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.

Finding Grace in the Wilderness

Two people sitting on the beach

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The wilderness resonates with me. It symbolizes uncertainty, internal wrestling, and solitude. I find myself wandering the wilderness every now and then, as God shifts my perspective and turns my world upside down. Comfort and certainty transforms into tension and reservation. I’ve found myself back there since moving to Virginia. Real life uncovers questions I’ve tried to suppress and ignore. But the more I learn and the more diversity enters my life, the more tentative I become–the less tightly I hold onto my assumptions. As I’ve interacted with LGBTQs over the past few years I’ve found less confidence in definite positions. I don’t have absolute assuredness about Side B or Side A, celibacy or same-sex relationships. I just know grace. I know I can trust God with these gray areas, because I believe he is good and he loves. Oh, yes. He loves.

~     ~     ~

I was recently interviewed by Nico Lang about my experience as a celibate gay Christian. My thoughts revealed some of my internal tension and some of my doubts as I shared pieces of my faith that I found beautiful and inspiring. The article arrived with little notice, so I sighed a breath of relief and moved on.

 

But then Queerty featured a story about me that was, well…interesting. The story revealed a major misrepresentation of my faith, and the comments stung with cruelty as people hit below the belt. But as I reflected on the piece, rather than experiencing anger, I felt a desire for compassion, grace, and forgiveness. So I wrote Queerty an email they may never read, but I want to share it with you:

 

“Hi there,

My name is Seth Crocker; your website recently ran a piece about me regarding my interview with Nico Lang for Mic.

I would like to humbly submit your article mischaracterizes me and my faith. I have repeatedly stated in my public writings that I have no desire to convert other gay and lesbian people to my perspective. I believe God loves all people, and that includes the LGBTQ community. You don’t have to change your sexual orientation or choose a life of celibacy to be ok with God. God loves you just as you are in this moment.

I have spoken publicly about celibacy to share with a specific demographic my story of faith and sexuality. It’s never been intended to shame anyone or change anyone’s mind. We live in a multicultural world filled with different perspectives and values. I respect your dignity and autonomy, and I would hope you would respect mine even if you disagree. The beauty of our diversity is our ability to challenge each other so we can grow.

I realize my position may trigger negative emotions and painful memories with insensitive and homophobic Christians and traumatic experiences with the church. I can simply say I don’t condemn anyone. You don’t have to be celibate, or even believe in God for me to love you. You are loved unconditionally.

I confess that I could be wrong about my position. I have doubts and uncertainty. I’m ever seeking to learn and interact with other Gay Christians and local LGBTQs. I might not always be celibate. Who knows. I’m simply doing my best to reconcile my faith and sexuality according to my conscience. Others will choose different paths, and I extend no judgment to them. I’m just trying to make it through life like any other human by God’s grace.

Much love to you and your readers,

Seth”

~     ~     ~

I’m still journeying through the wilderness. I don’t black and white answers. Maybe celibacy isn’t the answer for me, or maybe the future will strengthen my previous convictions. Despite my doubts, I am committed to deepening my relationship with Christ and following where he leads. If I’m learned anything, it’s that the world hates uncertainty. It pressures and intimidates, when we just need room to think and reframe and breathe. No one can interact with God’s Word and the world and remain unchanged. A dance occurs between scripture and the stories we tell. Each reveals something marvelous about the other. The more we learn from both, the more questions we may discover than comfortable answers–at least I have. I question whether I’ll ever find certainty again–maybe it’s just an idol holding me back from trusting God. To my surprise, I’m finding peace sitting with this tension. “Walk by faith, not by sight.”

 

So what I want to extend to Queerty, to every sexual and gender minority, every Christian, whether conservative or liberal, is grace. The wilderness may seem barren and lonely, but there’s grace here. God is here. And I’m learning to extend grace to myself. Grace to question, grace to learn, grace to grow.

 

Grace to live life.