Mom hasn’t called, but I prayed today

Finding comfort in the idea of the divine.

Photos by Constance Smith

If this topic isn’t your jam, don’t fret—less serious words are on the way. 
If this topic is your jam, let me know :)

---

There’s much comfort in the belief of a divine; some thing, person, or force with a greater understanding of the world and our lives—and where our lives are headed—than we have at times. For much of my life, that divine was God; Jehovah, as I was introduced to Him/Her (*Him  will be used and will be lowercase for the remainder of this piece.) in childhood. I was taught that there is no greater relationship than the one we have with him, so I prayed daily; multiple times throughout the day, often more so than I talked to my then-best friends; often more than I talked to my own parents, brother, and certainly extended family. 

There were things I could tell him, that I couldn’t (or wasn’t ready to) tell others. I told him I was being bullied in middle school before my parents were made aware. He knew I hated the first car my mother bought for me in high school. And then in college I confessed to him: I strongly believe I’m gay; followed by an earnest request to not be. Surely the being that created all things could change this one thing about  me, I reasoned. 

I did the very uncomfortable, difficult work of suppressing who I was for eight years for the sake of our relationship, until I decided it wasn’t worth it. We sometimes sacrifice parts of ourselves for the people we love, but I couldn’t comprehend that the personage that was supposed to love me unconditionally needed me to sacrifice my entire self to hear me, help me, love me still. And, candidly, I wanted dick. 

My defining “flip” moment—the moment I point back to as the instance I granted myself permission to be gay—happened inside Chelsea Market. I was wasting time at Artists & Fleas, approached by a man that reminded me of Owen Wilson, if Owen Wilson were more obviously handsome. He noticed me noticing him and invited me to his friend’s art show at The Armory that night. We slept together backstage, and I apologized to God when I got home, for a. sinning (according to the gospel I was taught), and b. continuing to sin every moment thereafter. 

*I’ve been wanting to write about the Owen Wilson story for a while. DM on Instagram if that’s one you want to hear. 

Until recently, I hadn’t thought about God in any serious way for several years. That space between us was very intentional. From childhood into early adulthood, every thought I had was, in some way, related to him; directly or indirectly. I needed to not think of him. I needed to know who I was separate from God and religion.

Sweater: J.Crew; Pants: Comme des Garçons; Glasses: Sol Moscot

The distance I’d kept from God ended three weeks ago, when I had the pleasure of meeting Leandra Medine Cohen to discuss my personal style. What I expected to be a casual conversation on...I don’t know...straight-leg trousers?...was actually an enlightening discussion on how past experiences inform our style. Naturally, my religious background came up. My relationship with my mother came up. My thoughts about God came up. All in fifteen minutes on the corner of 77th and Madison on the Upper East Side. During that conversation I realized I missed Him (*Him capitalized here felt right). In the same way you remember a friend and think of them for more than a moment, I thought of God for days, and wondered in particular:

Was it He that couldn’t accept me, or was it my religion?

And then a very generous follower commented under a recent post:

I believe God loves everybody, because my God is a loving God.

I appreciated her use of “I” and “my”—it suggests the makeup of the supreme being we get to know, and in many cases choose to worship, is informed in part by our needs, perhaps. Perhaps He (*here, too.) is who we need him to be; a reflection of our needs, in the same way Genesis tells us we are made in his image. SZA’s words—another form of scripture—come to mind, too: Mirrors inside me; they recognize you; please, don't deny me.

I will not deny myself my God because I was told he would never love me if I loved men. I’m still not convinced he exists in the form I was told he does—a spirit in the heavens and all that jazz. Science tells us that’s ridiculous. But the human in me finds the idea of someone having created all things and now influencing my life for the better, guiding me towards every good thing I’ve dreamed of, a very romantic notion. Someone to talk to when I need to, someone to watch over me...I like that idea a lot.

While I do the somewhat uncomfortable, difficult work of developing my own understanding of God and creation, I do find some comfort in my absolute belief in the idea of divine occurrences; good things that happen for seemingly no reason at all. Good things that change the direction our lives are headed ever so slightly, or confirm we’re headed in the right direction. I’ve had a few recently, and thank whoever is responsible for their kindness.

Recent (possibly) divine occurrences:

Playwright Jeremy O. Harris recognizing me on Orchard Street, calling me, dragging me, and introducing me to Telfar Clemens.

Making sense of 60,000 words I’ve written via 32 index cards taped to my bedroom wall.

Remembering Les Miserable exists, and watching it immediately thereafter.

Finding the gaul to treat myself to Acne Studios, after treating myself to Celine the week prior.

Theresa dropping this gem towards the end of a completely ordinary conversation:

You need to know your story is worth telling.

Thanks for reading.

BIG X BIG O,
Coley Bradshaw

---

Instagram

TikTok

Twitter