Inspired by the Wesleys, in a big blue journal I wrote out accountability questions each night. My perfectionism caught every flaw. I felt I had so much to make up for in life, because I believed I was inherently broken due to my gay feelings.
Alongside all of this, I was getting a steady stream of invitations to play and sing at churches and youth events, and the numbers attending were larger and larger. Other churches had started using my songs in their services too. “Hundreds of young people your age are looking up to you now—make sure you give them a great example to follow,” I was told by well-meaning people. It was exciting to see my music reaching bigger audiences, but responsibility weighed heavy on my shoulders, as did fear and shame.
I wanted to be a Christian musician and a worship leader. I wanted to set a great example and make those around me proud. I wanted to serve God and use the musical gifts he’d entrusted me with. It was terrifying to think of letting everyone down. If my church music career was to grow, I’d need to keep a perfect moral track record. The pressure was on.
On top of this, major change was ahead. High school was nearing its end, and in a year or so I’d be heading to university. Church leaders had warned me that many eighteen-year-olds had gone to university and lost their faith, which alarmed me. I had no idea what sort of ideas or people I would encounter in this future chapter of my life. I’d be away from my family, my church, my youth group; it would be a whole new start—which excited and scared me in equal measure.
September sunshine bathed the sandy-brown Oxford buildings in a magical light. The stones seemed to glow, illuminated with golden warmth. Oxford is one of the oldest universities in the world, with its foundations dating back to 1096. That rich history seemed etched on every cobblestoned pathway, leaded window, and lofty spire.
My parents and I had packed our car to the hilt and made the three-hour drive from Canterbury to deliver me to my new student dormitory. I never imagined I’d attend such a well-respected university. My perfectionist tendencies had helped me study intensely for my exams and, somehow managing to get good grades, I’d secured a place. Still passionate about my faith, I’d decided my degree would be in theology (religious studies).
I was grateful that all UK universities charged the same fees, regardless of how prestigiously they ranked. I knew that in some countries, like the US, education at an Ivy League–like institution cost vastly more than at others. My family was not wealthy, so there was no way I could’ve afforded that. Thankfully, UK universities charged one standardized fee at that time, and which university you attended depended solely on your grades.
The initial semester was intense as we knuckled down to produce four-thousand-word essays every week. But there were lighter aspects of life too. I loved the traditions, quirks, and pageantry of the university. One of these was called matriculation, the official induction ceremony.
We had to buy specific clothing known as “subfusc,” from the Latin subfuscus, meaning “of dark, brown, or sober hue and color.” Shepherd & Woodward, a shop on High Street that had been selling academic gowns and robes to Oxford students for more than 150 years, was the go-to place.
As I look back now, it feels like when Harry Potter went shopping for school supplies in Diagon Alley. We needed a “gown made of black material with the style of a turned-over collar.” It could not have sleeves, but had to have “a streamer on each side with square pleating and hanging to the full length of the gown, which covers the normal lounge coat.” It was basically a black sleeveless cape with two long, trailing tails of material that streamed behind us when we walked.
Once all the Hogwarts-style clothing was taken care of, the rest was simpler. The matriculation ceremony was held in the Sheldonian Theatre, a circular building dating back to 1664. The round stone walls and domed roof looked stunning enough from outside, but walking in, we were treated to an even more amazing view. Cricking my neck to stare upward, I gazed at the exquisite ceiling fresco that depicts a wide-open sky, giving the sense that there is no roof at all.
Once we’d been matriculated, life mostly took place in our colleges. Oxford University is made up of thirty-eight individual colleges that function as halls of residence where students spend most of their time. Undergraduates had to choose which college they wanted to live in when they applied to Oxford, and I’d found that choice a simple one. A creature of habit, when I’d heard there was an evangelical college called Wycliffe Hall, I’d applied there. It struck me as perfect: I could live with fellow evangelicals and also be an undergraduate at Oxford.
Wycliffe had no bar—very unusual for an Oxford college, as most undergraduates spent their evenings chatting over pints of beer. To me this felt safe and familiar, and made leaving home feel less scary, as I was entering a culture very similar to the one I already knew back home.
Wycliffe Hall’s primary role was to train priests for the Church of England, putting them through Oxford theology classes. Wycliffe had never accepted eighteen-year-old undergraduates until the year I applied. Three boys also sent applications, so there were four of us straight out of high school. The vast majority of Wycliffe students were thirty or forty and training for a life in the priesthood.
My student days would be vastly different from those of the average Oxford undergraduate. Rather than broadening my worldview, my years there would reinforce everything I already believed. Some students and tutors at Wycliffe Hall believed women shouldn’t be allowed to preach or enter the priesthood, and on the issue of homosexuality the college was staunchly traditional. But back in 1997, when I walked through the college doors for the first time, those evangelical values were comfortingly familiar to me, and I fitted in quickly.
Most people at Wycliffe were friendly and well-balanced, and it was clear the college was producing good priests who would serve in churches around the world. But even during my first year, as a rather naive eighteen-year-old, I was taken aback by the ways some people weren’t practicing what they preached when it came to sexual morality.
A priest from overseas sat next to me at dinner one evening during my first year. To my shock, he sexually assaulted me under the table.
Because we were sitting on long wooden benches in the dining hall, packed tightly next to one another, there was no chance for me to move away. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he’d asked me quietly, as his wandering hands found their way up my legs. My face turned deep red, and I felt a mixture of shame, anger, and panic.
When this happened, I had no idea who on earth to tell. I wasn’t brave enough to talk to the college staff, fearful that I wouldn’t be believed. Days later, the same man pinned a female student against a wall, pressing himself against her and trying to kiss her. Soon afterward he was sent home. I heard of several incidents like this, involving trainee male priests, happening to others during my three years of study, and it left me shell-shocked.
Within the college, lots of unmarried seminary students were having sex, and a handful of married students were having affairs with other students. The shiny façade of evangelical morality seemed to be crumbling in front of my eyes. This was not what I’d expected to see at an evangelical college.
Going to university hadn’t made any difference to my sexual orientation; I knew that I was still gay, and I still believed it was sinful and wrong. It felt increasingly strange, though, trying so hard to perfectly uphold Christian moral standards when those around me didn’t seem to.
The more aware I became of seminarians having affairs and premarital sex, the angrier I felt toward the college and the wider evangelical world it represented. It was a part of the church that stood on moral high ground, condemning gay relationships as sinful, yet I was seeing with my own eyes that it was failing to live up to its own standards.
During my time at Wycliffe Hall, two male priests in