LYD Classic: Editor’s Note, 2026 —
“And That’s Okay” went up on iistix.com in February 2001, which makes it approximately a thousand years old, or twenty-five, depending on how you count. I was 24, recently out, still doing that thing where you keep a very specific kind of pain at arm’s length by naming it and immediately shrugging. The essay is about church, and high school, and a phone call I thought about for years. “And that’s okay” is the refrain, and I’ll say only that the phrase reads differently now than it did when I typed it at 24, which is probably why it felt worth dusting off. Anyway.
The last time I went to church was for a candlelight Christmas Eve service. The actions to go to church seem so mechanical… My sister and I jump into a car. We drive through the Berkeley hills. We park in the compacted parking lot a block behind Telegraph Avenue, and instead of getting your nose pierced or buying a water pipe (for tobacco use only), you enter the familiarity and sanctity of the House of God, Presbyterian denomination.
But have you ever been to a place that feels familiar, yet not comfortable? That was exactly how I felt. I recognized a couple of faces: teenagers I spent countless Sundays with six or seven years ago, now marked by facial hair, breasts, or wedding rings. None of them recognized or acknowledged me. Maybe they don’t even recognize each other anymore.
And that’s okay.
When I was in high school, I was heavily involved with my church. I had joined the church and its youth group for very selfish reasons, however. I was one of those guys in high school who would dread lunchtime. It meant walking around the campus by myself, figuring out what the hell to do for the next 45 minutes. People in high school didn’t know what to make of me. I was the “weird guy,” the guy who would hang out with a clique of people and then quietly wonder why they wouldn’t invite me to their poker nights on Friday. You wanna know how I was known at graduation? I was “Ernie, the weird guy that got crapped on by a seagull that one day in April.” I wish I were kidding.
So going to the youth group on Sunday became a social outlet for me, not to mention a great way to escape bickering parents. I even played piano for the church high school choir, going on trips to Alaska and Chicago every summer. From there, I developed friendships with a group of guys, and we would hang out during the week, when one of us had access to a car anyway. All I had to do was somehow survive Monday to Friday.
But it was never about God. Mind you, I believe in God, whatever that entity may be. But I was angry at God. Maybe I’m still a little bit angry.
If there was a loving and just God, like everyone at church said, why did my parents fight? How could God explain what happened to my sister? I won’t even touch the issue of my sexuality with a ten-foot pole, but you can probably imagine. Looking back, Christianity wasn’t my religion; my friends were. I know how cold that sounds to anyone who once saw me as spiritual (which was a long, long time ago), but it’s true. My friends filled a niche I desperately craved.
Eventually, I went off to college with a plan: “I’m going to start over,” I thought to myself. “I’m not going to be an outcast anymore.” So I did.
Not to say I abandoned my spiritual side outright. At college, I joined a Christianity group for the first couple of months. But they were very intellectual, very matter-of-fact about their spiritual matters. I remember falling asleep in the middle of a five-person bible study. Not good.
But the nail in the Christianity coffin came when, during my first year of college, I came out to one of my close church friends from high school over the phone. He was then attending Northwestern University and planning to enroll in Seminary school. After I told him, he fell silent, then muttered something about living in a den of sin. “I’ll pray for you,” he said, and then hung up. I haven’t heard from him since. I was never angry at him for that—just a bit sorry. I’ve moved on. (A quick Internet search later showed he’s now married and works as a case manager for an adoption agency—good for him.)
By now, it’s after midnight, and everyone is in a sudden rush to get 200 cars out of a parking lot that only fits one hundred. The air is cold and damp, and I quickly reach into my pocket to light a cigarette.
I get a lot of dirty looks, but no one tells me to put the cigarette away.
And right there, I realized that in seven years, I had transformed myself. I went from a piano-playing Chinese boy on a mission for Jesus, sitting in the front row, eager for each hymn, to a person among hundreds walking quietly out of a church after midnight—tired from the late hour, confused because my beliefs conflicted with things that mattered deeply to me, and yet, just for the night, content because I had fulfilled my duty at a house of worship on a Judeo-Christian holiday.
And that’s okay.