I Went to Church in Pennsylvania
Tags: LGBTQ, This Happened To Me, Christianity, Religion, Transgender

God said to “Come as you are”, so I showed up in sweatpants and a jacket.

Normally, I take every opportunity to wear one of my beloved ties. However, I needed comfy clothes because we’d be making the trip back to Michigan right after.

I had no idea we were staying for the whole service. The three kids — my new siblings — were playing with the Chelsea House Orchestra, which is “Keltic with a kick.” They play fiddles, violins, drums, bass, clarinet, and feature a future master bassoonist. They also have one young man who’s won a couple of fiddle competitions.

Before I moved in with Gwen and her family, I had no idea about Keltic music. Surprisingly, I enjoy it. It’s amazing to see all of the kids’ long, hard practices come together. It’s like magic.

I walk into the church beside Gwen and Shelly, and my anxiety is through the roof. The last time I attended church, I almost got beat up by this girl’s father — but that’s another Medium story. The times before that, I was constantly ridiculed and barked at for not dressing “feminine” enough. I was given odd looks for wanting to play the male roles in church productions.

I specifically remember that one time I was reluctantly given the part of Martin Luther King Jr. for our black history program. It was abruptly taken away and given to an older boy, who they believed would do a better job. While I admit that he was a very good public speaker, it still felt like a betrayal to have my spot snatched away from me.

Church brings a tornado of hurtful memories.

That’s why I avoid going. I think of my biological mother, who loved the church as if it were her second home. Everybody loved her as well. I wonder why I don’t love church as much as she does. I’m still trying to figure out exactly why church makes my anxiety boil over.

I admitted to both Gwen and Shelly that I was anxious about being in church. They sat me in between both of them. I had a good view of all of my siblings. Gwen and Shelly took turns grabbing my attention throughout the program. Shelly would smile at me with that motherly smile of hers. Gwen would do something goofy like clap with my hand in between hers or whisper a joke in my ear.

However, I was anxious the whole time. Being confronted with religion always leaves me battling myself. When I was a kid, I loved religion. I went to Bible study. I actually listened to what the preacher was saying. I clapped and sang along to the music. My mom always listened to Gospel music, and I’d sing and dance right along with her.

After she died, I hated God for a long time.

Then I would hear Christians talk about how LGBTQ people were going to hell, how they were sinners, and how being who they were was a choice. Some Christians would even wish violence on LGBTQ people.

After she died, I remembered the dark parts of the church. I remember constantly being told to be something I wasn’t. I remembered the smiles that never reached some peoples’ eyes. Then I found out about the five thousand dollars my mother put into that church and never got back like she was supposed to.

Then I learned that my mom’s best friend in the church didn’t come to her funeral. I was too busy trying not to break down that I didn’t notice who was and wasn’t there. All of these things made me hate the church I used to go to. I told myself I’d never go back to those people. They took advantage of my mother when they should have been helping to take care of her as she battled Cancer and Allagille Syndrome.

Imagine a sickly woman with a heart of gold cleaning up the church by herself after service. Imagine this same sickly woman asking my grandmother to borrow five grand to loan it to the church to help them build. This sickly woman is my mother, and she was an angel. She was the glue that held my family together.

She would give someone the shirt off her back if they needed it. She’d give away her last penny to someone in need. She had a heart attack in her early thirties and kept telling everyone she was fine. Some days it hurt too much to move, but she’d never tell someone no.

Years later, I understand why my grandmother was so protective and regret that I didn’t step up more.

I remind myself that I was only twelve and fighting my own battles with sickness and being transgender without actually knowing what transgender was. I was battling depression, self-harm, bullying, isolation, dysphoria, and suicidal thoughts on top of also having the rare Allagille Syndrome.

Religion and I don’t have a good relationship. On one side, I’m being told God loves me as I am. I’m welcomed with open arms and loved unconditionally by what I believe are true Christians.

On the other side, I’m being told that I’ll burn in hell for being trans. I’m watching as these “Christians” take every opportunity to tear down the LGBTQ community and use their religion as a shield to validate their bigoted ways.

How do I embrace Christianity as a black, trans man?

How do I embrace it when it was used to tell slaves they were supposed to be property and not human? How do I join a church when there are Christians everywhere that believe kids should be thrown into “conversion” camps and tortured until they pretend they’re not gay or transgender anymore?

How do I pick up a Bible when it’s been used to constantly tear down other people in an effort to make white and straight people seem inferior? How do I embrace Christianity when all it does is drown me in hurtful memories?

How do I?