“Go Now in Peace” (Natalie Sleeth)

By David Coltheart

I was born in New Zealand into a good Adventist home—my father was the conference evangelist and my godly mother his most faithful assistant. We moved house every year and then, when I was 9, we were transferred to Australia. Three years later, my dad baptized me at the evangelistic meeting he was conducting. But even at that age, I knew there were certain things that triggered my mind and I always felt guilty about them.

I never enjoyed sporting activities since I preferred to read a book rather than get rough and dirty. Despite that, I had some good friends in my class at the Adventist high school and I got along well with them. But my best friend was different. The other boys teased him, and I couldn’t figure out why. All I knew was that there was something that drew me to him, something that no one talked about.

When I was 14, we moved to London. I knew there was something different about me I couldn’t define. Sex was not discussed at home or at the Adventist school in England where I spent my teenage years and I remained in questioning ignorance. I was an excellent student and did well academically. But when I wasn’t immersed in studying, I secretly admired a fellow student who was a keen sports person, socially confident and good-looking.

The word “gay” wasn’t used in the late 1960s. The only word, whispered in shocked undertones, was “homosexual”—and I knew I wasn’t one of them. But when I was 17, I was accused of being a “homosexual” because I didn’t play football and never had girlfriends. The abusive word stung, and I hotly denied the charge—there was nothing in my life even to suggest that I fitted the stereotype. The confrontation passed, but my identity was in question. Was it true, I wondered? Did someone know more about me than I knew myself?

Answering what I still believe was a call from God, I studied for the ministry at Newbold College. Like everyone else, I dated girls, but the occasions were scary and awkward. I was always relieved when the event was over. I became friends with a student from Eastern Europe who expressed his feelings more openly than I did. Sometimes he innocently put his hand on my shoulder or gave me a manly hug. My heart beat faster, but the moment passed, and I never said a word. The next summer, both 19 years old, we worked together selling children’s books door to door. I longed for a closer relationship—but I kept my dreams to myself.

After three years at college, I volunteered as a student missionary and enjoyed the adventure of travel and the challenge of evangelism in West Africa. While there, I wrote to a girl I knew from college, but the romance crashed and I was relieved. I had always preferred the company of male friends, anyway. But I was troubled. Did God condemn me for something that was not my fault and had always been a part of me since early adolescence? I carried a burden of guilt that prayer and Bible study could not erase.

I completed my master’s degree at Andrews University. About that time, my father died and our family returned to Australia. I started my work in public evangelism, a role I knew was God’s will for my life. I assumed one day I would fall in love, marry, establish a home, and live happily ever after. That was what my church decreed, society required, and my family expected. I believed marriage would “fix the problem.” But even after I met someone and became engaged, I didn’t “feel” romantic and wasn’t sure I was doing the right thing. Since I didn’t dare trust anyone with my secret, I decided it was better to say nothing and hope for the best. After the wedding, I knew I had done the right thing—I had passed into a society where everyone was nicely arranged in pairs. Because everyone approved of what we had done, I assumed I was in love.

As conference (and later union) evangelist, my wife and I moved 12 times over the next 20 years. Every shift was a fresh start, and I determined, with God’s help to conquer my desires by sheer willpower. I read the Bible, looking for answers, and I prayed God would change me. But the formula never worked for me. My prayers, though answered in every other way, on this subject were unanswered. I knew my church disapproved and my conscience troubled me. Not only was homosexuality a sin, but it was also an “abomination.” While other sins were preached about, this sin was never even whispered, let alone discussed. By implication, this made it the worst of all sins, reinforced by instant loss of membership, followed by ostracism and separation from church life. Was it so bad to be unforgivable?

I was in a quandary. I loved my job, but apart from theology degree, I had no other skill or training and apart from the church, there was nowhere else to go. I was desperately afraid for my identity and my livelihood. As the sole wage earner, I had a family that included three sons to care for. I wanted to talk to someone. At church meetings and ministerial retreats, I scanned everyone I met, hoping to find someone to whom I could confide. But to even breathe the slightest hint of my problem was to invite exposure. There was no one in the church I trusted. I reacted with anger and frustration, taking out on those I loved my inability to find peace of mind—but in solitude I wept. I stared into the depths of a black hole from which there seemed no escape.

My belief in God’s grace never wavered and my assurance of personal salvation was never in doubt, but while attending a camp meeting, I experienced a new conversion. After nights of tears and repentance, my days were suddenly filled with joy and hope. Despite my feelings, God still accepted me, still loved me. At the end of that week, in the silence of a beautiful bush setting, a fellow minister baptized me in a nearby stream. He knew of my experience though not the struggle behind it. That Sabbath morning was the most precious moment of my entire life, before or since. I even dared to hope that my problem was cured.

It was not to be. Although the commitment remained, and the glory of my decision has never left me, my basic nature was unchanged. I was not wrestling with a mere problem, but a deep, inner mindset that was beyond choice. I seemed to be always going against the grain, locked in a grim struggle between me and a world that refused to acknowledge such feelings existed. The thought of being a gay Adventist minister was too horrifying to contemplate, and I buried the problem under a mountain of guilt and despair. Since I couldn’t fix the problem, then I had to stand it.

After praying for months for a change of direction, I accepted the task of editing a magazine for an independent ministry supportive of the church. The next five years were the happiest and busiest of my life, and my life took new directions. More importantly, I gained new skills.

About that time, we connected to the internet. I typed in the words “gay” and “Adventist” and to my astonishment, discovered SDA Kinship. I discovered I was not alone after all. Suddenly, I could identify with something tangible. And there were people who affirmed my life and experience. But it still took years before I came out of denial. It happened when I looked in the mirror one morning and said, out loud, “You’re gay.” I couldn’t believe what I had said, but the realization had been creeping up on me for years. Acceptance came slowly and now all that remained was to tell someone.

I grew up in an era when Adventists didn’t go to the movies, so I felt awfully guilty when I sneaked out to see Brokeback Mountain. That was the turning point. As the achingly beautiful story unfolded, I knew it was my story. I was overwhelmed by a tsunami of emotion and tears. Now the pain of staying in was worse than the pain of coming out, and I figured I only had a few months to plan my exit strategy. I set a date to tell my wife and family and made my preparations. I had been practicing my speech for years, but now it became an obsession. On the appointed day, I still hesitated, right until the last second, knowing that civilization was about to end. I drew a breath, and to my astonishment, told my story.

I woke next morning to a day I never expected to see. I felt as if the burden of my life had rolled away and the relief was palpable and real. I had already written a letter of resignation to my beloved church—now I gave it to the church pastor. Events outside my control took over and after almost 30 years of marriage, I moved out of the family home, bought a fridge and a microwave and began living alone.

As the process of self-disclosure continued, I had to surrender my job and for the first time I was unemployed. For months, things got steadily worse, and I felt as if I was falling down a deep pit without reaching the bottom. When it was obvious there were no jobs for me in the local area, I packed up my few possessions, rented a small truck and shifted 1000 kilometers north to Queensland. I still had nowhere to go, but that’s when God intervened.

By a series of apparently random circumstances, I shared a house with a man on the north side of Brisbane. More coincidences followed over the next couple of months, which led me to a job as a technical writer for a training organization in a semi-rural area 100 kilometers north of the city. I rented a flat on the same day and suddenly the darkness was over. I found a small, welcoming church to attend and a circle of church friends who knew my story and accepted me, regardless. Looking back, I realize the random circumstances were not mere coincidences, but a series of remarkable providences, each one linked to the next, by which God led me to where I am today.

Six months later, I bought a house near where I work. I live in a beautiful area surrounded by rainforest, close to the beach. I have some great friends and a supportive family. I praise God for His love and grace. He has led me all the way, and I thank Him for His blessings. I can only look back and see His providential hand over me, guiding me and caring for me. Now my faith is stronger than ever. My spiritual life is deeper and more meaningful. Most of all, I have peace of mind knowing that He accepts me and loves me.

David Coltheart lived on the Sunshine Coast in Australia, at the time of this writing, where he attended his local Seventh-day Adventist Church. He enjoys bushwalking, going to the beach, and making new friends. Currently (2016) he has written and published his 300-page autobiography, Finding Out, available at https://finding-out.wixsite.com/book.