Photo Courtesy: Rustin

I met Rustin two years ago at an LGBT event I hosted in New York City.

It took all of five minutes for me to connect with Rustin. He was studying marketing at the University of Texas and was in NYC for the summer. I was studying international Business at my Christian college, Andrews University, and was in NYC just for the summer. He was about to spend the fall semester in London. I had spent a year abroad in France for studies.

Many of our interests overlapped. We swapped information, promising to each other that we would hangout later that week.

But of all the things we talked about, I didn’t ask what Rustin did for work. It wasn’t until Rustin followed me on Twitter that I realized his profession.

Rustin was a porn star.

Now, I’m not conservative – not by a long shot. I’m an anti-white supremacy, feminist, bisexual Christian – a ‘progressive’ to many in the church. But I would be lying if my heart didn’t stop beating for a second.

I was born and raised in the Seventh-day Adventist church and was attending our flagship University. I was knee deep in what is known as purity culture: Sex was for straight men and women, only for procreation, and only after vows have been exchanged.

Sex before marriage at my school got you expelled. Looking at porn got you reprimanded (if not expelled). And I just “friended” a gay porn star on facebook.

I called my mom right away.

“Mom, I need advice. Today I made a friend. His name is Rustin. And well, I just found out he’s a porn star. A gay porn star. What should I do? Can I still be friends with him?”

Her response was quicker than I anticipated.

“Well, what does that change about Rustin?”

I paused for a second thinking about my awesome conversation with him. Rustin was seriously cool and I realized my perception of him completely changed when I found out he was a sex worker.

“Well nothing I guess,” I admitted.

“Then why wouldn’t you be friends with him?” my mom asked.

I’m not sure why I was surprised by my mom’s response. She’s always taught me to love people and has shown me, through her character, on how to be a Christian. But there she was, surprising me and teaching me to be a better Christian even into my twenties.

In the two years since Rustin and I met, we’ve visited each other and talked almost every day. Not only is Rustin a sex worker, but he’s also an atheist (which is just as much of a shocker for a born-and-bred Christian boy like me as was the porn).

In many ways, and all of them unintentional, Rustin has taught me to be a better Christian.

My initial aversion to Rustin’s friendship showed me how much emphasis I placed on what others thought. Especially as a bisexual Christian writing on religious platform, I was worried about the optics around our relationship.

In an ironic turn of events, I had to practice what I preached. In the same way that many Christians wrongly see all LGBT people as sex acts, I was seeing Rustin as a sex act. Sexualizing Rustin because of his work would prevent me from seeing Rustin as a whole person.

I’m a writer who writes a lot on the intersections of faith, sexuality, and gender. I write so much on this subject because i want LGBT people of faith to be welcomed in their churches. But my sexuality isn’t the only part of me. I’m a gymnast, I love to read, I have a deep commitment to my faith, and i love interacting with people. When you get to know me you see all my quirks, qualities, and even faults (like how I can be stubborn and how hard it is for me to forgive.)

Rustin is way more than just his sex work. He’s ambitious and kindhearted. He’s always hungry to learn more and to push himself out of his comfort zones. I can call Rustin at any time, of any day, and know he’ll be on the other end of the call ready to support me.

I wouldn’t have seen all of these things if I allowed his sex worker to overshadow him.

Being friends with him helped me confront many unfair characterizations I had of sex workers. Rustin wasn’t forced into sex work, he didn’t come from a poor background, and he’s educated. Through our relationship, he showed me how much shame I placed on sex – mainly due to purity culture.

Rustin showed me I can be friends, good friends, with non-Christians. I grew up in a church that made me feel I could only be friends with fellow Christians or that if I was friends with non-Christians, I should try and convert them. That mentality puts so much strain on a relationship. My job is not to change anyone (that is on the Holy Spirit) but to live a life that shows Christ through me. This liberates our friendship. My job is just to be in relationship with Rustin.

I think we’ve done well. Rustin has told me our relationship has helped him be “less cynical” of Christians — which I consider a win. He also appreciates my writing on the intersection of faith, sexuality, and gender. Right after we first met, Rustin shared my poem “Where Were You?” on his social media platforms. He told me my poem moved him to tears and he was impressed at my commitment to the church.

My commitment to the church is rooted in believing that the church should be a sanctuary – a safe place for all. Yet, sanctuaries are not limited to brick walls and stained glass windows. We, as Christians, should too be walking, talking sanctuaries. We should be the people that welcome everyone’s friendship. We should be the ones who break bread with those who are fundamentally different with us with the sole goal of having fellowship.

That’s who I strive to be. I want to be a sanctuary.