The Sin of Same Sex

Jeez, it’s like you two are dating…

My classmate Ryan teased me one day when Lena came to pick me up after play rehearsal.  We became joined at the hip only shortly after meeting each other when she walked into midweek service with a new group of young people from the local university. She was a star athlete and studying psychology. I was enrolled in my church's one-year discipleship program for young adults. Lena and I quickly worked out a way to spend all our free time together, and thanks to her having a car we were able to get away more often than any of my classmates. Our tuition cost provided a meager stipend that barely paid for a week’s worth of gas, putting a cramp on most extra-curricular driving around.

We mostly went hiking or hung out at her place where to this day I employ what she taught me about stopping pasta from boiling over by blowing on it or waving a wooden spoon over it.  More than anything though, we talked. Ad nauseam about God’s will for our lives and whether or not we thought we had the character to carry out His purpose.  Often we ended up sprawled on my waterbed in my basement bedroom where minutes or hours of endless introspection finally made us restless, more often than not resulting in playful wrestling matches spurred on by teasing when we couldn’t take ourselves so seriously anymore. On one occasion she pinned me down on the bed, looked straight at me, and said

I feel sorry for your future children.  They’re going to starve.

I tried to squirm free and asked what that was supposed to mean.  She was referring to my flat chest.  If it weren’t for my prominent nipples, I could have gotten away without a bra.  The only reason two bumps presented themselves on my chest at all was on account of padded bras.  As night dimmed my bedroom, we fell back laughing on to the warm waterbed, the entire sides of our bodies glued together from shoulders down to our intertwined legs. The darkness held our growing affection for each other.  We didn’t move, only gently breathed so as not to agitate the magic.  But then without warning, my bedroom door jarred open and a shard of light pierced our cocoon.  The silhouette of my house mom stood in front of us and we reacted like a teenage couple caught doing something naughty.

What are you girls doing?  It’s so dark in here.  Rachel, dinner is ready.

Lena made an excuse that she had to get going, and dinner with my house parents was choked down through heavy blocks of silence and obvious attempts to say “normal” things about my friendship with Lena.

My parents hadn’t met my new best friend yet, but they were certainly hearing me talk about her. I knew we’d have fun if I brought her to the ranch where I grew up two hours south of the city where I was attending the discipleship program.  In spite of my preference for urban dwelling, it did amuse me to throw a city kid into the rough and tumble of ranch life.

We arrived early in the morning, saddled up horses, and made our way down to the five thousand acres of rangeland.  The range looked like the set of a spaghetti western and provided the backdrop to some of my most idyllic memories.  I put Lena on an old mare, and lead her down steep narrow trails, through stony streams, around sweet-smelling sagebrush and past grazing cattle. 

Watch out for rattle snakes!

I yelled back to her while laughing. 

We arrived at a water hole, and hitched our horses under shady trees at the water's edge, giving them enough slack to drink and feed on tall grass.  The best feature of this water hole was an underwater passage by way of plunging into a waterfall.  If you were brave and trusted the natural propulsion, it pushed you down the passage, and then shot you back up to the surface a couple feet away.  After some failed attempts, we gave up and constructed a raft. We floated down the connecting river stream losing track of all time while baking in the hot sun.  It wasn’t until suddenly having to pass under a barbed wire fence that we finally woke to the late hour and realized I was due back to my houseparent’s in three hours.  We used adrenaline and logs to push-paddle our way back up-stream, ditched the raft, and in bare feet danced our way through the thorny muddy riverbank.  Reaching the horses, we snapped up our clothes, yanked jeans over wet bodies, and rode the horses like we stole them.  Taking full advantage of a horse’s sense for home, we were grateful they wanted us off as much as we needed to be off of them.  I felt bad about riding them hard and putting them away wet, but we couldn't lose too much time brushing and hosing down the beasts.  Skipping this step ultimately saved me from missing curfew and getting Monday Club.  Monday Club was the disciplinary structure for infractions such as not being able to recite your Bible verses, not completing homework, not journaling, or for breaking moral code.  It often involved working at a pastor’s house on your one day off.  No thanks! 

When my year in the discipleship program was up I returned to my rural home church.  The program trained disciples to serve their home churches and bring change to their local communities.  Lena felt God calling her to quit university and joined the discipleship program.  Our year together was gone, but the plan was for me to visit her as often as possible. 

I was sound asleep one Monday morning after spending the weekend in the city with Lena. We shared her double bed at her house parent’s and fell asleep both nights holding hands with our bodies pressed together.  I was having a late-morning dream where Lena was reaching her hand to gently caress my face, when the touch transferred to a light nudge on my shoulder and I heard someone whispering my name.  My youth pastor was nudging my shoulder to wake me.  She was my new house mom and long-time youth pastor of my home church.  Freshly trained disciples rarely returned to live with their parents, but instead were given housing assignments. Opening my eyes, I noticed my journal cradled in her arm.

Sorry to wake you Rachel, but there's something I need to talk to you about.

First of all, I just want to say that normally I would never interfere with your privacy, but I was asked to find your journal and have a look.  We have something serious we need to talk to you about, and I need to take you back to Spokane for a meeting with the leadership.

Something in my gut told me what this was about, but I asked anyway.

It's about your relationship with Lena, honey.

I could have spent another night with Lena if I knew I was just going back in the morning. The thought of that made me angry, like I’d been tricked, yet I was also aware that I was in the process of a failure.  I failed at being in the will of God.  I’d transgressed and I was in trouble.

An intimidating collection of leadership had been assembled, but Lena was nowhere to be seen. In addition to my youth pastor, were both discipleship program directors, and an associate pastor.  I was a little surprised, if not hurt to see the associate pastor.  He looked apologetic and out of place.  He was the kind one. Everyone felt safe with him, yet I had the distinct impression we were both being trapped. The panel began by posing questions about my relationship with Lena.  They knew I had just come back from the weekend with her, yet they interrogated me on information they already had, to hear me confess it.  “Codependent” was the first accusation. Collectively, we were always to be aware of codependence.  I had witnessed people being relieved of their codependence from friendships, inappropriate crushes, and even family relationships.

But even more dangerous, Rachel...

The woman director said.

...You and Lena are on a very dangerous road to lesbianism...

A road to….huh? 

What a ridiculous word!  If I didn't know better and if it wasn't so damn heavy in that room, I would have laughed out loud.  She sounded absurd.  As if that word...lesbianism, is a repugnant behavioral contamination.  I’ll admit, I was shocked. Surely I was not someone capable of...homosexuality?!

I stopped listening at some point as I tried to work out if Lena had been interrogated too.  What did she confess? Was she as baffled as I?  Did they requisition her journal too?  Make her feel just as shameful?  My brain was on a high-speed train of questions and possible answers when the train came to an abrupt stop at the sight of my ring in someone’s open palm.

Rachel, we know you exchanged rings with Lena.  It is important to break this bond.  Here is your ring back.  We would like you to please give us the ring she gave to you.

When and how did they get that ring? Last night after I left?  This morning before I arrived?  How did they know about it?

I felt like a stupid child who had stolen candy in the store, and now your parents, the cashier, and the security guy wanted you to hand it over.  I was being slapped on the wrist. No, I’d been punched in the gut. Though I was on the verge of tears, It was imperative to not let them think that I was crying over something bad that I had done.  I needed to take responsibility and be repentant. Not cry about it. 

Rachel, in order to find healing, you and Lena must break off your relationship.  You won't be able to spend time together or see each other anymore.  We don't want you to talk to her when you see her at meetings.  She's in the discipleship program and she needs to focus on her relationship with God. You don’t want to stand in her way.

I went away from that meeting with so many unanswered questions.  My brain was a jumble. Nothing made sense.  Since childhood, I had trusted my youth pastor as a kind of big sister.  She patiently taught me how to drive a stick shift. She was cool.  We laughed and spent cozy winter nights with hot chocolate, listening to Christmas music on vinyl’s. She was part of my family.  She was a confidante.  Not any longer, though.  My trust had been violently broken.   My hurt turned to anger and mistrust.  I would from this day forward be judged by her.  Sitting in the passenger seat next to her on the way home began a tug of war relationship between a pragmatic requirement for guidance and approval, and the fear of ever showing my true self again.

It was an agonizing matter of weeks before I saw Lena again. I was trying to look casual about finding somewhere to sit before an inter-church youth rally but was actively looking for her. I made up excuses to roam about the building, appearing to have reason to visit the bathrooms, be out in the hallways, pass through different wings of the church, make paths through every inch of the sanctuary, until I finally spotted her. I craned my neck to watch her passing through an opening off the sanctuary.  Our eyes connected, and she gave a nearly imperceptible blip of recognition, showing a sympathetic half-smile, as if someone prodded her in the back saying "Move along, nothing to see here..." I couldn't blame her.  It's not like she wanted to ignore me.  We were formally forbidden and were continually under watchful eyes.  But still,  she could have given me more.  I wanted her to rebel and whisper something to me.  Sign language, sneak off somewhere we couldn't be seen for two seconds - anything!  I was dying to know what her meeting with them was like.  I had to know how she was feeling.  Did she still like me and want to be my friend?  Or was she being obedient and was she truly repentant?  Did she realize our friendship was wrong and diligently move on from it?  From where will we pick up when we’re allowed to speak again? Did her heart bleed like mine? 

I never got to hear her side of the story and no one ever gave us permission to talk again. The friend I loved was gone from my life.

I returned to live in my small town with a crushed spirit and deep sense of fear. I was coming to terms with the dark secret of who I was and that probably, most likely, I was on the wrong side of sexuality. And then I went to visit some family friends and the dad of the family said

I know what we should do with gays in the military. Put them on the front lines.

I walked home knowing he preferred me dead than gay. I would hide for the next twenty years.

If you have sinned, slide forward.

As I moved forward from that moment, I learned that what I had with Lena was about friendship.  It was about a soul-connection.  It was about love.  Isn’t that what we all want?   Love?  Love is not a respecter of gender.  It wasn’t even codependence.  That’s the word used for relationships regarded as unhealthy and unnatural.  What’s more human and more natural than love?  We love our friends, don’t we?  Some friendships happen to grow into a deeper love.  Twenty years after that incident I was able to recognize that I was in love.  What other force makes you crazy about a person, feel alive, think about them, want to spend every moment with them, want to share your heart, your fears, your excitement?  Tenderness, enjoyment, connection, understanding, romance.  My religious leaders said I was codependent, confused, unnatural, lesbian, wrong.  Those words support a very specific set of morals that disallow any deviation from their own rules.  Those words reject love and truth so they may impose their own standard. 

I’m grateful for the relationship I had with Lena. Remove the religious system and its enforcers, and what is left are just two people finding love. So far, I’ve fallen in love with three people in my life, Lena included. It felt the same every time. Had our relationship been free to develop, I’m convinced Lena and I would have become partners. I also recognize that since that didn’t happen, I was able to meet my husband. The experience allowed me to explore, embrace, and love being a queer woman, which I identify as to this day. It is who I am, but not all that I am.

 It is interesting to note that I lived my youth inside an organization that counseled strongly concerning relationships with the opposite sex. The feminine is largely held responsible where male temptation is concerned, resulting in much negativity and anxiety about attraction to and otherwise infatuation with members of the opposite sex. We were not allowed to date, so nothing existed between friendship and marriage.  If a girl found herself in the regrettable situation of a crush, the feelings were to be quickly conquered and/or given over to God.  If we weren’t allowed to chase after and entrap boys with our feminine charm, then doesn’t one just give up and become a lesbian? 

One final confession…

Twenty-some years later I did eventually find and have one phone call with Lena. She is married to a man and has children. Like myself. To my shock, however, she did not live the disciplinary action the same way as I did. She admitted that the way the church handled our situation was weird. But she chalked it up to the Lord using that moment to save her from becoming a lesbian. She told me she meets with her pastor’s wife on a somewhat regular basis to keep her straight and prevent her from falling in to sin. I don’t deny that she likely loves her family and being married to a man. I love my family and man too. But the difference is, I no longer live in fear. I am free to be queer.