To the Healers Who Never Healed Me

This poem is for the altar calls.
For the hands pressed heavy on my back.
For the tongues I faked and the healing I never got.

Twelve years in a megachurch taught me how to perform faith.
This is what it looks like when I finally stopped.

Reading a birthday card in kids’ church with my favorite kids pastor looking on. I loved those kids—and they loved me back. We built joy together across every background.

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To the Healers Who Never Healed Me
(a poem for the altar-call crowd)

You watched my eyelids flutter—
not in rapture
but in rehearsal.
I was performing the Spirit
like I was taught:
eyes half-closed,
head tilted just enough
to catch the fake light.

You said,
"He's feeling the presence of God!"
I was feeling the pressure
of a hundred eyes and a lead pastor
waiting for my "breakthrough."

You wanted tongues?
Shatta-kitta-handa-laka.
There.
Does that sound divine enough?
Because I made it up
while thinking about nachos
and Levi Sanford's forearms.

You prayed over me
every fucking Sunday—
hands heavy on my back
like I was going to float away
if you didn’t pin me down.
You called it healing.
I called it spiritual kink
without a safe word.

You said God was knocking
but it only ever felt
like you were shoving.
And I braced my knees—
because if Jesus was gonna
knock me out,
he’d better do it for real.
Spoiler:
he didn’t.

You talked about demons—
lust, identity,
that sweet, unforgivable SSA.
You tried to cast out
everything I actually liked about myself.

You wanted a miracle?
I gave you a musical.
Wrote songs about Jesus
with glitter on my cheeks
and still you missed
that I was already sacred.

You said,
"The kingdom of God is already and not yet."
Bitch, so is my exit.

And no, I don’t forgive you.
Not because I’m bitter—
(but maybe I am, a little)
but because you're still
out here holding revivals
to exorcise the gay
and calling it love.

But guess what?
I sing now—with my whole chest.
I kiss in daylight.
I wear crop tops and rainbow sneakers
and call that holy.
I light joints and candles.
I pray by laughing.
And yes, I still hold hands
like it’s communion.

This is what healing looks like.
Not your altar.
Not your pity.
Not your shame.
Just me,
fully fucking alive.

Backstory

I was part of the Vineyard Church from 2003 through 2015. Twelve years of tongues, testimonies, and trying to be someone I wasn’t.

We were trained—literally trained—to perform the presence of God. Look “filled with the Spirit” but not too dramatic. Every ache and memory was spiritualized. My queerness became a demon to cast out.

I prayed in fake tongues while thinking about nachos and Levi Sanford’s forearms. I braced my knees at the altar and stood tall when they wanted me to fall.

They said I needed healing.
I just needed to be seen.

This poem is for every queer kid who was told to bow their head and wait to be fixed.

You’re not broken.
You never needed their altar.