Facing the Music (27 page)

No. I've had enough silence. I had somehow found the courage to sing again, and I wasn't about to be silenced about the joy of discovering love. I was grateful that I had a partner who loved me and supported me. Bemused that faith had kept me remarkably intact, I was humbled that I had a place in this world to sing. I had traveled thousands of miles in silence and had adventures aching to be spoken of. I consider it a blessing to have come so far and be healthy and fit enough to have the energy to share it.

Listening to the others at places like Highlands Church tell of how they had traveled helped me realize that if I was willing to share my story, doing so might help another person take hold of their own story. For me, it was a turning point. It took a good long while to work up the courage, to get over my own hurt and
disappointment at being so poorly treated by Christians, but I was ready. I made the decision to take the risk. The next time a Christian, or anyone else for that matter, asked me what it was like to have the experience I was having, I would choose to engage rather than to walk away. The days of being silent were over.

twenty-five

W
hen I walked off the stage in 2002, leaving CCM and public life for what I truly believed was forever, I thought that I really could leave everything behind me: every memory—the music, guitars, religion, good times and bad—all of it. If I could have erased my own mental hard drive, I would have. Instead, all I could hope for was to be forgotten in the public mind.

“Burn it all!” I thought. I didn't want to be reminded of any of it. I tried to ignore my own memories of my public life, but the one thing I couldn't avoid was my name. It got to the point at which I hated seeing my name in print, and even loathed having to write it down.

For a while, I grew obsessed with the idea of changing my name, convinced that I had corrupted the one my mother had given me. It had become the symbol of a life I needed to leave behind. I was angry and embarrassed every time I saw it or heard it. Even after I left public life, I feared its use. Too many times I sat trembling in places like doctors' offices, dreading the moment when my name would be called aloud among a room of strangers only to be found out as
that
Jennifer Knapp. I longed for the day when writing my name on a blood sample was just a sign of ownership and not a chance to be mistaken for an autograph.

How I hated my name.

The words
Jennifer Knapp
took on a life of their own. She had come to be a person, apart from the
me
I saw myself to be, and yet had attached herself so tightly that there was no telling where she ended and I began. Those two words, that name that had once been mine, came to stand for something or someone I didn't recognize. Their association to me left me feeling embarrassed, angry, and humiliated. Saying my name in public now had consequences.

I felt like a prize idiot. I regretted that I had ever used my own name to be a Christian rock star.

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn'
t I make up a stage name?

The remorse started in wishing that I had drawn a more definitive line between my private and public life, then slowly added momentum, death-spiraling into darker thoughts that I had used and brought shame to my entire family by having used my name.

This psychosis was all part of the mental haze back when I was making the exodus from CCM. I needed fame to stop immediately so I could have some quiet, alone time and figure out my life in private, yet I couldn't see myself as capable of escaping anywhere without having to use the actual name I was running from.

I spent time piecing together the prospective aliases for my new life. I picked out new first names and other family names from both my and my partner's families. I practiced writing them down. I even rehearsed introducing my newly named self in a mirror to see if the name fit as I imagined. I tried on dozens of new names, but they were all just cumbersome masks, layered on top of a person whom I couldn't rename or outrun.

When I really sat down and thought about it, I just couldn't do it. This was my name. This was the name my mother gave me.

When I imagined going to my mother and asking her to call me by some other first name, the whole idea seemed silly and even a little offensive. She loved me and was proud of me. How could I tell her I was ashamed of the person that she had always known? What kind of person was I anyway, to take what she had given me, ruin it, and then think that by simply renaming the package, I could change her impression of the contents within?

Then, all of a sudden, I realized, this wasn't just a name game. It took working through the ridiculous fantasy, but there it was, a truth that I could not escape. I had to live with the life I had. No change of name could change what ailed me.

The name was just the reminder of a life of which I had grown extremely self-conscious.

Obviously, I decided to keep my name, but when I moved to Australia and began meeting new friends, I kept my last name to myself. When asked about how I paid my bills I would grow sweaty and anxious.

It seemed weird to lie about such an innocuous thing, but I wanted to say anything but what became my usual terse reply: “Music.”

It's the kind of response that people always want to know more about.

“Oh, yeah?” their eyes light up and you can see the questions queuing up to form a conversation.

“What do you do? Sing? Write? Play? What instruments do you play?”

“Are you famous? Have I heard of you?”

The last question is one I've always found funny. There's the
old saying that if you have to ask someone if they're famous, then they're probably not. I never really knew how to answer it.

“Eh. Kind of. I guess.” What was I supposed to say? Part of me wanted to be proud of what I had accomplished. I mean, really, how often does that happen? How fantastic was it that, for at least a short while, I had a professional music career. I had a radio hit in Japan for God's sake. I'd never even been to Japan!

“Are you on iTunes? Can I Google you?” and finally, the name question . . .

“What's your full name?”

Once anyone had my full name, that was it. My secret was discovered. The real source of my embarrassment

“What kind of music?”

When I wanted the misery to end I'd just blurt it out and cut to the inevitable chase: “I was a Christian music artist.” It was a confession.

My most favorite response ever was a man who excitedly shouted “Jesus!”
after my admission.

“Yes,” I said sheepishly, “I used to sing songs about Jesus.”

“No, it wasn't a question.” He went on, “I mean, Jesus!”
It was an expletive of surprise. “You've got to be kidding me!” Then, his tone dropped, head cocked, and—
Oh God no, please don't
—
­
piecing it together he asked—
Why do they always ask?
—“So uh, you're a Christian, then?”

It never seemed to matter how I answered that question, because the deck was already stacked. Everyone, and I mean
everyone,
has an opinion about Christians. Even self-identified Christians tend to respond with qualifiers to soften the blow, and I was no exception.

What is amazing is that, to this day, the reactions I get when
I tell people I am a lesbian don't even compare to the reactions of telling people I am a Christian. Honestly, I still find the declaration uncomfortable. Not just for others, but for myself as well. There is just
so
much
baggage.

In my years away from music, there were two major fears that I came to realize were pinning me down.

First were the sincere reservations I had about public life. I grew afraid to play music because, in one way or another, doing so always led me to a place of sharing. Music was dangerous because I told it my secrets and it never kept them. The logic train connected music with public, public with coming out, and coming out having to face the religious fervor of those who saw me as a failure. It was a lot to untangle for what used to be the simple joy of finding personal fulfillment in music, and it was potentially a very risky endeavor to undertake.

I was willing to take the risk, but the whole point was that following music had to, in some way, be fulfilling enough to balance the challenges. I've always loved a good challenge, and I've never minded feeling the burn so long as there's some muscle to gain, but the
what ifs
were killing me.

My second fear was that the risks of answering my calling wouldn't actually balance out. If they didn't, what would I do then? Like any work that is hard, you want to know that more came of it than just calluses and exhaustion. You want to see if you can build something that can make the world a better, safer place.

That I chose to come back wasn't so much that I found a resolution for any of those fears; it was just that I was no longer willing to let those fears rule my life.

For the first, I had the good fortune to know life with music
and life without it. As it turned out, I preferred
with
, so I made the choice to accept the adventure, rather than live out the rest of my life wondering what might have been.

As to any questions of purpose, how was I to know unless I accepted the challenge of the adventure?

Every step back was a tiny, sublime victory. From sitting in my home studio in Australia to mailing off the demo CD. From walking through the Nashville airport for the first time in seven years to closing my eyes in front of a studio microphone. I told the world I was gay and (fortunately, as far as I know) no one died. I even managed to release a record after nearly a nine-year layoff and, thankfully, it didn't die either. (In May 2010,
Letting Go
debuted on the top one-hundred Billboard charts. It was a first for any of my records to appear so high on a mainstream chart.)

It has been a blessing to be able to get back to the music that I love, yet it has also come with the unexpected surprise of ­returning, in a way, to the religious community where I first came into the spotlight. By coming back to music and coming out, I've had the chance to be a part of a movement to end religion-­endorsed discrimination, marginalization, and judgment against LGBT people and their allies. In 2011, thanks to many requests to do so, I began sharing what has been my personal odyssey of reconciling sexuality through the lens of Christianity. I took what was a series of chances to say
yes
to churches and faith leaders who asked me to tell what life was really like coming out as a Christian. Those talks evolved into what I now call
Inside Out Faith
.

I use
Inside Out Faith
events to tell my story, but I hope it doesn't end there. Because for every kid that comes out, for every pastor who stands up, for every friend, mother, and religious de
nomination that tells the true story of love, the more we realize how much we have in common.

Really, it's all about story.
To be oneself requires a vulnerability that needs love, compassion, forgiveness, and empathy to protect. We know that every single person who dares to come out of the closet does so at great risk. We share the truth about ourselves because we want to be known. We want to be known because we long to love and be loved. How is this anything other than the universal cry of the human heart?

When I reopened my guitar cases back in Australia, I had no idea what road would rise up to me. There was nothing to know except that it was my journey to take. All I could do was my part. I could only be honest about my life, live it, and sing through it. If there would be anyone to walk with me as a fellow weary traveler, I'd be lucky and glad to sing them a song. All I could do was offer the gifts that I had, and let the chips fall where they may.

Like Rainer Maria Rilke suggested in his
Letters to a Young Poet
, I confessed the truth: I was not whole without music in my life. Hidden away, I was not altogether myself. I was compelled to play even if no one ever listened again.

“Ask yourself in the most silent hour of the night,” prompts Rilke, “
must
I write?”

My answer, even after Pandora's Box had opened, was still, “I must.”

I must write. I must sing. I must love. I must have faith. All these things insert themselves into being who I am.

They are such little words: “
I am.”
Yet their power is immeasurable and the words that follow are life defining.

The entire world could, would, can, and will forever offer its opinions about how to be the best version of yourself that they
imagine you should be. Yet none of us will ever be able to live any life other than our own. There comes a point where the only real thing, the only choice we really have, is the choice to be responsible for the journey that is our own.

I gave up on my journey once, and I can't imagine doing it again.

acknowledgments

W
ith gratitude and a great measure of love, I wish to thank my dear friends and family who have been so important and encouraging in helping me understand the value of what it means to have a story and to share it. Without your kindness, selflessness, and courage I would never have had the strength, clarity, or patience to take on the writing of this book. Each of you has given so much in time, wisdom, love, hot meals, and a little grog, all in perfect measure. You have helped me shape a story out of what seemed like chaos. So, thank you, for everything.

To My Love, how you center me! I am grateful for you in my life. To my family on all continents for blessing me with a lifetime of endless inspiration and support. For those who make “family” a much wider notion than I could have ever imagined: Laura, Andreas, Ellis, and Nikolas Berlind; Mike Kimbrell; ­Kimble and Chris Bosworth; Ted, Amy, Amber, and Alyssa Gavin; Spike and Lea Mason. Thank you for years of getting me across the line.

Special thanks to Jeff Chu for introducing me to Beth Adams, who would become my intrepid editor. Beth, your upbeat charm and disarming courage got me going, your tough questions helped me suss it all out, and your patience convinced me of the impossible. Thank you.

For every story that is told there are those who inspire it, and for that my deepest appreciation rests with Daneen Akers, Marcy Bain, Keb and Stephanie Barrett, Margaret Becker, Meghann Bowyer, Tristin Burke, Lianna Carrera, Amy Courts, Kevin ­Cuchia, Jason DeShazo, Carol Dunevant, Joey Elwood, Wyatt Espalin, Chris Ford, Megan Gandy, Jessy Grondin, Ginny Guedes, Carter Harkins, Gareth Higgins, Taylor Hill, John Huie, Justin Lee, Laura Rossbert, Mitchell Solarek, Bonnie Taylor, Dana True, Mark Tidd, Nancy VanReece, Derek Webb, Angela Wilson, and the growing list of churches, leaders, and supporters that have fueled what is now Inside Out Faith.

I cannot fail to mention the
Knappsters
(pardon the catchall for the many names I will spend a lifetime trying to remember). You are a loyal fan base who held vigil that someday I could write again. You have shared countless stories, inspired, and cried with and sung with me when I thought no one should or would.

Thank you.

Yours, Jennifer.