Weekend Prayer

driving at night

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Weekends scare me. All the normal rhythms of the week to come to an end; all the little opportunities to interact with other students, my professors, and my clients cease, fading into silence. And now it’s just you and me, God.

 

It’s funny… I came to a Christian graduate program to incorporate my faith into my education. I believe that clinical work is redemptive. Brokenness pervades every crevice of our hearts, and I bear the honor of being a vessel of healing and a witness to wounds no one else sees, but you, Father. Yet the further I take this path, the more I find my own scars—scars from my perceptions of who people say you are. I study at a Christian university, and yet I avoid you in all the business of classes, clinical work, research, and meetings. I know you’re there, waiting for me to acknowledge you, but most days it hurts to look you in the eye.

 

I’ll be 30 in a little over a month, and the past three decades have taught me how little I actually know about you. Christians seem so confident about your personality and character, whether they be conservative or progressive. But I realize I don’t quite know you anymore.

 

I don’t believe I’m in any danger of walking away from you. I can’t imagine a life without you remaining a defining participant within it. I’m just finding there’s more to you than I knew before, and I haven’t found a way to process and integrate all the pieces and unknown variables. And it’s the uncertainty that wrecks me.

 

Maybe marriage feels this way when one spouse feels like the other has become a stranger. The kids are grown and gone, and everything feels awkward and out of place. What do we say? What do you even think of me now? I sit next to you weighed down by your silence.

 

I don’t know what it means for you to be holy and full of justice, and also loving and merciful. I don’t know if your grace is freely given to all or to a group of people you selected. I don’t know if your silence about lifelong, monogamous same-sex relationships indicates you’ve made a clear point either to condemn or affirm this possible option for my future. I can overwhelm myself into paralysis ruminating over all the deep questions of theology.

 

Yet for all the ways I do not know you, and the tough conversations I avoid, I realize I do not want to carry the weight of caring for others alone.

 

This is where I lean into your mystery. In all the ways I fail, I still pursue you, holding onto the slightest hope you might want me to be part of your story. It’s hard to say from my perspective if my life is some kind of ironic tragedy or a narrative of resilience. But somehow I live it anyway with all the vulnerability I can muster. I move forward even when graduate school feels like a sinking ship I won’t survive successfully. I choose to believe there’s light and hope even when I don’t know how many dark days are ahead and how many will be lost to my own mental illness.

 

Rather than shutting down in defeat, I choose to hope for my own redemption. If I believe your redeeming love journeys with my clients, I can embrace it now in the imperfection and disorder of my own life in this present moment.

 

No, I don’t know you, God. Your silence makes my soul ache with loneliness and anticipation. But I’m here at the end of a Friday night, facing you, mindful of all my fears and wounds and yearnings. But with a little faith, I once again choose to fall into your grace, trusting you will catch me—and hoping you will catch me throughout life and whatever comes the moment after my last breath.

 

Despite the uncertainty, I love you for one more day, and by faith I trust I am loved by you in return.

 

Amen.

Costly Obedience is a Two-Way Street

lonely man

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Hey Church, let’s sit down for a few minutes and talk about costly obedience. It’s a concept that brings up a lot of emotions for me. I’ve been told my whole life that death is a major theme in Christianity. Coming to Jesus means putting all kinds of vices to death that interfere with our ability to relate to God. For many sexual minorities of faith, the message we’ve received from you tells us our sexuality is disgusting and displeasing to a holy God. We’ve been told to change it, suppress it, and kill it. And for many without any form of support, that death becomes literal. Costly indeed.

 

Now, I’m not denying there’s selfishness and objectification in the LGBTQ+ community that could use sanctification and redemption, but there’s sacrificial love too. There’s a community who supports each other and cares deeply for marginalized people. I’ve learned a lot about love from these people, far beyond what goes on in people’s bedrooms.

 

And speaking of what happens in the bedroom, that’s about all I heard from you in your pews as you discussed the LGBTQ+ community. Hook-up culture seemed to eclipse all other facets to sexual minority experience, and yet even within a hook-up you seemed oblivious to other motives that could be driving acting out behavior other than just sexual pleasure.

 

What if hooking up is more than steamy sex with a dude from the gay club or Grindr? What if it’s less about lust and more about loneliness? What if it’s less about craving an orgasm and more about a need to receive physical affection? What if a gay guy just wants to feel seen by another human being for a night?

 

In your call for costly obedience, what are you willing to lay down to make your vision of sexual ethics livable for sexual minorities? When I wrote about celibacy, people often told me how I brave I was for making this sacrifice for my faith. They expressed empathy for how hard this must be for me, but these individuals had the privilege to return to their families at night. They had the luxury to fit me in their schedules every couple of weeks when they could make time. I felt like I was living out some kind of tragic life story for other people to pity, and it wasn’t life-giving or redemptive. I certainly didn’t feel enthusiasm for calling other sexual minorities to live like me.

 

My perspective shifted as I moved out of state for grad school and had the opportunity to meet other sexual minorities like me. I found a lot that could be redeemed in same-sex relationships and even hook-ups. I found people hungry to connect, some going from guy to guy, perhaps unable to accept the goodness of their capacity to love and be loved by another man. Others showed commitment, kindness, sacrifice, humility, and so many other great qualities through their romantic relationships and in how they interacted with others. I saw people connecting and working towards a flourishing community.

 

So Church, how do you propose to compete with spouse and family we could have? Or even the casual lover who puts his life on hold to focus his attention to another for one night? It feels like you leave us to fend for ourselves while you have the opportunity to thrive in your families and in your churches that promote and nurture you. Where do you expect us to fit within your system?

 

From where I’m standing in the arena of my life, I see a bunch of Christians in the stands telling me how to live my life. If I make the wrong choice, then I’m a Christian who has fallen from grace. If I make the right one, you’ll put me on a pedestal as the answer to the gay problem. But that pedestal can be a lonely place to live, cut off from the LGBTQ+ folks like me while you fit me in your lives where you can.

 

People having been sending me messages the past several years asking me how to make celibacy work and how I deal with loneliness. I’ve never felt like I answered that question adequately, because I was still figuring it out for myself. It wasn’t until I read the research and heard a psychologist explain loneliness like thirst or hunger—good biological drives directing us to homeostasis. Loneliness may be a biological mechanism pointing us to our daily need to connect and look outside of ourselves. Just as we cannot thrive off one meal a week, so we cannot thrive off superficial conversations after a Sunday morning service. We are social beings who need each other to reflect God through our love. And research has suggested that lonely people are at greater risk of death than possessing physiological risk factors.

 

I’m not here to sway you one way or another on same-sex relationships, but I am asking a simple question. What are you willing to sacrifice to make the lives of LGBTQ+ people emotionally and spiritually richer? Sexual minorities can’t thrive off the crumbs of love you have left for occasional catch-ups over coffee. We need to be integrated into families where we can love people deeply and experience love from others. We shouldn’t feel as if our lives are burdens or tragedies, but just as meaningful and worthy and beloved as yours. As fellow image-bearers of God, we deserve a place at the table.

 

This is a two-way street, you see. You can’t ask everything from us and expect us to be all right on our own. I don’t have answers to all the moral questions about same-sex sexuality, but I do believe our love is a gift. We have so much to give if you could see all that we are. If you made room in your soul for an LGBTQ+ person like me, I think you might be surprised how much your life could flourish.

 

Christianity isn’t an easy religion; I totally agree with you there. But please stop making it an impossibility for the LGBTQ+ community to encounter Christ. I believe there are ways to hold your convictions and love sexual minorities well, and you are capable of doing a better job at it, Church. So let’s work on that.