From under the veil of shadows, I stepped into a moon-white spotlight shining onto the stage as piano keys began to drop notes lightly like little splashes against the make-shift Noah’s Ark. At only five years old, looking out towards that sea of faces assembled in the dimly lit chapel of the rural Clearlake Baptist Church during our children’s musical seemed like gazing out at the vast, dark ocean itself, and nervously I began sweating through my turban, a towel Mom had lovingly tied around my head. At this point in the program, songs had already been sung about building the ark, animals climbing inside two by two, the pouring rain and the rising flood. Noah, who was probably thirteen, had even sung a prayer. Yet after many songs and “one hundred and fifty days,” we were still aboard this ark lost atop infinitely stretching water. Tired, the children were beginning to fidget while the restless audience began to whisper and cough. What was needed now on this long voyage was a song of hope, and I had been chosen to sing it. I began my solo meekly, the microphone carrying my little voice out and up towards the rafters: “We’re floating beneath the stars, not knowing where we are, but this one thing we know, the Lord will lead us home.” What captivates me about this memory is that I truly believed the words of hope I was singing, and they became the foundation of my faith. On this voyage of life, I have experienced calm, peacefully still waters and harsh, angrily crashing waves, giggling ripples and despairing tempests. I have been lost in torrential rain, seduced by beautiful sirens, and guided by heavenly stars. But no matter where the tides pull and push me, my faith that God is bringing me home again is my most luminous pearl of hope. It is of this hope I must sing aloud again. This is my calling and mission, the genesis of my vocation, the motive for furthering my education, and the purpose and promise of my talents and abilities.
The underlying current of my life has always been pulling me towards ministry and theological study. Born in Memphis on the banks of the great Mississippi and raised in the small, Arkansan farming community of Promised Land by very devout Southern Baptist parents, I was inundated with religious imagery from the beginning, which probably explains why I played “church” instead of t-ball and trained like a warrior for “Bible Drills.” Even my sixth grade teacher believed I would someday become a preacher. However, any inclination I had for such pursuits dissolved during my undergraduate studies at the ultra-conservative Church of Christ College, Harding University, where even my narrow-minded, Southern Baptist sensibilities were shocked. Debates with Bible professors over the necessity of baptism for salvation, the inferiority of women in church, the exclusiveness of the body of Christ, and other literalist beliefs liberated me from fundamentalist teachings and my Southern Baptist anchor. I decided then that I would take my God and go rogue, so I left the South for New York City determined to rebel, explore, find myself, be experiential, express my repressed homosexuality, and row as far away from organized religion as I could.
The ebb and flow of God in my life never diminished, however, so when I witnessed smoke billow and sensed spirits take flight on September 11, 2001, I was reignited by the promise God has for my life in ministry. In stark contrast to my vengeful, American nation, my heart burst into flames of unconditional love for all humanity, and impassioned to emulate Jesus Christ’s compassion and empathy, I launched myself into gay and lesbian Christian groups, peace activism, political letter writing, and the arts. Knowing I longed for church community but remained fearful of organized religion especially as an out gay man, God ironically led me to The Riverside Church by my homophobic parents who, visiting just after 9/11, insisted that we attend service at “the famous church Rockefeller built.” Emotional, holding one another’s hands, we had no idea that during that very service, Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes, Jr. would condemn homophobia, extend Christ’s unconditional love, and open Riverside’s arms to me, their gay son. A few months later, I became a member of Riverside where I learned to love myself and reconcile my sexuality and Christian faith, and I dove head first into the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) ministry of Maranatha, where I learned, matured, and eventually led, becoming the Convener of the ministry. Impressed by my passion and talents, the Riverside congregation elected me to serve as a Lay Leader in the Mission and Social Justice Commission, and I was appointed to Riverside’s Communication Committee.
Suddenly, from a few isolated thunderstorms, a devastating hurricane hit my life and completely stopped my world. Two days after Mother’s Day, my mother committed suicide. Just ten months prior to this, my best friend, Leonardo, had taken his own life. Both ravaged by deep depressions and irrational fears, the two people for whom I cared most left life and left me. My heart broke. Withdrawing from life, I wept, mourned, and for some time remained unmoved in a slack tide. A year or so later, when I was still sinking into sorrow and grief, drowning now in my own dark depression, and only able to hope for hope, God faithfully, intimately drew me close, wiped my tears, embraced my utter brokenness, and tenderly, sweetly said, “Chad, if you want, you may choose to die. Or, you may choose to live. Just remember, I long for you to live.” With the love, care and support of my church, family and friends, hope took root and flourished. Finally light broke through my heavy curtains, and I rejoined the living.
A few years later, a moment of clarity regarding my future arose as I sat in worship service at Riverside listening to a visiting preacher deliver a message. Within the progressive Christian cathedral, I was outraged to hear a sermon “from God” laced with fear and judgment, singed with the fires of hell, and empty of mercy and grace. As my mother and Leonardo are never far from my thoughts, I imagined them sitting beside me in the pew. Mom lived sixty years in constant fear of not meeting God’s expectations, while Leonardo, although agonistic but spiritual, was terribly afraid of not being good enough, and it was Mom’s fundamentalist convictions and Leonardo’s Catholic upbringing that had helped perpetuate their mania. Remembering the spiritual abuse I, myself, suffered at the mouths of ordained fear-mongers, I knew that if Mom and Leonardo were living, their hearing this fear-based theology of “tough love” would not only offer them no comfort or healing but would intensify their anxieties leading to deeper depressions. At that moment, I declared that if fear still has such a prominent voice in religion, then I must raise my voice of God’s love and hope, and I must give this mission my entire life.
While I will never have the answers to dispel all fears, nor am I personally able to save anyone as I have learned and experienced, I do believe that through Christ I can effect beneficial change in lives spiritually. For this reason, I feel called to the vocation of being a knowledgeable advocate of God’s love, sharing hope through my talents, skills, and abilities of oratory, written, and new media communication, especially with seniors and LGBT/gender variant youth. Unfortunately, in a world continuing its fascination with youthfulness, my mother is now a statistic in the growing number of late-life fatalities due to the plague of depression and fear. Struggling to keep hope, my father will soon turn sixty-seven and confides in me that like many seniors he is afraid to retire because he isn’t sure what he will do or if he will have the funds to afford it. Meanwhile, LGBT/gender variant youth are more likely to attempt or seriously consider suicide than heterosexual teens, for while society might seem more tolerant or accepting, these youth still live in fear of not being supported by their families or communities and of violence against them because of their identity. One young person I know was brutally beaten because of his sexuality, while countless other attacks are reported throughout the U.S. Furthermore, with the marriage equality movement making the claim that the LGBT community is “normal” instead of celebrating our differences, some members of my Queer community now live in fear of being marginalized by their very own. Vocationally, I must share with both seniors and the Queer community God’s hope to push through the fears I have witnessed suffocate life and shoot down even the glimpse of new dawns on an invisible horizon.
Boldly, my childhood solo continued, “At last we see trees of green, and the mountaintop can be seen. A little dove tells us of land by placing an olive leaf in my hand.” As the children joined me on stage, we looked off into the distance pointing with excitement and expectancy. Our hope was realized; God had brought us home again. Then God sent a huge promise in a brightly colored, cardboard rainbow that ascended into the air as bright lights rose. The audience broke into ovations for the gleefully proud children, and my mom and dad grabbed me up in secure hugs. The imagery of the Noah’s Ark story resonates throughout my spiritual voyage. The dove represents the ever-present Holy Spirit and the peace God has given me about the deaths of my mom and Leonardo. God’s promise of life in the rainbow now symbolizes the gift of unity in diversity that the LGBT community offers humanity. For me, the story of Noah’s Ark means something even more significant: No matter what waters our arks travel on this voyage of life, God always has hope for us, desires for us to live, and promises to see us Home. This hope is faith just too meaningful not to share.
