Out of Sorts

Living through anger, desperation, doubt, and loving Jesus through it all.

It was three seconds after I finished writing an article on Biblical interpretation that I felt it. Regret. I’d spent the entire night thinking about how many different theories and theologies had been born from the Bible and how on earth anyone is expected to navigate it, so I wrote down my thoughts and went back to bed. It took only three seconds before my eyes opened again and I knew I wouldn’t be falling asleep.

Did I really believe in everything I spent all night writing? Did I really believe the Bible could be interpreted, even understood?

I can say that right now, as I’m writing this article, I have no idea. I look at the fundamentalist, evangelical upbringing of my life and I cringe. I look at everything I’ve ever believed, and for the first time in my life, have no idea what I’m looking at.

Once upon a time I was being groomed to be a youth pastor. I served at my local youth group and Church from the time I was fourteen til’ I was nineteen. I attended a Christian college with the sole purpose of getting a degree and a full time job in ministry. I used to teach kids about God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit. Now I look back at my life and only one thought remains.

Is God even real? Was any of it ever true? What am I going to do?

These thoughts didn’t appear out of nowhere. They began quietly with the first revalation that I was queer. They grew as my dearest relative groaned and muttered about the apocalypse every time something gay or liberal came on the TV screen. “There will come a day when they’ll know how wrong they were,” this person would say. “All knees will bow before the glory of God.”

At the time I ignored the words and strongly believed that Christianity is not neatly confined to the Republican party. Now, I wonder about the existence of hell ( does it exist?), the glory of God (is God that vindictive?), and the existence of God entirely. Is he there?

I could live with my questions and doubts about God. I’d always lived with a healthy amount of doubt and wonder, so I could take the questions. 

It all started to change after I came out when I was nineteen. I was “let go” from my ministry at church. It was soul crushing. I loved God and loved others, wasn’t that enough? It only grew worse as I received message after message from old friends looking to “save” me from my apparent sin. We would exchange words for hours before I realized no one was really listening to me. They were only looking for ways to shake my faith and make me change. 

Well, they succeeded in only one aspect. They shook my faith. Hard. 

They say one in nine people will read their bibles, but the other eight will read the Christian. If I wanted to know God, I wouldn’t simply read the Bible. I needed people, and the people I saw didn’t treat me very well. If they didn’t treat me well or love me well, how would God? Why would I want to follow a God that had such cruel people following him?

You can’t turn on the TV without seeing them. The pastors on their shows exclaiming clobber passages about gays never coming into the kingdom of heaven, about women submitting in silence to their husbands. The Christian films about rescuing the unsaved from eternal damnation. The Christian protestors who scream “God hates fags” and “get out of our country.” 

If Christians are supposed to mirror God, I didn’t like God very much. In fact, I was beginning to hate him.

I struggled with going to church. I struggled knowing that I would never be let into a men’s bible study because I’m transgender. I struggled through sermon after sermon only to sit with my relatives later who would ask me with pointed looks, “So, what do you feel God was teaching you today?”

I’m tired. I’m angry. I’ve been angry for a long time, but it feels like the melting pot about to overflow. On the outside I feel like Bruce Banner, smiling, friendly, contained. Inside my head I’m the Hulk, always screaming, raging, and smashing everything in my mind to pieces. Every single second of every single day I’m wondering when I’m going to give it up. Stop fighting it. You don’t believe in God anymore, why are you still holding on?

The answer still surprises me. 

Jesus. Just… Jesus. Even when I’m spitting and cursing God for all the hell he’s put me and the rest of the world through, a quiet piece inside of my whispers Jesus. 

Jesus, who hung out with the minorities. Jesus, who flipped the Old Testament on it’s head. Jesus, who angered the “good guys.” Jesus, who healed the sick, the disabled. Jesus who took the eyes of onlookers away from the adulteress and brought them on himself as he drew in the sand. Jesus who made the angry turn quiet, who made the mob walk away. 

Jesus defies so much of what Christians do today. I don’t think Jesus cares about politics. I don’t think Jesus cares whether we say certain words to get saved. I think Jesus is wild and so much bigger than we give him credit for. He says “let the children come to me” and “have faith like a child,” knowing full well that children ask questions. Children want answers. Children are wild and skeptical and point and ask, “Why is that?” Thank Jesus that he has the patience and the delight to hold us and tell us stories in response. 

Jesus rarely answered questions with specific answers. He asked questions to make us think. It makes me wonder what the real answers are, what answers we’re supposed to come up with. It makes me feel secure in the knowledge that I don’t have to have it all figured out.

One thing I know, of all the laws at his disposal, Jesus said, “Love God and love your neighbor,” when asked about the most important law. I love him for that. Because the Old Testament feels like it lacks a lot of love sometimes. There’s genocide. There’s war. There’s the murder of innocent children in the name of God. There’s the stoning of a man collecting sticks on the Sabbath, a moment where Moses declared that God willed it. Yet later, Jesus tells a man to carry his mat and walk. Talk about Godly inconsistency. 

I was reading the book “Out of Sorts” by Sarah Bessey, one of my favorite authors and inspiration for the title of this post, when she said something that still makes my evangelical, fundamentalist upbringing wince and scoff.

The Bible has inconsistencies. It can seem hypocritical. That’s because God didn’t write the Bible. People did. Flawed human beings inspired by God wrote everything down in the pages of the Bible and not all of it is good and wholesome and right. There’s rape in the Bible. There’s murder. There’s slavery. Much of it is even allowed under the “name of God.” But is it?

I’ve started doing what Sarah does. I’m reading the Bible through the eyes of Jesus. Jesus, who loved and made the mob drop their stones. Jesus, who called for everyone at the table, not just the “righteous.” Jesus, who loved and loved and loved. 

I love that Jesus. The Jesus who raised the dead and the Jesus who stormed through a temple. The Jesus that said follow me.

I follow that Jesus. I don’t follow the God I was raised to believe in anymore. I don’t follow the religious structures that tell me I have to look a certain way, love a certain way, and be a certain way. I don’t follow the church’s politics or the church’s games. 

I don’t believe in much of my old beliefs anymore. In fact, it feels like I’m starting all over again. I’m starting with Jesus. 

I’m still “out of sorts.” I’m still kicking up dirt and shuffling my feet at times, but Jesus is ahead of me, and even in my faltering steps I’m following after him.

I’m going to stop calling myself a Christian for a while. I don’t identify with that word and all the baggage that comes with it. I don’t believe in that kind of God many Christians tell me to believe in.

But I do consider myself a disciple of Jesus. I will call myself a follower of Jesus. I believe in every word he said and I’ll kick and I’ll holler until everyone hears the truth. 

Take another look at Jesus. Just Jesus. Read the Bible through his eyes. 

He’s saving my faith. He’s saving my life. He’ll save everyone else’s too.

And until I can go back to church and not feel crushed under the weight of a false God, I’ll be here. Following Jesus. The best way I can.

Biblical Interpretation

Biblical interpretation. Pretty heavy subject, am I right? Let’s dive in.

Biblical interpretation. Pretty heavy subject, am I right? So, here I am, sitting in my bed, typing this up at midnight on Easter Sunday. I’ve been up for several hours at this point, spending that time going over biblical interpretation in my mind and why on earth it seems so  complicated at times.

Now, before I begin, I should mention that biblical interpretation is very important to me. It’s something deeply ingrained in the fabric of my being. It’s a foundational part of who I am, something I’ve been taught since I could walk and talk. This is the Bible. This is what it says. This is how you read it, interpret it, let it guide your life. This was what my parents taught me. This is what my Church taught me. I don’t take the Bible lightly. It’s no laughing matter, and that’s why I’ve been up all night thinking about the complexities of biblical interpretation and why it can be so difficult as an LGBT Christian to talk about.

Continue reading “Biblical Interpretation”

20 Years In My Shoes

Imagine you were born in my shoes.

Imagine you were born in my shoes.

The day you’re born, you come late. Everyone’s overjoyed at your arrival, and the doctor announces to proud parents that they have a healthy baby girl. Everyone’s happy. You’re crying. Little does anyone know you’ll do that a lot in the future.

You’re five years old and your best friend is a boy. You’re obsessed with boy things like trucks and cars and racing and wrestling. The only girls you like are either quiet or like you. Your school makes you wear dresses and you fight and scream and cry every time your parents dress you. You don’t know why but it’s embarrassing to go outside in dresses and skirts. You fight everything feminine from dresses to socks. You envy boys that get to wear pants and ties.

You’re eleven when puberty hits. You’ve learned to stop crying in front of people, so no one knows you’re dying inside. Your mom says you’re becoming a woman. You don’t want to be a woman. You don’t know why this hurts so much or why it feels so wrong, but you hear it’s normal to not like puberty so you try to believe them even though everything inside you says it’s wrong.

You’re thirteen and everything you say and do screams “boy” if it weren’t for the boobs on your chest. No one knows your a girl until they look at your chest and correct themselves. You secretly hate every person who lets your chest define who you are, but you still don’t know why being called a girl hurts so much.

You’re fifteen and you put on a new pair of shoes. They don’t fit and they’re uncomfortable to wear, but you don’t take them off even though you hate them. This defines the next five years of your life as you put on feminine clothes for the first time in your teen years. You cry in the dressing room at the mall because the girly clothes you’ve torn off and the girly clothes you’re about to put on are equally horrible but you feel like you have no other choice. You think you’re gay. You think that’s why you hate yourself so much.

You’re twenty years old when everything changes. You’ve been playing the part for five years and everyone’s believed it. You come out as gay and things change, but it still doesn’t feel right. You don’t feel right. You wake up in the middle of the night and all the pieces click into place like a vision from God. You’re a boy. You were a boy. You are a boy. You’re transgender. 

You’re twenty years old and it took twenty years to figure out why nothing ever felt right. It took twenty years of tears and pain and regret but now everything makes sense and you feel free for the first time in your life. You start living authentically right away.

You’re twenty when you buy men’s clothes and for once you don’t hate your reflection in the dressing room.

You’re twenty when you come out as a transgender young man. 

You’re twenty when you legally change your name with your mother’s help.

You’re twenty when you come out at work and your co-workers immediately smile and say, “Hello Kason” like they had a feeling all along.

You’re twenty when the messages start. 

You’re twenty when all your old friends start to criticize you and passively remind you you’re going to hell.

You’re twenty and someone asks you if you actually know what hell is.

You’re twenty and you cut your hair. Someone you idolize won’t look at you or speak to you for a week. 

You’re twenty and people ask you why you’re so defensive all the time.

You’re twenty and the people you thought loved you refuse to say your name.

You’re twenty and people won’t stop reminding you, “You’re a girl, actually.”

You’re twenty and it’s taken twenty years to be yourself and it feels like no one wants you to be yourself. It feels like people would rather have you lie or disappear than be honest and authentic.

You’re twenty and eventually you realize you don’t have to keep explaining yourself. You eventually realize it’s okay if people don’t like you for who you are. It’s okay if some people think you’re going to hell.

You’re twenty and you realize that only you can decide what you’re going to believe in. You realize whatever you do is between you and God, not between you and one hundred people who want to play God in your life.

You realize that God loves you. 

You realize not everything has an answer.

You learn to be okay with that.

You’re twenty years old and you have the rest of your life to look forward to. Your life doesn’t end here. You keep going. You keep smiling. 

You learn to be okay.

The Promise I Made

Watch out, I’m about to get nerdy. Let’s talk Doctor Who and being transgender.

Watch out, I’m about to get nerdy. I’m a big fan of Doctor Who. For a long time now I’ve been obsessed with the man who can change his face and body, regenerate, every time he’s dying so that he can save his life. I guess it’s probably important to mention that this man is the Doctor, and he’s an alien. Oddly enough, that didn’t stop me from emotionally connecting to this character, the Doctor.

Maybe it’s because I’m transgender, but I was obsessed with this alien’s culture of people who could literally change their entire bodies to save their lives, sometimes changing genders as they do. That was deeply important to me as someone who is transgender. I identify as a man, but when I was born the doctors took one look at me and assumed that I was a girl because of my physical characteristics. But my physical body does not define me, much like the Doctor’s body does not define him. He is the Doctor, no matter what he looks like. He is himself.

I feel like that’s me. No matter what I look like or what I choose to do, I am myself. I am a boy through and through.

More on that though. One of the hardest things I had to do was change my name. My old name was highly feminine, not unisex at all, and I never liked to hear it. During my childhood I constantly tried to change my name to something else, but no one ever took my new names seriously. I was always my old name. That never changed.

Deciding to change my name seemed like a logical part of my transition. While I didn’t exactly like my old name, I was sentimentally attached to it. It was the name of my grandmother, whom I love. My middle name was my mom’s middle name, another person I love. To change those names would be to erase a precious connection, and that’s not something I wanted. But with my mom’s love and support, she helped me pick out my new name, a name that I could be proud of and still be attached to knowing that my mom helped pick it out.

And now, back to Doctor Who. In one episode, the Doctor stated, “Your name is like a promise you make.”

For me, my name means home. More than that, with the act of changing my name, I promised myself that I would always be true to myself. Much like the Doctor, my name represents who I am as a person. My core beliefs have always been to be kind, loving, and genuine. With my name change I plan to live out these beliefs unapologetically and be myself.

To me, that is the promise of my name. It is one that I am happy to carry and one that I can be proud of. Kason.


Apparently, some people can identify as gay… and then later realize they were straight all along. They were transgender.

Apparently, some people can identify as gay… and then later realize they were straight all along. But there’s a catch. They weren’t magically cured. They realized something else about themselves. They were transgender.

Guess who I am?

Continue reading “Transgender”

Gender Questioning Absurdity

There are a lot of questions that come with facing your own gender. For one, do I identify as a girl, or a boy? What if I don’t identify as either?

There are a lot of questions that come with facing your own gender. For one, if I don’t identify as a girl, does that mean I’m no longer gay? Also, what does this mean for my relationships? Am I going to have to change my name? Do I have to change everything about myself to fit my new gender? What gender am I anyway?

All of these questions I’ve asked myself at one point or another. Sometimes I’ve asked these questions a thousand times over. Others, I’ve only asked once or twice.

Gender is a complicated subject. For as long as any of us have been alive, we’ve been taught that there are only two categories: male and female. Any deviance from these categories is always returned with pushback, questions, and concern. After all, there are only two genders, right? Eh, the answer is a little more complicated than you might think.

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The Gay Church Kid

Growing up I was always the Church kid. You know, the one always happy to give the right answer. Little did anyone know I was gay. That changed everything.

Growing up, I was always the Church kid. You know, the kid who memorized all the famous Bible verses, raised their hand for every question during youth group, and volunteered to be the front runner for ever Church game. To everyone around me, I was the star Christian kid. If we were all getting graded, I was getting an A+ for both participation and accuracy. I always had the right answer, I was always looked to during prayer time when no one else wanted to get called on. Besides, if the Church kid was here, they were probably raising their hand anyway. Yep, that was me through and through.

But here’s the thing. Being the Church kid is draining. There’s an indescribable feeling that comes with being seen as the ‘perfect’ one. The kid who wins every game, the kid who knows every verse, the kid who memorized all the theological arguments ‘just in case.’ When it came to being the Church kid, there was always the expectation that I had to be more than enough. The other kids looked at me different. The leaders looked at me different. My parents looked at me different. It felt like this never ending fight to be good enough, to keep proving that I was smart enough, spiritual enough, strong enough, all enough for God and for my Church.

It’s hard to feel known when you constantly feel like you’re fighting to be good enough.

Continue reading “The Gay Church Kid”