When I was ten, I came to live with my aunt and uncle, with whom I still live, unfortunately, and will until I'm eighteen. You see, despite raising me single-handedly since his divorce from my mom when I was three and a half, and giving me a wonderful life, my dad had become convinced that as a gay man, he was incapable of being any sort of real father. His relatives, including my aunt and uncle and a number of the extended family - though, thankfully, not my grandparents - pressured him incessantly ever since he came out when I was seven. He received cards on his birthday that contained hostile tracts labelling him and those he loved, like his long-term partner Leo, abominations. When he dared show his face in family gatherings with his siblings and relatives, he was told that he was putting me in jeopardy, that I would be sexually abused by promiscuous gay men in his home, that he would possibly catch and somehow infect me with AIDS, etc. These actions turned a strong, capable man into an insecure shadow, and when I was ten he finally surrendered to three years of hate-filled letters and phone calls full of dire warnings. He gave me to them and entered a treatment program designed to 'cure' homosexuality, run by a church ministry. That was the beginning of my Christian life and at the same time, the key to its destruction.



My maternal parents were Catholic, and on weekend visits with my mom, who remarried almost immediately after divorcing my dad, they would sometimes invite me to lunch and then take me to Saturday afternoon mass. I loved it. The candles, the Latin whispers, the suspenseful hush -- it was magical. I adored bowing to the statues, touching fingers damp with holy water to my head, crossing myself when we drove past a cemetary or car accident. I liked the cantor of the priest's voice, and the dramatic show of religion laid out before me. It made me feel part of something. My paternal grandparents, who practiced a vague sort of Protestantism, were less exciting to accompany to church, but I still liked it okay on the rare occasions I went. The hymns and dowdy "dress up" clothes of the congregation struck me as embarrassing, but I learned a lot about Jesus, who I came to like, and I loved going to the nursery school and later Sunday school lessons. My father did not observe any religious practices, but considered himself Christian, enough for the frequent threats of hell he received to sting. When I came to live with my aunt and uncle, I had some religious background but not much. They immediately sought to remedy this by forcing me into church activities and a Christian school.

At first I was receptive. I missed my father and Leo, and my friends, our home at the beach and the vacation house in Canada we escaped to as often as possible. Alone, I was warmed and comforted by the idea that God loved me and would never leave me. However, the love was juxtaposed with the harshest of possible judgment. My uncle referred frequently to my father's "reparative therapy". During the first three months, when my father was hopeful and working hard to free himself of gayness in order to be a good dad to me, my uncle gave glowing compliments. God loved my father, according to my uncle. He wanted to free him from the bondage of homosexuality. However, after a few months, my father began writing long letters to my uncle chronicling his unhappiness and suggesting perhaps God had made him gay and that maybe life with his long-term, monogamous partner wasn't such a terrible sin after all. My uncle used some of those letters to instruct me in temptation. He said demons were working on my father, that Satan was tempting him. He declared that my father was foolishly rationalizing his decision to sin rather than flee from sin. Later, when my father abandoned the program and went into therapy to deal with the traumatic consequences of the "ex-gay" treatment, my uncle expressed disgust and claimed my father was a backslider that God hated. According to my uncle, the love between Leo and my dad was disgusting, an abomination. It was unholy and sickening. I was told to expect they would go to hell for their choice, despite the fact that my father had written repeatedly that he had not chosen to be gay, had worked hard to do away with those feelings, etc.

From age ten until thirteen, I was not allowed to see my father. Having denounced his Christian heritage, my father had allowed himself to be branded a heretic. He shared his bed with another man, which made him a sinner. He went to pride parades and meetings were his identity as a hard-working, stable, intelligent gay man was affirmed. All this made him an abomination, disgusting in the sight of God. My aunt and uncle felt justified in their choice not to grant him visits, and the court agreed. In my dad's absence, I developed into a Christian. For the first year, my love of God and Jesus was unchallenged. I went to church, and while I did not understand everything that was said, I liked some of the kids I met there, and I liked a few of the adults who would dote on me. There was a nice lady who slipped me wintergreen mints at the start of each service. Another woman, a widow whose daughter had died some twenty years before, gave me handmade dresses and a quilt, like a grandparent. The youth pastor was cheery and his assistant, a college boy studying world religions, was cool (he left the church when I was twelve, in pursuit of Buddhism). I prayed, although my prayers were often fumbling and rambling, frequently tearstained pleas for my father to become straight, not to get AIDS, not to die because I didn't want him to go to hell. I was very much in need of a saviour, but my concerns were not on my soul. Rather, I wanted my dad back, and our fun life back. During this time period, I largely blamed my father for his absence. I believed my uncle, who said he had chosen Leo, and sin, over me, his daughter, as well as normalcy.

When I was thirteen, my uncle decided it would be acceptable for me to visit my father for one week, during my summer vacation. That week, back home, was so comforting. We swam in the ocean, ate ice cream, rode bikes on the beach, went kayaking and scuba diving, baked cookies and bread, and, of course, talked. My aunt and uncle had the audacity to send me on the plane with tracts in my purse, which I was supposed to give to my father. They hoped visiting me would remind him of what he was losing by "staying" gay, and hoped that I could preach against homosexuality to him. I hid the tracts, but he found them when he was planting some surprise extra cash and gifts in my suitcase, and for the first time, we talked face to face about what homosexuality meant, what his life as a gay man was all about, and both of our feelings about God. By this time, my dad had stumbled onto a gay affirming church where he was welcomed as an imperfect but wonderful human being and was given tons of support. He told me he believed in God, something I struggled to accept. He explained that God had made him who he was. I argued with him, and got very angry, saying he had chosen it, but he calmly talked me down and pointed out how hard he had worked to change. His opinion was that God had created him gay, and gay was okay with God, especially a monogamous, healthy, beneficial relationship like his and Leo's.

I returned home changed by the visit. When I reported some of the news to my uncle, he dismissed the idea that a person could be gay and Christian, but thought that if my father was going to church again, perhaps he was trying again to become heterosexual. I was allowed to visit again at the end of the summer, and at Christmas, and a few other times. My aunt and uncle did not immediately notice that anything was different, but talks with them and my father had changed my mind about God somewhat. I was at a loss to understand why my father would choose something that made life so difficult for him, although my uncle insisted he had chosen homosexuality. I didn't understand why God would make somebody gay and then punish them for being gay. In my Bible studies, I had also come across some perplexing issues. The Bible was full of tragedies and violence. God seemed to strike out violently at random, and his punishments seemed completely out of line. I believed he could do those things because he was powerful enough, but I also decided that using power in that way ws wrong. After all, hadn't I been taught in history classes about powerful leaders of nations who used their power to kill and torment? And if it was wrong when they did it, it was wrong when God did it. I began to approach faith from a lopsided view. I desperately wanted God to help me and look favorably upon me, but at the same time, I felt rather disgusted to appeal to him for help. I was turning to someone in power who I found personally distasteful, even evil, and asking them for assistance. My feelings towards God began to deteriorate.

When I was fifteen, visits with my dad abruptly stopped. My uncle had overheard me discussing with a friend a gay pride parade I had attended with my dad and Leo and some of our friends, a week after coming back home. He banned all future visits and launched into a tirade against homosexuality, repeatedly saying that I was being abused by being subjected to sexual perversion and filth, even though it had been my choice to go, and I had gone frequently as a child. Out of anger, I furiously disclosed that I had attended a PFLAG meeting with my grandmother, and that I was a member of the gay-straight alliance. I enjoyed my uncle's shock, but it was short-lived. He rained down abuse against me for a matter of hours, accusing me of sexual immorality, even though I am not a lesbian, and spitting in the face of God. He scolded me for a long time, and flung out criticisms against all gay people and non-Christians. Finally, as he was pressuring me to pray for forgiveness, and warning me of the punishment that was sure to come for my actions, something clicked. I realised I wasn't afraid of being punished by God, because I didn't believe in God. Suddenly, it all made sense. The reason my father had never been "fixed" into a straight man, despite his prayers and efforts, and my prayers and promises and hopeful deals with God. The absence of God explained why God had such an unstable, bi-polar personality, smiting people one day, dying for them the next. It explained the impossible and confusing, like how God could be his own son and die for us to make himself appeased. All at once, the fact that there are a multitude of denominations and contradictory teachings made sense - it wasn't true, therefore there wasn't a right answer. I mouthed a meaningless prayer of apology to appease my uncle, but for the first time, there was no urgency or belief with it.

It took me until last year, right before I turned sixteen I think, or maybe right after, to announce to my uncle that I was, in fact, not a Christian anymore. It shouldn't have been a surprise for him. When I was like fifteen and a half, I started withdrawing heavily from church. I continued to love youth group, which has always been very active and mostly activity, not ministry, based, but I couldn't tolerate Sunday school anymore. Most of the activities were disheartening, such as a "game" that started most sessions, of going around the room and admitting out loud a sin committed, and having to look of verses in the Bible about it and be told again and again how useless and worthless humankind are. The rest of the activities were babyish, such as simplistic crafting. Church services were no better. The endless praising and begging of forgiveness was depressingly servile to me, and while some of the sermons were interesting, I started noting the hypocrisy of preaching poverty on one hand, and demanding everyone wear nice clothes and donate large chunks of money to tithes. The church runs a pitiful "outreach" for the homeless, where they offer a meagre supper once a week, in between a prayer meeting and the Wednesday night service. However, vast sums of money are spent on the expensive cars outside. Originally, I tried passive means to escape church. Sometimes I claimed I was sick. A few times, I tried saying I had too much homework and would go to the evening service instead (the evening service is more relaxed). Sometimes, I would stay overnight at a friend's house Saturday, and "forget" to come home on time. However, pretty soon I started stating my desire not to go. My aunt, uncle and I got into huge fights about this, and still do. However, until I told them, they still thought I was a Christian, just that I for some reason had stopped enjoying church.

When I "came out" as a non-believer, my aunt's reaction was tearful, but my uncle's remains one of denial. He continues to insist that I am still a Christian, just rebellious, or going through a period of "finding" myself, and that I really believe in God but am trying to offend and shock my relatives and get attention by claiming disbelief. His reaction, since that point, has been to bombard me with religion, even more than before, which doesn't seem possible. I am still in Christian school, though thankfully this fall will kick off my last year. I am still required to attend two church services per week. Sunday school was finally dropped after some dramatic tactics, and I go to youth group partially as an appeasement and partially because I have some friends who go - some are Christians, some are not but go for the same reasons as me, fun or forced. Since the bitter months after I first announced I was not a Christian, I haven't said too much more about it at home, because it usually results in punishments. My phone is too precious, as are letters from my dad and time spent with friends. It creates a more peaceful environment to be quiet, really. This way, I'm allowed to stay out until curfew instead of coming home direct from school. I get an allowance (a double, actually, since my dad sends me one too). I do what I do and keep it quiet if I can, like my continued participation in gsa and my friendships with people who are gay. I even still pray, because I notice that this sort of meditation and address lets me think things through better, not out of religious conviction. That is where I'm at.