In February 2015, Time Magazine reported on a young evangelical leader who had been dropped from his Christian publisher after refusing to sign a statement that he did not \u201ccondone, encourage or accept the homosexual lifestyle.\u201d The young evangelical Time publicly outed as queer was Brandan Robertson \u2014 who is now the lead pastor of Missiongathering Church in North Park.<\/p>\n
This was not the first time Robertson\u2019s sexuality was discussed in ways he could not control. He was mentored by a prominent ex-gay author while attending Moody Bible Institute in Chicago who eventually outed him to fellow faculty. His mentor\u2019s hypocrisy spurred Robertson to reevaluate the faith he had held tightly since he converted as a 12-year-old.<\/p>\n
\u201cMoody deconstructed my entire faith. By the time I graduated, I had gone through reparative therapy because I was forced to. I was outed to the faculty. They tried to expel me four times, not because I was doing drugs or anything fun. It was simply because I was questioning what they believe,\u201d the 27-year-old said. \u201cThat made me so uninterested in Christianity’s fear of difference.\u201d<\/p>\n
The Time article was the last time Robertson did not have a say in the narrative about his own life. Since then, he has published four books and become a sought-after commentator regarding LGBTQ+ issues in the church.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was probably one of the most transformative moments because here I was pushed to the national [and] international spotlight. My sexuality was being talked about. It was also being critiqued by the most influential religious leaders in the country. [They] came out and wrote op-eds against me and did radio shows. The people that I looked up to growing up were now condemning me,\u201d Robertson said in an interview in his office, which sported rainbow flags and copies of his latest book, \u201cThe Gospel of Inclusion.\u201d \u201cAt that point, that was when my resiliency really emerged as a calling because I was like, everything in me says I should leave this whole world behind because I can’t have my book deals anymore. They’re calling me a heretic. They don’t want me.\u201d<\/p>\n
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Instead of leaving, Robertson decided to use the platform he was given to \u201cblow up the patriarchy dominating this evangelical world,\u201d he explained with a cheeky smile. He credits his stubbornness as the deciding factor in staying with the religion that once saved his life as an adolescent.<\/p>\n
Robertson is not the only queer person in Uptown to leave conservative evangelicalism and instead work in a church that accepts and affirms their identity. While each of these queer Christians have found places in churches that go beyond just letting them take up a pew and tithe, the journey there was costly. These church leaders lost community, family, jobs, book deals, homes.<\/p>\n
Sarah Holly was in high school when she came out to her mom as a lesbian and was kicked out. Luckily, she was able to move in with her dad, but for a year she did not have a relationship with her mother. In that time, her mother reexamined her theology to the point of becoming fully affirming of queer identities. Watching her mother transform into an advocate for LGBTQ+ people in Christian spaces is one of the reasons Holly still has hope that the church can change.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe really terrible history of the relationship between LGBT [people and] the church is devastating \u2014 and it doesn’t need to be the future,\u201d Holly said in an interview at Kettle & Stone in May.<\/p>\n
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A full 40% of teens who are homeless are part of the LGBTQ+ community. A quarter of those teens were kicked out on the same day they came out to their parents.<\/p>\n
San Diego Pride Executive Director Fernando Lopez was homeless for part of their youth, and they believe religion was a key factor in why they were left without shelter, which had lasting impacts on their faith.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat experience severed me a lot from my ability to navigate my own faith and spirituality because family [is] usually where your connection to faith comes from,\u201d Lopez said in a phone interview.<\/p>\n
For Holly, to see her mother accept, embrace and even advocate for her daughter is the dream scenario for any queer person who faces excommunication from their family over their identity. Not everyone changes though.<\/p>\n
AIDS activist Susan Jester\u2019s mother started a conference promoting conversion therapy at a local Pentecostal church in the wake of Jester coming out. Conversion therapy, also called reparative therapy, attempts to change someone\u2019s sexual orientation or gender identity. It has been proven to be ineffective and mainstream medical practices dismiss it, partially because of its links to suicide and self-harm among LGBTQ+ people who undergo it.<\/p>\n
Her mother\u2019s public anti-LGBTQ+ advocacy is one of the reasons Jester left San Diego for New Jersey with plans to never come back. Decades later though, she returned to care for her mother in the last years of her life. Jester says the decision to sacrifice in this way was so she could feel at peace with herself and God, not an attempt to finally receive her mother\u2019s approval.<\/p>\n
\u201cI really felt the call of God, as we say in my world of Christianity, to go home. As much as I never thought I would ever return to San Diego,\u201d 75-year-old Jester explained over tea at Peet\u2019s Coffee.<\/p>\n
Jester wonders what her parents would have thought knowing that the child they put out was the one who stayed with them until they died. She left her career as a political advisor to return. By that time, her mother was so riddled with Alzheimer\u2019s there was never any reconciliation between them.<\/p>\n
\u201cI went from running around with presidents and governors to changing my mom’s diapers for a few years. It was an interesting dilemma for them because my mom was completely out of it, so she didn’t know. But the very person in their family that they rejected, ended up taking care of both of them until their last breath,\u201d Jester said.<\/p>\n
The lack of strong ties to her biological family is one of the reasons she sought out a church when she came to San Diego.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe all fall onto hard times. Whether it’s emotional or relationship or a job or whatever, you need that family support \u2014 especially if you don’t have it from your human family. It’s really important,\u201d she said. \u201cMy heart’s desire was to find a church so that I could find fellowship and acceptance in a Christian family.\u201d<\/p>\n
She was initially drawn to St. Paul\u2019s Cathedral in Bankers Hill when she noticed prominent gay activists in attendance at a Christmas Eve service. Of those who attend St. Paul\u2019s, 46% are part of the LGBTQ+ community, and over two-thirds of the priests at the cathedral are part of the community.<\/p>\n
\u201cThere’s a lot of Roman Catholics out there and evangelicals like myself that are really hungering and looking for spiritual fellowship but have been rejected from [the] denomination of our childhood,\u201d Jester said. She is now attending an Episcopal seminary so she can continue her work at the cathedral.<\/p>\n
Being rejected from a family or church always carries emotional pain, but for those who are employed through a church, their situation can be particularly challenging.<\/p>\n
RC Haus, who is now the music director at University Christian Church (UCC), was the founder of a fast-growing church in National City and a televangelist headed toward semi-retirement when his wife confronted him about his sexuality.<\/p>\n
\u201cAfter 13 years of marriage and pastoring churches, my wife called me one day and was like, \u2018I think you’re gay,\u2019\u201d Haus said in a room reserved for music rehearsals at UCC. \u201cI was a conservative Christian by faith and I had never wanted to be gay. I never dreamt about coming out and being separated from my kids.\u201d<\/p>\n
He had always viewed same-sex attraction as an external temptation testing his faith. Identifying as gay was incompatible with his fundamentalist faith.<\/p>\n
\u201cI couldn\u2019t even say the word when I was a preacher. I didn’t preach ever on homosexuality because I couldn\u2019t even say that word \u2014 I was so scared of it,\u201d Haus recalled.<\/p>\n
In the year following that phone call, he and his wife attempted to make it work. He voluntarily took part in conversion therapy and sought out support groups in a sincere attempt to change his sexual orientation.<\/p>\n
After months of trying to change himself, the couple decided he was not going to change so the best they could hope for was that Haus never “acted on” his inclinations. A lifetime of self-repression is long. The pair decided to divorce.<\/p>\n
In the aftermath, Haus said he went from having a house in Palm Springs and Texas to being homeless. He worked three jobs to try to cobble together child support for his five kids.<\/p>\n
\u201cI’d lost my church, my reputation, my home, my friends,\u201d Haus said. \u201cIt was so surprising to me that people and parishioners that I had loved and pastor and vacationed with just overnight were just gone\u2026 I lost everything, I mean literally everything, to where I was crawling into an unused church Sunday school classroom with my kids when I had custody of them \u2014 hiding under Sunday school tables to sleep because we had no place to go. It was a really, really difficult time.\u201d<\/p>\n
Haus faced another setback while trying to rebuild his life. He was attending a United Methodist Church (UMC) seminary when he learned the denomination still officially condemned homosexuality. He dropped out after meeting with leaders in the denomination who confirmed to him that the policy was not changing. Since then, he has rebuilt his life as a music teacher and as the artistic director for the San Diego Gay Men’s Chorus. He came on last year as the music director for UCC. Eventually, Haus would like to return to full-time ministry but has no plans for that yet.<\/p>\n
Haus was not surprised when the UMC church, which has 7 million members in the U.S., voted to strengthen anti-LGBTQ+ policies during their February general conference.<\/p>\n
The vote on the \u201ctraditional plan\u201d was brought about because of opposition to Bishop Karen Oliveto \u2014 the first openly lesbian bishop to be elected in the UMC in 2016. At a previous job, Brandan Robertson screened her emails. There, he saw the vitriol directed toward the prominent queer Christian. While Brandan Robertson was not surprised by the outcome, he still grieved over the vote.<\/p>\n
\u201c[The UMC denomination] pushed women in ministry. They pushed all these lines that don’t seem very radical from the outside, but from within traditional Christianity are pretty radical. To watch a conservative faction of the church say, \u2018We don’t want gay bishops and pastors that already are serving in ministry and doing a great job, we don’t want them just because they’re LGBTQ\u2019 \u2014 to see one of the largest denominations in the world decide this was heartbreaking,\u201d Robertson said.<\/p>\n
Normal Heights United Methodist Church (NHUMC), where Sarah Holly is the children’s director, publicly spoke out against the decision. It was still shocking to find herself in a denomination that does not welcome her and people like her, even if the individual church she is a member of is affirming, because that is why she left the Nazarene church a few years ago while attending Point Loma Nazarene University (PLNU). Many professors and pastors were individually affirming, but without the denomination backing them, Holly made the decision to attend NHUMC instead.<\/p>\n
Of the discrimination Holly has faced, these experiences do not top the list.<\/p>\n
Throughout her childhood and into high school, Holly spent each summer at a small Christian camp in Northern California with her friends. It became a sacred place for her. When she was old enough, she was hired as a counselor. Her girlfriend, the first girl she dated, also attended the camp and was set to work there that summer. When people found out about their relationship, they were asked to leave.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat was pretty hurtful. He [the camp director] just didn’t know. He was uneducated and it deeply wounded us and that was really hard,\u201d Holly said. The nondenominational camp did not have a specific policy about LGBTQ+ people according to Holly, so the decision was made partially because no one knew what to do. \u201cIt was my childhood camp, so being fired from that was absolutely devastating.\u201d<\/p>\n
The experience made her so anxious she dropped out of PLNU after her first year. Eventually, her friends convinced her to come back and Holly became involved in LGBTQ+ advocacy on the campus.<\/p>\n
\u201cThat is discrimination and oppression at work and how can I, how can we move forward so that someone else doesn’t have to experience that?\u201d Holly said.<\/p>\n
The homophobia she faced makes painting a new picture of what the church in America can be \u2014 a place of healing, inclusion, safety \u2014 essential to the work she does now. She is also thankful for the conversations and leadership opportunities living at the intersection of Christian and gay has given her.<\/p>\n
\u201cGrowing up, I didn’t even know there were other gay Christians in the world. That was really confusing for me \u2014 as it is for so many people coming out who are raised in faith traditions \u2014 you actually can be gay and Christian and that’s not antithetical to the Bible. I just had no idea growing up. I wasn’t exposed to it,\u201d Holly said.<\/p>\n
Robertson had a similar experience.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never believed gay Christians actually existed. I’d always believed if you are homosexual, you could not be a part of the church or wouldn\u2019t want to be,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
Holly has worked hard to develop herself as a whole person rather than someone with two identities that do not intersect. \u201cIt’s been a real gift because [there are] a lot of needs [for] a person who is able to bridge these two communities that so often are opposing each other.\u201d<\/p>\n
While switching to an affirming church has meant these LGBTQ+ Christians can continue forward in their ministry free from discrimination and other barriers, they also had to overcome internalized homophobia and shame.<\/p>\n
Robertson did not know it was possible to hold the identity of gay and Christian at the same time.<\/p>\n
\u201cI remember the first time I thought that I had same-sex attraction. I walked into the back of my Baptist church and I remember seeing a guy that I found attractive. I realized I had attraction for the first time. And I remembered hearing what the pastor had preached about homosexuality being an abomination. And I literally ran out of the church sanctuary and went into the bathroom and cried in a stall and asked God to take away this thing from me that I thought would literally cause me to go to hell and also make my calling that I felt to be a pastor invalid,\u201d Robertson said.<\/p>\n
Queer Christians who are a part of non-affirming congregations must grapple with their theology and place in ministry and calling \u2014 but they also must come to terms with accepting themselves.<\/p>\n
\u201cMaybe I am gay but, oh my gosh, if I am what does that mean? Because my faith at that time was a fundamentalist faith and I couldn’t accept that,” Haus said. The love and grace of God drew him to faith, but he struggled with reconciling that with what he had been taught about his homosexuality. \u201cAre you in sin or is faith a different color? I had to go through a whole reshaping and re-understanding of my faith.\u201d<\/p>\n
Wendy Holland, the associate pastor at Missiongathering, explained why some of evangelicalism\u2019s teachings can make that more difficult. Holland, who grew up attending a Lutheran church with her grandparents and is bisexual, said she understood Jesus to be loving, affirming and totally accepting. When she found out some in her religion are racist, kept women out of leadership and discriminated against the gay community, she was appalled. Her exposure to Jesus was positive and even as those around her placed limits on God\u2019s love, internally she was sure of his acceptance. That conviction was difficult to maintain because of evangelical and fundamentalist teaching\u2019s reliance on the verse Jeremiah 17:9, which reads, \u201cThe heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked\u201d in the King James Version.<\/p>\n
\u201cI never felt condemned and never felt like other people. Even when I knew what I knew in my heart, as you’re going through evangelical and fundamentalist Christianity and you’re constantly hearing, that the heart is deceptive above all else. So even when it’s the Holy Spirit [God] speaking to your heart, you’re going, \u2018Well wait, this is probably deception,\u2019\u201d Holland said over lunch at a Thai restaurant blocks away from Missiongathering.<\/p>\n
If she believed God did not condemn people while everyone else around her did, it made her wonder if she was wrong, which created conflict within herself.<\/p>\n
There was another teaching, that faith will be demonstrated in its results or \u201cfruit,\u201d which eventually convinced Holland her childhood belief was true.<\/p>\n
\u201c[The] message is [if] you’re aligned with God, your life’s going to bear fruit. And if not, then God is going to smack it down and you’re just going to be living in depravity or lack or whatever. So being around some of the most committed Christians \u2014 the most passionate and most giving, loving people who are in successful, same-sex marriages or not necessarily the most sexually chaste people \u2014 and seeing God bless and honor and move through their lives and affect other people’s lives, I think has been the most impactful thing for my faith,\u201d Holland said.<\/p>\n
Not everyone escaped internalizing those messages as she did, and some were harmed in the process.<\/p>\n
Some of those wounds are so deep that Robertson and Holly, contrary to pushing people to attend church, wanted to assure them that there are valid and legitimate reasons to stay home or find another spiritual practice. Not everyone can heal in the place they were harmed.<\/p>\n
\u201cWith anyone who has left the church, I never am like, \u2018Why would you do that?\u2019 That’s very obvious to me. It’s more logical a lot of the time to do that for your safety,\u201d Holly said. \u201cWhat churches have done to LGBT people and continue to do is devastating, and to use the theological word for it, is sinful. I would say to them, there’s no shame in leaving the church.\u201d<\/p>\n
Still, these church leaders believe a primary focus of their churches is to provide a safe place for people to heal who were marginalized in other places of worship.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is amazing when you’ve been rejected by the church to enter into a church where you can step in fully as you are and be welcomed. That is a life-transforming experience,\u201d Robertson said. \u201cI hope LGBT people will give inclusive churches a chance and bless us with their presence.\u201d<\/p>\n
These five Uptown church leaders were told their identities were incompatible, but now they have used their intersecting statuses to advocate within the church and society for further acceptance of people like them.<\/p>\n