I Can't Date Jesus: Love...and Other Reasons I've Put My Faith in Beyoncé by Michael Arceneau (2018)
I Can't Date Jesus: Love, Sex, Family, Race, and Other Reasons I've Put My Faith in Beyoncé by Michael Arceneaux (2018)
I often describe myself as a recovering Catholic, but when a more pointed question such as “So what do you believe in?” surfaces, I struggle with specificity.
I know that I am not an atheist. For me, to let go of the idea of God altogether would mean completely sinking to a level of cynicism and jadedness that could ultimately devour me whole. That is not to speak for atheists in general; it’s merely what an embracement of atheism would mean for me. I cling to the idea that there has to be something bigger than us (1).
How can you be obedient to dogma you’ve found oppressive? How can you cling to tradition and exalt a vision of God that minimizes you and expects you to suppress what is innate to you? Is it not an exercise in futility to place your faith in a belief system that doesn’t completely believe in you (3)?
I had long ago decided not to wait for any individual church or institution to change. To put the fate of my sanity in either was too great a risk. I needed to find my own moral compass. I needed to develop my own understanding of my place in the world and my right to be exactly who I was... (9)
This book is about unlearning every damaging thing I’ve seen and heard about my identity and allowing myself the space to figure out who I am and what that means on my terms. I may not have figured every single thing out, but I do know the stories I heard as a child and the damnation assigned to me because of my identity no longer haunt me. I do know that I am a good person. Most of all, I know that God gave us the gift of discernment and that I’ve made the most out of it. I’m glad that I did not merely give in to deference because it may have very well been the death of me (10).
It’s often said that knowing who you are, or at the very least possessing a sneaking suspicion of such early in life, is a blessing. The people who share this sentiment need to write it on a piece of paper, ball it up, and then proceed to pour barbecue sauce all over it as they eat it. Early self-awareness is a blessing only if who you are comes with a support system and an education. If you don’t have those, it’s easy to find yourself feeling stuck and sullen. I learned a certain part of my identity very early, but it was met with a near-instant confirmation of how unwelcome that part of my identity was to those surrounding me (24).
But I have also learned that we deal with what we can how we can until we get better. It took longer than it should have to deal with my past because where I come from, we tend to let things linger and fester. We bottle things up until it eats us inside. Sometimes we rupture in rage. Other times we turn to vices to bury the pain from whatever images and events feel unshakable despite the irony of us never confronting them head-on.
It was not the correct way, but it was the only way I knew until I was able to develop greater nerve and take greater control of my own destiny and challenge what all had been instilled in me (26).
Houston has always been incredibly diverse, but there is a bit of what some would describe as “ratchetness” to be found in city residents regardless of their socioeconomic status or racial background (93).
Many advise not talking about politics on dates, but he was half Black and it was Megyn Kelly. I have never met a Black person in New York City who greeted the topic of Megyn Kelly with a smile and a gush about her not being so bad. I just assumed he did her hair, offered her a few, “Hey, girl!” s here and there, and then texted his friends like, I HATE HER. But when you make assumptions, you sometimes don’t get any ass (114).
I had squandered my twenties by not having enough sex. If I were to rate my sex life in that decade through emojis now, I behaved like the yellow one with his eyes closed and a straight line where a smile should be. I should have acted more like a cross between the eggplant and the one nobody I know uses to signify actual raindrops. I had had plenty of ho moments, to be sure, but inconsistency over ten years riddled with the guilt that came with religious indoctrination and lingering insecurities had been the norm. Insert here that emoji that looks like someone gasping for air in utter agony.
I told myself that my thirties would be different. In fact, I wrote a whole essay about it. Rest in peace to xoJane and its series of “It Happened to Me” essays. I never got to write one of those, but when the remarkable Rebecca Carroll was editing the site, I did pen a piece about my struggles with intimacy, the source of that anxiety, and my resolution to let go of past trauma and inhibitions and start to have sex without all the emotional baggage I had been carrying. After my piece was published, strangers online were encouraging in a “You go, boy-don’t press eject on your erections anymore!” sort of way. I also ended up talking about the piece on NPR with the Michel Martin. Michel Martin is so brilliant and so classy, which meant I spoke about the matter-in a Tell Me More segment entitled “Black, Gay, and Scared of Sex”-in as similar a manner as possible. I didn’t master the talk-radio voice, but I did manage to avoid being crass and saying something like “Sis, I gotta quit bullshitting and get to the nuts.” Gold star for me (130).
I often describe myself as a recovering Catholic, but when a more pointed question such as “So what do you believe in?” surfaces, I struggle with specificity.
I know that I am not an atheist. For me, to let go of the idea of God altogether would mean completely sinking to a level of cynicism and jadedness that could ultimately devour me whole. That is not to speak for atheists in general; it’s merely what an embracement of atheism would mean for me. I cling to the idea that there has to be something bigger than us (1).
How can you be obedient to dogma you’ve found oppressive? How can you cling to tradition and exalt a vision of God that minimizes you and expects you to suppress what is innate to you? Is it not an exercise in futility to place your faith in a belief system that doesn’t completely believe in you (3)?
I had long ago decided not to wait for any individual church or institution to change. To put the fate of my sanity in either was too great a risk. I needed to find my own moral compass. I needed to develop my own understanding of my place in the world and my right to be exactly who I was... (9)
This book is about unlearning every damaging thing I’ve seen and heard about my identity and allowing myself the space to figure out who I am and what that means on my terms. I may not have figured every single thing out, but I do know the stories I heard as a child and the damnation assigned to me because of my identity no longer haunt me. I do know that I am a good person. Most of all, I know that God gave us the gift of discernment and that I’ve made the most out of it. I’m glad that I did not merely give in to deference because it may have very well been the death of me (10).
It’s often said that knowing who you are, or at the very least possessing a sneaking suspicion of such early in life, is a blessing. The people who share this sentiment need to write it on a piece of paper, ball it up, and then proceed to pour barbecue sauce all over it as they eat it. Early self-awareness is a blessing only if who you are comes with a support system and an education. If you don’t have those, it’s easy to find yourself feeling stuck and sullen. I learned a certain part of my identity very early, but it was met with a near-instant confirmation of how unwelcome that part of my identity was to those surrounding me (24).
But I have also learned that we deal with what we can how we can until we get better. It took longer than it should have to deal with my past because where I come from, we tend to let things linger and fester. We bottle things up until it eats us inside. Sometimes we rupture in rage. Other times we turn to vices to bury the pain from whatever images and events feel unshakable despite the irony of us never confronting them head-on.
It was not the correct way, but it was the only way I knew until I was able to develop greater nerve and take greater control of my own destiny and challenge what all had been instilled in me (26).
Houston has always been incredibly diverse, but there is a bit of what some would describe as “ratchetness” to be found in city residents regardless of their socioeconomic status or racial background (93).
Many advise not talking about politics on dates, but he was half Black and it was Megyn Kelly. I have never met a Black person in New York City who greeted the topic of Megyn Kelly with a smile and a gush about her not being so bad. I just assumed he did her hair, offered her a few, “Hey, girl!” s here and there, and then texted his friends like, I HATE HER. But when you make assumptions, you sometimes don’t get any ass (114).
I had squandered my twenties by not having enough sex. If I were to rate my sex life in that decade through emojis now, I behaved like the yellow one with his eyes closed and a straight line where a smile should be. I should have acted more like a cross between the eggplant and the one nobody I know uses to signify actual raindrops. I had had plenty of ho moments, to be sure, but inconsistency over ten years riddled with the guilt that came with religious indoctrination and lingering insecurities had been the norm. Insert here that emoji that looks like someone gasping for air in utter agony.
I told myself that my thirties would be different. In fact, I wrote a whole essay about it. Rest in peace to xoJane and its series of “It Happened to Me” essays. I never got to write one of those, but when the remarkable Rebecca Carroll was editing the site, I did pen a piece about my struggles with intimacy, the source of that anxiety, and my resolution to let go of past trauma and inhibitions and start to have sex without all the emotional baggage I had been carrying. After my piece was published, strangers online were encouraging in a “You go, boy-don’t press eject on your erections anymore!” sort of way. I also ended up talking about the piece on NPR with the Michel Martin. Michel Martin is so brilliant and so classy, which meant I spoke about the matter-in a Tell Me More segment entitled “Black, Gay, and Scared of Sex”-in as similar a manner as possible. I didn’t master the talk-radio voice, but I did manage to avoid being crass and saying something like “Sis, I gotta quit bullshitting and get to the nuts.” Gold star for me (130).