Just As I Am: On Being Gay and Christian

I’m currently taking part in the Creating a Life that Matters course with my local Metropolitan Community Church, an inclusive Christian denomination based within the LGBT community. The MCC isn’t my own church – I’m an Anglican – but my partner and I have special links with it as it’s where we were married and where she works. When I signed up for the course, it seemed like a good opportunity to develop my relationships with God and other people, and I didn’t expect the fact that it was run by a ‘gay’ church to be especially relevant. However, I have found the course material challenging in a number of ways. One of these is the extent to which inclusive language is used – even the word God is avoided, because some people think of this as a male-only term (as contrasted with Goddess), which came as a shock to me! Another is that there seems to be a slight assumption that participants will have been rejected by other denominations, and/or that other denominations have little to offer LGBT people. I don’t think it ever crossed the authors’ minds (the materials are denomination-wide) that one of their students could be someone accepted within a mainstream Christian church, and this makes me sad. Not because I’m the odd one out – although that brings its own challenges – but because my experience has been overwhelmingly one of being accepted while believing I wasn’t.

I was brought up as a Christian, and began to question my faith and the church’s teachings when I was in my teens. It would be misleading to say that this was all due to my emerging sexuality, or even other controversial ethical issues. I was becoming increasingly aware of atheism and agnosticism, and like anyone who has been taught a particular faith as a child, I needed to go through the process of figuring out what I believed for myself. However, the fact that I was finding myself attracted to other girls rather than boys was an issue. I don’t recall homosexuality ever being mentioned at my church (with its rather aging congregation), or by my Christian relatives, but I sought out more teenager-friendly places to get answers to my burning questions – the youth group at a different church, and the bookstore at Christian summer camp. It was here I learned of the Bible verses forbidding same-sex relationships, and here I was told that ‘all’ Christians believed homosexuality was wrong. One could simply not be gay and Christian. At the age of 18, believing that my childhood faith was incompatible both with my sexuality and with my view that love is love irrespective of gender, I said goodbye to the church.

Six years later, my partner and I were invited to join a church choir. I had turned down many such invitations before, and I don’t know what was different this time, but I entered the church tentatively believing we would have to be very discreet about our relationship. All such illusions vanished as soon as we met the other choristers. Not only did they already know we were a couple, several of them were gay themselves. I had stumbled across something I thought didn’t exist – a mainstream church where LGBT people were welcomed and same-sex relationships were not considered to be a sin. But the revelations didn’t stop there. In coming out to my family, and re-engaging with the Christian community, I learned that my previous church – yep, the one I walked away from – did not have a problem with me being gay. Nor did most of my relatives, and nor have many of the Christians, including clergy, whom I’ve met in the decade since. What I still find heartbreaking is that I cut myself off from my faith, from the people who could have supported me, and from God, largely because of an incorrect assumption. Rather than opening up and listening to the people in my life, I relied on a few fundamentalists to represent the views of ‘all’ Christians.

Some other time, I want to write about the theology of all this – why some Christians (understandably, in my view) believe my marriage to another woman is sinful, and why others have no issue with it. I want to write about the political climate in the UK, the proposed Equal Marriage legislation and why some of the debate dismays me on both sides. I want to write my plea for reconciliation between those Christians who believe same-sex relationships are wrong and those who do not – do we not all follow the same Christ? But today, I want to share my story, and I will finish with an exercise I wrote as part of the MCC course. The assignment was “Describe your first experience of the Sacred”.

* * *

It’s hard for me to say when I first experienced the Sacred, because I was brought up as a Christian and talked to Jesus from a very young age. I identified strongly with this man who didn’t quite fit into society, and who was ridiculed by soldiers before his crucifixion – every Good Friday, the passage where the crown of thorns is placed on Jesus’ head still reminds me vividly of being bullied at school. As a creative child, I coped by withdrawing into books and into my inner world, but where many kids in my position would have had an imaginary friend, I had God.

Or at least, I talked to God. I don’t remember much of how he responded, and over time he must have become less real to me, because when I was twelve – shortly after realising how many people in my life and in the Western world did not believe in God – I lost my faith. I then spent my teens yo-yoing between atheism and born-again Christianity. There are several re-conversion experiences from this period that I could write about, but owing to the fundamentalist views of some of the organisations I was involved with, the ‘faith’ that I had was quite a damaging one, and I’m still trying to sort out what was genuine from what was not.

That’s why I’ve decided to write about a later meeting with God, one that happened after I had come out as a lesbian and cut all ties with the church. I was twenty and spending three months studying in Italy as part of my degree. Just the experience of being in the country felt like an awakening of my soul, although I didn’t view this in spiritual terms at the time. I had gone from northern Europe, where everything was grey, my job made me miserable and I couldn’t afford to furnish my sparse one-room flat, to this land of sunshine and delicious food and friendly people. It was not necessarily a happy time – I missed my friends from the UK terribly, and was wrestling with some big questions about myself and my future – but the simple pleasures of Italian living made a big impression on me.

On the day in question, most probably a Saturday in early May 2001, I caught the bus to Assisi, a nearby town best known as the birthplace of St Francis. I don’t have any photos of the trip, only of a later visit with a friend, but as I remember it the weather was hot and the sky was blue. I made my way down narrow lanes lined with stone and terracotta houses, some of which were still being rebuilt after the 1997 earthquake. I think the construction workers were at the stage of applying the finishing touches, because nothing looked too damaged, but I remember seeing scaffolding with rubbish chutes running down into skips. It felt a little as though the world were being recreated.

Eventually, my wanderings brought me out into the main plaza in front of the Basilica di San Francesco. When I entered the church, the air was refreshingly cool. I remember a combination of dark wood and vivid frescoes, which had already been painstakingly repaired. The air smelled of incense and polish, but the atmosphere is harder to describe. There was something solemn and mysterious about it, but very still and very calm, and for the first time in a long while I felt completely at peace. There was an area set aside for quiet prayer, and although I had been an agnostic for three years, without hesitation I moved away from the other tourists, found a seat and bowed my head. I was in no doubt that I was in the presence of God.

I don’t remember what I said to Him, other than that it had been a very long time. I know I made no promises or guarantees, and it wasn’t a conversion of any sort. I walked into that church as an agnostic, I left as an agnostic and I didn’t resume my relationship with God for another three years. But what is important to me is that despite all this, I heard God’s voice in that moment and I came to Him just as I was.

The Basilica di San Francesco, Assisi, Italy

The Basilica di San Francesco, Assisi, Italy

“Are You Pregnant?”

Every time I visit my dentist, I have to amend my details on the medical history form they hold for me. One of the questions is, “Are you pregnant?” and the available options are yes or no. Until this month, I would have thought those two tick boxes were perfectly adequate.

They’re not. Right now, I need a box for “It’s complicated”. And that’s the short version.

The long version is that on 14 August, I had my first cycle of IUI (intrauterine insemination, in our case using donor sperm). The treatment itself posed no problems. I couldn’t feel the very fine needle when I had to inject myself with Ovitrelle the day before. I was a little freaked out to discover that I had to go onto the ward and don a surgical gown for a procedure that had been described as “a bit like a cervical smear test”, but you know what? Once I was in theatre it was a lot like a smear test, except that it’s far less unpleasant when you’re holding your partner’s hand and grinning and thinking, “We could have a baby!” as opposed to “Oh, my God, what if I have to go to the Colposcopy Clinic of Doom?”

We had a really nice lunch at the nearby Pride Café while I had sperm swimming around in me for the first time ever, and then began what’s known in fertility circles as the Two-Week Wait.

Nine days after fertility treatment, I started to feel nauseous. This is not normal for me, so I headed straight for Google and found that it’s not unheard of for women to experience morning sickness that early on, though it’s more usual to develop it at around week 6. I also noticed that my boobs were tender, which again isn’t something I normally get – they tend to get slightly larger and sometimes ache before my period, but they’re not usually tender to the touch. The following morning, after checking that the Ovitrelle would be out of my system, I did a First Response pregnancy test (the most sensitive I could find) and was rewarded with a very faint, only-just-noticeable pink line.

The next few days were a rollercoaster. Typically, the cats would wake us at 4am, I would need a wee, would not want to waste that early-morning urine, so would pee on a stick before dawn and be unable to get back to sleep with the excitement. Confusingly, that faint pink line just wasn’t getting any darker and the Clear Blue Digital test I tried (which is slightly less sensitive) resolutely said that I was Not Pregnant.

12 days after treatment, I had a little bit of spotting. Although this would be common in early pregnancy, I had a really bad feeling about it, to the extent that I couldn’t face going to church and hid under the duvet instead. On day 13, it continued. On day 14, when I was due to have the official test at the fertility clinic, I woke up to find I’d been bleeding more heavily. I wasn’t surprised when the  results came back showing an hCG level of 12, where they would expect it to be at least 50. It looked as though I was having a very early miscarriage.

I want to be clear here how OH and I experienced this. I think a lot of people assume it’s a minor disappointment: “Oh, how frustrating, I thought I was pregnant and I’m not.” Some people call it a chemical pregnancy and consider that there was never really a baby, just a few cells. That’s not how I feel about it at all. From my point of view, an embryo, a blastocyte is our child and it doesn’t matter whether it was never a viable one, or how common this might be – I was pregnant, I felt pregnant, I lost the baby and that is something I need to grieve. Not such a devastating loss as a later miscarriage would be, but a loss nonetheless.

So, I bled for a few days (it was bright red – something else that for me reinforced the fact I was having a miscarriage and not a period) and then OH and I went on holiday for a week. It was really helpful to get away, relax in the sunshine, eat lots of Camembert and come to terms with the fact that I was not pregnant. Except that as the week went on, I realised I still felt pregnant. I was still nauseous in the mornings and my boobs were getting bigger. Could this all be psychological?

Back in the UK, I had another blood test which showed my hCG had  gone up to 140. On Wednesday morning, we were told there was a chance – a small chance – that I was still pregnant and it could come to term. It could also be some tissue remaining from a miscarriage, a failing pregnancy, or an ectopic pregnancy. On Wednesday evening, we got the results of a second test and were told the pregnancy was not definitely viable. The hCG is finally starting to come down but I will need to be followed up and monitored and there might be a delay before we can try again.

Am I pregnant? In terms of having a baby at the end of it, unfortunately, no. In terms of symptoms and a positive result if I pee on a stick, yes. Like I said, it’s complicated.