When I first began blogging as a transgender woman, my theme
was trans Christianity. I titled my blog
Transgender Exodus, an allusion to my
faith walk as a trans woman. Like my
faith, that blog was destroyed years ago.
I deleted it in a heated rage and destroyed all the files and downloads
associated with it. I regret that. By the time I did it, the name had changed,
as the subjects I covered wandered far and wide, seldom discussing faith or
Christianity. In fact, I used the space
more for movie reviews than any other topic – some really good ones too, if you
do not mind my bragging just a little.
Despite its rambling nature, at the heart of that blog was a
deep (or so I believed) and well informed faith. I did not study the bible – a possible downfall
as a christian; but faith takes many forms, and I never found deep meaning or
affirmation from that particular exercise.
I read volumes of literature
about the bible, and even more about faith in general. I was most interested in what it meant to be faithful
in an era of pharmacologically induced emotion, in an age of information
bombardment, and in an age of twenty four hour a day living. The world is a very different place than when
the books of the bible were written; it is interesting though that people,
their hearts, are still much the same – one of the most frequent of the many
doubts that constantly nibbled at my heart.
Something happened when I moved to Texas. I changed.
It did not help matters that I was a burnt out wreck. In the year or so leading up to my move, I
had separated from my spouse, come out to my friends, and was trying to find a
path forward. At the same time, I was
enmeshed in a full time career and investing twenty to thirty additional hours
a week to a church service as the “house band’s” worship leader and faux-music
director. In the last few months before
the move, resulting from the shocking changes in my life, I experienced the
“harlot effect” – being the subject of rumors and controversy within the walls
of a church I had served devotedly. I
heard the murmurs of people I thought were friends. I felt the sting of retribution from people
who suddenly felt they had the moral superiority to pass judgment over what I
was going through. I felt the hollow
isolation of being the subject of gossip rather than a welcome family member.
Moving to Texas was an effective escape from all of it. When I got here, I made virtually no effort to
find a new church. My practicing faith
became a sideline faith. During the
first couple years here, my lack of devotion gradually evolved into skepticism,
and eventually into an outright denial of my faith. As I often claimed, my problems were not with
god, but with his followers. And there is truth in that. I am regularly astounded by the depth of many
christians’ hate for people like me. The
utter devotion to marginalizing, if not eradicating us is practically
obsessive. But there was more involved
in my fall from faith. As I reflect, I
suspect that the bigger problem was with neither god nor his followers – but
with me.
I was – still am – a mess.
My life was careening toward what could only have been a catastrophic
end. Everything from my physical health
to my financial security was eroding due to my deep and utter depression and
the destructive behaviors I employed to numb the despair. Over the last year and a half or so, I have
been on a path away from that darkness.
I have fixed many things. I am
now officially in transition, I found counseling and treatment, I changed jobs,
and am making plans for surgery. I have
worked toward a better future for myself; but the scars run deep, and my
progress walks a fine line. My journey
is not so much on a path these days as on a tightrope.
Something is missing.
I do not have it right, not yet.
It is not that the journey should be easy; it is that I know the journey
is far less difficult than it feels. The
heaviness in my heart is about something other than the challenges of
transition. My journey is a cakewalk
compared to most, and yet somehow I fail to see it that way. I have been completely unable to embrace the
blessings in my life. I know I am
fortunate. I know I have it “easy,” yet
the message never seems to make it to my heart.
A song crept up recently as background to something I was
watching. While I could not immediately
identify it, I recognized the tune. After
listening more intently, I realized the song was one I used to sing in worship
services. I have heard snippets of many
of these songs over the last few years, so that is not surprising; but
something happened this time. I began to
cry softly as I remembered the lyrics. In the days since, I have experienced other
little nibbles. I have felt nudges, and
my reactions have been surprising. The
bitterness that usually swells up inside me at the mention of faith is more
often a sense of wonder, or sadness, or yearning. I find myself in conversations with people I
do not know about things like god. I
cry. Not unusual, but I cry because I
feel like something is trying to get in, and I do not seem to know how to let
it.
Please hold onto your collection plates and your
conclusions. I have not been converted;
at least, I do not think I have been converted.
I do feel like there is something
I need to recognize; I feel like I am on the verge of something. I do not yet know what that something
is. I continue to prove to myself that I
can make this journey – that I can paint a new picture for myself that actually
makes sense. But I am also feeling the
effects of making the journey alone. I
have to wonder, when the painting is done, what will be on the canvas. Might the picture be more beautiful – more complete – if I relinquish control
of the brushstrokes? And if I give over control of the composition, will the result still be me?
Good night, friends.
Kate
Good night, friends.
Kate
