Six years ago, at nearly 50 years old, my father came out, prompting me to reevaluate my relationship with religion. At the time, I was in my late twenties, married, and a new mother. While I wasn’t shocked by his revelation, it took me time to process it, especially since it followed shortly after my parents announced their amicable divorce. The years that followed were challenging as we adjusted to an entirely new dynamic.
A couple of years later, my dad married his amazing partner, giving my children an extra grandfather whom they adore. Meanwhile, my mother has flourished in her new life as a single woman. Much has changed, yet our new normal brings us greater happiness than before. We’re content in this new chapter.
However, I still grapple with one significant issue: my faith.
I was raised in a conservative Christian household. My childhood was steeped in beliefs that leaned heavily right. My parents identified as Republicans, worked for Christian organizations, and we only listened to Christian music. We attended church weekly, and I was enrolled in private Christian schools. This conservative Christian framework shaped my identity until my early twenties.
In my twenties, I began to question everything. Disillusionment with purity culture sparked a broader inquiry into my beliefs. As I expanded my social circle, I realized my upbringing didn’t equip me to love others as they deserved. My faith felt increasingly exclusive. I grew uncomfortable with the idea of dismissing those who didn’t share my beliefs. People became more significant to me than rigid doctrines.
I opened my eyes to the discrimination prevalent within the church. Many congregations don’t treat women as equals, and I witnessed individuals being excluded from ministry roles based on body size and sexual orientation. Recognizing these injustices prompted an avalanche of change within me.
I could no longer comfortably support pro-life legislation. While I could maintain personal beliefs about abortion, I couldn’t advocate for diminishing choices for others. I became acutely aware of the implications of restricting safe abortion access and the detrimental effects of slashing funds to organizations like Planned Parenthood.
I couldn’t identify as a follower of Jesus while voting against LGBTQ rights, nor could I ignore issues like gun violence, police brutality, and racial inequality. It became clear to me that the world outside my narrow upbringing needed more than mere thoughts and prayers.
As my circle diversified, my alignment with my childhood faith diminished. Yet, I hesitated to sever ties completely. Instead, I sought inclusive spaces where I could still worship without alienating those I loved. The fear of what life would be like without my faith held me back from fully letting go.
Then, my father came out, and that was the tipping point. I couldn’t allow religion to harm my children. The thought of them being taught that gay people were destined for hell was unacceptable. They needed to hear the truth from me so often that no other narrative could penetrate their hearts. I couldn’t bear the idea of having them sing about a Savior while asking their grandpa to watch, knowing many believed his love was wrong.
I tried to maintain my church attendance, but singing worship songs felt hollow, and sermons seemed directed at others. Even in Nashville’s more progressive megachurches, I realized many would be cordial to my father’s face while still holding beliefs that condemned him. They might allow him to participate superficially, but the acceptance wasn’t genuine inclusion. I recognized that many followers of my faith would feel justified in discriminating against my own father.
What was keeping me tethered to a community that didn’t embrace my family? The distinction between God and organized religion became clearer to me. I wanted to pursue spirituality, but not within an institution that viewed my father as unrepentant. Rejecting that part of the doctrine made it feel absurd to remain in the church. What was I gaining? What lessons was I imparting to my kids?
I realized I could love others as my heart guided me while also believing in God, but I might have to navigate this journey outside of church for a time. I knew I needed a break, and I’m still in that phase now.
It’s been challenging. I miss the sense of community that church provided, and I often contemplate returning. For a brief period, my family attended a church with my dad and his partner that fully embraces LGBTQ inclusion. The messages there were positive, focusing on kindness and community. While I felt more at ease, I eventually stepped back because I wasn’t ready. I want to return, but I need more time.
Uncertainty continues to linger. I don’t want to pretend to fit in. A few years ago, I came across the Thomas Merton Prayer, which resonated deeply with me. The essence is that I might be misguided, but I’m striving to do my best. Choosing love feels like what a compassionate God would desire. That’s as much faith as I can muster at present.
Ultimately, I can only hope my desire to find my way is enough.
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In summary, my journey away from organized religion is a complex process influenced by my father’s coming out and my evolving beliefs. As I seek a more inclusive understanding of faith, I continue to navigate the balance between love and spirituality.