Identifying as a Christian comes with a set of baggage all its own. As the loudest Christian voices spout rightwing ideology – including in opposition to same sex marriage, which the US supreme court legalized on Friday – the Catholic priest molestation scandals drag on and the Westboro Baptist Church continues to exist, Christianity’s numbers are sharply declining in the US. But last October, I – a 33-year-old, progressive, openly gay man who spent much of my twenties as a crusading atheist and curious agnostic – was baptized and confirmed in the church. I’m unafraid to proclaim myself a disciple of Jesus Christ.
My conversion has made me the token “church guy” in my friend group. I can’t tell you the number of awkward conversations I’ve had over the last several weeks about Charleston, the Duggars and the scariness of the uber-awful Quiverfull cult. Whenever something even vaguely religious enters the news cycle, my friends inevitably find ways to lean on me as the church expert, from the sudden disappearance of 7th Heaven in the wake of Stephen Collins’s sexual misconduct, to the Religious Freedom Restoration Act and whether anyone would want pizza at a gay wedding anyway.
I’m still the person I was before I became a Christian, and a baptism isn’t a brainwashing. This change in my life didn’t turn me into a raging nutball – at least, I’m no more of one than I ever was.
My conversion wasn’t a quick decision, or a simple process. In 2010, I was diagnosed with diabetes and quickly put on a permanent treatment regimen, leading to equal parts self-flagellation, soul-searching and navel-gazing. I joined a support group for other newly diagnosed folks, and the therapy involved with this was rooted in a belief in a higher power. Initially, I resisted wholeheartedly. I’d been raised without any faith experience, and to even open up to the possibilities of God was a frightening and conflict-ridden concept. But ongoing discussions with this group made me realize that I was angry at what had happened to me – specifically, angry at God. And that meant I believed.
I spent the next two years bouncing back and forth between nearly 20 congregations of different denominations, serial first dates with church communities. And while I often found comfort and positivity, none felt like home. Sometimes I’d engage a pastor during the post-service coffee hour and find a bit of theology I couldn’t agree with; other times, I didn’t feel wholly welcomed.
Then, in 2013, I took a job as communications director for the Episcopal Diocese of New Jersey. I spent my twenties working in not-for-profit arts communications, and I figured those skills would transfer to another sector. They did, but I also found that the church had the openness, diversity and the clear sense of tradition I sought. It was also strongly inclusive of the LGBTQ community, and welcomed both women and men as clergy members. If Christianity was one big high school lunchroom, Episcopalians would be the awesome nerdfighters at the table in the corner, passionately debating all aspects of their faith with one another.
If you step inside my church community, you’d be amazed at the different and surprising individuals unafraid to identify as Christian. Tattooed dads sit next to septuagenarian grandmothers, right across the aisle from hipster twenty-somethings and gay and lesbian couples. Our priest preaches sermons that incorporate everything from transgender rights to the theological leanings of Dr. Who.
And though the fundamentalists scream loudest, there are progressive and inclusive new forms of church springing up around the country, like Capital City Church in DC. Christian businesses like Elevation Burger use faith as part of their culture to inform great products and practices, without aspersions or judgment (take that, Hobby Lobby and Chik-Fil-A).
Belief in a higher power is a scary thing. And faith isn’t a blind, dopey commitment – it’s a series of choices, continually made, to believe. I acknowledge that Christianity is often countermanded and corrupted for heinous and spiteful things. But I refuse to accept that as the status quo. At the end of the day, I’m a Christian because faith, and our openness to God and to one another, make us stronger and more willing to engage the world as it unfolds and changes around us.
And that’s the best any of us can hope for Christianity in America; the conversation continues, we continue to have faith and we keep our heads and hearts equally open to one another and our needs and beliefs.