A soft contemporary gospel graced the air as the youth pastor began his monologue to the audience of teenagers. They raised their hands in both anticipation and in attempt to grasp the words as they left the delicate speech of the pastor, his young face glowing a slight pink as his emotions filled him with spirit. I couldn’t grasp exactly what he said, or rather I do not remember his words, but I could tell from the mumblings of the crowd and the swaying motion of the musicians that whatever this man said it could be translated as “sermon”. What I do remember of the service was the slick hardwood beneath my fingers as I pressed them against the seat of the booth I sat in. As the hands of the audience raised higher, I sank my fingers into the seat, as if in fear that I would float away with the music drifting through the stuffy air.

Ever since, and even before, I came out, I have dealt with the fact that no matter what church I go to, even in my home church, there will always be someone there who believes I’m choosing the painful card I was dealt, and who believes that because of this unlucky fate I will be thrown into eternal torture. Luck of the draw, I suppose. Yet this sentiment is found even outside a religious setting. What I’ve found throughout my journey is when you’re Queer, in gender identity, sexuality, or both, the church becomes a constant opponent in the matter of both civil rights and protections, to simple tasks such as buying clothes and ordering coffee. The simple micro-aggressions experienced in every waking hour, such as those around you refusing to use the correct pronoun or name, or being the topic of debate among friends and classmates, take a toll on a person mentally and emotionally. It becomes harder to trust others, and harder to create expectations, when the religious views of individuals are treated as more relevant than your state of being.
   

 For these reasons, unknown places of worship such as the many conservative churches in our area have become my least favorite places. The moment you walk into such a place, it’s as if the air itself stops circulating and you. You feel your lungs exhale slowly, desperately trying to release the tension built up from the many mental rehearsals of confrontations both theological and physical. The videos of pastors screeching about homosexual demons and perverse cross-dressing abominations swirl in your mind as you try to read the faces of those around you, and determine who is an enemy and who is safe to talk to. This paranoia causes your cheeks to flush and your body to flinch at each interaction. You see beyond the smiling faces, you tell yourself, and look deeper into the societal prejudice they hold for you though they may not know it themselves.
     

This feeling of suspicion and as what I can only describe as “prejudicial security” is present each time I visit a church that is not my own. I can distinguish the faces of my home church far easier than the faces of a foreign church. This has become the reason why I despise the visiting of churches in our area. When I accompany a friend to their church, whether it be Non-Denominational or Pentecostal, the air in the sanctuary is suffocating as if the exhale of each congregate steals the oxygen from your body. Every sense your body detects becomes detestable. The smell of burning candles and fresh paint infests your nose, causing you to cough uncontrollably. Eucharist wine and small pieces of bread become poison that decimates your immune system, to where every word said to you infects your insides. Your ears bleed at the sound of members speaking in tongues. The feel of the padded pew or slick balcony seat absorbs your finger tips, turning from red to white.
     

It’s astounding to me, who is so affected by the presence of toxic religion, that I still wish to pursue Seminary and form my major around the study of God. It has made me question my way of thinking about God, and if the traditions I was exposed to as a child, and still now, hold a light to how God truly is. Is my God a vengeful entity who damns the oppressed? Does my God conform to a patriarchal society that condemns those who do not fit the typical gender binary? Was Christ sent to save the world from my God? These questions of theology and morality that I had left unquestioned and unchecked as a child have now seized my waking thought; was everything I was taught about God and Jesus Christ wrong?
     

Through many conversations and exploring of liberation theology, I have found that my God is a God who embodies the oppressed. My God values diversity and created such differences among creation for a reason. My God, who exists as the spiritual form of the ostracized and forsaken, by definition is the face of the oppressed itself. My Christ, being the son of God, must therefore be the embodiment of the forsaken in the flesh, existing as a Queer person of color whom history has lost to the white-washed, cisgendered, hetero-normalized, structure of modern society. After coming to these conclusions, I’ve realized that I have made a large step forward to a more confident and more actualized version of myself.
     

The fear of a toxic worship slips from my mind as Rev. Jessica Hawkinson, a holy and kind person who welcomed me to join the Lux Theological Institute for Youth at Monmouth College, stands before a modest podium with a colorful cloth gently draped over it. Her voice is soothing and calm as she welcomes the sixteen other students surrounding me to the Institute, and her eyes fill with tears as she speaks, causing my vision to shake as I began to cry myself. The Rev. Chuck Goodman, a compassionate and enthusiastic pastor from Springfield who was invited to help deliver the sacraments and lead worship for the youth, invites all who sit before the podium to touch the water in the wide clear blue basin sitting upon the table. The sixteen other student surround the basin, lightly dipping a hand or finger into the water. I stand at the back, grasping the shoulder my friend Ellie. I’m still fighting back tears as a picture is taken of everyone at the basin. I can be seen grasping Ellie’s shoulder, holding on to her soft skin. My fingers quake as Rev. Goodman continues to speak. I eventually let go, letting myself drift with his words through the stuffy air.