How replacing a Christian tradition with going to drag shows brought me healing

I was standing behind a man who appeared to be homeless at a local gas station. His shoes were worn from hours of pacing up and down the sidewalk begging for change. He patiently waited in line until it was finally his turn. There was a childlike wonder on his face as he looked up and down the glass case before him. His mangled fingers slowly pointed to three different selections before finally nodding in approval at his choices. The cashier slowly made his way over to the counter and told him it would be ten dollars total for the lottery scratch-offs he had just delicately picked. The man reached into his pockets, pulling out a wad of crinkled singles from his tattered jeans, and gave them to the man behind the counter.

Behind me, a woman scorned, “Why would he waste his money like that?”

“He’s not wasting it,” I responded softly, “He’s buying hope.”

My parents played another kind of lottery system when our family was going through our time of poverty and homelessness. Though it looked very different than that man holding his singles out begging for the possibility that on the other side of that thin layer of hope between his coin and what was under that card might be an end to his misery. In those few moments before scratching that card, he was a millionaire. Walking out into the parking lot, he could see himself getting a haircut and a new pair of jeans. He didn’t want anything extravagant, you see, just a simple home to call his own. Maybe with just a little land, so that he could plant a garden, then he would always know he would have food. Perhaps he wouldn’t even need a bed because it would feel so strange after all of these years sleeping on the ground. He pulls a quarter from his pocket before returning it for a penny; he doesn’t want the cards to think he might be rich walking around with a quarter like that. Then the top of the card flakes away under those hands that used to be able to do so many push-ups in boot camp but are now weak under the strain of this summer sun. Before scratching the last number, he would look up at the sky with a half-prayer before learning his fate.

That is the same look my mother would make as she would drop our last few dollar bills into the offering plate as the prophet would sway on stage with the band playing behind him. She would close her eyes and pray. She didn’t want much, just to never suffer the embarrassment of those food stamps at the Kroger's checkout line again. Just a little house, with enough rooms for each of us kids. Something with a little bit of land so we could rebuild the tree house we left behind. Then again, maybe just a little bit of luxury, if the Lord would allow, for that bay window again like she had in the home my father build with the bricks he brought back from Pensacola so she would always have a little bit of home with her in their new one in Louisiana that turned in Nashville that became a log cabin that faded into hotels and motels and the Walmart parking lot. Then, just before the offering plate would whisk away with her silent prayer and dollar bills, she would have hope.

Those pastors, just like the lottery, promised a vision of possibility. All one had to do was be diligent in tithing ten percent of their income, and God would bless them with abundance.

Maybe this dollar bill would have enough faith attached to it this time for Dad to finally get a good enough job, or perhaps someone would give us a house, who knew? God works in mysterious ways, after all. Our family wasn’t very picky; anything would do as long as it meant that we were safe and together. Over those years of uncertainty, I watched as my mother faithfully continued to give what little she could into the offering plate, a small collection of singles she would save when she could, so that she was showing God that she earnestly believed He could get us out of this. Much like that man at the gas station, she would go back week by week and think that these were finally her winning numbers.

However, the church, just as with all gambling, the house always wins.

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Growing up under this evangelical Christian tradition of tithes and offerings, many sub-teachings held it in place. There wasn’t just the idea that you could somehow magically be blessed by God by giving from your earnings, but you could also receive severe punishment if you withheld from the Lord. There is a story in the Book of Acts where a couple attempts to conceal some money they had made from the apostles, and they were struck down dead for their deception. Giving wasn’t just an act of kindness, but a compulsory action, lest one miss their blessings and suffer genuine harm to themselves or their family if they did not give God their due.

I remember one day our pastor was standing behind the pulpit and beginning to lean into it. This is how you always knew things were about to get very serious. He was a ridiculously funny man, and most Sundays felt more like a comedy set than a sermon until he started leaning. He looked sternly out at the congregation and said, “If you trust in God, he will take care of you. If you are in the will of God, he will bless you. If you want to know where someone stands with the Lord, look at their life! What do they have? I promise you right now, if you are right with God, you won’t even buy a lemon. That is what God promises us, amen?”

Everyone said amen except my dad.

I was about thirteen years old at the time and extremely confused about God not particularly caring for lemons. I wasn’t sure if maybe that was the fruit that Eve ate or something. I mean, I knew that Jesus wasn’t particularly fond of fig trees, but I didn’t think he had a lot of opinions about fruits in general.

No one at the church knew what our family was going through. To see us on Sunday morning, we didn’t fit the stereotypes. We didn’t look like that man at the gas station. Family homelessness rarely does. We had clothing and a car. We were able to conceal this painful reality in many ways.

I didn’t know what a lemon was; my dad did. The pastor essentially said that if you were on God’s good side, nothing bad would happen, not even purchasing a bad car. However, if you were outside of the favor of the Lord, then all kinds of nasty things would happen: death, famine, plague, and, I suppose, homelessness.

Even though I didn’t fully understand the lesson the pastor was teaching that day, I learned from the attitudes of those at church. I began to believe that all of the things that happened in our lives, the negative moments, were caused by my father's failure in some way. Worst of all, my siblings and I were suffering because of the sins of our father.

In our parents' efforts to conceal their homelessness from the world, they taught us to lie. Of course, that wasn’t the words that they used. Lying is a sin, but withholding information was also taught from the pulpit. Just like those bosses who tell you not to discuss your pay with other employees so that you won’t unionize, the pastors would preach that you were never supposed to talk about your giving. This could mess up the magic of it all. Just like your wish when blowing out the candles at your birthday, your giving was between you and God alone. If you are braggadocios, then God might not return your gift sevenfold. These were the warnings, and with that came a new type of shame.

Even in my adulthood, I never felt like I could tell stories about anything I had done good whether with money or otherwise. If folks would ever point out a good deed I had done, I would shy away, afraid that I was somehow doing something wrong. So, in silence, I began to replace the tradition of giving to the church with something else entirely, but I never spoke about it until recently, while standing in a club. I had already learned to wash away the guilt and shame of my queerness, and yet, somehow, this was having a hold on me still. I didn’t realize how much I needed to shed this other shame as well.

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I’m not sure which was more difficult, leaving the priesthood or finally coming out years later. Both came with unique challenges. Finally coming to terms with the fact that I was queer came in stages of healing and grief. One night, while taking a break from being on tour, I went to the local gay bar in Nashville. I was scared, alone, and sitting by myself on the back patio when I noticed two of the drag queens from the earlier show sitting outside. We struck up a conversation and took a quick selfie. I looked around the club, and almost everyone there was younger than me. I hadn’t realized I had come on college night, and I was feeling a little embarrassed. As I watched all of these young folks laughing and talking, I realized that I had missed out on so much. Here I was, almost forty years old, and finally free to be myself. Yet, I couldn’t help but think of that night, as a teenager, when I could have kissed my friend when he asked, but I didn’t. My youth had slipped away from me as I let the fear take control of my desires.

I sat there, with my mismatched luggage set of baggage, and cried tears of joy for these young folks who were able to live in a very different world than I had. Most of them would never know the sting of sitting at your friend's deathbed as AIDS finally took their final breath, but those memories hung over me like a cloud. That fear, which had been fortified by the Church, made intimacy difficult. Yet, fear has not been entirely eradicated from our existence, and these kids still face their own struggles. Resistance has remained an undercurrent in our community. Our trans siblings are still walking around with bullseyes on them every day. We have to keep the riot part of Pride alive in our hearts because our complacency can still equal death, and our diligence is the only thing that keeps us alive.

Walking back in from the porch, I sat and caught the second show. I watched these young folks with smiles on their faces and hope in their eyes. They jumped for joy, their cameras out, proudly taking photos of themselves and their friends to later post on socials, but I had yet to find the flamboyancy that used to be inside me, now beaten down by decades of a religious institution that told me I was wrong.

Left to right Mannon, Tony Baby, Amez, and Blush

I was no longer homeless. I had built a career for myself telling stories on stage and in books. Though I was far from rich, I certainly had more than I ever had before. I desired to give, but doing so to a religious institution was no longer part of my life. I had tried going to progressive churches, but even there I felt a little on the outside, always afraid that I would be too much, say the wrong thing, or get myself into some kind of trouble. After leaving the priesthood, I had worked in the nonprofit world, and I knew all too well how little of the money given makes its way back into the hands of the folks who needed it.

I walked over to the ATM and pulled out some cash before making my way over to the bar to have it changed into singles. I walked up to the stage, stiff and rigid, still living in that fear. I held up my hand with money in it to one of the drag queens as she leaned over toward me to take it. She placed her hand on my cheek and looked me in the eyes with a smile.

“I love you,” she said.

I believed her.

As I walked away, I sat in my back corner in the dark and wept alone. I was loved. I was valuable. I still have purpose. I can hold someone's hand at the movie theater and still feel butterflies. It wasn’t over for me. There was love yet to be found, to be lost, and to be found again.

I had found hope with singles.

From that day forward, I had replaced the Christian tradition of my youth and began to give directly to my own community. Each week, I would take my tithe of ten percent and bring it to the drag queens at my local gay bar. When I was on tour, I would go out one of the nights to a gay bar in whatever town I was in and tip those queens too. Everywhere I went, I would visit these community spaces, and I would find the same love; the fear and shame would wash away from me.

But I had never told this story, because the fear was still there, and I felt I should never speak about my giving. That was supposed to be a secret, and maybe I would somehow tarnish this beautiful thing if I told others what I was doing. Then, on the first weekend of Pride, I made my trek over to Play in Nashville to see the queens who had now become my friends. As I stood to the side of the stage, handing them my dollars, I got a call from a friend who needed me on the other side of town. I had just arrived, and as I turned around, there was a young group of lesbians standing there counting their dollars. I walked up to them and said, “Can you do me a favor?”

“What’s that?” One of them asked with a smile.

“I have got to go, but would you be willing to give this to the queens tonight?”

I pointed my roll of dollar bills towards them, and they looked stunned.

“But why?” Another asked.

“I used to be a priest, I grew up religious. I have replaced what I used to give to the church by giving it back into our community. But a friend needs me, and I've got to go. So I was curious if you could help?”

Suddenly, and without warning, I was being hugged. I could feel the fear slipping away from me like a baptism. I heard her whisper a thank you before saying, “That is beautiful. I am so glad you are here now.”

I am, too. Somehow, I made it. I survived it all and here I am today, telling you this story without fear. Giving is important, and in this time of so much uncertainty, our queens need our support now more than ever. My dollar bills will never find their way into an offering plate again, but they will be found on stages at drag shows, burlesque, and strip clubs. I am going directly to the source this time, in giving to those who are being rejected by the institution built on the idea of a man who loved the outcasts and yet rejects them at every turn. Perhaps those pastors believe they have a monopoly on collecting singles. I don’t really care anymore; I just want to see my community thrive, because I have found more of God in these dark corners than I ever have in the place they claim is His house.

So, this is my thank you to The Princess, Blush, Amez, Aquamarine, Nichole, Vanity, Deception, Sasha, Carmen, Tony Baby, Mannon, Tracey, Leah, and everyone else at Play Nashville who helped me find hope again. I love you, too.