I was born on December 12, 1959, the oldest son in a Hispanic, Roman Catholic family. On December 12, 1532, the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared to an Indian peasant, Juan Diego, and told him to take roses to the Bishop of Mexico. As Juan Diego opened his blanket, the roses fell to the floor and the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe appeared on the blanket. I was a Guadalupano.

The church and the Virgin of Guadalupe were important parts of my life during my formative years. I grew up a good Roman Catholic boy. I played guitar in the church choir. While in college, I served on the church council. To the world, I was a quiet, studious young man. On the inside, I constantly battled depression. I tried too hard to be the person I was supposed to be, but I never felt like I fit in anywhere. I spent hours, weeks, and years praying to God to make me fit in. I didn’t like the things the other guys liked. I wasn’t good at, nor understood, sports. I felt uncomfortable spending time doing “guy things.” I had to watch what they did and mimic their behavior so I could fit in.

I met Gwyn while I was in college. She said she liked me because I was gentle and sensitive. She was my first “girlfriend.” She was very independent and open-minded. She introduced me to the Rocky Horror Picture Show. Ifyou are not familiar with the movie, the main character is a man who wears make-up and women’s lingerie. In 1981, this cult classic played every Saturday night at midnight. People would dress up like the characters and act along with the movie. I saw Rocky Horror at least 30 times in two years. I had never heard the term “transvestite” before. I had never thought anyone else, much less in a movie, liked to do what I did.

When I told Gwyn I liked wearing women’s clothes, she was not surprised. She would actually let me “dress up” for her. I graduated college and started graduate school while Gwyn and I were together. We broke up during my first semester of grad school. I missed her terribly as a close friend and confidant. I thought I would never find anyone whom I felt safe sharing my secret. I didn’t finish the second semester. I pretty much checked out of life. I moved out of my parents’ house and lived in a house with a bunch of friends. I was a lost child in Boulder. I must say, Boulder was a wild playground in the ‘80s. I supported myself by working in retail sales. At one time or another, I sold men’s  clothing, jewelry, women’s perfume, and cars. By November of1989, I was living with my cousin in the back room of her trailer. I worked as a sales associate for a large discount retailer. I was going nowhere fast.

One morning, after spending the night heaving my guts out, I found myself in a detox center. Something had gone terribly wrong in my life. It was only then I realized I had lost all direction, faith and hope. I started attending Alcoholics Anonymous. I grudgingly allowed God back into my life. I felt it was God’s fault that I ended up at the bottom. If God had taken away those horrid feelings, I would have been all right, but I was willing to let God have another go at it. During the following years, I worked hard. I was promoted a few times and became an assistant store manager. I was able to afford my own place. I was praying again, but I hadn’t found a church to attend on a regular basis. I was “buying and purging” on a regular basis. I would get the courage to buy a few pieces of women’s clothing to wear around the house. Later I would feel terrible about having these feelings and throw away all the women’s garments. I did my best to repress those so-called “shameful”feelings.

I met Regina in 1993. Regina was every man’s dream. My family adored her. We were married on October 1,1994. We had a big wedding in a Roman Catholic Church. I was finally the “man” I was supposed to be. Just to make sure I was the “man,” I dove into a new career, law enforcement. It was perfect. I didn’t have to think about what I was supposed to wear. I was trained to be commanding. I finally learned to be macho. By my 41st birthday, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. The American dream was in hand. I was married to a wonderful woman. We lived in a large house near downtown Denver. There were two new cars in the garage. We both had successful careers that provided a comfortable life. I went to church with her because I was supposed to, but mostly because I looked forward to breakfast afterwards.

After eight years of marriage, things weren’t working. We wanted to have kids, but she didn’t get pregnant. It was my fault. A couple has to sleep together to have kids. I always managed not to be around. I usually worked second shift. I took on extra duty. I always made the excuse of wanting to make extra money to fix up the house or pay bills. I couldn’t tell her it was awkward sleeping with my best friend. That’s how I thought of her. She was elegant. She dressed with style and taste. I wanted to be just like her. That was wrong. I had to work harder. I had to keep those feelings repressed. Vodka helped the repression. I began to resent her. I blamed her because I was unhappy. She readily agreed to a divorce.

I bought a little house in the suburbs and looked ahead to an uncertain future. Alcohol and guns do not make a good mix. A few weeks after I moved into my new little house, I sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of vodka and a pistol. Half the bottle was already in me. How could I end up here? I had had it all! Why would I walk away from a perfect life? What was wrong with me? The only reason I didn’t end my life that day was the death of a fellow officer. He had committed suicide a week before. At his funeral, I saw the look of hurt and dismay in the faces of his family and friends. I could not cause the same harm to my family. I cried out to God, “I have prayed for you to make me what I am supposed to be!” I realized I kept praying for what I wanted. I gave up and gave in. “Do what you will with me, Lord, but I can’t do it alone. I need your help.”

Within a day or so, my employer sent out a message about confidential mental health treatment. Stress, anger, and depression were my companions. I made the call. After two sessions, my therapist recommended long-term therapy. Ouch, that hurt. I went to a therapist for long-term treatment. She helped me come to terms with the fact that I may be a “cross-dresser.” She recommended a support group, the Gender Identity Center of Colorado (GIC). I went to the GIC and found other people who had the same feelings. I still felt like a freak, but at least I had a support group. In February 2003, I attended the Goldrush Conference, sponsored by the GIC, bringing together the transgender world for a few days. Speakers and workshops dealt with a wide variety of topics, such as make-up, clothes, surgeries, therapy, and how to walk and talk like a man or a woman. I started the conference trying to come to terms with the fact I may be a cross-dresser. I happened to sit in on a workshop that dealt with transsexuals; nothing that I though concerned me directly, but there weren’t any other workshops of interest during that hour. As I sat there and listened to the stories of those around me, I realized they were telling my story. The shame, embarrassment, and feelings they described were mine.

During that workshop, I had a “moment of clarity.” I first heard that term described in the AA Big Book. It is a moment when the alcoholic comes to terms with life. This “moment of clarity” is the inspiration to change. My moment happened when I realized and accepted who I am. I am a woman. A tremendous weight was lifted off my shoulders. Serenity replaced the pain and heartache I had kept inside. I felt something I had never felt before, inner peace. When I left the conference, I was walking on air. I called a cousin, Kelli. Kelli and I grew up together. She was one of the first people I told about my cross-dressing. I was ecstatic on the phone. She told me to slow down and think about what I was telling her. She was supportive, yet made me realize not everyone would be as happy about my decision. Oh,my! What would Mom say? Dad? My sisters? Work! I needed a plan. I told my therapist who referred me to another therapist, who specialized in Gender Identity Disorder. Ouch, I had a disorder. Oh, well. My new therapist seemed very nice, but she questioned everything I said. After a couple months, she formally diagnosed me as having Gender Identity Disorder. She wrote a letter recommending me for hormone replacement therapy. She referred me to a medical doctor and on July 8, 2003, I started hormone replacement therapy. Phase One of the plan was completed. I had a psychological evaluation and had a disorder. I was under the care of a medical doctor. Time for Phase Two: telling my family. Luckily, I had developed a network of friends at the GIC and church.

Oh, haven’t I mentioned St. Paul yet? At the GIC conference, I met René. She was also in law enforcement and already in transition. We had a lot in common and talked almost every day. She asked me to go to church with her – a Lutheran church! Mom would have a fit if she found out I went to a protestant church. She would have a fit if she knew I wore a dress every weekend. Such is life. I went to St. Paul Lutheran Church in downtown Denver. As a part ofmy therapy, I decided to dress as a woman during the evenings and on weekends. I was very careful only to go out where I would be safe and usually with friends. I had become fairly good with make-up and clothes. Some good role models and teachers seemed to appear in my life. When I walked into St. Paul, I was terrified. I was sure people were staring at the “man in a dress.” René sat next to me and held my hand. Once the service started, I felt right at home. The organ music was beautiful. The choir was filled with the voices of angels. The Pastor preached love, acceptance and compassion. It was as if he knew exactly what I needed to hear. After the service, people came up to me and introduced themselves. Everyone asked me where I was from and if I liked the service. They all asked me to come back. Thank you, Jesus! I was home. I attended St.Paul Lutheran Church regularly for several months before I went to catechism classes. I joined St. Paul in April 2004 because of the people who embraced me as an individual, not as a transgender woman. The people who didn’t really understand what I was going through were willing to listen to my story, learn and accept. I truly learned what it means to be accepted and, in turn, learned to accept others. I learned how to pray, not for myself, but for the courage and patience to help others. I went to St. Paul to celebrate my faith, to celebrate my life.

St. Paul was a sanctuary during the implementation of my plan to transition from a man to a woman. Most transitioning transsexuals lose their jobs and their families. I knew I was taking a tremendous risk, but the alternatives were not acceptable. I would not live as I had before. I would not take my own life. I pressed on. I told my sisters first. They seemed to take it well. At first, that is. Mom also took it well at first. The meltdown came a day later. Dad took it the best. My family was concerned for my safety and wellbeing. Mom was afraid I would end up alone in the world. To be honest, I had the same fear. For the first six months after telling my immediate family, I chose not to see them while wearing women’s clothing. They needed some time to process the concept of Michael becoming Nicole. I provided some literature to my family. One of my sisters talked at length with my therapist to make sure I wasn’t seeing a quack. After six months, I began to show up at Mom and Dad’s house wearing more feminine clothing, then some make-up. Mom’s face went white the first time I showed up in a dress, hose and heels. After that, she started buying me blouses and jewelry. It took time, patience and understanding, but my family stuck with me.They all lived through their own transition.

I was relieved by the reaction I received at work. I was very careful about my appearance, but my longer hair and nails started attracting attention. I initially came out to an officer with whom I had a close professional and personal relationship. She was so understanding and supportive. With her help, I told a few more officers, then my immediate supervisor. My immediate supervisor was wonderful. He listened, asked questions and helped me go to the next level. A couple meetings down the road, I was invited to attend a department-wide supervisors’ meeting. There were 45 high-level administrators from the entire department. The Director gave me her full support, directing all her subordinates to contact her directly if there was any dissention in the ranks. She is definitely a gift from God. I transferred from the streets to a desk position for the transition. In my new office,everyone was cordial. My new co-workers gave me the time to grow and blossom. There were a few who had a difficult time accepting what I was doing, but it wasn’t long before everyone in the office was a friend and supporter. I had to sell my house to help pay for surgery. I had gender reassignment surgery in Trinidad, Colorado on November 11, 2005. My birth certificate was amended to reflect my name, Nicole Michelle García, and my sex, female. Recently, I transferred back to the streets. It was a tearful day when I left the office where I transitioned. My co-workers had become wonderful friends.

Dad passed away two years ago. He made sure everyone knew that he embraced me as his child. He loved me for being me. I have since moved in with Mom. Yes,it is true: we all become our mothers. I am no different. Mom and I shop together. We visit family together. She may get a pronoun wrong every once in a while, but in her heart, I am her baby, no matter what. I have truly blossomed at St. Paul Lutheran Church. I am now the convener ofthe RIC committee. Some Sundays I am a Eucharistic minister, usher, sacristan or, once in a while, I can just sit in the pews. At St. Paul, I listen to the Word and celebrate my faith. I gather with my friends and break bread. The day I “gave up and gave in” was the day my life was guided onto the path of peace, love, and joy.

Matthew 9:27-31

²⁷As Jesus went on from there, two blind men followed him, crying loudly, “Have mercy on us, Son of David!” ²⁸When he entered the house, the blind men came to him; and Jesus said to them, “Do you believe that I am able to do this?” They said to him, “Yes, Lord.” ²⁹Then he touched their eyes and said, “According to your faith let it be done to you.” ³⁰And their eyes were opened. Then Jesus sternly ordered them, “See that no one knows of this.” ³¹But they went away and spread the news about him throughout that district.

Is Jesus being serious in this passage?  I mean, really serious? He has just healed two men of the blindness that has afflicted them no doubt all of their lives, and he gives them an order that is impossible for the men to keep.

By this point in the gospel of Matthew, we are rather familiar with the miraculous power of Jesus, and we’re only to chapter nine.   We have already seen his ability to calm storms, cleanse lepers, and raise children from the dead.  No doubt it was this miraculous power that led these two men with blindness to seek Jesus out for healing?

We should not be surprised by the healing work of Jesus in the story.  What should bring alarm instead is the request Jesus makes of these two men: to stay silent.

In the passage the two men cry out for mercy from Jesus and follow him into the house.  While there, Jesus touches their eyes telling them, “According to your faith let it be done to you.”

And it is done to them.  The men’s eyes are opened and they see their healer’s face.  And then Jesus makes his ridiculous request.  “See that no one knows of this.”  This is not a simple request. It is an order, a “stern order” according to the author, a pronouncement by the very one who has the power to heal them and did.  And with that, the men leave.

And do exactly what I assume any person would do, they disobey the order and speak of the miracle.

This is why I can’t believe that Jesus is being serious.  How is he to expect that two men blind of sight and outcasts in their community because of it would keep silent about the most miraculous thing that had ever happened in their lives?  Blindness in first century Palestine almost always meant living in a world of isolation and oppression.  Not only did the blind face poverty because of the inability to produce an income but also religious isolation because of the connection between sickness and sin in the world of ancient Judaism. In this healing, Jesus does more than just give the men physical sight, he brings them out of the oppression they faced being blind men in their community and into a new relationship with those around them.  And what is Jesus’ request of them?  Not to scream and shout, not to bring the news to their families, not to stand in the market square and profess to the people the healing power of the Lord and Savior.  It is silence.  That is his order.  And it is an order that cannot be met.

Though many New Testament scholars argue this story is about the message that true discipleship is following the teachings of Christ, I cannot help but see another aspect of discipleship in this passage.  I believe that more than anything this story is about witness.  It is a story about what these men witnessed in their encounter with Jesus and how this act changed their lives.   You see, this act of healing was not great simply because of its greatness.  It was great because of its life changing power.  The men didn’t simply observe a great act they were transformed by it.  They were able to literally “see” the world in a whole new way. And they knew they had to share this with those around them.

In this season of lent, I think we are presented with an amazing opportunity when it comes to the life changing events that we experience.  Lent is of course a time of reflection and meditation, of looking inward so that we can soon act outward.  It is our time to contemplate what Christine Smith, calls “radicalizing moments.”  These are events in our lives that completely alter the way we view the world and our place in it.  Just like the men in the story who were blessed with a new way of seeing, we are often witness to events in our lives that change how we encounter it.

For me, nowhere have there been more radicalizing moments than in my work with lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender peoples of faith.  The lives of these faithful children of God, with their stories of struggle, marginalization, redemption and hope, are a constant witness to the promise of the gospels that all our diversity is part of the reconciliation of Christ.  That our whole lives are a creation of God and to be celebrated in a community of inclusion and acceptance.

The radical love and acceptance of my queer/straight alliance when I came out in college to rejection by my family, the testimony of faith and authenticity of my trans friends that changed my view of sex and gender forever, the daily actions of those working for LGBT equality around the world even in the face of violence and hate that threatens to take their very lives.  These are the stories that give me hope; that inspire me to love.  These are the moments of radicalization that have completely transformed how I live my life and encounter the lives of others.

And like the men with blindness in the story, I cannot keep silent.  I must speak of what I have seen and heard in my life.  I must tell the world what I know to be true about the lives of LGBT people.  Of how they stand in the midst of oppression and hopelessness, when the world tells them they are not equal nor worthy, that they are sick and sinful in the eyes of God, and demonstrate the miraculous power of the human spirit and the life changing love of Jesus.

So why does Jesus ask for silence?  Is it true that he wanted the men to keep quiet about this life changing occasion?  Perhaps he did, that’s what many scholars say.  But if I could add my own interpretation, I think this request is not simply for silence, but for contemplation.  Jesus is asking them to dwell on this miracle that has just happened, this radicalizing moment in their lives.  He must have known that they would speak of the miracle eventually, but before they did any speaking, he wanted them to reflect.  Reflect on the awe-inspiring act that had just occurred.  Allow for the truth of this moment to sink in so that when they spoke of the story, they would do so with authenticity and forethought.  So that they would not simply scream their news from the market square, but know that the news they are about to share has power, radical power, and that it has the potential to change the lives of others, just like it did for the two men.

So as we sit in contemplation for this Lenten season, may we also understand the power of these radicalizing moments in our lives.  Knowing full well that when we speak of them we may very well change the lives of those who hear, because we are fully aware of how these moments changed our own.

It was a cave with a stone up against it. Jesus said, “Take the stone away.” Martha, the dead man’s sister, said to Jesus, “Leader, think about the smell – the body’s been there four days!” Jesus said, “Didn’t I tell you that if you trusted, you’d see what God can do?” So they took the stone away. Jesus looked up and said, “Loving God, thank you for listening to me. I know you always do, but I want these people to know, so they will accept me as the one you’ve sent.” Jesus’ voice sounded like a dog howling in distress as he shouted, “Larry, come on out!” Larry came out, with his hands and feet still tied by the grave clothes and a cloth over his face. Jesus said to them, “Untie him so he can move.”

-from John 11 Good As New—A Radical Retelling of the New Testament by John Henson (used with author’s permission)

The Gospel stories of people liberated from their graves move me deeply—not only Jesus’ triumphant escape from his own tomb three days after he was executed, but also the time when he rescued his friend Lazarus from death and the tomb. Then there is the story of the man who lived among the tombs—no chains could bind him—until Jesus emancipated him from the multiple oppressions that plagued him. Finally freed from the forces that bound and tormented him, the man stood before Jesus, clothed and in his right mind.

Growing up as a guy who felt attracted to guys and who was always a bit of a sissy, I moved in and out of public school, Christian college, the Roman Catholic and then the Evangelical church, and the mission field, but I understood that these worlds did not fully welcome me. My admittance and subsequent service in these came with conditions—namely I had to straighten myself out. I needed to be a heterosexual, masculine (gender-normative) man. In essence, I had to strap myself into a Straight Jacket. Not that there is anything wrong with straight folks; it’s just that I wasn’t one and did every thing in my power (and God’s power) to change all that.

Going through ex-gay treatments designed to “de-gay” me and butch me up, felt very much like a tortuous slow death. I felt plagued with a heap of troubles. I also suffered from the many efforts to keep my queer self bound and gagged—the hundreds of trips to the altar to rededicate my life to the Lord, the counseling sessions with pastors, the ex-gay football clinics, the 12-steps, the violent and terrifying treatments that included exorcism and the two years in residential straight camp—and the list goes on and on. The subjugation and eradication of all things queer in me not only proved futile, it also proved destructive. The “cure” ultimately harmed me, and I ended up injuring myself. Similar to the man overwhelmed by a “Legion of Demons” Jesus encounters on the lakeshore (Mark 5), I felt plagued by myriad problems.

He lived among the graves because no one could control him, not even with chains. On previous occasions when he had been chained hand and foot, he tore the chains apart and broke the shackles on his feet, and no one was strong enough to hold him down. He spent the day and night shouting and cutting himself with stones.

From Mark 5 Good As New version.

People who are different, or who are perceived as different, often pose a threat to the keepers of the norms. In order to contain this threat, some Christian institutions provide all sorts of punishments for those who deviate from the straight and narrow path while offering loads of incentives for those who diligently tread the party line. How many non-straight, non-gender normative folks have gotten passed over for a ministry position or removed from one? How many perks and affirmations have folks gotten once they announced they would straighten themselves out for Jesus?

In order to access the power and the privileges handed out to the “normal” people (most of whom who also feel they fall short,) many of us felt the demands to alter ourselves—suppress and change our orientation and gender differences. Some like me coveted our straight neighbor’s life. Many of us believed that we would be more valuable to God and others if we were just “normal.” Many of us developed self-hatred and literally went to war against our own gender differences or non-straight orientation. We put on chains and shackles. We stuffed whole parts of ourselves into tomb-like closets hoping that at last we could be free from the problems that just kept getting in the way.  Yet time and time again another part of us clawed for life, broke the chains, raised questions that made us and others feel queasy.

Believing we were in a cosmic struggle against evil, we felt dismayed that no matter how much we beat them back, our orientation and gender differences continued to rise up from the grave much like soul-sucking zombies. Little did we understand that it was the closet, the refusal to be honest about ourselves to ourselves and others, that numbed us and caused psychological, emotional, spiritual and at times even physical damage.

Does this sound familiar to some folks? It is not only a queer experience. Many different types of people have felt coerced and compelled to live a less than honest life in order to advance economically, socially or to just feel good about themselves. Perhaps the queer closeted experience is the most obvious model of this, an archetype for all sorts of repression that denies reality. Life in the closet, an inauthentic life with the aim to ignore, tie up, hide or annihilate a natural and healthy part of the self is akin to living in a stinking, dusty, light-proof tomb with a big ole stone blocking the exit.

But stones can and have been rolled away! Jesus called his friend Lazarus (Larry in John Henson’s brilliant translation) out of the smelly, rotting, decaying tomb, and somehow Lazarus heard the voice of Jesus, came back to life and came OUT. What an odd and eerie moment for the Jewish-raised disciples, who according to their Law, could not touch a corpse without becoming unclean by it. A dead body is one thing, but what about the living dead?!?

Lazarus comes out, but he is not yet FREE. He’s still wrapped up in all of the grave clothes. Traditionally Jewish corpses in First Century in and near Jerusalem got placed in tombs wearing burial clothes. Family or friends took a shroud about twice the length of the body, placed the corpse on one end and folded the other end over long-wise. Then they took strips of linen or other fabric and wrapped the body round and round, and they covered the face with a face cloth. As Lazarus emerged four days after his entombment, he must have looked freakish all bound up in his grave clothes like a mummy. His feet wrapped tight, he most likely had to hop out of the tomb, (for a visual think dirty zombie Easter Bunny without the cute floppy ears.)

I cannot imagine what the disciples, Lazarus’ sisters and the crowd must be thinking at that moment. Possibly, “Be careful what you wish for, you might just get it.” Then Jesus breaks the stunned silence and instructs them, “Untie him so he can move.” This is the part that always gets me. It was not enough for Lazarus to come back to life and exit the tomb, he needs the assistance of his friends to unwrap him. Oh and what courage those most likely terrified disciples display as they unwrap him not at all certain of what sort of creepy gift Jesus brings them direct from the grave. Under all those grave clothes they find their friend, perhaps a bit shaken and dazed, but the one they love, the one that Jesus loves. A bit dazed himself, Lazarus needs something to eat and so much more as he processes his death, decay and then resurrection.

Emerging from the closet for me was like Lazarus coming out the tomb. I was out, but I was not FREE. I still had those putrid grave clothes of fear, misinformation, homophobia, misogyny, shame and self-loathing all around me like a boa constrictor, choking the life out of me. I needed friends to come alongside of me to unwrap and untangle that mess for me and with me. I needed tender and courageous touch. I needed truth to replace the many lies I had embraced and fed on for decades. I needed people to be okay with me being a mess for awhile in regards to my faith. I needed people to love me back to life.

In my play Doin’ Time in the Homo No Mo Halfway House, I tell the story of Lazarus’ liberation through the words of Pastor Meadow, who with humor and insight gets to the heart of the matter—we need each other to be fully ourselves. Then after sharing some of my personal coming out experiences, I end the play with the following poem about Lazarus. In the poem I also allude to the story of the man in Mark 5 who found freedom after years of isolation, rejection, violence and chains.

Grave Robbers

Lazarus came forth, gleaming white,
A pillar wrapped tight outside his tomb.
Jesus looked at us, “Take off the grave clothes,
And let him go.”

Panic twisted my gut like a wet washrag
Wringing out courage.

Who knows how to undress a mummy raised from the dead?
Does one start at the heart or close to the head?
We circled him as if he were a bomb to diffuse.
Then we began in earnest,
Unbinding, tearing, speaking comfort as we went.
The crowd pressed in hurling advice like stones.

Lazarus stood like marble, cold from his grave,
While we sweated in the cruel sun,
Unwrapping his trappings.
But suddenly, (or did it take years?)
It was complete.
Mary and Martha washed their brother in tears:

He was free—naked and in his right mind.