Khristofer Johnsen

---

What to expect

I would be selfishly unaware if I decided to write this without considering so many things; my budding counselor identity as a future therapist, the impact this disclosure might have on future clients, academic institutions as a graduate student, and the LGBTQIA+ community and the much wider global community; who has and continues to be harmed by doctrine and dogma. I am attuned that this writing might be difficult for some and it might cause tension — among other things. I will, though, do my best to share while being consciousness of how my readers might feel.

While I will convey this carefully — I too have my lived experience that I’d like to share with others. A path from the pews of my childhood church to atheism, and then to a radical liberationist. One that deconstructs racism, patriarchal dogma, and the violence of homophobia and transphobia—not to reject God, but to reclaim love as an inherently abundant, unshakable source. A love that doesn’t demand conformity but invites us all into the fullness of our humanity. I share this not to persuade, but to walk alongside you as we ask: What does it mean to believe in a love that refuses to abandon us—even when the church does?

The holler

What a little boy I was at vacation bible school in the summer. The catchy and sometimes corny themes, goody bags with pencils and notebooks, joy, laughter and bible studies– I loved it.

It seems as though we learned all the best stories in the Bible as kiddos (which was I’m sure just as intentional as the control might have been).

I only have very fond memories of vacation bible school at a missionary baptist church from the ages of five to eight years old.

It wasn’t until I transitioned to middle school that all kinds of questioning arose. A lot goes on for us at this time — incredible human growth and development is occurring. Everything from puberty, dating, sex, identity, and more. It’s often so turbulent.

It was here that I began learning about a very different God. It seemed as though the cliche of “its not all sunshine and roses” showed up. Without a warning my body began to seize up. From what once felt joyous, was now telling me how unsafe I was.

Hell, fire and brimstone were focal points. Repent, obedience, and sacrifice. A world of rules at every corner. Puddles of sin pooled in the chapel pews like the blood of Jesus Christ. I felt like I was drowning in overwhelm.

It was at this time I came out as gay to my friends and church members. It was the following Sunday, that I then sat through a service dedicated to the belief that I was an abomination. It so happened that only men could be gay. No mention of women (and at this time trans people weren’t as deliberately targeted as they are now by christian nationalist) — just men and boys — particularly the one near the back of the church holding all that pain inside as he listened to a heinous messages of hate, violence, discrimination, oppression and marginalization.

While the Old Testament and King James Version can be dark — it was more than just the difficult stories, complexity of translations and historical power woven through the binding of the Bible.

Instead of having dialogue around these more difficult stories it became a weaponized tool for power, fear and control. They had been used in this way for centuries, but it wasn’t until I was sitting in that chapel, tucked deep in the valley of the Appalachian mountains did I find myself incongruent with who I believed God was. I did not believe God felt this way about me — I was created perfect and in his image.

Fear is very real and in someways gives us just a bit of stress to help us grow. Like being late for work or a pressing deadline. This though, was a destructive type of fear. A fear that, I believe, even those who spoke of it within the church didn’t fully grasp. While the Bible contains at times stories that we still grapple with today, I don’t believe they are meant to be shackles of fear and oppression.

Exploration

Here, now I was an atheist and I stopped going to church. Instead, I started climbing the ridges, wandering through the forests, and crawling through caves. During college I held so much grief, pain and resentment for the church or anyone who identified as a Christian.

While I was in college I still carried with me a spirit of curiosity. I felt something but I didn’t understand at the time what this ‘something’ was. I then started exploring buddhism, mindfulness and meditation. Began practicing yoga more spiritually and read “Life’s Meandering Path” and “How to Catch A Snake” by Karma Yeshe Rabgye. I even read parts of the diamond and lotus sutras. During this period of spiritual exploration I then had more worldly and meaningful moments that led me closer to the felt relationship of God again. I even spent a few years engaging and reading into paganism, Wicca, mysticism, astrology, and new age realms of my spirituality.

During this time a colleague of mine recommended a book to me, “The Reason For God” by Timothy Keller. This became a pivotal moment for me in my journey. I then became curious about the church again but had a mountain of pain and trauma to explore in therapy.

I began attending a Catholic Church in 2022. It was here that my growth for christianity started finding the burnt and fringe edges and binding those together again. I even began “converting” to Catholicism through RCIA. Catholicism truly connected a beauty in sacraments, mystery and ritual for me. I found mass deeply meditative and sacred.

While I spent two years in the Catholic Church, I had moments of questions with answers that didn’t sit well with me. Particularly around women, homosexuality and power. I found those threads woven into the fabric again. The inner child was signaling an internal wisdom and warning of an unsafe space again. It was within my last week in the program, directly before being confirmed catholic that I decided to listen to that little boy that often went unheard (even by me)– he was telling me to leave — so I did.

Integrating

I remember driving through Austin, Texas that very same day and an Episcopal Church stood out to me. I continued following that voice. It eventually led me to my previous therapist’s background which happened to be in seminary education, it led to me St. David’s Episcopal Church and so soon after to the Seminary of The Southwest, where I am now a deeply grateful graduate student.

It would be here that the voice finally said “shhh” listen to God now — you don’t have to fear — he loves you.

I began surrounding myself with people who would join me, right where I was. I was questioning, confused, angry, optimistic, and lost. They embodied the very God I believed in as a little boy. One full of perpetual love. The little farm boy who carried the joyous vacation bible school spirit was excited again. He jumped up and down ready to learn.

Here, I am surrounded in gracious love—held by enough tension to spark reflection, enough challenge to fuel action, and enough grace to keep me moving forward.

They join me on the fringes of society — right where the oppressed, marginalized and outcasted are.

Where does this religious trauma, spiritual exploration and identity formation co-exist? Over the last two years I’ve been integrating the answers to those questions.

Particularly, I am in a season of infusing my root work. While I’ve often been an observer of what’s happened to me through the changes of the seasons; I’m now engaging with the pain and suffering that little Khristofer felt and experienced. Remembering and experiencing the ancient grief and power of the indigenous people stored in The Great Smoky Mountains. I walked across their sacred land throughout my entire developmental life. It is without a doubt one of the greatest powers that held my feet firm as an earth sign — an internal knowing that racism, homophobia, transphobia, and systems of oppression were wrong — before I was taught they were — and before I unlearned everything I had learned (or so they tried to make me learn).

My roots expand down those ridges — created by such great force and tectonic plate movement. Nourished and respected by the Native American Indians/Indigenous people and Cherokee Tribes. The sounds of their suffering can be heard through the howling of the coyotes and their grief vibrates through the thunder of the storms and up through my body as I stood in the rain as a little boy on the top of those ridges. Feeling closer to God on the top of those peaks than the church had brought me at the time. I watched, not in fear, but with awe that something so powerful was safe and would instill a resilience that was collective and that I could carry with me into a world rampant with heinous acts of mass genocide, racial and ethnic cleansing, oppression and marginalization.

This suffering has been joined by music, song, dance, prayer, service and a beloved community. I have found myself following those roots down to Mother Earth. Taking in the elements that are given to us just because we are human — it is inherent — essential.

The breath of life has come to me again. I can feel it through the wind of the earth, allowing my body to be embraced by water, and the prickliness of my bare-feet walking across the earth. Through the stars and moon phases I pay attention to the timing. Through prayer I listen for patterns and tune in to my body. Through scripture I question, challenge, and intellectualize. Through music I allow the vibrations of my heart and soul to speak up — silence = death.

I’m spending time gathering my people and with me are all those who came before me. And so, I walk this path—not alone, but with the hands of my ancestors in mine and the future generations just ahead. Every step is a prayer, every breath a song, every moment a reminder that love, in all its forms, is the rhythm that holds us. The earth sings, the stars whisper, and I? I dance in the middle of it all—alive, unapologetic, and free.

This is how I came home: not by retracing my steps, but by planting new ones. From the pews of my childhood to atheism, and now to this radical queer faith—one that breathes in the earth’s wind, dances in the rain, and refuses to let silence have the last word. I am still the little boy who rejected the idea that God thought I was an abomination — or any lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, asexual, aromatic, agender + person.

I am the man who found God in the dirt beneath my feet, in the hands of my people, and in the songs that rise from my soul. The divine didn’t abandon me. I had to deconstruct to reconstruct—and what I rebuilt was a faith that loves without borders, questions without fear, and lives without apology.