‘I’m an aro-ace Christian – both religious and LGBTQ+ spaces need to work on aspec inclusion’

I’m eight years old, grabbing sausage rolls from the buffet at the wedding reception. It’s at a working men’s club, and I couldn’t tell you who the bride or groom are. They went to one of my parents’ former churches at some point.

I sit next to my dad. I tell him about how lovely my wedding dress will be when I’m a grown-up.

I am aromantic asexual. Meaning, for me, I do not feel romantic or sexual attraction. I also grew up Christian. In my community, most engagements happened young, weddings were as cheap as possible, and christenings weren’t long after. The happiness in a congregation when a wedding is announced is palpable.

I am also genderfluid. I wasn’t a tomboy-ish child, femininity suited me. I loved the idea of serving God and having a husband and children, being a married woman. But that’s not my relationship with God.

The first church I went to was boring. I was very good at word searches in Sunday school and liked colouring in. Later, my family moved to another church, a lively place, an hour or so away, and I was baptised there. The homophobic pastor – a real hate-the-sin, love-the-sinner type. Once, he claimed Peppa Pig was sexist to men.

By then, I knew I was not cisgender or heterosexual, and I stepped away from religion, understanding that I could not be a part of that, or any, church for a while.

My relationship with God had become about self-monitoring, looking for sin in myself. My teenage years were very difficult, and I gave myself a break from church, from prayer, from everything. By the time I went to college to study A-level philosophy, I identified as agnostic and I refused to put a label on my gender or sexuality.

I found a lot of my friends, religious or otherwise, were either in committed relationships or wanting to be. I did try to pursue relationships. When I turned 18, I joined a dating site, thinking it was how to find people with whom I clicked. But I soon left it and had a tiny crisis.

It was Christmas and my mum wanted to watch a trashy movie where a woman falls for a guy with a small-town business and an unremarkable face.

I realised I had never felt romantic love in my entire life. My mum told me the classic: “When you feel it, you’ll know. Don’t worry.” All those day watching Don’t Tell The Bride with her, my thoughts about how great my buffet would be, just collapsed.

‘My gender was respected although frequently, and incorrectly, assumed’

Discovering I was aro-ace was a moment of horror for me. Coming to terms with it was a far better experience, but it also felt tiring.

Sometimes you get sick of asking communities to make space for you. I did not feel ready to explain myself but I also felt a real desire to return to church. My relationship with the idea of God was tentative but I really wanted to find somewhere I could explore conversations around religion. Not somewhere to affirm belief, but to feed the soul.

When I started going back to church, it was to a queer church. To see other trans Christians was a joy in itself. My gender became part of furthering my relationship with God, perhaps as prayer.

To be a trans Christian is to glorify Him/Her through your self-expression. In my eyes, my gender and religion are intrinsically linked. Which is why I struggle to discuss my gender in secular words. Feeding the soul is to enrich your whole self. Especially in trans terms, the idea of what that soul is can be something to work through in prayer, at least it is for me.

But even in a queer church, discussions of love and passion still felt very romance-focused, holding the same sort of importance as in many other congregations. My gender was respected although frequently, and incorrectly, assumed.

Christian and queer spaces both need to work on their attitudes towards aspec identities and inclusion. Even more so, where those spaces intersect. Romantic relationships are still treated as default in queer churches, and those on the asexual and aromantic spectrum are faced with confusion.

It’s difficult to say “Christians, do this” because we’ve been telling one another the right and wrong way to love for centuries. What we have always needed is education and discussion on the unique ways love manifests in all of us.

I am a big proponent of the pastor learning from the congregation just as much as the reverse, and of spaces being critical of statements brought up in service.

Non-religious queer spaces need to be open and affirming to aspec individuals, too. It would be so much more welcoming if LGBTQ+ people and spaces could treat queer platonic relationships (or QPRs) with the same respect we would give a queer romantic or sexual relationship.

Many asexual and aromantic folk still face a lot of discrimination, and I hope that in any space, whether LGBTQ+, religious, or both, our allies can support us in advocating for ourselves and making a little more room for our experiences.

Fee is an ambassador for Just Like Us, the LGBT+ young people’s charity. Just Like Us needs LGBT+ ambassadors aged 18-25 to speak in schools. You can sign up now.