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Category: LGBT Stories

  • Justin’s Story – “I was taught to hate the very ones who loved me”

    by Justin, a survivor of conversion therapy who was nearly crushed under the shame but is now a minister in training

    Like many others, I was once that lively, passionate, charismatic Christian. I stood out, I was bold and courageous, but like many others there was something deeply hidden and shameful about me (or so I thought). I was gay.

    Being ‘born again’ at 17 in an evangelical charismatic church had seemed natural to me. I’d known I was attracted to men before this but I’d never known what to do about it, so when Jesus came along it felt like this was it – salvation, escape, life in all its fullness! I spent five years as that lively, passionate, charismatic Jesus firebrand until a monster re-appeared from the deep to the surface of my life.

    I couldn’t believe it. Me, the pioneer, still had this ‘thing’? (I couldn’t even say ‘gay’ at the time).

    I had secretly hoped that God would have healed me in this new ‘born again’ life but it just didn’t happen. I shared with close Christian friends and church leaders alike and I became ‘project Justin.’ The order of the day was ‘conversion therapy!’  Charismatics believed wholeheartedly in God’s power, but also Satan’s ability to corrupt too. It was clear that I had been corrupted, so deliverance, to them, was what I needed.

    My journey wasn’t a summer camp or an ex-gay ministry but rather two people who specialised in deliverance, which meant they could get the “gay demons” out of me. From the age of 22 through til about 28, every three months or so I would stay for a weekend in this couple’s house for my sessions. Each session we talked, from childhood to present seeking to find the places where Satan might have infiltrated my life. If I’d had sex, we had to name the person and pray to be delivered from the demons they may have passed onto me. At first, I was excited. I genuinely thought that this would be the answer. It was only after time passed that I began to realised how torturous it was becoming.

    My biggest feeling was shame.

    Every session digging up shame, making me feel it, relive it, leaving with it. God wasn’t doing anything! The more I tried to engage with this ministry the greater my sexual desires grew; it wasn’t doing anything at all! In desperation I went along with everything. First I was taught that my Mum was to blame; then my dad; then, my childhood (which was, on the contrary, actually very happy). I was taught to hate the very ones who loved me and to view all the good I had as rotten and bad.

    It was torture. It completely screwed me up.

    After six years I gave up and left this ministry, having been told I couldn’t be delivered because I wasn’t willing to change! But the thing was that though I left it, sadly it never left me. The God I loved hated me; it felt like he hadn’t lift a finger to help. So, I left him too – if he hates me, I hate him. The family I thought loved me were to blame for all of this, so on the hate list they went! And of course I was on that list too. I despised myself. Whether you call it “Conversion therapy”, “Deliverance ministry”, “pray the gay away”, or whatever else – it ripped the life out of me and left me as a dead man walking.

    I had no hope at all. Justin ‘the project’ became Justin ‘the problem,’ and a big one at that!

    Church was no longer home, family was no longer home, nowhere was safe anymore! What a lie I had been sold! And sadly, this is a lie a lot of my LGBTQIA+ friends get sold too. But it so obviously causes greater harm than good – in some cases suicide can be the result! It needs to stop!

    The good news is that it can, but it’s going to be a long hard struggle.

    I have now returned to my faith, I’m a minister in training, God in his grace has been transforming me and ‘project Justin’ who became ‘problem Justin’ is now ‘loved and affirmed Justin!’ And I have accepted God’s call to rid this world of such practices and so I have to speak out. I have to speak out about the silence, the theological grooming and the quack psychological techniques that always lead to shame and self-rejection.

    Yes, we want the government to ban conversion therapy, but I also want the church to listen to us, to hear us, to see that bespoke charismatic packages of deliverance are the torture devices of hell, the equivalent of medieval thumb screws!

    I don’t just want a ban but a real heart cry of “sorry” to come from within evangelical charismatic circles for what they have done as they have operated under the radar. We must continue to fight and stand together against this. We are loved, we are affirmed, we are accepted, and we have a future in our faith communities.

     

     

     

     

  • Peter’s Story – Conditioning Causes Shame & Self-Hatred

    by Peter (a pseudonym), a survivor of conversion therapy 

    Why do people seek out Conversion Therapy and prayer/deliverance ministries?

    For me, I did because I thought it could ‘correct’ my sexuality. It is only with hindsight that I now know it was the most destructive thing I could have done to myself.

    I was brought up within an evangelical church in South London. My entire childhood was all about going to church on Sundays and learning all about the Bible and its stories. I realised that I was different from other boys at the age of five. I had no word for it but I knew that something was not the same. No one ever mentioned homosexuality to me, but they did promote chastity until marriage and the importance of the ‘nuclear family’ – husband as the head of the house, the wife as the submissive helper and nurturer and then the children.  I was conditioned to believe that this was entirely normal. And that is what the church was very good at, conditioning. It was all in the subliminal messaging that all of us Sunday school children received and then watching our parents and other adults in the church trying to live this out. I had nothing to measure it all against.

    We were always told that we were to be ‘in the world but not of the world’. I took this to mean that the world was an evil place but all church people were’ intrinsically good’. I guess I took this to an extreme as I was growing up especially when I started to realise that I was gay.

    When HIV and AIDS was first spoken about in the early 1980’s I was 12 and knew I was gay. The churches response was that ‘these people’ were pure evil and they deserved what was coming to them. It was also obvious that this was the attitude presented by the media and by society as a whole. For me it was a perfect storm. My awakening sexuality became completely tarnished by attitudes of the church, the place where I felt safe and where I got my spiritual identity from.

    For instance, I can remember being told that gay men were no better than paedophiles and people who practiced bestiality and necrophilia. I couldn’t be gay, I simply couldn’t.

    Shame crept in and stayed there for a very long time.

    The outworking of all this is that I became a classic people pleaser. I had to lead prayer meetings and get as involved as much as I could in the church. I needed people, and God, to like me. I took it too far. I utterly hated myself. I was always on high alert meaning that I over compensated all the time. I was always paranoid thinking that I couldn’t ever present a ‘gay persona’ to people. I was constantly checking my mannerisms and always filtering. The result being that I was always exhausted, even when I wasn’t doing anything. I no longer do any of these things since coming out but the fatigue still remains.

    I originally came out in 2004 at the age of 32. In one sense it was a relief to finally be authentic but in another sense it was the foreboding start of a dark journey to try and correct my sexuality.  It was suggested that I go and seek conversion therapy  which I did. I felt very uncomfortable with going to the sessions and quickly made up my mind that this wasn’t for me. Thank God I did because I don’t know what the outcome would have been and how it would have impacted on my already delicate mental health.  Years later after becoming an atheist and coming back to Christ in my early 40’s I had some deliverance and prayer ministry. I saw this as a last resort to finally correct something that had bugged me for my entire life. Of course, I had been conditioned into believing that my sexuality was broken from a very early age so I had no hesitation into thinking and believing that prayer ministry was right for me.

    The funny thing about all of this is that I never told the prayer ministers that I was gay. I told them that I had had gay experiences in the past and that I regretted my past sexual behaviour with men. In reality I didn’t regret it at all but the need to be liked and accepted was paramount.  I was so full of shame, guilt and fear that I thought they would judge me for being gay if I had told them and that I would be thrown out of the ministry centre.  I only felt validated when people liked me and admitting that I was gay to the prayer ministers filled me with utter dread so I told them that it was all in the past even though in reality it wasn’t.

    In my head I had separated my orientation from my sexual behaviour. I simply could not be honest with myself, however hard I tried. I received prayer ministry and deliverance for having had gay sex in the past and still had various ‘sexual demons’ prayed out of me even though they never prayed directly for my homosexuality in that current moment.

    All the shame and self-hatred got much worse when I was going through this.

    I can safely say that it didn’t work. Having conversion therapy and prayer ministry made all my problems much worse. My mental health was shot to pieces. Years of lying to myself and other people had tipped me over the edge. It has caused deep depression, PTSD, an anxiety disorder, suicidal ideation and panic attacks. I am currently seeing an excellent therapist and I’m glad I sought help for this. I am working through my issues and I am finally seeing light at the end of the tunnel.

    Even thinking or writing about this time is still exceedingly painful. I feel deeply ashamed that I went through with it and bringing it up again has been very difficult for me. My primary hope for writing this is for people to understand some of the short and long term effects. It was all so coercive and I still feel ashamed that I agreed for it to happen to me. Of course, at the time I was in agreement because all I wanted was to be accepted by the wider church community. It was so important for me to be liked by people in the church and very difficult to know when things were going too far.

    I guess what I’d like people to realise is that the shame runs very deep and it takes time to heal. It is only now that I’ve begun this healing process that I’ve been able to forgive everyone involved, and define myself in others way than as a ‘victim’.

    In short, good mental health and safeguarding policies within church settings are of paramount importance. This is why a complete ban on conversion therapy with no exemptions is needed. All LGBTQ+ people’s lives are way too precious to be messed around with.

     

  • Kate’s Story

    by Kate, a transgender woman from the north of England, who bravely shares her horrific experience of being prayed for in three different evangelical churches.

     

    This is spiritual abuse, and shows clearly why a ban on conversion therapy must include religious practices, including prayer.

  • Yve’s Story – “I Felt Set Up To Fail”

    by Yve, who has experienced both the very worst and the very best of the Church of England.

    I first knew something was different about me when I was six, and first started wearing my mum’s clothes. From that moment onward, what could have been a potentially idyllic seaside childhood became characterised by bullying, acute discomfort with my birth gender identity, and a love that seemed strictly conditional.

    Craving acceptance and security, I entered what quickly became a dysfunctional marriage. As always, I was too scared to talk about my feelings, feared the negative responses which occurred when I did, and never felt truly loved. I underwent gender reassignment surgery in 2012, but even afterwards, the loneliness and rejection remained.

    This was all to change – or so I thought – in 2016.

    Having been engaging with a notoriously conservative cathedral parish for 8 years and being largely ignored by the congregation, I was surprised when I was suddenly encouraged to get more involved in its activities. Feeling hopeful and included, I took up several volunteer and secretarial roles, joined a worship team, and accepted an employment offer as floor manager. It felt like God had placed me here to learn and grow as if finally in preparation for ordination, to which I’d felt called since 1994. For the first time in my life, I began to believe it was possible that my gender could be valued and accepted by a church.

    I was soon to be disillusioned. Indeed, it wasn’t until later that I found that I’d be given this faux acceptance because of an edict that the cathedral community needed to be ‘more representative of the whole city.’

    In reality, nothing changed. In my new roles, I felt continually measured against a heteronormative standard (e.g. my shirts and shoes weren’t considered ‘masculine enough’), and I was often the target of verbal abuse. When this had become a typical pattern of behaviour towards me I reported it, but nobody took my complaints seriously.

    It became clear that despite all the training delivered to everyone and their desire to be ‘representative’, the dean and chapter didn’t take their safeguarding responsibilities seriously, or have any real interest in a truly inclusive community.

    By late 2018, things came to a head. A new dean arrived who seemed uneasy about my continued involvement. Suddenly, once supportive colleagues became reluctant to swap shifts with me so I could fulfil voluntary roles. Then, a new and unprompted ruling that Chapter clergy shouldn’t interact socially with or give pastoral care to employees, effectively brought all voluntary roles to an abrupt and sudden end. I felt as if I was being slowly pushed out. Then, one day, I arrived at a meeting to discover someone else had been appointed secretary in my place, without any warning or prior consultation. I resigned from all my other roles with immediate effect.  I felt set up to fail and distraught.

    In early 2019, the cathedral had an S.C.I.E. inspection. I’ve seen less panic in a school pre-Ofsted inspection! Staff and volunteers were told what to say if spoken to by an inspector, and members of congregations carefully selected for interview by inspectors who ensured they wouldn’t say anything controversial. A banner installed by the entrance affirmed the dean’s commitment to providing ‘a safe environment for everyone.’ Knowing what I did, I found this laughable. So did the inspectors, but for a different reason: they perceived its message as unnecessary and ordered its removal. I felt deliberately blocked in my attempts to speak with an inspector. I was saddened, but not surprised, when the outcome for the cathedral turned out to be largely favourable. By now, I was numbed and deadened to the fact that people like me often had their voices silenced.

    I suffered a complete physical, nervous and emotional breakdown. Although technically furloughed, I couldn’t face returning to an environment which showed such disregard for people’s safety, health and well being. Even the diocesan safeguarding officer wouldn’t help me. I’ve been made to feel that I can’t trust anyone there. I felt I received more love and support from a secular community trust than I did from my supposed spiritual home.

    If this is the worst of the Church of England, during lockdown I unexpectedly encountered the very best. I’ve received an unconditional welcome through online worship, quizzes and study groups offered by certain truly inclusive churches in Liverpool and London. I still feel frozen out of life and pay for ongoing therapy but I thank God for what I’ve found among them. “A broken and contrite heart O God you will not despise” (Ps.51:17).

     

  • Steven’s Story – “I felt I had no option but to make a formal complaint to the Garda”

    by Steven Smyrl, a married gay former elder in the Presbyterian Church in Ireland

    I was ordained an elder in the Presbyterian Church in Ireland (PCI) in 2007. The PCI is the largest Protestant denomination in Northern Ireland, and also has a significant presence in the Republic. Until about 25 years ago the PCI was, in the Irish context, regarded as a middle-of-the-road, mainstream Christian denomination, and even moderately liberal among the island’s Reformed Churches. It had begun ordaining women as early as 1976. But in the intervening years more and more of its newer, younger ministers have been openly espousing hardline conservative views, notably in relation to women’s ordination and LGBTQ+ issues.

    Nevertheless, until 2019 as a gay man I have felt nothing but acceptance and support within my local congregation and from many ministers and elders (albeit discreetly) across the Dublin & Munster Presbytery (akin to a diocese in other denominations). So when I married my same-sex partner, Roy, in November 2018 in a civil ceremony, I was delighted to receive warm words of congratulation and encouragement from fellow Presbyterians, including ministers and elders.

    However, my delight was short-lived.

    Just six short months later Roy and I were distraught as we found our marriage under siege, belittled and disparaged by a small group of evangelical zealots, all PCI ministers attached to the Dublin & Munster Presbytery. It was the beginning of a relentless quasi-judicial process which left me feeling demeaned and dehumanised by a Presbytery Commission, whose campaign to remove me as an elder was conducted without mercy, it would seem on the basis that the ‘ends justify the means’.

    Where did all this come from?

    Homophobia has been growing within the Presbyterian Church of Ireland for years, all part of the toxic mix of religion and politics emblematic of Northern Ireland. This came to a head a few years ago when those opposed to female ministers and elders as well as LGBTQ+ rights finally got their hands on the Church’s levers of power. The result was the adoption, at the 2018 General Assembly, of a motion subsequently widely decried as homophobic. This stated that due to their supposed “outward conduct and lifestyle” gay people were forthwith excluded from church membership unless they voluntarily submitted to living lives of destructive, self-imposed solitude. In addition, their children were to be denied baptism. And astonishingly, because this was in the realm of ‘religion’, this sort of blatant discrimination could be openly imposed without, it was thought, fear of legal reprisal.

    In such an atmosphere it was my misfortune to be the first victim to fall foul of this resolution.

    Out of the blue I received a phone call from two leaders of Presbytery, demanding that I meet them alone to discuss “concerns” about my position as elder. Though I sought further information then and in the following weeks, this was repeatedly denied – the clear intention it seemed was to ambush me in a face-to-face meeting. I had to rely on my own tenacity and GDPR Subject Access Requests to eventually discover that the issue was in fact my marriage. I was astonished to find that two ministers in Presbytery had colluded in producing a dossier of ‘evidence’ of my gay relationship (a tactic, as reported in the Belfast Telegraph, reminiscent of the East German Stasi).

    Presbytery was prevailed upon to set up a formal Commission, though without ever being informed what was to be investigated. Four months later it issued a Finding dismissing me solely on the grounds that my same-sex marriage was incompatible with eldership. All of the arguments and submissions I had made in my defence were ignored or rejected: it appeared that proof of my marriage was the only relevant issue.

    Yet, I had discovered (through GDPR) that my detractors had obtained my marriage certificate a week before the Presbytery meeting that had established the Commission, and they therefore could have sought my removal there and then, without any trauma or drama. But they withheld this evidence, which meant I was still subjected to a humiliating and stressful formal enquiry.  It felt like a ‘show trial’ intended as a warning to all others.

    My experience of the Commission was traumatic, and had a profound effect on my physical and mental health. From the start I felt like a prey being pursued by a pack of wolves. My own concerns were ignored, and none of my responses were given any respect or attention; the Commission merely seized upon nuggets that they could use to back up the outcome they had it seemed pre-ordained. What is more, procedures were often insisted upon when they suited, and discarded when they were inconvenient. The balance of power was horrendously skewed – most telling was the demand that I should appear before the Commission of six senior church officials, alone apart from “a member of the church not qualified as a lawyer … in a supportive, non-speaking capacity”.

    In all their dealings with me the Commission showed a total lack of compassion, grace and empathy. It felt as though there was a growing vindictiveness when I failed to cave in to their expectations. Even when made aware of the effect their tactics were having on my health, which was supported by medical certificates, they continued in their relentless pursuit. (Sadly, the effect on my health has been long-lasting: I was recently admitted to hospital with a suspected stroke, due to on-going stress.) It seems that the overarching imperative was always to enforce their current orthodoxy, regardless of whether individual lives were crushed in the process.

    The Commission’s Finding generated considerable attention from the national print and broadcast media over several months, in which its actions were repeatedly described as oppressive, unethical and dehumanising.

    This seemed to enrage Church authorities even further, prompting them to set up a second Commission (still ongoing), primarily focused on interrogating the minister and church council of my local congregation because of the constant support they had shown to both Roy and myself over many years. Answers have been demanded to 43 of the most divisive questions imaginable, seeking private and personal information without any regard to the confidential nature of pastoral care. The questions appear to have been contrived with the express intention of provoking conflict between the minister and members of the church council so that each might inadvertently incriminate themselves or each other.

    The way I have been treated by the Commission has convinced me that PCI is a church deeply infected by personal and institutional homophobia, which leads it to act in a fundamentally unchristian manner. I have sought justice and accountability from church authorities, but have been rebuffed at every turn. I therefore felt I had no option but to make a formal statement of complaint to the Garda (Irish police) under hate crime legislation. At the time of writing, my complaint is under active investigation.

    While this story has yet to run its course, without doubt the Presbyterian Church in Ireland will, by its appalling actions, only prove to have caused irreparable damage to its own already tarnished reputation.

     

  • Jaime’s Story – “They had absolutely no idea what to do with me”

    by Jaime Sommers, a bisexual 50 year old woman whose story of abuse by the Church of England will shock many

    My name is Jaime and I am 50 years old. I have been dual-attracted to both men and women since about the age of seven. However, my mother told me in no uncertain terms when I was a teenager that she would throw my brother or myself out, if we were gay. So I learnt to be quiet about the large part of me that was same-sex attracted.

    At the age of 17, I became friends with an evangelical Christian girl at my local sixth form college. She took me to various church events. I started reading the New Testament around this time and I just knew Jesus was real. New to the faith, I became submerged in the evangelical movement, and at University, became involved in a burgeoning Vineyard Fellowship. They made it abundantly clear to me that homosexuality in any form was a sin, and on numerous occasions both at church and at New Wine festivals, I was subjected to prayer ministry to ‘heal me’ of my homosexual feelings. I was encouraged by my young pastors to marry, though I was struggling with my feelings for women. I knew neither my family nor church would support ‘the real me’ – this was the early 90s – so it felt playing it straight was the only option.

    My husband was my best friend and I still love him dearly. I was attracted to him, but not with the same intensity I experienced for women. Nevertheless, we had three lovely children together and shared many happy memories. But I was suppressing a major part of myself, and this gradually took a toll on my mental health. In 2006, I was prescribed anti-depressants by an incredulous GP who strongly recommended I faced up to my sexuality, for the sake of myself and my children. But I had a successful role as an unlicensed preacher by now in a large evangelical Anglican Church and it just felt that I had too much to lose. This decision was confirmed when I was approached by my vicar to explore ministry. I explained to him in confidence that I had some reservations as I was bisexual and that coping with this affected my mental health. He told me on no account to mention this to anyone at Diocese during the exploratory process. So I kept my mouth shut. Nobody ever asked about my sexuality anyway, so that was easy. It was assumed since I was married with children that I was heterosexual.

    However, just after I turned 40 and I had begun Reader training in the Church of England, the same-sex attracted ‘demons’ started to emerge with a vengeance. My service leading and preaching gifts meant I was frequently up the front at church, which saw me enjoy a certain degree of adulation. One woman in particular made it very clear she had feelings for me and began to hang around after services to speak to me. Though I smelt danger, I was struggling with depression and repression of who I really was and eventually I succumbed. She was attractive and only a few years younger than me.

    There was just one kiss, but it was enough to unleash what I can only describe as a tornado of evil from which it took me many years to recover. We both told our husbands straight away what had happened. Neither partner decided to make a big deal of it, and I naively thought that was the end of it. Unfortunately, the woman in question confided in a retired clergy couple at our Anglican Church, who were known for their hard-line fundamentalist views. “The kiss” was escalated upwards to the Suffragan Bishop, who deemed it a homosexual act. My vicar was then placed in the awful position of having to pay a home visit, accompanied by two fellow church members. Clearly upset on my behalf, he read out a cold statement from the Bishop. I was to be withdrawn from church leadership and Sunday’s preaching duties with immediate effect, on the charge of ‘unwanted sexual advances’ against a congregant.

    The scene in my living room was pure carnage. I was shrieking in absolute shock at the injustice and skewing of what had happened, while my husband was furious. I later learned the other party had received a friendly visit from the Diocesan Safeguarding Officer, herself a repressed queer Christian.

    My husband and I were then summoned to Diocesan House, where we sat opposite two stony faced senior clergy from the Diocese. They had absolutely no idea what to do with me. They clearly knew nothing about bisexuality and were confused that I was married with children yet had same sex attraction. I admitted I had made a disastrous error of judgement in kissing this woman, but I was not going to apologise for making unsolicited sexual advances to her, which was what they seemed to expect. They didn’t even see us to the door.

    They then spent over a month deciding on a course of action. In the course of these weeks, I became very ill and could not be left alone. I remember looking up how many paracetamol it would take to end my life. I lost over a stone and a half in weight and was force fed sandwiches by my husband and church friends. Diocese literally left us to fend for ourselves as a family, while the woman in question carried on singing in the church worship band and co-leading youth group.

    The Suffragan Bishop then shared with me that I would be indefinitely removed from training. Church was my whole life at that time, and this felt catastrophic. The sense of shame and injustice was crippling, but through the loving support of family and church friends, I managed to hold it together – until one terrible evening when I received a phone call from the vicar.

    He told me that around a dozen church members had received an anonymous letter accusing me of being a sexual predator of women and that my husband and I were into threesomes.  We lived in a small community and this was absolutely terrifying – what if my school age children found this out? The PCC held an emergency meeting. My husband and I wanted to go to the police, but the vicar dissuaded us. There was panic in his voice.

    I tried to go back on several occasions, but I just couldn’t shake off that awful feeling that somebody in the congregation had written that letter, which was distinctly possible owing to the choice of recipients – all current and previous PCC members. In the end, we left the church – which I suspect was the result the Diocese had hoped for. My husband and I did eventually receive an apology in all but name from the Suffragan Bishop.

    Our marriage lasted another four years. We are both now happily engaged to strong Christian women. We never talk about what happened but I still have awful flashbacks. I remain on anti-depressants, though the dose is smaller.

     Jaime Sommers is author of 119: My Life as a Bisexual Christian which can be accessed through the Kindle Store.

     

  • Rachel’s Story – I Don’t Want to Be Part of An Institution that Allows Abuse

    by Rachel, a 30 something Christian, hockey player and lesbian whose experience in an HTB plant has seriously damaged her faith. 

    My name is Rachel and I am a 30 something hockey player, Christian, theatre-goer and lesbian. I came out in my early 30s and at the time was going to a conservative, evangelical church that was a HTB church plant. While exploring the intersectionality of my faith and sexuality, I started blogging and wrote this very early on:

    ‘My experience of conservative, evangelical churches is that they are welcoming but there are limits for the LGBTQ+ community. Hidden limits. Glass ceilings, that no one speaks of. The challenge for me, is that I joined an un-affirming church before coming out and am now trying to work out what their glass ceilings are and if I can stay to be the change that I want to see without getting hurt or worn down too much in the process.’

    This excerpt from my blogging reminds me of the hope I had in my church and vicar. The hope that I would never be defined by my sexuality and that we could agree to disagree well. It makes me incredibly sad to read this now and I wish I could run back to that younger me and tell her to get out of there.

    I was at that church for 4 years. I was part of an awesome community, adored being able to serve through leading in Bible study groups and saw my faith grow while I was there. About 3 years in I came out to myself as a lesbian. In May 2019 I came out to my vicar and I asked him specifically whether, if I was in a same sex relationship, I could still lead a Bible study group. He said yes. At this point, I thought this was clear.

    Time passed and in January 2020, the vicar asked me and other leaders to meet to discuss our Bible study groups. We were told it was to share how we had been getting on and talk about the future. During the meeting, he explained that all leaders would be expected to attend workshops that would discuss lifestyle choices and how, as leaders, we needed to be ‘beyond reproach’.  My stomach turned and I was very scared that what I thought the vicar and I had agreed had somehow changed and I was about to be seriously hurt. When I pushed him on what that meant for me, he went on to say that:

    1. My social media posts about equal marriage and having an affirming theology were a problem.

    I was being silenced.

    1. He had to follow the Church of England’s and the bishop’s teachings on traditional marriage.

    Many, church leaders within the Church of England follow the Church of England’s teachings on sexuality and marriage and have congregations that are inclusive.

    1. For me to continue as a leader, I needed to discuss my stance on this issue with him but have refused. 

    I told him that I didn’t feel safe to discuss my ‘stance’ with him because I felt that we had an unequal relationship (him being theologically trained) and that he didn’t want to just listen to my views but to change my mind. He admitted in the meeting that he did hope to change my mind!

    1. Finally, I asked several times whether I would have to stop leading a Bible study group if there is a new expectation for LGBTQ+ people at the church.  He was silent. He didn’t ask me to stay, he didn’t ask me to reconsider and stay, he was silent. 

    By the end of this meeting, I was distraught. I was sobbing, my co-leader was sobbing and clearly both of us were devastated. I was left with a clear message that because of my sexuality, I could not lead a Bible study group and was not welcome at the church.

    For two weeks, no one contacted me.

    After this I sent the church wardens and the local bishop an email, copying in the vicar. The emails spoke about how appalled I was at being kicked out of my church because of my sexuality and the lack of pastoral care.

    At this point, I received a letter from the vicar that thanked me for my service. He didn’t acknowledge my hurt nor did he state that I had been wrong and that I could lead a Bible study group or stay.

    I did have contact with the church wardens. We had a lovely meeting where they listened really well. At the end, I gave them a list of recommendations that I wanted to see implemented to ensure that this never happened again. Nothing on that list was acted upon.

    As a result of the lack of engagement from the vicar and how fearful I was that this could happen to someone else, the bishop suggested I take this to an informal investigation to ensure that lessons were learnt and this didn’t happen again. The investigation produced almost identical recommendations to the ones that I had originally given the church wardens.

    It is over 18 months since those recommendations were given a second time to the church and vicar. Half of those recommendations have still not been carried out and one of the most central– a risk assessment to keep those in the LGBTQ+ community safe for the future has not been started, let alone completed.

    After the informal investigation, several meetings with my local bishop and a meeting with the Bishop of London, the list of recommendations still hadn’t been completed and there was no sign that they were about to be. Out of desperation, I went to the newspapers with my story. This was incredibly tough but I hoped would raise the profile of my story and make change where we hadn’t so far. After fair and detailed pieces in the local newspaper and the Church Times, I am still waiting for those recommendations to be fully implemented.

    This experience has seriously damaged my faith.

    Often, when trauma happens to someone in a church context, it affects their view of God and it certainly did for me. The PTSD I am experiencing has and will last years. Currently, attending church, in any format, causes me to have a panic attack. Regardless of how affirming the community or service may be, my body does not trust it to be safe and goes into fight or flight mode. I fear that the church and vicar that I once belonged to will never fulfil the recommendations that it agreed to, allowing others, like me, to be repeatedly traumatised.

    I do not want to be part of an institution that allows this abuse.

  • Revd Adams’ Story – Is It Wrong for Me to Tell the Truth?

    by the Reverend Adams, a gay Methodist Minister

    My first experience of ‘deliverance’ ministry occurred on a Birmingham high street. I had thought I was just meeting someone for prayer, and first realised I might be wrong and in danger when three men greeted me instead of one. They took me to some rented rooms above a shop on the high street.   Immediately I knew I was in a bad place.

    My relationship with faith had started when I was 18. I had come from a non-church background and felt sad and lonely. I had known I was only attracted to men when I was at Junior school but didn’t know how to tell anyone. Homophobia was very common and – like many others – I was scared.

    When I came to faith I told my new Methodist Minister that I was gay, that I had no male friends and was scared to make any. I hoped he would help me. I was hugely mistaken.

    He told me I couldn’t be gay because that was ‘not of God’. It was evil, a perversion – I must be possessed. He also told me I was a potential child abuser. I couldn’t have been more shocked.

    Naively, I trusted him. I just wanted to be accepted, welcomed in Church, and to have some friends. I was desperate not to lose my new faith.

    He suggested I go to a Pentecostal Church he was associated with in Birmingham, which had ‘experience of dealing with Gay people.’ Desperate for help and acceptance, I consented, eagerly. And just like that, I found myself alone in a room with three men, cut off from all outside help.

    They spoke kindly while we walked up the stairs, but as soon as the door shut, this very quickly changed. They became aggressive and spoke over each other louder and louder, pushing me and shouting that gay men only existed because of abuse and therefore I had been raped by my dad or grandfather. I was an abused and broken person who had been preyed on and would prey on others, they said.

    I remember trying to stand up and say that this was rubbish; they shoved and shouted more. The next thing I knew I was on the ground where they continued to attack me.

    They commanded demons of homosexuality to leave me, and hit me again and again.

    I was absolutely terrified.

    I pretended that it was working and that they had made me different. I left as quickly as I could and remember running to my car. I collapsed inside, locked the doors and cried.

    I drove back home and promised I would hide this and never speak of it again, but the Methodist Minister told me that was not the end of it. I was clearly a serious potential child abuser and I couldn’t volunteer as a Boys Brigade Officer anymore, unless I told the BB Captain so that I could be monitored at all times. If I didn’t tell him, then the Church would have to be informed and I would be in essence outed to all the congregation.

    I felt so dirty. I wanted to die.

    He went on to say that I needed to find a nice girl, marry and have children, and that the gay would go away. I told a girl all this – we were friends and it was so hard to do. I loved her – and still do – so we married. We thought we could complete the cure. We had children and were together for almost 25 years.

    God has such an amazing sense of humour as I was training as a Methodist Minister myself within about 5 years of the gay conversion experience. I hid my true self deep within myself, so that no-one could see how much I hated myself.

    From the outside, we looked like a perfect family, but underneath it was hell for me and (I think) my ex-wife. I was lonely and suicidal. I felt like I was always pretending and was never good enough for God or my ex-wife.

    When we split and I came out it felt like a huge weight had been removed – I could breathe freely for the first time.

    Unsurprisingly, as an out gay Minister I encountered homophobia. One retired minister said that gays in church were a disgrace and if she was still a minister she would resign.

    One church where I was meant to be observing a local preacher I was training rang twice to inform me that if I entered they would all walk out in protest at my ‘sin’. The abuse they gave me and the language they shouted down the phone left me shocked and shaken. The Circuit told me not to go but said nothing to the people at the Church. I was told to just accept that this was normal, acceptable behaviour.

    As I was coming to the end of my 5 years there I was initially offered an extension. However, I was then told by a church full-time lay worker that I was ‘hated and detested’ and that I ‘should go where people like you are tolerated.’ Shocked, I reported the incident to the Circuit / District. I was then told that I should leave, because the other church worker had to stay. They withdrew my own extension to stay, and just like that, I had been forced out.

    Now, we live in fear. Where will we end up? Is there anywhere we will be accepted?

    There aren’t enough words to describe all the other incidents I’ve encountered since then. I’ve been told to stop complaining, that people are allowed to express homophobic views. I’ve been told by people in senior ordained national roles that that ‘we shouldn’t rock the boat’. They said that black people had to accept racism within the Methodist Church, that women had to accept sexism and that I had to accept this.

    I’m left with a multitude of questions. How much is too much? Is it wrong for me to tell the truth? Could even writing this post be accused of rocking the boat?

    I feel powerless and live in fear.

     

  • Jas’ Story – Please. Be. Kind.

    by Jas, a former drug addict, Bible College Student and now married lesbian

    I was in prison when I first encountered Jesus.

    I had been a drug addict but when I met him, everything changed. It felt like I fell in love, spending all my time reading about Jesus and getting to know him. When I left prison, I started to attend a church. I loved it. I became a serial volunteer – if there was something needing doing, I was the first person with my hand up. I got involved with loads in the church: stewarding events, running teams and serving however I could.

    I wanted everybody to know about Jesus (I may have been a bit annoying with my over-excitement!), so I took my girlfriend to church. The quiet whispers all around when we walked in of “Are they together….?”  was the first time I realised that being gay might be a problem. The vicar sat me down the next day and explained that being gay goes against scripture and that I shouldn’t “do” it. I promptly split up with my girlfriend – I wanted to be God’s girl and if that meant being single, I was ok with that.

    I moved to another area to attend Bible School to learn more about God. I went on missions, I learned scripture and served the church. I became chief steward at a national event, spent my summers trekking around the country volunteering for Christian festivals and felt genuinely happy. The only problem was that I was still gay, and I felt so bad about it.

    I had the odd slip up where I would meet a girl and would then repent, full of guilt and shame and feeling terrible about myself. I would spend night after night on the floor of my room, crying and begging God to make me acceptable. It never changed. I spent years poring over scripture, trying to understand why being gay was so bad, trying to understand the original context and what the clobber passages really meant.  I never really understood how this God who loved me so much would begin to hate me just for loving someone with the same genitals. It made no sense.

    Eventually I was honest with my church about my feelings. It did not go down well.

    Initially I was asked to meet with the elders of the church – all 12 of them – while I tried to justify my theological position. It was frightening, being completely alone  and on the spot, trying to explain why I felt being gay was not a sin.

    Then followed the deliverance ministry. I was given three exorcisms by different groups. I don’t know which was worse – the dramatic one, the quiet one, or the shouting one. All of them scared me. I started to question if I really did have Satan living in my heart and if I was, as they told me, an abhorrent stench unto the nostrils of the Lord. They offered me therapy to overcome my desires, which I took. I was so desperate to be acceptable to God I would have done anything. I begged God, I tried so hard to be straight, I did the therapy and the group prayers, I tried to believe that the exorcisms would heal me. Nothing changed. I felt awful, I hated myself for being so immoral, I hated that I didn’t (as they told me) have the faith to be cured.

    Then I met someone special.

    We were both volunteers at a summer camp, serving coffee in the big tent. She had just come back from mission overseas and was so full of Jesus. She inspired me, pointed me towards Jesus and really excited me about what we could do for the kingdom together. The more time I spent with her, the more I fell in love with her and we decided to get married. When we announced our engagement, some church people were angry. They felt that I had betrayed God for lust and said I was a disgrace to Christianity. Then we met with the vicar of my church who told me that he could not condone what we were doing and so banned us from the church.  I was told that my services were no longer required for many of my volunteering roles, not just within my own church but also for the bigger summer events. My chief stewarding role was taken from me as it would be ‘inappropriate’ for me to be in leadership while living in ‘such obvious sin.’

    Many people I loved did not want to be near me as they said I could contaminate the community with the way I embraced sin. Through getting engaged I lost my church, my community and my vocation. It was awful and I was left feeling that I wasn’t good enough for God. I worried that every time He looked at me, He saw something dirty, sinful and worthless; someone who had given up for carnal desires, who had turned their back on Him and had grieved the Holy Spirit.

    We found a church that would marry us and we were married a few years ago. Since then I’ve really struggled to go to church. We don’t live near an accepting church and so we are told that we may attend churches but can’t do anything other than be passive observers.

    All we want is to belong to a community where we can know God more, where we can serve, where we can take Jesus into the world. Unfortunately, we are not allowed because we fell in love. I struggle to even look for God without being filled with guilt and shame and regularly question whether He would even want me back.

    What I would say to the church is that gay people are still people. We hurt and we break and words and actions can do a lot of damage.

    Please. Be kind.

     

     

  • Lisa’s Story

    by Lisa (a pseudonym), who is a trans woman from the North of England.

    When I agreed to tell this story, I was reluctant because this happened 20 year ago and I was unsure how much relevance it would have now. It is very sad that it appears to still be so; if anything, the Government’s views on conversion therapy (along with trans rights in general) appears to have become even less supportive than it was.

    I was a very active member of an Evangelical, Pentecostal church. I had been to Bible college, was on the leadership team, regularly preached in my own church and others, led worship and was in charge of outreach for the church.  No one suspected that I was anything different than what I appeared to them to be. Not the church members, or my family; no one. I am now so sorry for the hurt that hiding truths about myself caused, especially to my wife and my daughter.

    I had been struggling with my gender identity all of my life, and now knew, after much counselling (secular) that I was trans. I didn’t want to be, but I was. I cannot start to explain the difficulty I had accepting this, but somehow I had kept it totally secret.

    This was until one particular night when something changed.

    I sat in my car and considering driving it very fast into a wall. The question was clear in my mind: “Do I go through with this thing and live as the woman I knew I was meant to be, or do I die?” The one thing that was impossible for me to do was just carry on pretending.

    I decided to tell my wife, and her world and mine fell apart.

    Once she knew that I was going to go through with this she immediately said that I could not transition and stay with her. Nor could I transition and see my daughter who I idolised. My wife rang the Pastor of our church, who was fully in agreement with her. He then wrote me a letter. It was 20 years ago and I can’t remember the exact wording of it, but it offered me two options: either receive counselling in order that I may repent, or leave.

    Of course I knew full well that all the “repenting” in the world was not going to change me. Neither would exorcism, which I knew they would then try.  So many times in the preceding years I had rebuked the Devil, I had begged on bended knee to be different, I had prayed and prayed, and failed. I could not try any more. I felt that I had let God down, the church down, my wife and daughter down. I thought that if being a Christian meant not transitioning, then I couldn’t be a Christian.

    I left the church, I left my wife, and, hardest of all, I left my daughter. I also thought I had left my faith. I had no one and nothing. All my friends were in the church; all my life had been there.

    A position came up with the company I was working for in a different part of the UK. I took it and a few months later changed my name and legally transitioned.

    My wife was true to her word and I had a battle to be allowed to even see my little girl. After 12 months I was allowed supervised visits (my daughter is now 26 and after many years we have a good relationship).

    In time I met a wonderful man. We fell in love, got married, got a dog (she is gorgeous!) and it has taken me the best part of that twenty years to realise that God made me this way and accepts me as I am. To realise that if Jesus died for anyone, he died for everyone: gay, straight, cis, trans, black, white. My faith has changed; I’m certainly not as bigoted as I once was. I think I’m a better person, but that’s the thing – even if I’m not I am certain that God loves me.