Wouldn't Take Nothing For My Journey Now

Sing It Out Loud + Proud, Misters + Sisters

Photo by Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

I grew up around the church, but not quite in it.

Close enough to hear the music.
Close enough to catch the chorus.
Close enough to feel the vibrations when the choir hit a note just right.

Being from Dallas, Texas, that kind of proximity without participation was, and still mostly is, considered sacrilegious.

While I have never considered myself religious, as a lover of all kinds of music, I have always been drawn to gospel hymns (and to some of the “hims” who sang them). Also to the swell of voices, the handclaps, and the warm organ accompaniment.

Even though I didn’t believe or belong to a church, I have always felt more “Christian” than most so-called Christians. I listened harder. I paid attention to the lyrics. I heard the promises being sung and noticed who was left out of their praises once the final “Amen!” faded.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged.
For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged,
and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”
Matthew 7:1 to 2, KJV

That verse gets quoted a lot. But is rarely practiced. Especially by me.

Like most gay men, I learned early (and often) how to judge the judgmental. I learned to read rooms the way some folks read sheet music. To clock side-eyes. Decode tone. Hear the sour notes before anyone sings them out loud.

I also learned how to flip the script and give them a taste of their own poison when necessary. Call and response is not just musical. It is tactical. It is a survival skill I picked up young—but not at Boy Scouts— and practice anytime motherfuckers start something.

I consider my ability to read a bitch for filth a God-given “superpower.” Part shield. Part sword. Defensive when I need protection. Offensive when I’m done turning the other cheek.

Not everyone loved/loves my “superpower.” Especially not my “keeping up with the Joneses” mother. My dad, though, always cheered me on. He loved me and he hated bullies. His theology was simple: If you fuck around, you’re probably going to find out. I was never a bully. Except to bullies. If they were man enough to start a fight, I was man enough to end it. By any (and all) means necessary…

My parents embodied the two poles of that not quite Christian world.

My dad knew the Bible backward and forward. He had a photographic memory and had read it cover to cover more than a few times. He could quote scripture the way some people quote baseball stats or movie lines: effortlessly, accurately, and always with context. Whether he believed the Bible literally or respected it as a foundational literary text, I’m still not sure.

My mother loved to call herself a Baptist, but she was never much of a reader. For her, faith meant believing whatever “Mr. Preacher Man” said was gospel truth, even when it was obvious he was making shit up just to fill the collection plates.

Growing up gay in the Bible Belt was a special kind of cognitive dissonance.

My extended family was full of folks who preached love, grace, and forgiveness on Sundays, but were cruel, hateful, and vile the rest of the week.

And all the shit the “Sister Christians” blamed on homosexuality? All shit they were guilty of themselves. Cuz humans are gonna human. The audacity of hypocrisy….

I have never, ever called or considered myself a Christian. For me, there were too many con men (and women) posing as preachers and priests, too much pettiness and piety, too many contradictions across too many interpretations and translations, and far too much death and destruction done in the name of God.

So I landed somewhere else instead: agnostic, with a lowercase “a.”

Open. Curious. Unconvinced by absolutes, I believe there’s something bigger than us moving through this world and this universe.

I call and consider myself “spiritual.” I’m a little woo-woo too. I believe in intuition. In energy. In the way music can crack something open inside you like a revival moment you did not see coming. I believe art can be a form of prayer. And I believe real love is expansive and never truly dies.

Through trial and error, I have learned my journey does not have to look like anyone else’s to be sacred.

Before I came out, I wrestled with shame. With not fitting into the belief systems and gender roles surrounding me. So I tried to edit myself. Lower my volume. Smooth my edges. For a long time, I tried to make peace with ideas and idolaters that refused to make peace with me.

Eventually, with the love and support of my dears, my nears, and my queers, I stopped negotiating with terrorists and started loving myself.

Since I started coming out (at 21), I have lived by my own moral compass instead of chasing the approval of others. I have chosen peace over performance and joy over fear. And while it hasn’t been a smooth rollercoaster ride, looking back at every loop, drop, stop, and hard-earned lesson, I wouldn’t take nothing for my journey now:

• Not the confusion.

• Not the questions.

• Not the long ways around.

Every detour, doubt, and defiant moment of rebellion brought me closer to knowing and loving myself. It led me to a type of faith that doesn’t demand my disappearance. And it led me to a spirituality that invites wonder instead of fear.

I sing it out loud and proud now. Not because I have all the answers, but because I finally stopped letting other people tell me which questions I’m allowed to ask.

For me, that feels holier than any holy roller ever was or ever will be.

Keep calm and carry on!
Clint 🌈✌️

P.S. Whatever and/or whoever you believe in, please be kind and loving. Always.

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