When Sexual Tension and Christianity Can't Keep Their Hands Off Each Other
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I put my arms on the restaurant table and leaned towards him as we tried to break up for the sixth time. "I don't want to marry you; I just want to have sex with you," I said.
In our 20-something world, we believed that following Jesus meant abstinence from sex before marriage. The majority of our dating took place in groups while he strummed the guitar and led us in singing worship songs. Worship for Christians is intimate and a lot like rock concerts. They can churn emotions like longing, desire, and being transported. There might not be anything sexier in the Christian church than a guitar player singing love songs to Jesus. I was smitten.
He worked the swing shift, and I would wait for him to get off work on Friday nights. At the end of the workweek, all we wanted to do was fall into each other's arms and surrender. Instead, we peeled ourselves away from each other, only sharing a passionate kiss and embrace with all our clothes on. I completely believed that the worst way for me to sin and face God's disapproval was to fall into bed with this man. I would drive home, bury my face in my bedroom carpet, and pray, "Oh, God! Please help me. I am so scared I'm going to disobey you."
I fell in love with him for many reasons besides the guitar. He was tall, had his black belt, and a full mane of brunette hair. He wrote poetry. I loved his laugh and the way he said my name. He seemed to take his religion very seriously, as did I, and most importantly, he wanted me. The sexual tension was thick and marriage felt like our only option.
But I was too young, and he was too old. Already divorced and a father, we had a 8 and a half years difference in age. My mother sat me down during this time in my life and said, "There's no happy ending here, Jenny." She was right, of course. But I wanted love to conquer all. Together he and I would read books like "Passion and Purity" and "No Compromise" about Christians who had stories of trusting God despite their past and being greatly rewarded. We wanted that to be our story, too. It was heady, passionate, and consuming. We looked for any loophole to figure out how to bridge the age and life experience gap, but it was too vast. I transferred to a college in a different town, and within a year, he had married someone else. I didn't see or talk to him again for almost twenty years. When I finally did, it was because of Facebook.
I sometimes wonder if people understand or remember how it went in 2009 to easily find and connect with people we had lost track of twenty-some-odd years ago. I am sentimental. I save photographs, letters, and mementos, remembering and treasuring friendships from most of the seasons of my life. As someone who found high school and college a time of drama and connection, I was thrilled to rediscover old friends. My former abstinence partner was one of them.
It was not easy to navigate the sexual politics of reconnecting with friends, including exes, when we all got onto Facebook back then. Many of us were married, including me. Some people signed up as couples, using both first names, to try and protect themselves. I don't remember an extensive discussion with my life partner. He still doesn't care much about social media while I dived in and stayed in the deep end. Some might chastise me for my lack of caution, but in my relationship, he understands my need to play big and express myself widely even more than I do. My husband would rather I live that way than play it safe because I bring that happiness, ultimately, at the end of the day to him. I am pretty sure this is how we thought about things when I began to reconnect with people from my past.
My ex and I started by exchanging a message or two. I learned he was a grandfather. He had earned his Master's in Family Therapy and opened his own practice. He was still married and attended the same church he and I were a part of twenty years earlier. It didn't take long for him to propose a phone call. “My life has changed so much since then," he told me. "I think we would understand that better if we talked. Wanna share a phone call?"
Call me naive, but I had no thought or desire to pass up the opportunity for connection. I drove to a parking lot by one of my favorite hiking trails and dialed the number. "Wow!" he said. "Now that I hear your voice…" he trailed off. I waited. Listened. I don't remember a lot of the content of our conversation. But it did turn to the past. He told me which song made him always think of me. "You'll always have a piece of my heart," he said. "My wife would not understand that. I still love you, you know." I cried and said, "I love you, too," and we hung up. I drove away and had to pull over to call my girlfriend and weep.
It's debatable, I suppose, whether there should have been any contact. I know now, ten years later, that reconnecting with B reminded me of a part of my life that had been intoxicating and that did become unsettling. It's ironic to me. So much of religion's mores tries to address and contain our sexuality. And yet, sexual tension coupled with religious fervor can be one of the most potent cocktails there is. How many young Christians race to the altar just so they can have sex with each other on the other side? He was NOT the right person for me to marry. I can't imagine life with him instead of the one I chose, who I still love twenty-seven years later and don't want to live without.
My reconnection with that particular ex did not end well. This story needs a part two. I am still hoping for a part three. But I’m not sure if I could, I would handle those early social media days differently. The reconnection with another ex was full of comfort and forgiveness. I feel like the church’s history is littered with sexual tragedies. I don’t think we’ve handled it well. From Henry VIII wanting a divorce to the countless stories of the pastor running off with the choir director, I question whether any religion really guides us on how to navigate one of the most active parts of our humanity. As I look back over my forty-five years in church, how it intersected my sexuality is a huge part of the story. I know I am not alone. I believe these are some of the stories that most need to be released (told, spoken, let go of).
P.S. I want to take a moment to honor my LGBTQ friends. I am sorry that you have had to wrestle with your essence while hearing that it is flawed, a sin, or hopeless. Though I am cis, I know enough stories and what it’s like to walk through life with a longing that feels dangerous and undeniable. I don’t believe it has to be this way. Your story and humanity needs to be released, too.