Inclination

by Mia Kerick

  On Thursday evening after my family leaves for St. Elizabeth’s to attend Holy Thursday Mass, I sit in the upstairs living room, hugging myself around my shoulders and rocking back and forth. The hugging and rocking thing is all I can think of to do in an effort to hold myself together.

  I’m selfish—that’s the problem in a nutshell. I’m not yet willing to give up on the hope that I can have both—a fully Christian life with a fully intimate male partner. And now I’m paying the price of my self-centeredness, as I need to be with Jesus badly and I’ve never felt farther from Him.

  And tomorrow… tomorrow is Good Friday, the day of Christ’s crucifixion—the day he dies to save my soul. I can’t face this weekend alone. Once again, I’m drawn to David, my figurative port in the storm. Other than my Bible and the book he loaned me—the Christian music I discovered in that antiquated hymnal even now tortures me—David is my single connection to God. I lift my cell phone from the coffee table and dial.

  “Tony? Whassup, dude?”

  “David, can I come over?” I don’t bother with the “Hi, how are you?” or “What’s up in your world?” niceties. I blurt out the question.

  I’m fairly certain David can tell by the tone of my voice that I’m suffering, and he answers without hesitation. “Of course, bud. Are you freaking out cuz it’s Holy Week?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Come on over, then. We’ll hold a personal Bible study for two. I’ll even light real candles, not those goofy flameless ones.” He stops speaking and then adds, in a much softer tone, “It’ll be okay, Tony.”

  “I’m on my way.” And I am. I’m already on my way to the door, toward David Gandy, the single flickering light in the huge expanse of darkness that engulfs me.

  The only vehicle parked outside the Gandy house is David’s black Honda truck. And there’s a sign on the front door.

  Come on in Tony, and go up the stairs. Head toward the music and you’ll find Jesus and me waiting for you.

  Be still and know that I am God.

  I hear the familiar melody and much-loved lyrics sung in the sweet voice of a children’s choir a little bit better with every step. David must have started the CD when he heard my car in his driveway.

  I am the Lord that healeth thee.

  A simple and traditional Baptist worship song… it draws me in. I can’t figure out how David could have possibly known, but this is one of my all-time favorites from the old hymnal Mom gave me—I tracked it down on You Tube and listen to it all the time. I’m incredibly drawn to the hymn, and without even realizing it, I’ve climbed the stairs and I find myself stepping inside the doorway of David’s bedroom. There, I listen to the rest of the song in silence.

  In Thee, O Lord, I put my trust.

  I can’t see David in the candlelit darkness and I don’t search the room for him. Instead, I close my eyes and feel the presence of God. But there is also fellowship; I can sense it as tangibly as if I was at Mass. Maybe even more so, because this moment has been designed by David, exclusively with me in mind.

  When the song ends, David gets up from where he’s huddled in the shadows of the bottom bunk of his bunk beds. He goes over to his stereo system and removes the CD that’s in the player, returns it to its case, and then replaces it with another. He doesn’t turn to look at me. Probably, he’s uncomfortable with seeing the tears that he knows are streaming down my face.

  “Let’s pray.” David steps over to the puffy navy blue comforter that he’s placed in the middle of his bedroom floor. His tall body suddenly folds into a cross-legged pile and he bows his head, waiting for me to join him.

  I kick off my sneakers, as David’s barefoot, and I step onto the comforter, crouch, and then sit across from him. As soon as I’m sitting, he takes my hands in both of his, his grasp warm and firm.

  “Father, please hear us today on Holy Thursday, as we commemorate Your Last Supper, where You taught Your disciples to break bread together, and when they did that to remember You. Please understand that in gathering together in friendship tonight, Tony and I want to remember the sacrifice You made for us, as well as to praise You, and to hopefully better understand You and Your ways. Be with us as we remember Your actions by reading the words of Matthew and John, and as we pray together that we can recognize the way we must walk to please You the most.”

  “Amen,” I say softly, my head bowed down. We release each other’s hands. I’m not sure as to whether or not I should bless myself with the sign of the cross, and I stick my hands in my lap.

  David passes me a Bible that’s identical to the one he holds. We open them automatically to Matthew 26. David reads aloud about the Last Supper. We’re quiet for a moment as we reflect on the its meaning, and on Christ’s very human fear of what He knew was to befall Him.

  “How did you feel when I read that passage?” David lifts his bright gaze from his Bible, and we study each other’s faces for the first time since I got here.

  “I felt a loss.”

  “And the loss… was it of the Sacrament of Communion, in the sense that you can truly eat and drink the body and blood of Christ?”

  “Yes. I mean, if I’m not a Catholic, and I choose a community church to attend instead, and even if it has Communion, I won’t be able to take the actual body of Christ into me.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, and in that moment I notice that all traces of his sarcastic cool-dude persona from school have vanished. “I think you’re right about that, at least how it is in most churches.”

  “How were you able to change your belief—from the Eucharist being the body and blood of Christ, to being just a symbol?”

  I search his eyes for signs of pain, as I need to see if there is any deep hurt there. But I don’t see any. “I choose to focus on the Communion as a friendship offering—in my mind, it’s about fellowship with God and with other people. And to me, that’s essential… and I guess it’s also enough.”

  I take a moment to explore the significance of David’s belief. It’s a huge change from the traditional Catholic understanding of the Sacrament of Eucharist. David’s acceptance of Eucharist as a friendship offering changes everything, really.

  Or does it?

  Does following Jesus mean participating in certain specific behaviors, or is it very simply in the way I think and act and love others? I’m still not sure, but once again, David’s belief system has given me something to think about.

  “Now let’s turn to John 13. Why don’t you read 12-14, Tony?”

  At first, my voice is shaky, but it gets smoother as I go along, and I read about how Jesus Christ washed ordinary people’s feet.

  “See, this is what Christ wants us to do for each other. He wants us to ‘wash each other’s feet’, you know, to do for one another.” Before this very moment, I’d never noticed how much David uses his hands when he talks. It’s like he’s literally trying to pull my thoughts out of me. Maybe it is my understanding he’s trying to draw forth, or maybe it is my acceptance of his beliefs. “No one of us is greater than another in His eyes. And I take this to mean that if we truly and humbly serve one another, then we’re doing as He asks us, and we’re blessed.”

  I think I’m catching the essence of what David believes. “So you’re saying that it isn’t the specific technical things, like receiving Holy Eucharist and going to confession and attending Mass on Holy Days of Obligation, we do that counts to Christ, but how we love and serve one another and Him?” David is trying to assure me that God won’t condemn us for loving another person of the same gender, because it isn’t where His major focus is.

  “That’s what I think.”

  I feel a sudden thrill of connection. Maybe it’s connection with David, or maybe it’s a new sort of bond with God. But something’s happening to me that could change everything. “Thanks for doing this tonight, David.”

  He stretches out his legs and leans back on his hands. “As a Christian, I live to serve.” I see a vague resurfacing of the witty a
t-school-David. “You up for another tune, man?” He now uses a tough guy voice, like he’s going to play me a rap song or hard rock.

  “Sure—why not?”

  David swaggers over to the sound system, and once there, he turns back to say, “This isn’t a religious song, so much, but I view all love songs as if they’re about Jesus.”

  His statement surprises me and I wonder what kind of love song I’m going to hear, because, by looking at David, everybody would assume that he’d be the type to listen to My Chemical Romance, or a band like that.

  “I’ve always gotten into this tune. It’s, maybe, my favorite secular love song. But, as I said, I think of it like it’s about Jesus.” He dramatically clutches his chest where his heart is. “It gets me here.” He turns toward the sound system but I can still hear him chuckle.

  The music starts with a single measure introduction in the low, haunting tones of a flute. David stays where he is over by the wall, and we listen.

  Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

  From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

  The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

  Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

  Accompanied by the single flute, the song is sung in the lone angelic voice of a preteen boy—a boy who sings in falsetto, and sounds sort of like a young woman, but richer. And the sound is uncommon, even disturbing in its beauty.

  But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

  Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

  'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

  Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so…

  But when he come, and all the flowers are dying

  If I am dead, as dead I well may be

  You'll come and find the place where I am lying

  And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

  From across the room, David stares down at me, wearing the most serious expression. I think maybe he’s trying to read me.

  And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me

  And all my grave will warm and sweeter be

  For you will bend and tell me that you love me

  And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.

  For a minute after the music stops, David continues to stare in my direction. And as he does, I try to think of “Danny Boy” as a love song I share with Jesus. It’s surprisingly easy to do.

  David’s next words sound rather random. “God can still be everything to you, dude. Like I said, I don’t believe that Jesus dwells in the technicalities. He lives in the big picture: in how we live, in how we love, in how we serve.” David walks over to his bed and leans down to reach under it, picking up the remote control that is hidden there. “Lie down, Tony. Let’s listen to ‘Danny Boy’ again.”

  I stretch out flat on the floor of David’s room and stare up in the darkness at the ceiling, the light of about ten candles casting shadows on its whiteness. The music begins, and he lies down beside me, our shoulders pressed together. I hope so hard that it’s almost a prayer—I hope that David will take my hand in his.

  And he does.

  “This song makes me feel things I can’t explain. About Jesus…and about you.” It’s a huge confession on my part. Like ginormous, which might not even be a real word, but is the only word for the magnitude of what I just said. I hope it isn’t more truth than David can stand. David doesn’t let go of my hand. He holds it possessively, like it’s his right, and I figure he’s okay with my honesty. And I’m not totally sure if this handholding is part of our gathering in God’s name, or if it’s something else entirely. But it feels so perfect that I don’t much care.

  I’m lying there in the dark on a bedroom floor, my face bruised and swollen from an apparent gay bashing, my side still stiff and sore. I’m listening to a hundred-year-old love song and holding hands with a boy I’m pretty sure I’m falling for. It’s all kind of unreal, and I crack a puzzled smile. David can’t see my smile, as he’s staring up at the flickering light on the ceiling, but I know God can see it. I think maybe He put it on my face. And I think maybe He smiles back.

  A Different Kind Of “Good”

  It’s Good Friday and I’m not going to Mass.

  It’s Good Friday and I’m not going to Mass! Aaaahhhh!

  I’m trying very hard to interpret this…this change in activity… on Good Friday as a further exploration of Christ’s meaning in my life. I’m not sure if it’s working.

  The non-denominational church that David’s family now attends is not offering Good Friday services.

  No Good Friday services? What? Are you freaking kidding me?

  “The philosophy of the Journeys Worship Center is that Good Friday is a day for deep personal reflection, and not necessarily for formal services.” That had been David’s explanation for this glaring oversight.

  Again, Aaaahhhh!

  Before I left last night, David told me that in the previous two years the Journeys Worship Center had held performance-based services on Good Friday—not even slightly formal ones—that focused on Christian musical guest performers and allowed ample time for individual prayer. This year, however, Pastor Sutton, the minister of his church, is calling for individuals to reach out to the community on Good Friday, to give aid of some sort, as Jesus would have done.

  The Wedgewood Town Hall holds an annual “Good Friday Service Day” in the town center, which has recently been renamed “Wedgewood Serves Day,” a politically correct name in terms of welcoming the non-Christian contingent to the charitable event. On Wedgewood Serves Day the event at center ring, ironically held under a big top type of tent on the front lawn of the town hall, is a huge town-wide yard sale. Its profits go to local victims of domestic violence. The three downtown hair salons offer free haircuts for children, where donations will be accepted, and there’s a massive picnic featuring bagged lunches donated by the local Shop and Save Big grocery store. All along the edges of the tent are carnival types of games for kids that accept donations but are offered at no charge. I’ve never participated in these events in the past, as I’d always been sequestered in the Good Friday services at St. Mark’s.

  This year, for the first time, Mom and Dad decide to take the girls to Wedgewood Serves Day. They tell me it’s time they showed the girls something beyond just Jesus’s words, like the sort of action that Jesus would have taken. Each of the girls have selected a small pile of toys to part with that they will sell at the charitable yard sale, and Mom and Dad and I brought up the pile of unused furniture and art from the other basement storage room—the one I don’t sleep in. I help Dad load it all into his car and Mom’s minivan.

  I, on the other hand, will be doing a charity walk with David. The walk starts and ends at the Wedgewood Serves Day Headquarters downtown, and its course takes a winding path through the Church Street Historic District, around the reservoir, and back through the upscale neighborhoods. In all, the walk is five miles long, and most of the walkers have already gotten pledges from friends and neighbors. People who sign up to walk on the day of the race can pay twenty-five dollars to join in, which is my plan. All of the money will be donated to a college scholarship fund for local needy students.

  When I get to the Wedgewood Town Hall, a stately white building with pillars that fits the image of what a town hall should look like, David is already there along with Sarah, Beth, Lenny, and Cam. They’re at the sign-up table handing in their pledge money.

  Sarah sees me first. “Heya, Anthony!! Over here!!” She’s probably one of the nicest, friendliest girls I’ve ever met, and before I faced my own conflict I’d labeled her as weird and hadn’t given her the time of day. And knowing what I do now about her sexuality and mine, and the Church’s teachings on it, I still can’t help but wonder if the Jesus I love would condemn a person with a heart of gold like Sarah. Never releasing Beth’s hand, she manages to hug me. “Now, all you have to do is sign up for the walk right here and pay the twenty-
five dollars to participate, ‘kay?”

  I follow her to the table where a few kids from Wedgewood High School are volunteering.

  “Hi, Anthony. So glad you decided to walk today,” a small brown-haired girl who is also a junior says. I’m not sure of her name but I think it might be Ashley. When in doubt, Ashley is a fairly safe guess for a girl’s name, as there are six Ashleys in my class at school.

  Beside her is Lindsey Rosen, who I know from my AP classes. I’d never spoken a word to her either, except for maybe asking if I could borrow her White-out. “Hi Lindsey. You volunteering here too?” Plus, Lindsey’s Jewish, and up until now I thought she’d missed the religious boat, big time. Now I’m starting to think maybe there are more than one boats.

  “I volunteer every year, Anthony. My parents are the chair people of this event, so my brother and I have been working this table since I was in second grade. Last year Wedgewood Serves Day brought in nearly eight thousand dollars.”

  I remember that she has an older brother who has severe problems with his vision; Sammy’s his name, I think. He’s also very smart—and in most classes I heard through the grapevine that he has a paraeducator work with him. I haven’t made much of an effort to befriend him, either. I guess maybe for too long, my head’s been buried deep in an Our Way hole.

  I glance around in search of Sammy and see him sitting with a group of little kids, introducing them to his guide dog. Lindsey catches me looking. “He got the guide dog when he turned eighteen in the fall. It’s made a huge difference in his mobility. Our family is very lucky he was able to get one.”

  She’s a very loving sister, I decide, and realize the Italian Catholic Del Vecchio girls do not have a corner on the loving sisters market.