Every Beauty, Everywhere

Seven months and a lifetime ago, I went to the mountaintop. I went backpacking through the Grand Tetons, my last Young Life trip with some of my closest students and dearest friends. For me, the trip would also mean wrapping up a decade of Young Life involvement. I knew that when I got off the trail, I would be moving to Seattle to start graduate school and leaving behind Young Life along the way.

On one of our last days on the trail, I sat atop Pinnacle Peak, overlooking my ten years involved with Young Life from this ten-thousand foot view. All the memories came flooding back. All the way down to the glassy lake near our campsite, I saw my life unfold as my time in a ministry I loved came to its end. Talk about perspective.

A lot has changed since then. But I want to share the particularities of my Young Life experience to affirm my belief that Young Life has the potential not only to do good but to be so much better than it often is.

My story begins long before I knew about Young Life. As a child, I was never interested in playing sports and often never saw myself as man enough. I played with lightsabers, dolls, and LEGOs, often while dressed in lavish costumes. Imagination was my safe haven, and my heart was more tender and complicated than people often knew how to handle.

Even when I found my way into Young Life as a teenager—or better yet, Young Life found me—I initially felt like a fish out of water. For one, I was not raised evangelical, and even though my family did attend church, religion was less of a priority for us growing up. So I was new to the evangelical scene, which meant I hardly recognized how its theology and worldview often, but not always, committed to preserving masculinity and heteronormativity more than proclaiming good news.

In hindsight, I recognize how macho theology permeated Young Life. Guys cabins did the extreme obstacle course at Young Life camp while girls played Just Dance until the guys were done. I once heard a camp speaker describe students as chewed-up pieces of gum or dirty $20 bills if they kept living their lives in sin. And the higher up in the organization you went, the whiter, more male, and balder leadership became.

But up to the point I started attending Young Life as a student, I never experienced a greater sense of purpose or belonging. You were made for this, my peers and leaders would tell me. Young Life’s message and brand, sometimes indistinguishable, were good news. In fact, they were the best news anyone could offer. Even if I did not always fit in, I felt like more than just a number to them. This new community cared about me and offered me a seat at the table.

So I put behind my childish ways for total immersion in this new world Young Life had to offer. Instead of costumes, I dressed in Chacos, Patagonia, Every Young Man’s Battle, and theological combat boots that, in hindsight, gave my soul blisters. Even if I was more sold on Young Life than Jesus, each rite of passage into this new world seemed necessary if I wanted to give back to Young Life by becoming a leader.

When I started leading, I learned I would have to sign a contract each year to commit to purity in all its forms. So I did so, unquestioningly. But many of these specific commitments I made were hard to nail down. Did you have to hold a traditional view of marriage to become a Young Life leader? Could leaders drink, and if so, why did some areas enforce heavy restrictions while others did not? How many times could you ‘screw up’ before you had to stop leading?

I remember so many people I considered friends over the years who were asked to leave Young Life leadership because they questioned or refused to comply with these often obscure standards. Even as a teenager, I often would be the one asked to confront my peers on these issues. I could hardly look them in the eye when I had to tell them they could not lead anymore. These conversations were terrifying and impossible.

Of course, I have no issue holding leaders accountable. In some cases, I actually think evangelicals could use more explicit safeguards to prevent and protect from misconduct. But as for my role in Young Life, I became its poster child, even when I felt there should be more grace for those who did not meet or agree with Young Life’s standards.

Some of my insecurities with becoming this purity enforcer stemmed back to the childhood I considered unmanly. In fact, I never felt man enough for Young Life, and this self-denial perpetuated other anxieties I felt as an emerging adult. Whenever I would try to shut down the built-up pressure I felt, these repressed insecurities came out sideways. And compulsive porn use became my only relief—my only way to cope.

I knew I was breaking the contract, but how could I tell anyone? People relied on me to share the good news, which sometimes felt more like Young Life’s brand statement than the gospel. I got wrapped up in winning people over to Young Life culture, perhaps as a way to mask my fears of rejection. But consistent porn use technically made me just as far outside my purity commitment as those I asked to leave. I was a fake, and in my new world, there was little grace for fakes.

This coping pattern from shame and numbing to repression and evacuation found texture in hardline evangelicalism. Even when I prayed for forgiveness from my sinful ways, I still viewed myself with reprimanding shame, partially because I thought God did, too. And the vicious cycle would kick back up, all over again, for years.

In hindsight, I think I needed someone to help me digest these raw, complicated emotions I repressed. Without proper containment, I could not mature from my self-sabotaging patterns. At this point, Young Life leadership often felt trapping. I felt stuck where I needed to stay if I wanted to keep sharing good news. Perhaps I also needed a Young Life leader, someone who would understand. Perhaps I should have just listened to my terror.

But I was a sinner. I deserved this life of punishment. It was my cross to bear.

I lived in survival mode, not life to the full, especially when other experiences began disrupting my supposedly solid evangelical footing. In my college ministry minor, I had a friend, more qualified than anybody I knew, who studied to become a pastor—who also happened to be gay. My first Christian academic studies gave me some historical context about the hurts and pains that the Church caused throughout the centuries.

Several other moments brought me face-to-face with the reality that life was more complex than the theological parameters I used to contain it. Friends outrightly came out to me or admitted that they were tinkering with their sexual identities. Young Life students underwent gender transitions and fell off our radar because of the rejection they feared they might face. On that note, I wish now that I could tell them I was sorry for whatever I might have told them then. Others warned me I was straying away from the faith when I began to interrogate my beliefs against these experiences of rupture.

Young Life was my only constant throughout this process. It held me, but I was not made to hold these levels of emotional, spiritual, and psychological turmoil. I was challenging and fraying against the boundaries my theology deemed normative and orthodox. But what else could I do? And how else could I cope? For that matter, if I were not in Young Life, where else would I be? All that pressure from those questions was enough to make me implode. And it did; it nearly destroyed me. 

As a staff member, I found myself no longer wanting to serve in an organization that claimed inclusivity on the one hand and hid behind vague, exclusive position statements on the other. You and I may not be on the same theological page, and I think there is space for disagreement in the discernment process. But in my view, Young Life could not continue operating with such blatant disregard for the people it claimed to serve. Their concern was often doing damage control and protecting their brand more than proclaiming gracious good news.

Of course, some of my dearest friends are still Young Life leaders and staff, working with teens, their teams, and families to show Christ’s love. Many of these folks have spent more than a decade daring Young Life to be better than it often is. And I am so thankful for their endurance and wholehearted commitment to good news for everybody, everywhere. For that matter, I believe that substantive change most often occurs at the ground level, when folks already committed to the work keep challenging for something better. If you are reading, and you know who you are, keep doing that work.

Unfortunately, local staff, leaders, and committees are often left on their own, especially in the moments that senior leadership operates with veiled secrecy or implements unclear, inconsistent expectations throughout the organization. This detached approach to risk management shatters relationships, communities, students, and their families at the local level. I’ve seen it happen. And the boots-on-the-ground workers are often the ones left to pick up the pieces.

As early as four years ago, long before I left Young Life, I started doing my theological homework in response to these unraveling circumstances happening all around me. Focusing on Young Life’s views about sexuality specifically, I concluded that Young Life needed to change its Sexual Conduct policies to, at the very least, be clearer about who could lead. For an organization of such scale and global impact, I thought clarity had to be the minimum standard.

Furthermore, I argued for more accountability in enacting policy. If Young Life deems that it must uphold a traditional theological view of marriage, then it should use the same protocol for people who identify as heterosexual and queer. And their actions should be steeped in grace. Currently, in my view, Young Life’s policies target queer folks, especially those who would like to be open about their sexual orientation and/or gender variance while still leading. Thus, these policies encourage shame and secrecy rather than openness and freedom. Which sounds more like good news to you?

Suppose Young Life was interested in changing its current policy altogether. In that case, I suggested getting rid of theologically-specific language about marriage, gender, and sexuality. Young Life could also give regions more autonomy to implement the policies that best suited their context. I think there are a lot of options for how Young Life can move forward. But doing nothing, keeping things status quo, is not one of them.

At the very least, Young Life senior leadership could consider omitting Ecumenical from their list of Mission and Values. There are several Christian denominations and organizations that have open-and-affirming stances toward the LGBTQ+ community. Currently, Young Life is not one of them. It excludes these persons and differing theological perspectives from having equal standing. Young Life should cut its red tape or else not claim its mission is for every kid, everywhere.

I asked all these questions while still doing the work I loved with the students and people I cared about so deeply. As the years passed, some of these proposals began to gain traction in my Young Life region. I had more difficult, inspiring conversations than anything from my early years involved. This time, we talked about real change. Moving Young Life was like steering a navy ship, people often warned me. Even if I was committed to doing this work, it would take years to make any substantive change.

But the accumulated pressure I internalized over the years pushed back at the idea of sticking around. Again, my relationship with Young Life was a mixed bag. My experiences as a student, leader, and staff member were complicated, formative, beautiful, and broken, all at the same time. 

I loved Young Life because I believed in its mission of proclaiming good news. But I also felt that loving Young Life meant demanding from it—more consistency, more clarity, more accountability. Even still, by the end, I felt a visceral reaction any time the thought of staying in Young Life came up. Years of personal work finally taught me to listen to this real terror: I needed to leave the ministry that defined me.

Of course, I had absolutely no idea where to begin. This community was everything to me, for as long as I could remember. I found God through it—or better yet, God found me. I thought leaving it behind would mean leaving everything behind.

But seven months and a lifetime ago, sitting on a mountaintop, I finally said goodbye to Young Life. It was the scariest, most liberating decision I have ever made. For the first time, I actually trusted myself to chart a new path forward. It’s what I was made for.

Sitting there, like sunshine through the clouds, I saw Young Life more clearly than ever before. All the memories flooded back—the most profound moments of identity, purpose, belonging, and pure joy. So much laughter. So many tears. And then came the faces of the most incredible people I met. They are my leaders, former co-workers, and committee members. Some are my dearest friends and strongest supporters. They love me, and oh, how I love them.

And finally, I saw my students. Tears began to well up in my eyes as they do now. These kids, many of whom are now adults, sustained me and kept me doing what I loved, even during the moments I should not have been a leader. They taught me more about good news for everybody, everywhere than I could ever hope to teach them.

If you are any of these folks, thank you. You were a lifeline to me in more ways than you will ever know. You helped me believe good news was for me, too.

Eventually, I had to come down from the mountaintop. And on our journey back home, now only a week out from my move to Seattle, I got flooded with text messages and missed phone calls from current and former Young Life people. The hashtag, DoBetterYoungLife, had started just days prior, while we were still on the trail.

As I spent the drive back catching up on heartbreaking, painful stories, many of which belonged to people I knew, my heart sank deeper in my chest. How could I hold this sacred tension of newfound freedom with anger and sorrow? Conversations with friends unearthed long-forgotten memories of similar heartache. I said sorry so many times.

But the chorus of DoBetterYoungLife echoed for necessary change within the ministry, and I felt I could not leave that call unanswered. At the same time, I already committed to leaving. I could not stay as involved as I once was, for my sake. I knew there was crucial work left to be done, but I wanted to engage it on my terms.

Both moments—the mountaintop and the flood—remind me of the complicated relationship I still have with Young Life. I will probably keep unpacking my experiences as a student, leader, intern, and staff member for years to come. But for now, I hold to these truths: I do still love Young Life, but I may not love it forever. I believe it has the incredible capacity to help kids realize their infinite worth and value. I believe it can also cause severe damage and pain without accountability.

My Young Life experience was mostly positive because Young Life was made for me—a white American male. As you have read, though, it was not always perfect. My hurt compels me to do the work to come alongside those involved that have felt pain for simply being who they are. These hurts should never happen. I believe Young Life can do good, and I also believe Young Life can do so much better.

To me, good news means everybody, everywhere, no matter their race, gender, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status—everyone means everyone. Thus, I call upon an organization I love to do better for the LGBTQ+ and BIPOC communities and lower-income students and leaders so Young Life can be made for them, too.

As artist Makoto Fujimura writes, every beauty suffers. If you are here, then you or someone you love has probably experienced terrible hurt through Young Life in more ways than I will ever know. But I grieve with you. My heart breaks for you. Know that your story matters because you are beautiful. It incarnates good news, just as you do.

“[Diversity], inclusion, representation, and intersectional equity must be an ongoing conversation in Young Life,” the DoBetterYoungLife open letter reads, “rooted in action and visible change.” Whether or not you are still involved in the organization, if you have it in you, we need you to make change possible.

So may we be a people united in hurt and committed to healing. May we keep sending letters, having tough conversations, signing petitions—whatever disruptions necessary to bring about true repentance. And may we keep breathing until every story has been told, every tear shed, and every demand for change met. So good news can finally mean every beauty, everywhere.

Chris Curia is a creator, contemplative, and MDiv candidate at The Seattle School. He curates an independent journal called Through the Darkness (also available as a podcast) and has written for several publications including RELEVANT, Sojourners, and the American Scientific Affiliation. Chris also debuted his award-winning documentary, Jubileo, earlier this year. Follow Chris on socials @chriscuringle.