Still Here
I stayed in church because people laughed at my ideas — not because they saw me.
I got to make funny videos, wear wigs with my best friend, and build skits that made other kids scream with joy.
This poem is for the version of me who flinched when the hamburger hit, but kept filming anyway. For the kid in the Superman costume trying not to be queer. For the one who prayed away the sparkle, but couldn’t quite kill it.
I’m still here. And this time, I’m not hiding.
That’s me getting slapped in the face with frozen hamburger meat for a church sketch.
We were filming an ad for Learning to Minister Like Jesus. I was flinching. Kenny was laughing. And my glasses flew off.
I stayed because it felt like magic — like being funny could buy me safety.
Still Here
(a poem by Adam Rye)
You tried to crush me
with silence, shame, and scripture.
I wrote songs.
I made videos.
I threw glitter on grief.
I’ve had to start over
with less than nothing.
But I’ve got poems now.
And a mustache that makes children stare.
And a mullet
that has seen more healing
than your whole church retreat.
I’m still here.
And God, if you’re listening—
I’m finally not afraid of my own damn reflection.
That’s me as Superman. The jeans underneath made the other guys think I was hung like a horse. I wasn’t even thinking about that — I was just trying not to be gay.
Backstory: Still Here
I spent years leading retreats, directing worship videos, and pretending I was okay.
I was the goofball pastor intern with Adobe Premiere and a closet full of costumes. I was making kids scream with joy while I quietly prayed to be less “me.”
I taught lessons I now regret. Gave testimonies about “struggling” with same-sex attraction. Tried to lead by example while editing myself into a cartoon-safe caricature.
I don’t hate that version of me — he survived the only way he knew how. But I mourn the silence I helped perpetuate.
Still Here is my anthem of return. My love letter to every version of me who created in spite of shame.
I’m not hiding anymore. I’m still here — weirder, louder, gayer, glitterier. And this time, I’m not flinching.
I was preparing to speak about “overcoming” same-sex attraction. I wish I could take back so much of what I said. But I can make sure I never say it again.
