Facing the Music Page 16

  If I had any chance of writing songs while I was touring, recording another record, and surviving yet another season without a break, it was going to take someone with Karen’s skill set to get me through.

  She had me by the scruff of the neck and she knew it. Ever her direct and confident self, she named her salary, twice that of any road manager I had paid before. I didn’t know if I could actually afford to pay her what I agreed to, but I somehow knew that if the coming year was as busy as it looked to be and I continued on without adequate professional help, I had no chance to survive unscathed.

  In the exposed, shared world of the confined space of a tour bus, it was evident that I was struggling to keep up. Through all of the chaos, Karen became more than a professional advocate. I found a friend.

  As time blurred past, and I continued to limp forward, it seemed that only Karen understood how near the breaking point I was. She was there, every day.

  She witnessed the countless hours during which I locked myself in the tour bus, attempting to shut out the rest of the world. She protected my privacy when I was nothing but a ball of nerves and tears, huddled up in whatever windowless dressing room was serving as my studio for the day.

  She was the only person inside my career that encouraged me to look at my career as a choice rather than an obligation.

  “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, Jennifer. It’s your choice to be whoever you need to be.” It seemed an impossible thing to believe at the time. Almost heresy. All I had ever been was God’s. The only reason I was on this earth was to do what I was doing. If I had my own voice, it had been a long time since I had allowed myself to listen to it.

  “Do you even want to do Christian music anymore?” Her question didn’t come with an ulterior motive. She was genuinely open to helping find my truth regardless of whether or not she would have a job at the end of it.

  I was afraid to answer it. The pain that loomed inside me curled my entire body in the fetal position and I began to weep uncontrollably. How could I say what I wanted aloud? If I did I would be destroying everything.

  “Jen, what do you want?” she placed her hand on mine. Her gentle touch calmed me for a moment so I could say the words “I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t.”

  “All right, then.” She patted my back and returned to her matter-of-fact voice. “You’re gonna need a plan. I’ll help!”

  I leaned on Karen heavily when I decided to close up shop. For all the ugliness, rumors, and tears, she stood by me when few did. Without judgment or self-serving calculations, she encouraged me to follow my heart.

  The more time we spent together, the more my affection for her intensified. If ever I had found her infatuating before, my fondness for her was moving on from giddiness into a deeper complexity. Our hugs went from casual greetings to lingering expressions of profound companionship. In her confidence and support I had the feeling of finding a soul mate, but I didn’t dare release my mind to where it seemed to lead.

  We were just good friends. Very good friends.

  sixteen

  In the last year of my time in CCM, I took the reins and managed the balance of my remaining career on my own. Karen agreed to lend her support on the business side of things to help me wind down but, in her spare time, when she wasn’t working on the road with me, she returned to subcontracting jobs with her usual cast of large-event productions.

  On one rare weekend that I didn’t have a gig, Karen had decided to take a job down in Texas working for Youth Specialties. (YS is a popular national Christian youth organization that specializes in multiday youth conventions.)

  I had performed on many occasions for the organization and had established a great working rapport with much of the staff. In fact, YS is where Karen and I became better acquainted. She always seemed to be stage managing when I was scheduled to play the latest YS convention, so we struck up a friendship as we worked. We knew many of the same people, enjoyed getting to hang out after all the work was done, so I thought, even though I wasn’t invited to perform at that particular event, nothing much would be made of my showing up just to hang out.

  Over the years, I had also developed a mentorlike relationship with a married couple, Rolly and Sandy. I had met them many years earlier through our mutual friend, Byron, and grew to welcome their wisdom and advice as the pressures of my public life increased.

  That same weekend, Rolly was working as an event producer for the same Youth Specialties event. I had hoped that I could also find some time to catch up with him, as Rolly had been a key figure in planning major youth ministry events for decades. For years, he had seen many Christian artists come and go. I had gone to him for advice when I began considering leaving CCM. I figured if anyone could come up with a suggestion as to how to manage my crisis of faith in the spotlight, he or Sandy would.

  They had listened supportively for months about how I was struggling, but we had landed at an impasse. They insisted that I needed to remain faithful to God’s call in my life, but we disagreed that my calling continued to be CCM. When I told them of my decision to leave, they received it with heavy hearts. They loved me, they were quick to affirm, but continued to pray that I would realign myself with God’s will above my own.

  I was naive to think that Rolly and Sandy, of all people, wouldn’t read anything into my presence at the conference. Whatever measure I had yet to admit the truth to myself, they saw straight through me and took aim at my budding relationship with Karen.

  They weren’t the only ones. Everyone was shocked to see me there unannounced.

  Usually artists were at these events working or angling for work. As an otherwise uninvited guest, I used my relationship with the organization, with Karen, and Rolly and Sandy as an excuse to hang out backstage at the massive conference. However, the truth was that I was eager to share in every free moment Karen had to spare.

  When I got there, Sandy was busy in her usual role, managing the backstage hospitality area. Rather than a smile of surprise, her face drooped with concern. When I explained that I came to just generally hang out, and that I was sharing a hotel room with Karen, her face went pale. Instead of her familiar warmth, she grew distant and shuffled quickly away.

  An ache lodged itself in my gut. I had hoped she wouldn’t read too much into my presence, but nothing I said seemed to ease the tension between us.

  Sandy wasn’t the only one acting weirdly. It seemed that all my friends were a tad uneasy, and straining to comprehend my presence. I wanted to chalk it up to my surprise drop-in, but it was clear that it was more than that.

  It didn’t take long under those circumstances before I felt exposed. When I caught up with Rolly, it was very clear that I was under suspicion. He, too, was less than his predictable, jolly self. He smiled weakly, gave me a side hug, and asked if I would come up to his and Sandy’s room for some tea later that evening.

  No way! They wouldn’t call me out for being attracted to Karen, I thought. I protested to myself, I’m only here to hang out. Why wouldn’t anyone believe me?

  Apprehension began to creep in. My insides turned to sludge. I grew thick and anxious with an overwhelming terror that Rolly and Sandy were going to accuse me of being gay. I didn’t know what I would do if they called me out on it. I had had people sit me down and warn me to not be gay before, but this was different. This time it was actually true. I was madly, deeply in love with Karen. I liked her . . . like that.

  I had been such a fool to think that I could hide the depth of my feelings. The only person who didn’t think I was there to chase Karen romantically was me. I hadn’t been willing to admit it to myself. I thought I was playing it cool. I thought I was doing well at simply acting as a close friend, but it was evident to everyone who saw us together that there was something more. And now, I feared, I was going to have to answer for it.

  I spent the balance of the day lo
cked away in our hotel room, fighting a rising tide of panic. I grew afraid that everyone there was thinking that I was a fallen woman. I did my best to be positive, but I wouldn’t know just how deep a mess I was in until the evening.

  At the end of the day, Karen was getting together with much of the YS staff for their ritual after-show cigars and brandy, and she had invited me along. Karen had spoken fondly of how much fun their wind-downs could be. I was genuinely eager to join Karen and her friends but, I told her, Rolly and Sandy had called me to a meeting. She urged me to blow them off, but I couldn’t help myself. I couldn’t live with the mystery of what they were thinking. I had to go.

  I had spent many nights hanging out in various hotel suites with Rolly and Sandy, sipping coffee and hashing through the adventures of Christian life, but tonight’s script seemed decided before the door thudded behind me. I knew exactly what this was going to be as soon as I spied the seating arrangements. This was a tribunal.

  Two chairs of adjudication faced a small sofa that would act as the witness stand. Sandy had taken up her seat in one of the chairs, leaving Rolly to the other, and thus assigning me to sofa. Obediently, I took my seat.

  The best part of the whole night was the lack of small talk. They jumped right into it.

  “Jennifer, we’re concerned about your relationship with Karen,” Sandy leaned forward, elbows on knees, holding her own hands.

  Boom! There it is!

  It’s the kind of opening volley typical of a Christian smackdown. Anytime someone in the church doesn’t like what you’re doing or isn’t of the opinion that you are acting Christian enough, this is the standard language. It’s not an outright accusation, but it sets the tone for the inquisition that is to come.

  “People have been asking us about you two for some time now and we’ve been praying about what to do about this.”

  Ding! That’s another one. The old I’ve prayed about it and God told me to tell you gambit. It’s not that, at the very least, you can’t appreciate your accuser putting some level of contemplation into the matter, but the frequency of which prayer is used as the impetus for confrontation is uncanny. I’ve never sat through one of these kinds of meetings when someone simply claims responsibility for their own opinion or disapproval. Rather than saying I disagree with what you are doing and here is why, then going on to discuss the religious grounds and inspirations that support your position, it becomes a message from God. It becomes I don’t want to be the bad guy here, but God is leading me to help you.

  I thought I knew Rolly and Sandy well enough to peg them as conservative in their religious theologies, but the approach to this conversation was turning out to be startlingly cliché.

  There was no doubt in my mind that if I did confess to being gay that they would be obliged to instruct me to turn away from it. It was happening now. But I never pegged them as distancing themselves from me and treating me as coolly as they were now. It was like they were speaking to me as an object of ruin rather than a human being.

  It went on. Blunt and to the point at least.

  “Are you gay?” Sandy continued to lead.

  “No!” I blurted out, “Of course not!”

  On the edge of her seat, Sandy asked suspiciously, “You do believe in the Bible, don’t you?”

  I honestly didn’t know how to answer that question. No one had ever point-blank asked me to describe the role the Bible held for me. I had learned long ago to just repeat what I was told it was: The Infallible Word of God. Beyond that, I didn’t have a pat answer. It was complicated. I didn’t want to be a smartass, but my thoughts on the matter were far more complex and nuanced than saying that a collection of writings was something to believe in.

  What does that even mean? To believe in the Bible? I’ve read it cover to cover. From those pages I’ve found healing in my life. Strength and encouragement. Comfort and instruction. But it also says that every living animal got on one boat built by one old man and the world was saved from the cleansing flood of God’s wrath. I’m not sure that I can believe that. I could go along with the moral of the story. I got the vibe of the thing.

  What about more subjective, less scientifically challengeable things like women not being allowed to speak in church? (Cor 1 13:14) I spoke in churches all the time and was praised for it by many. And, as for homosexuality? The truth was I struggled to fall in line with the conservative Christian position that says gay is wrong. Like so many things, when I failed to agree with what was being taught and preached, I learned to keep my mouth shut. I always assumed that something was wrong with me and that perhaps I would get in line eventually. But, now, I was being called to answer.

  I suppose it was a lie then when I responded, “Of course I believe what the Bible says.” Yet, at the same time, I felt indignant. When did my failure to agree with every weird and confusing thing the Bible says disqualify me from being a Christian?

  I could see their faces were awash with sorrow. To them, I was a friend—a good Christian woman on the verge of losing a very meaningful life by way of sin. I credit them for not taking out a Bible and reading it to me as if I was clueless. I wasn’t, and they respected me for that, at least. Rolly and Sandy had witnessed how seriously I had dedicated my life to learning, following, and honoring Christianity. They knew that I was no fool. Knowing this made it worse.

  They knew that I had a solid grasp of The Word. They had been witness to the role it had played in my life, in my art, and work. They knew that I had a sacred view of it; they just didn’t know that I didn’t always agree with everything that it said. I assumed that if they did they would discredit my entire life, my entire faith experience. It was happening now. I could see their esteem for me draining from their eyes as we spoke.

  Our conversation swirled around the implications of what must be happening in my spiritual life for this kind of temptation to befall me. An hour or more centered around the necessity of prayer and the idea that if I did, in fact, ever engage in sexual acts outside of marriage, that I would be lacking in some measure of my faith. That, in essence, something was wrong with me if I was not being the kind of Christian that they or God expected me to be. In no uncertain terms they spelled it out for me—I was to be celibate, straight, and waiting for God to send me the perfect man.

  I had been celibate for ten years but, if God was sending me anyone, it was a woman.

  The longer this went on, I slipped further into what felt like a moral coma with every lie I told. I felt swallowed up by the sofa, as if my edges were bleeding into the background, stagnant and thick.

  Of all the people in the world that I could lie to, Rolly and Sandy were the most undeserving. I deeply respected them to the point of admiration. If I had reason to label any couple my Christian parents, they were.

  I wanted them to love me. I wanted to tell them the truth. I wanted them to rise to the occasion to deal with the reality of the human condition. I wanted them to be the kind of Christian that I had searched the world for: comfortable with life’s mysteries and unfazed by religious contradictions. I wanted their kinship and affirmation, that I was loved and made, just as God wanted me to be. I wanted them to be what they were not.

  They failed me, as I failed them. I could have started a genuine and open dialogue, but I didn’t know how. I had spent years trying to craft myself into the kind of Christian people like Rolly and Sandy thought was the evidence of God’s spiritual work. I worked to make them proud of me. I wanted to succeed at becoming a woman they could admire. Never, until that day, had I spoken one untruth about my faith. I had always been genuine, but I didn’t believe everything that was being sold to me either.

  Our conversation was leading me right to the doorway that I had longed to open for years, but had kept padlocked. I never dared open it for fear of how acknowledging my own religious uncertainties might damage my reputation in the church. I was losing the fight. The hinges were
bulging and behind it came everything I had ever wanted to criticize and question about Christianity.

  I don’t think that it’s as simple as “God made everyone heterosexual!”

  I don’t think that drinking is a sin!

  I don’t think that sex outside marriage is instantaneously sinful!

  If I say fuck a thousand times a day; I think God’s got better things to hang me for!

  I don’t think God torches every soul that doesn’t pray to receive Christ!

  A thousand thoughts swirled in my head. I wanted to have a real conversation. I longed to talk about faith in a way that got at the heart of my humanity. I wanted to share in the marrow of living. To celebrate, to fail, to aspire, and to proceed with abandon to the one true thing that the Gospel had ever taught me that I do believe in . . . love!

  Yet, here I was, clearly facing an opportunity to talk about where my life had led me. With my deepest spirit, I loved Karen. It seemed shocking to say it out loud. God taught me to love—and I love her! But I couldn’t find the courage to speak it.

  The door couldn’t have been opened any wider for me to have a substantial and direct conversation, but I was blowing it.

  Up to this point, no one had actually asked me to clarify my true feelings for Karen. Our conversation that night continued to dance around the theological implications of what I was projecting and how I should remedy my observable behavior. Showing up at this conference unannounced was certainly a bad witness if I was to avoid the appearance of evil. I was both offended that I was assumed to be sexually attracted to her by suspicion rather than confession, but at the same time I was more than grateful I hadn’t been put to task.

  Suddenly, there it was. Sandy asked the one question I had thus far avoided, “Do you have sexual feelings for her?”

  With unflinching eye contact, I gave my answer without hesitation, “No. I do not.”

  For the first and the last time, I lied about what I knew to be true.