“You should be picky,” Connie says. “All of you kids should be picky!”
~~~
The Catholic church is called Immaculate Conception. As we walk inside we hear a hundred voices deep in conversation. This is the first support group I have attended this year. Go figure, it’s at a church attached to the organization I protested against a few months ago. I know that not all Catholics are the same, that, like Protestants, there is a huge variety of paradigms contained within the whole, and that is okay. We set our food down on the table with the other potluck dishes, and a petite woman runs over to Connie. Her name is Beth and she is another deeply entrenched United Methodist. Her hair is short and brown, and her glasses fit snugly on the bridge of her nose.
“You must be Tim!” she says, pulling me into a tight hug.
“And you’re Beth?”
“That’s me. Now, I’ve heard through the grapevine that you just came out recently? Congratulations!”
“Thank you. It wasn’t easy but I’m making it.” I take a sip of the coffee Connie hands me.
“I’m not completely out yet,” she says, “but the time is coming.” She looks down at her shoes and takes a deep, calming breath.
In her tone there are hints of deep pain. Even though she puts on a brave face, I sense that her pain may only have just begun. She stands next to me with her arm around my shoulder, and it isn’t the embrace of a stranger or acquaintance; it is the gentle touch of an aunt or a sister. The immediacy of our connection catches me off guard, but not in a bad way. I feel a soul connection to this petite woman, this closeted UMC minister in training. I cannot imagine what it would be like to spend so much time training for a ministry, all the while knowing that if I came out, I would be expelled from that training and barred from ordination. Beth reminds me once again that to live a life in the closet is to walk on egg shells, especially if one is part of a religious institution. I look over at Connie, who smiles as she watches Beth and I talk.
I spend the next half hour mingling, eating, enjoying the company of a wide variety of people. I meet a guy named Mark who is pushing seventy and has been with his partner for just under thirty-eight years. I can tell he has spent the majority of his life navigating others’ opinions. Having been openly gay long before it was considered normal by anyone, his somewhat cautious demeanor is understandable. After our talk, he kisses me on the cheek and tells me that he is happy I have so many years ahead of me where happiness and safety are mine for the taking. I am fixated on what his words really mean. How many years did this good man spend afraid? How many years was happiness an unattainable dream? How many tears has he shed in loneliness and isolation, because the world hated him?
As Mark and I talk, a young man walks into the room. Mark waves the young man over and insists I meet him. “His name is John, and he’s a good kid.”
John introduces himself. He is extremely well built and his hair is cropped short, typical of a soldier.
“Military man?” I ask after he introduces himself.
“I was,” he replies.
“Is your contract up?”
“I was dishonorably discharged, actually.” A sullen look of frustration replaces his smile.
“What? Why?”
Mark sighs and puts his hand on John’s shoulder. He squeezes knowingly, and I catch a telling look on Mark’s face. And then it hits me. This young man is the first I have met that suffered at the hands of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell (DADT).
“One of my commanding officers attends my church. A few weeks after I confided in my pastor that I’m gay, he told my C.O. …and it didn’t take long for Uncle Sam to get rid of me. It’s been the hardest year of my life.” His expression is pained. “After two tours in Afghanistan, I am kicked out for being queer.”
“I’ve seen it happen too many times,” Mark says. “But times are changing. I’m excited for you youngin’s.”
“John,” I say, “you didn’t hook up with anyone while you were in the military or do anything to draw their attention?”
“I never so much as flirted with another person after I enlisted. That was my career, man! I was going to be in the Marines for the rest of my life. I loved it, and trained for it, and was good at what I did. The part that makes me want to scream is that my discharge was dishonorable. I didn’t do a single fucking thing that was dishonorable as a soldier!” John takes a deep breath and puts his hand on Mark’s, which is still perched on his shoulder. “Mark has heard my story too many times. Bet he’s sick of it by now,” John says as lightheartedly as possible.
“Never, my boy. Telling that story is part of your journey, and believe it or not, I’m more proud of you every time you share it.” Mark looks at me. “Tim, you wouldn’t believe how much more calm John is now. The first time we met, not long after it happened, I was almost afraid of him. He was so angry.”
“I can imagine,” I say, even though I don’t really have a clue.
“Yeah it was pretty rough,” John says, regaining his composure.
“All that danger and all that sacrifice, and we aren’t even able to marry our partners,” Mark says, his words betraying his own struggle.
“It isn’t fair,” I say. “So what are you doing, now that you are out of the military?”
“I’m just trying to put my life back together. I am trying to find something new for a career.”
I feel compelled to hug John, so I let my body close the distance between us and I wrap my arms around his torso. He leans his head on my shoulder and sighs.
“The United States government is just like the church.”
“How so?” I ask.
“They shoot their wounded,” John says. Mark snorts his assent.
“Thank you for your service, John. Even if it was cut short, you are a hero to me.”
“To both of us!” Mark agrees.
His arms wrap around me tighter than before. I feel the strength in his arms. He hugs like a Paris-Island trained Marine.“Thank you, guys,” John whispers. “I really needed to hear that.” Over John’s shoulder, a few feet behind Mark, I see Connie looking. Her expression is grim, and she nods slowly that she understands. She knows John, or at least his story. This LGBT potluck is a support group, a tight-knit community of people, and probably a very necessary part of everyone’s life. I wish I could be a part of it regularly.
Like many, I have spent my life believing a lie. It is the lie that there are no longer second-class citizens in this country. There are. John and Mark are second-class citizens, and I am a second-class citizen now; and anyone sympathizing with us, like Jay Bakker when he came out as an ally of the community, is crushed underfoot just for their association to us, and they are assigned second-class status, too.
Here’s another lie: America is a Christian nation. If we were, thousands wouldn’t die every year from starvation, poverty, murder, or war. If America was a Christian nation, there wouldn’t be second-class citizens. All men and women would be equal. No, we are no more a “Christian nation” than anywhere else. While our country has been blessed, we have tainted our blessings by our cruelty to those who are different. This year has proven it to me. John is proof, and so is Mark.
I walk over to Connie after John, Mark, and I part ways.
“They’re sweet, aren’t they?” Connie asks.
“They’re more than sweet. Mark is a testament to same-sex relationships, and John is a hero,” I say. “I just can’t imagine why this country wouldn’t let John serve. It really makes no sense.”
My imagination plays a scene like a movie in my mind: John is in Afghanistan holding a black M16, dressed in his desert camouflage. I see him moving with his squad, mortars and shrapnel flying mere inches above his head. He fights for our country willingly, accepting of the possibility of sacrifice, all the while knowing that our great country doesn’t understand, accept, or even like him. He knows this, and still he risks his life. I see him hunkering down in the dirt, praying for safety as he and his fel
low Marines slowly advance on a site rumored to be the meeting place of a terrorist cell, and I see him breathe a sigh of relief as the house is cleared and the mission ends. I let this scene play through my mind, and the reality of his dishonorable discharge pierces my heart like a piece of shrapnel in the desert. He is a better man than I am, stronger and more courageous and just because he’s gay, his experience and talents count for less than his comrades’ with the “proper” orientation.
Their loss.
The rest of the night, I meet people who have experienced all forms of rejection from the mainstream, and I sit silently while they tell me their stories. A few feet away, Mark and his husband hold hands, their love as vibrant and strong as it ever has been thirty-eight years and counting. I wonder how many straight couples could boast that number of years.
Before we leave Mark walks over to say goodbye. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Tim. I hope you come back!”
“Me too. It’s hard to get down here much, living in Nashville, but I will do my best.”
“He’s a good kid,” Mark says to Connie.
“Yes he is,” she agrees.
Mark gives me a hug and a kiss on the forehead. The kiss reminds me of the way my grandpa used to kiss me.
“It was a pleasure to meet you,” I say, waving goodbye.
Connie and I walk outside, and I take one back look towards the church. Just outside the door, John waves goodbye. He turns and walks back inside, and I see the back of his shirt for the first time. The white letters on the black t-shirt read Don’t Tread on Me. I watch him inside until he moves out of sight, and soberness washes over me. I am sorry for treading on you, John. I am sorry for marginalizing your bravery.
“So what did you think?” Connie asks as I fasten my seatbelt.
“That was great. Really great, actually.”
“I know you’re depressed, and I know you feel isolated and alone, but don’t let that pain blind you. You are the main character in the story of your life, but other people are the main characters of their own lives. And sometimes you can find healing just by playing a supporting role in someone else’s experience,” Connie says as she backs the white suburban out of the parking space and pulls out onto the road that will take us home.
“That’s true,” I say.
“I know I’m preaching to the choir, but I want to remind you of that. I’ve battled depression before, and I understand how easy it is to lose sight of the big picture.”
I feel reinvigorated, almost a restoration of my purpose. This whole year is about listening to others and understanding how diverse people really are. It occurs to me that the reason for my progression away from who I was and toward who I am becoming, is people. In listening to others and allowing them to share their hearts with me, I have finally conquered my irrational fear of different.
“So what’s next?” I ask Connie.
“I have cupcakes baking at home, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tried my cupcakes!” Connie says as we pull into her subdivision.
“I can’t wait.” I can’t wait for the cupcakes and I can’t wait for everything else this year still has to offer.
Two years later, on September 20, 2011, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was repealed. I heard the news and thought of John, hoping that wherever he was, he felt some small measure of peace.
New Bridge
A month passes in Memphis and I feel rejuvenated. I had forgotten what it felt like to be part of a family. Even though I am struggling as much as ever, Connie has filled a unique role in my life. She is a counselor, a teacher of sorts, encouraging me to question my beliefs in a way no one else has before. One of the more recent topics of conversation is gay marriage; the more we talk, the more I feel my eyes opening to the arguments of equality. Why do I believe I have the right to marry a woman, but individuals involved in same-sex relationships don’t have the same access to sanctioned lifetime commitment? Is the concept of gay marriage at its core really even a moral one?
I am less and less sure of the things I used to think were black and white, especially in light of the beautiful, long-lasting relationships I have witnessed this year. I think of Mark and his partner, who have been together for much longer than I’ve been alive. I wonder what it must be like to be told by the government and the church that my relationship holds no more validity than that of two boyfriends going against the social and biological norm. Their relationship convicts me of narrow-mindedness. Similarly, my softball coaches have been together for twenty-five years, and the way they are together is inspirational.
One of the things I love about Connie’s house is that I am free to spend time by myself in the guest room, and her family does not consider me anti-social for taking that time. Connie encourages me daily to spend time in thought, prayer, and writing in my journal. I sit on the bed, stretch, and flex my hand after writing three pages in the black notebook on my lap. It feels good to process my thoughts on paper, to argue back and forth with myself. The endless debates I wage have filled two notebooks in the month I’ve been here. It is the most productive way for me to process. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn, trying to ignore the Pharisee sitting at the desk.
You’re taking your doubt too far. Marriage? An obviously sacred, heterosexual covenant? Don’t spit on that sacrament.
Sacrament? So you’re a Catholic now? We live in a country where politics and religion are supposed to be separate, yet the conservative Christians get to withhold rights and privileges from people outside their faith?
You can’t separate politics from morality. People vote the way they believe.
But our country is not run by the Southern Baptist denomination…or at least it shouldn’t be.
God created marriage for man and wife. Why didn’t the Bible have examples of homosexual marriage, if it is okay to be gay?
The Bible doesn’t talk about a lot of things. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Adam and Steve, was it? Oh wait, that’s right it was Adam and Eve.
Doesn’t the Bible also say it’s better that a man not be alone? So that excludes gay men? That excludes lesbian women?
Weak argument!
Not really. You throw out scripture passages with no regard for historical context or logic.
So you’ve made up your mind, then?
We’ll see.
~~~
A result of the back and forth of the equal marriage debate is an event Connie decided to put on several months ago. “New Bridge” will be a night of comedy, speaking, and conversation in downtown Memphis. Beale Street is renowned for its bars, its blues and its barbeque, but Connie hopes to bring the marriage equality conversation into that public forum, too…and if nothing else, to entertain. The event’s keynote speaker is our mutual friend, Jay Bakker. Who better to speak on the issue than a man who has held both beliefs and was cast out from the mainstream church like an outlaw? Jay is an outlaw, an outlaw preacher…and as I continue to question the dogma I have been force-fed most my life, I think I may just be one, too.
I stand on Beale Street on the afternoon of the event and pass out fliers to anyone willing to take one. It is almost a hundred degrees outside. And then time runs out and I walk back to the theater, hopeful that a crowd of people will participate. Only a handful have shown up. The theater seats seven hundred and we have maybe seventeen people there to participate in the conversation. But the show must go on, and so Connie nods her head for everything to begin. I know she is disappointed with the turnout. Months of planning and hard work have gone into tonight. Marriage equality is an issue Connie feels very strongly about. I wish more people had come.
The lights in the spacious theater dim, and multi-colored spotlights illuminate the stage in plethora of colors. It wasn’t planned, but the lights reflecting off of Connie’s shirt as she goes on stage are reminiscent of a gay pride flag. She announces a local improvisation group, and they perform Proposition 8, the Musical. I laugh, but am simultaneously frustrated.
The writers of the satirical tribute seem to understand Jesus more than I ever have, and that really unnerves me. Jesus fulfilled and freed us from the law, yet I have lived most of my life a slave to law. Addicted, even. The conflict elicits a dilemma for me. Am I supposed to love everyone unconditionally and model the teachings of Jesus without forcing my beliefs on others or is it my moral imperative to force-feed my interpretation of the Bible on everyone that disagrees with me? What is my interpretation now?
Pharisee stares at me knowingly. You know the problem I see? You have consistently thrown the baby out with the bathwater, compromising your beliefs on a whim.
No, I haven’t. I’m just beginning to understand that I have to look at the world through a bigger lens than my own personal faith.
This musical is blasphemous.
It’s satire.
My Jesus is holy, he’s not a comedian. My Jesus is God.
Mine is too, but he was also a man. Don’t take that away from him. He laughed and cried and told jokes, just like the rest of us.
I don’t think you’d recognize Jesus if he was sitting next to you.
Because I don’t believe my faith in him gives me license to ruin peoples’ lives?
The Pharisee doesn’t respond. The commotion on stage has ended and I hear a single voice. I look up and see Jay on stage, talking about his late mother with tears in his eyes. I feel for my friend. So much pain in his life, yet he uses his faith as a tool to alleviate pain in others. Maybe that is his way of healing.
At the end of the night, as we walk back to the car, my suspicions are confirmed: Connie is depressed. She is sad that the event did not reach as many people as she had hoped it would. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I want to celebrate with her that she pulled it off, but the numbers were not what we had hoped for.
The Cross in the Closet Page 20
