I’m Darren, and I’ve often described myself as black, Christian, and
gay. I’m also a lot of other things, like a photographer, a worship
leader, and an advocate for justice. Each of these descriptors could be
used to identify groups that I fit into, but none of them tells the
whole story of who Darren is. And while I may fit into different groups,
I’m still trying to answer the question *Where do I belong?* At the end
of the day, I want all the ways that I describe myself to paint a
vibrant picture of who I am and what I believe, and also to hold space
for others along a similar journey who share a common interest.

*Belonging* is something that many of us desire, but it has often been
elusive to find and maintain. Some of my earliest memories are of trying
to figure out where I fit in. I grew up in Chicago, where the side of
town you live on pretty much determines which baseball team you root
for: Cubs fan (North Side) or a Sox fan (South Side). I grew up on the
South Side, so when people asked, “Cubs or Sox?” the *correct* answer
was Sox. But in college, I spent time on the North Side and could just
as easily answer, “Cubs,” to the celebration of those around me. The
secret is that I actually am not invested in baseball—at all. However,
I was learning early on that to “belong” meant that you needed to align
yourself with the “right” answers to certain questions, and for me, what
I really thought came secondary to being accepted or welcomed. We see
these kinds of choices presented all the time: pizza with or without
pineapple, anyone? We also see it in more sobering questions about
political parties and church affiliations. While these choices range
from trivial to critical for the functioning of our society, they
frequently represent binaries—either/or thinking that determines who’s
in and who’s out.

After I came out as gay at 17, I remember being eager to meet other gay
people, because the only ones I knew at the time were from an internet
chatroom. I hoped that by being out, I would find the other gay people
around me and we would share something in common. Maybe they could even
teach me things about how to be gay, since all of this felt “new” to me.
I didn’t meet many gay friends at the time, but I did meet Christians
who insisted that being gay wasn’t God’s plan for my life. These new
Christian friendships led to eight years of me trying to renounce
homosexuality and become heterosexual. And while there were some
profound moments of learning and even spiritual growth during that time,
I was also subjected to years of spiritual abuse in a toxic church
culture. One of the themes of that time was the constant threat of
losing my salvation. Like a carrot being dangled in front of a rabbit,
the promise of heaven was always just out of my reach. This dynamic kept
me following the instructions of my church leaders—often to the
detriment of my sense of self and well-being. I gave up attending
university, and I gave up my photography business, friends, and even
family for the promise of belonging in God’s Kingdom. Eventually, with
the support of a faithful few who wouldn’t give up on me, I realized
that this church wasn’t healthy for me, so I left. But I was saddled
with years of harmful theology and no church to call home. For some, the
idea that one has to become heterosexual (or at least try) is the key to
belonging in a church community. And while some continue that pursuit, I
found that it wasn’t right for me.

When I left my previous church, some suggested that I go to a
gay-affirming church, but that didn’t feel like a match for me either,
because the theology and culture were so different from what was
familiar and felt safe. I eventually found a church where I felt I could
be honest about what I described as a struggle with same-sex attraction,
but where my salvation and relationship with God weren’t on the line
with endless hoops to prove my commitment. I spent nine years in this
community loving God and loving others, while being known and loved
exactly as I was. This built up in me the courage to begin publicly
sharing my experiences as a gay Christian—including sharing that I was
on a journey, figuring out how best to honor God in response to my
orientation.

The leaders in that community invited me to consider celibacy as a
lifelong calling or response to being gay. I spent many years exploring
that idea with leaders whom I’d built a trusting relationship with. In
this exploration, I came to realize that none of us in my church had
this figured out. So I began spending more time in groups outside of my
church, where I discovered faithful Christians who were also LGBTQ+ and
living their faith in a range of ways. Some were trying or hoping to
become heterosexual, like I’d previously attempted. But I also met
people who were committed to celibacy and people who chose to live in
intentional community or celibate partnerships. I also met people who
were heterosexually married but very clear that they were in a
mixed-orientation marriage. Lastly, I met people who were gay, in a
same-sex marriage, and had been raising children for 30+ years.

I was encountering the reality that lots of people are responding as
faithfully as they can, but that it doesn’t all look the same. I wanted
to honor all of these stories, so I began to advocate for the broad
range of people I’d built relationships with. But this led to conflict.
I saw how the church failed to be a safe or gracious space for all of
these people—no matter what their beliefs were or how faithfully they
adhered to church policy. I wanted to be part of changing that. I felt
called to help make the church better at loving all same-sex attracted,
same-gender loving, and LGBTQ+ people.

I didn’t know where in this range of Christians I would find myself
practicing my faith for the rest of my life, but I was willing to be
vocal and out front to make space for people like me—folks who love
Jesus, love the church, and just want to be part of a community that can
love them back. Being on the front lines comes with questions about what
you believe: *Is it a sin? Can you change your orientation? Should
same-sex marriage be legal?* These are all questions that I wrestled
with internally, but was also now being asked publicly. I eventually
found myself aligned with an organization that chose not to make a
public stance about same-sex marriage, and instead sought to hold the
church accountable to loving LGBTQ+ people. In many ways, this became
the way I navigated being in a variety of spaces. I knew that if I
answered certain questions with the “right” answers, I could be heard
and possibly accepted. But I didn’t know exactly where I belonged.
Because I knew a lot of perspectives but didn’t have a lot of answers
for myself, this ambiguity felt like the best way forward for me.

In 2015, a conservative Christian magazine began investigating me
because I was scheduled to speak about racial justice at a conference
that affirmed same-sex marriage. Even though my church was on public
record as not affirming of same-sex marriage, the article made the
accusation that we were “abandoning the Bible” and secretly falling away
from its stance on marriage, all because I was present at the event.
This criticism came from people who weren’t concerned about my life or
the life of my church; they just aimed to prove their assumption that
all things associated with being gay are bad. At this point, I was faced
with the hard reality that some people will demand you “pick a side” for
the sole purpose of disqualifying you or who you’re with. This magazine
suggested that the only way to be faithful would be for me to distance
myself from all things LGBTQ—even from describing myself that way.
Calls poured into the church, and some groups distanced themselves from
our community—simply because I existed and they were unsure about my
beliefs. This kind of treatment comes at such a cost to LGBTQ+ people.
We are often made to feel responsible for church splits, family
arguments, and even the eternal damnation of others. This cost is an
undue burden to us, and some have already paid with their lives. It was
at this point that I decided to stop publicly answering certain
questions about my sexuality and instead chose to continue my own
journey privately with trusted friends.

Fast-forwarding to today, I’ve moved on to work in a church that is
fully inclusive of LGBTQ+ people, and I continue to serve church leaders
and communities that have a range of beliefs about sexual ethics. I’m
fully committed to Jesus and living in a way that honors him, but I’ve
moved away from the tedious effort of choosing who’s in and who’s out.
The reconciliation of my faith is a set of values about how I engage
myself and others in love-centered community. Part of those values is
maintaining space for others—including those whom I may not agree
with. The heaven that I envision in scripture has every nation, tribe,
and tongue, and won’t be sectioned off by the affiliations we navigate
here on earth. In many ways, this is how I’ve always felt, but I’m
choosing to be clearer than ever about it. I advocate for people who
pursue celibacy, and I will perform a same-sex wedding. I hold space for
people who assert that they themselves are no longer gay, and I honor
the stories of people who are seeking ethical ways to pursue relational
intimacy outside of monogamy. There is a range of beliefs and ways that
people exist in the world, but what I hold true is that the image of God
should be honored in every person, no matter what their beliefs are.

We’ll all find belonging in different places and to differing degrees. I
don’t think the differences that make our faith, denomination, or
scriptural understandings of gender and sexuality will go away anytime
soon. But for me, I’ll continue to follow Jesus in the best ways that I
can as I love God and love my neighbors as myself. I’m investing myself
in a value of belonging that doesn’t require that we all believe the
same exact things. I’ve found this to be the most life-giving way that I
can love everyone—not out of fear of punishment, but instead out of
grace and care. My journey reflects significant time spent in various
places of theological belief—and all of that continues to be important
to my story and how I move forward. Sometimes this means people think I
believe exactly as they do, and that’s OK. Other times it means I don\’t
belong in some spaces, and that will have to be OK, too. I’ll continue
to figure out what the future looks like for me relationally, sexually,
and spiritually, but I hope you’ll stick around for the journey. May the
Holy Spirit teach us all how to live lives led by love and truth.