interpretation as to why there is such a difference between what the Church says will happen and what happens in reality?” question, I don’t think this is usually the case.  Often we try to make the doctrine as black and white as we can.  It makes sense.  An “if-you-do-this-then-this-would-happen” approach is a lot easier because it requires relatively little faith, just action.  What happens, though, when bad things happen to good people?  When “ask and ye shall receive” doesn’t seem to work?  When every time you read the scriptures, you feel bad instead of good?

Does it mean that the prophet/Church/scriptures are wrong?

Maybe.  But if the Church is actually true, if the prophet is really the Lord’s mouthpiece, and the scriptures are inspired, then maybe it just means that the world isn’t as black and white as we want it to be.  Maybe the Lord fully intended to teach correct principles and to have us govern ourselves.  Maybe he wanted us to be responsible for our own actions and act for ourselves even if we don’t get a push-button-feel-good response.  Such a world is scary.  It’s a world where making correct decisions can make our life harder/sadder/lonelier.  Where everything can be taken away and there is no guarantee of it being given back in this life.  How do we know if we are making the right decisions if we can’t always look at the consequences for proof?  That is a question that we have to answer for ourselves.  The only promise that we have is that at some point it will all be made right through the Atonement of Jesus Christ, that everything that sucks about this life/bodies/world will be fixed.  But it might not be until after this life.  God said that it would happen.  And I believe Him.

Almost all of the time.

Could you bring a dessert for dinner tomorrow night, if you can attend?  :-) We are going to grill out.
(text sent 8:49pm)

Can do.
(text sent 8:49pm)

You’re the best.
(text sent 8:50pm)

Well, yeah. :-)
(text sent 8:50pm)

I opened the door to my building and stepped outside into the humid August night.  The club next door was prepping for their guests for the evening and a few early arrivers could be heard laughing inside.

I was walking to the grocery store a few blocks away to buy peaches.  After a couple of quick Google searches, I decided I was going to make cobbler for the Sunday night dinner that my friends and I had almost every week.

I passed another club whose red and black theme looked like it must have been inspired by the Suicide Girls.  Again, a couple of people who had decided to start their bar-hopping early were laughing inside.  I thought about how different our evenings would be.  They would be surrounded by people.  Drinking.  Laughing.  My Saturday night would be spent alone making a peach cobbler from a internet recipe of questionable quality.

And I was cool with it.

Months ago, I realized that if I was going to live my life as a celibate gay Mormon, I was going to need to get comfortable with being alone.  The thought of spending a weekend night alone used to cause me anxiety and even depression.  What did it say about me?  What did it say about my friends?  Did I even have any friends?  Faced with romantic relationshiplessness, I knew that continuing with such attitudes would be impossible.  I decided that I wanted to be able to be comfortable with being alone.  Heck, I wanted to enjoy it.  Whenever I felt the anxiety or depression, which came when I was alone, instead of desperately grasping at something, anything to stave off those emotions, I stopped and allowed myself to feel them.  I stopped running from my loneliness and embraced it.  I felt my way though it, trying to discover the source of my feelings.  I then discovered something.

Loneliness is boring.

Once I stopped running from my loneliness and allowed myself to feel it and explore it, it became extremely dull.  I was then motivated to find things to do with my time that I enjoyed.  I started running and biking again.  I fixed my DVR and started recording crappy horror movies that aired on AMC on Friday nights.  I even decided to learn to cook, which is why I was walking the streets on a Saturday night in search of fresh peaches.

I passed the gay bar next to the grocery store.  They were apparently having an election-themed drag show based on the red, white, and blue balloon arch at the front door.

It was true that I was much more comfortable in my skin.  It was true that I no longer feared Saturday nights alone.  But I still felt lonely at times.  There were still times that I wanted someone to spend my life with.  Someone that I was attracted to.  Someone that was attracted to me.

I knew that I would never be able to rid myself of loneliness completely – nor did I want to.  If I completely killed my feelings of loneliness, then I was either suppressing my emotions (something that I already knew did more harm for me than good) or I had gotten at the point where I didn’t want to be around people at all (another situation that I didn’t want to be in).  Loneliness didn’t need to be omnipresent in my life, but it would never go away completely.

I bought the peaches and a couple of sticks of butter and started back home.  The next evening, I would be surrounded by good friends.  We would grill out, talk, maybe play video games, and generally have a good time.  Eventually, however, our lives would take different paths.  We would get different jobs, move away, they would get married, have kids.  We would always be friends, but life has a way of, well, getting in the way.  Whatever friends came into my life, whatever friends left, I knew that I was becoming someone that I didn’t mind spending time with.

I decided that the next Saturday evening I would make strawberry tarts.

They come every summer to our singles ward and swell the membership rolls by around fifty or so.  “Bug Boys”, they are usually called, although they usually refer to themselves as “Summer Sales” guys.  This army of young men (and a few women) flood neighborhoods during the humid months of June, July, and August selling pest control, alarm systems, satellite dishes, and whatever else their Western-based company is hawking.  Some are making money for their missions, some are trying to pay for college, and some are looking to expand their dating pool.  Occasionally, a few of these guys successfully integrate into the ward and there are several “it” members of the local social scene who originally arrived as bug boys.  Most often they stick to themselves, their shore-leave style attitudes putting off most of the locals who are ingrained with southern gentlemen and woman sensibilities.

When the Elder’s Quorum instructor posed the question, “How can we see a shift in values in the world today?” it was one of the bug boys from Utah that raised his hand.

“Homosexuality,” he responded.

“How so?” the teacher pressed for clarification.

“The world says it’s okay to like dudes,” the bug boy succinctly said.  The teacher remained in a stoic silence and the bug boy continued talking. My friend shot a glance over to me.  I rolled my eyes and sighed deeply.  I found myself being frustrated at the words being spoken, which were laced with a tone of disgust and anger.  I wanted to raise my hand, out myself, and tell this young guy that he didn’t know what the crap he was talking about.  I wanted to see the look on his face when he realized that one of those homosexuals that he hated so much was sitting in the same room with him at church.  But I didn’t.  The problem was, there was a lot of truth mixed in with his comments.  Extraction of the doctrine from the bigotry would require time and a calm surgeon and at that moment, neither existed.  The instructor deftly steered the conversation in another direction.  I looked over to my other friend, who was also gay.  He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders in a “what are ya gonna do?” sort of way.

The rest of Church passed pleasantly and the week moved on.  While passing a lull at work, I navigated on over to CNN.com and found a story about the persecution of homosexuals in Iraq.  Being gay in Iraq can be a death sentence which death is carried out only after days of torture and rape.  A shaved chest can be all the proof that some militias need to murder those suspected of being gay.  I recalled the Iranian prime minister when speaking at Columbia University callously (or ignorantly) remarking, “In Iran, we don’t have homosexuals.”  I felt a familiar anger rise.  Did that bug boy think the same thing?  “In the Church, we don’t have homosexuals.”  I envisioned him in a group of Boy Scouts in Utah when he was younger, humiliating the queer-acting kid.

And then I stopped.

I realized that I was as guilty as the bug boy.  Actually, I was more guilty because I really knew the outcome of such anger and its source.  I was taking my anger at the Iraqi murders and associating it with a young man that was not guilty of such atrocities just like he was taking his own personal discomfort (and perhaps experience) and using it to cloud his judgment of all homosexuals.  We were both wrong – but I more so.  Because I knew better.

I am not a patient person.  In my desire to change the world and create safe places where everyone can grow spiritually, I sometimes let my personal frustrations get in the way and I have to fight the desire to call people out on their own personal hypocrisies.  But how can one fight ignorance and intolerance without creating a hypocrite of himself?  The God Loveth His Children pamphlet provides some insight when it advises, “Some people with same-gender attraction have felt rejected because members of the Church did not always show love. No member of the Church should ever be intolerant. As you show love and kindness to others, you give them an opportunity to change their attitudes and follow Christ more fully.”

It was obvious when I thought about it.  We can never change someone else.  We can change ourselves, the example of which can prompt other people to reevaluate their own lives.  If we try and force people to change through anger or public scorn, then we become just as hypocritical as they can be (if not more so).  That is what we gay members of the Church have to do.  We have to be the bigger person.  We have follow the example of Christ as closely as we can, focusing on serving others and truly growing spiritually in spite of the attitudes around us.  Basically, we have to turn the other cheek.  If people still think that we are evil, they will be judged according to their beliefs and it is out of our hands.  After all, Jesus taught:

“But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;  That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.”  (Matthew 5:44-45)

I have a feeling that I will fail miserably sometimes.  I am not only impatient, but proud.  In the end, it will likely be my pride the Lord requires me to sacrifice.  But, hopefully, by trying to be the type of person God would have us be, we can all manage to help this Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints live up to its divinely-inspired name.

A couple of months ago, I decided (once again) that I was going to take up running. It was a decision that I had made countless times before as I fantasized about doing 5ks, 10ks, and even triathlons. I laced up my casual-style shoes and went jogging in the park near my home. The next day as I got out of bed, a sharp pain shot through my right foot. It was if a bit of living electricity had crawled in there and decided it was going flip that house. We had a shoot, so I spent all day hobbling around set with people asking if I was okay. I enjoyed the attention, but at the same time blowing it off to appear indifferent to the pain. I told myself I wasn’t allowed to go running again until I could buy proper shoes. Money was tight, so it would be another month or so before I could justify buying them.

In the meantime I started walking – everywhere. I started leaving my car at work and taking public transportation. By not having my car at home, it forced me to walk to places like the bank and grocery store, which were only a few blocks away, but previously were locations that I might have driven to on my way somewhere else. I soon discovered that walking everywhere was not only making me feel better physically, but spiritually as well. Free from the stress of traffic I found myself connecting with the city more. I started to notice just how many trees were packed into the spaces between the concrete and how many squirrels lived in the trees. I used the time while walking to meditate on whatever was concerning me at that moment.

After a month or so, I bought some cheap running shoes from Target and took off through the park. I had downloaded a couch-to-5k running podcast and had figured that I probably was on the level of week 8 of the 9-week program. I was a pretty fit guy after all, right?

Only 10 minutes into the run, I realized that I was in over my head. I came home and downloaded the week 1 episode.

And here is the point where I turn all this into a precarious metaphor for the Gospel.

For me, the Gospel is like running. I have all these big dreams of the things I can accomplish and the good it will do, but traditionally I throw myself in with such force that I usually end up exhausted, bruised, and with a desire to vomit. I would become discouraged and lay on the couch to watch tv. But this time, running (the Gospel, stick with me, here) has been different than every other attempt at commitment. I’ve forced myself to go slowly. I no longer constantly focus on running triathlons, but just enjoy the improved health I feel. If it leads to a triathlon, great. If not, whatever. In the Gospel, I still have some very important questions that I’ve put off answering until later. I’m just enjoying the improved spiritual health that I’ve experienced. Interestingly, one or two of those unanswerable questions has “accidentally” made themselves less incomprehensible….

Even in high school, I was never the fastest runner. In fact, I was almost always near the back of the group, but as the top one or two would start to falter, I would keep going. My legs would burn and I my pace would slow to an almost-walk, but I would keep going. You see, I am an endurance runner. I’ve never been a sprinter and probably never will be, but after many bright stars have fallen to the earth in a flash of burning light, you’ll still hear my rhythmic breathing in the dark, slowly moving forward.