Reasonable Doubt
By Jackie Ivers
As we walked through the open double doors at the back of the room, I could sense the tension vibrating in the air. With its soaring stained-glass windows, with deep red upholsteries and cherry wood, and the baptistry decorated with a massive cross centered high above the pastor’s podium, the irony was in the name of this room. It was called the sanctuary, but at the moment I was feeling anything but safe and secure. My mother’s face was tight and serious, with an intense focus that was frightening. She had come here with one purpose—a purpose that was causing her, and my entire family, a great deal of pain. Mercifully, it would be over with soon; her singular mission completed, we would be able to begin healing from this hurt inflicted by a group of people that, up until this point in my young life, had been a community I felt I belonged in.
My mother, Yalonda, is a formidable woman, fiercely passionate, and constantly doing her best to help and serve others. She is a veteran educator, and has taught students of all ages, from kindergarten to college. When I was a child, she was a choir teacher for a very small school, and since there was a shortage of teachers, she went on to teach English, art, choir, and public speaking, all at the same time. While she was raising me and my two younger brothers, she was also going back to school, where she eventually earned three different master’s degrees in education, counseling, and administration. This led to her becoming a high school guidance counselor and, eventually, an elementary school principal. When she finally retired in 2019, she was quickly itching for something else to do, so less than two years later, she was back in schools teaching music to primary-age kids. On top of it all, she always worked as the church’s song leader and choir director, doing more at the church she had been attending with her family for her entire life. She was, and still is, a work horse, but by her own choice. She loves it and loves being able to work with other people.
By the time I, her first child, was born, she and my dad had been staples of the congregation at Calvary Baptist Church in Denison, Texas for years. The church was a gigantic brick building on Acheson Street and had been a massive part of my small hometown’s Main Street area since 1957. Many of my earliest memories revolve around this building—fall festivals, summer camp, and running up and down the long hallways with my little brothers as my mom worked on what music would be sung on Sunday morning. This was the church where my parents were married, where I was baptized at nine years old, and where my granddad’s funeral had taken place the summer before I went to seventh grade. We went camping with the other families who had kids my age. We had game nights and fish fries by the lake. We had Christmas parties and Easter egg hunts. Calvary and its people were the backbone of my family’s social life. Which made what followed even more painful.
When I was in eighth grade, I was finally starting to realize some things about myself, starting to question what that would mean for me as a kid raised as a Christian and raised within the structure of the church. I had known I was different for a long time, but as I grew a bit older, I gained the vocabulary for exactly what it was that made me different: I was gay. Deep down in my heart of hearts, I knew that my family loved me unconditionally, and that everything would eventually be okay, but it was still scary to think about saying it out loud, and seeing how the world around me would react, especially in a small, conservative town in North Texas. I am happy to say that now, looking back almost fifteen years later, I have a support system that is unmatched. Between my actual family, my chosen family and friends, and a partner who I have been with for almost six years, I am surrounded by love and support. If fifteen-year-old me could see where I am now, living my true and best life in New York City, I know that he would be so proud and ecstatic to see how far we have come from being that scared, closeted boy in Denison. Something that used to be scary for me is now one of my favorite things about myself—I am out and proud and wouldn’t change that for the world.
It was 2008 when my childhood pastor, Brother Greg, decided to leave his posting and relocate to a different town and church further south. His position was vacated, and an interim pastor stepped in for a few months. He helped to lead the search for a permanent fixture. My dad also served on the personnel committee that was leading this search, so he played a part in hiring Brother Danny. During the process, Danny presented himself as the perfect fit to jump in and lead the congregation into the next phase of the church’s missions, ministries, and programs. He was a young man with a young family—a lovely wife and two toddler daughters. They were the picture of what church leaders wanted in a new pastor: a lovely and all-important presentation to the outside world of what Calvary Baptist church was all about, a symbol of their future. But a few weeks after he was hired, Danny began to show his true colors.
In reality, Danny represented what I now see as the classic southern man, afraid of progress and change. He held the antiquated and misogynistic belief that women had no place in the leadership of a church, and so began his quest to oust my mother. I will never forget her coming home from a meeting with him and trying to put on a brave and unbothered face, but I knew her well enough that something was wrong, even if she didn’t want me to know about it yet.
After this meeting, things started to happen quickly. Danny began his campaign, albeit behind my mom’s back, to see what could be done to replace her as the music leader. I think what hurt her most, and eventually led to my mother’s defeated attitude, was the betrayal of the other church members who were only concerned about impressing the new pastor. For a lot of people, particularly in the gentil American south, the church is only about the social aspects—being seen and involved so that others know just how devout you are, even to the detriment of other people. Not to say that is true of everyone, but I think people fall into this category more than they would like to admit. Outward appearances are paramount to good social standing. These were the people who she had raised her kids with and known for years. They were her friends, or so she thought.
Eventually, one of these people had enough of the secretive, closed-door happenings and broke the line to tell my mom that the coming Sunday, there was going to be a vote—a public and humiliating vote to remove her from her position. This was the point where she’d had enough. She wasn’t a quitter, but she certainly wasn’t going to be had this way. She was too smart for that. So, as painful as it must have been, she and my father decided that they would leave before they were forced out. After a meeting with my extended family, and trying to explain what was happening to me and my brothers, the decision was made that she would resign before anything else could happen. This secret vote was set to happen at the very end of the service so she would beat them to it.
That Sunday morning came, and my mom took her place on stage to begin the service in song, just as she had every Sunday of my entire life. But instead of the music, she began to speak. She straightened her spine, steadied herself and said: “I have been a part of this church since the beginning of my life. I was adopted the day I was born, and the Sunday after my parents brought me home, they brought me here, to this building, and I have been a part of this place ever since.” She went on to describe what Calvary had meant to her: “I raised my children here, alongside your children. I have laughed and cried here, and it has been the distinct honor of my life to help lead you all every Sunday for the last thirteen years. It is with the heaviest of hearts that I am resigning from my position as I cannot agree with what is coming in the future of this place. Thank you for all you have taught me, and good luck going forward. May God bless you and guide you.” With that, she stepped out from the pulpit, walked down the three steps toward where my whole family were seated. She picked up her purse, reached for my father’s hand, and began walking up the aisle toward the back of the church without saying another word. My brothers and I filed in behind them, and as a unit, we marched to the back of the church through the stunned and silent crowd. She looked straight forward, and resolute, never glancing back at the people who had betrayed her trust.
As we went, the rest of our family followed in a long column up the aisle, and we made up a large portion of the crowd. Not just my brothers and I, but aunts and uncles, cousins, my gran and her sister. Even our chosen family, my mom’s best friend since eighth grade, Tammy, and her daughter who is only one month my senior and is like a sister to me. We walked quickly and quietly to our cars, through a room thick with disbelief. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop on the burgundy carpets. The group, or the herd, as we have always called ourselves, drove the ten minutes home and settled into my parents’ large living room. The adults sat around in stunned silence while the younger kids went off to play. Nobody knew what to do or what to say. There was no comfort for the time, so we just sat there, together, going over and over the emotions in our head that the difficult morning had caused.
I know how upset my mom must have been. Truly, and deeply hurt, betrayed by the many people she had thought were her friends. As the years went on, some of those relationships would be repaired, but it would be a long and difficult hurdle to overcome. Unfortunately, this was the time in my life when I began to see through the exterior cracks of what church was. I could start to see through the fragile façade, and I began to question how I actually felt, and what I actually believed. My brothers were young enough that they were able to move on more easily, but I have never been able to fully move past the way I felt that day, and how the church treated my mother, who had given so much of herself over to help others. She is the most selfless person I know, and it still didn’t matter in the end.
When my family eventually joined another church in town, they were welcomed with open arms. Now, after all this time, I hold no malice toward those people at Calvary, and hope that they were able to acknowledge the insensitive way in which things were handled, but I was never able to find that sense of acceptance and community again in a religious place. This, coupled with my growing awareness of queer life and the way that many Christians view my “lifestyle” led to doubts. I think that religion can do a lot of good things, for a lot of people in our world, and I think that is wonderful, but I also think it is important to acknowledge the harm it can do as well. Eventually, I left the church entirely. I still enjoy going with family when I’m home, especially around Christmastime, but I don’t have the faith that I once had. Instead, I have found other communities that support me and align more with my outlook on the world.
FALL 2025
Illustration forthcoming.