Between These Walls

by John Herrick

  CHAPTER 42

  It felt like treading on foreign soil. The little church with the stained glass window had expanded decades earlier via a brick wing on one side. Unlike the oak door he had opened two days earlier, the door that led to the church office was white with decorative trim, the kind you would find on an ordinary house.

  Hunter didn’t know why he had come. But if the minister intended to preach about him, Hunter felt the man should, at least, meet him. Maybe he wanted the minister to know Hunter Carlisle wasn’t a bad person.

  “May I help you?” asked the church secretary, who looked like a soccer mom with hair that curled not far below her ears.

  “I wondered if the pastor is in. If we could talk, please.”

  She examined Hunter and asked, “Are you a member here?”

  “No ma’am, I’d simply like to talk with the pastor, if that’s okay.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, a door opened behind the woman and the minister walked through. Hunter caught sight of bookshelves in the room on the other side of the doorway. Dropping a file folder into the inbox on the secretary’s desk, the man regarded Hunter.

  “Can I help you, young man?”

  Young man?

  Hunter glanced at the secretary, who continued to focus on him as well, now grafted into the conversation by virtue of their stances beside her desk.

  “I listened to your sermon on Sunday,” Hunter said, “and had some questions, I guess.”

  At the mention of his sermon, the minister straightened his posture a tad. A pleased look entered his eyes.

  “Come in,” said the minister, extending his arm toward his office. He followed Hunter in and closed the door. “Have a seat.”

  Though he had shed his white robe for the week, the minister wore a standard clerical collar with a black shirt. The man had switched crosses since Sunday and, today, wore a wooden cross with metal trimmings, also three inches long. A nameplate on his desk read, Rev. Dr. Rodney Harper.

  “I’m Reverend Harper,” he said with a handshake.

  “Hunter Carlisle.”

  No reaction from the minister at the mention of Hunter’s name. Perhaps he knew Hunter and Gabe by reputation alone, not by name. At the man’s invitation, Hunter took a seat in front of a large desk. Facing Hunter from the opposite side of the desk, Reverend Harper pressed his fingertips together into the shape of a steeple. The man kept his posture rigid as he sat.

  His penetrating stare made Hunter uncomfortable. Hunter questioned whether he should have come at all. Then again, getting up and leaving seemed ridiculous.

  “You mentioned Sunday’s sermon.”

  “Yes. Your sermon—series. Well, I thought maybe your sermons came about because of … rumors about a … couple … in town.”

  Was couple the right word? Even today, it sounded odd to Hunter.

  “I saw an issue in the community that needed to be addressed, yes.”

  Hunter tensed, scratching the back of his neck. How should he go about saying this?

  “Well, sir, I’m the person you’re preaching about.”

  Motionless in his chair, the man reduced the tension in his fingertips but kept them steepled. Though he didn’t break his stare, Hunter watched as a pointed look crept into the man’s eyes. He remained silent, waiting for Hunter to say more, so Hunter decided to forge ahead.

  “I guess I wanted to stop by your office and let you know I’m not a bad person.”

  Reverend Harper considered Hunter’s words.

  “Well, Hunter, I’m sure you’re a good person,” he said, “but God is clear on how He feels about homosexuality.”

  “To someone wrestling with it firsthand, your words on Sunday sounded a bit harsh.”

  “It’s a harsh subject. As I said on Sunday, God destroyed two cities because of homosexuality: Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said. I don’t know why, but as a Christian, it doesn’t sound like the God I know, to single out one thing and treat it as worse than the others. To destroy a group of people because of one sin when He sees all sin as what separated people from God.”

  Reverend Harper swiveled in his chair and retrieved a Bible from a bookshelf that loomed behind him.

  “Let me show you something, Hunter.” The minister paged through the Bible and opened it to the book of Genesis, chapter 18. He ran his finger down the page as he scanned the text, then pointed to a verse, turning the Bible so both he and Hunter could read the text. “Verse 20 says, ‘And the LORD said, “The outcry of Sodom and Gomorrah is indeed great, and their sin is exceedingly grave”’—exceedingly grave, God says.” The minister paged forward. “The Bible gives us a view of what that sin was, the night before God destroyed the city in chapter 19. Two angels came to the city dressed like regular men and came to stay at the home of a righteous man named Lot: ‘Before they lay down, the men of the city, the men of Sodom, surrounded the house, both young and old, all the people from every quarter; and they called to Lot and said to him, “Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us that we may have relations with them.”’” He gave Hunter a direct stare. “Do you know what the men were talking about when they said, ‘have relations?’”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “They were men seeking to have relations with other men. That’s why God destroyed the city. God spared Lot and his family; those other men were dead by the next day. And God does not want that event forgotten. He recalls it in the book of Ezekiel.”

  The minister paged more than halfway through the Bible, stopping at the book of Ezekiel.

  “Chapter 16, verses 49 and 50 show us God considered their actions not just sin, but an abomination: ‘Behold, this was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had arrogance, abundant food and careless ease, but she did not help the poor and needy. Thus they were haughty and committed abominations before Me. Therefore I removed them when I saw it.’”

  Hunter stared at the page, poring over the verses again and again, searching for some sign of God’s mercy, the mercy Hunter had come to know so well. The familiar feelings of pain and guilt sank into his gut, the way they had when he’d read those verses many times before.

  Reaching the end of the verses, he started over a fourth time, biding his time, hating the awkward silence in the room.

  Then, as he read the words phrase by phrase, a thought occurred to him.

  “Wait,” Hunter said. “It doesn’t mention anything about homosexuality.”

  “What?”

  “Look here.” Without intending disrespect, Hunter pointed to the verses. “There’s nothing sexual on the list. It gives a whole list of reasons why God destroyed the city, though. So isn’t it saying God destroyed the city because of lots of different sins, not just one?”

  Reverend Harper smirked. “We can deduce sexual sin from the verses in Genesis.”

  “But weren’t there women in Sodom and Gomorrah?”

  “Of course there were, Hunter. That’s the point: The men rejected relations with women for relations with other men.”

  “No, I mean, the whole cities were destroyed. That means the women got destroyed too, right? The Bible doesn’t say they committed anything sexual with other women—it only mentions the men did that. So if the women were also destroyed, the destruction must have been because of more than just the men’s sexual relations, right? Like it says in these verses: arrogance, haughtiness, not caring for the poor—”

  Hunter looked up. The minister appeared stunned.

  For once, Hunter began to find an inkling of relief for his soul.

  “Didn’t God know we would have our shortcomings?” Hunter said. “Everyone has issues they deal with. Doesn’t He walk through them with us? When I look at how Jesus treated the Samaritan woman at the well, the one who had a sordid past, I can see He didn’t point a finger at her and He didn’t try to destroy her.

  “Or how about the woman caught in adultery, when the reli
gious leaders were about to stone her? Or Mary Magdalene—rejected by others, but she ended up being the first person Jesus appeared to after He rose from the dead. It seems to me that Jesus is patient, walks with us, cheers us on as we press through. We aren’t perfect, but we take it step by step—like the Bible says, we work out our salvation with fear and trembling. We make mistakes, but we love God and have reverence for Him in our hearts.”

  Hunter hadn’t meant to unleash a stream of thoughts, but he found it encouraging. It didn’t answer all his questions or resolve his challenges, but sitting there, it brought him hope.

  With pursed lips and creases along his forehead, Reverend Harper looked as though he wasn’t used to someone tying together Scriptures from the other side of his desk. Hunter wondered if he had gone too far with what he’d said to the man. Hunter hadn’t tried to argue with a minister; rather, he tried to sort through the questions that had swirled in his soul for years. He wanted to help the minister understand that people who struggle don’t always want to struggle.

  At last, the minister leaned back in his chair, which released another squeak in the stillness of the room. He grinned at Hunter, but the man’s lips remained sealed, and the smile didn’t make its way to his eyes or the rest of his face.

  “Our doctrine can be difficult to understand,” the minister said. “It’s a doctrine of right and wrong.”

  “But what about the doctrine of love?” Hunter pleaded. “It seems God gives us guidelines on how to treat people: How about the Bible verse that tells us love covers a multitude of sins? Or the verse that says to love our neighbor as ourselves? Would you want someone to step up to a pulpit and announce your vulnerabilities, but never mention how difficult they are and that you might need support from other Christians? It seems to eliminate the aspect of loving people when we point a finger and then drive away, leaving them stranded to deal with the humiliation it creates.”

  “God’s Law is clear,” Reverend Harper said. “I don’t want the people in my congregation to condone behaviors that violate God’s Law.”

  “But isn’t there a place for mercy without condoning anything? Isn’t that how Jesus treated people? Wouldn’t you rather encourage people to treat others with love and let God lead them in how to interact with people they disagree with?”

  “God shared the Law first, then the Gospel of Christ,” the minister replied. “If you’re in sin, you need the Law. You need to be shown the error of your ways so you can repent.”

  “But the Bible says it’s God’s kindness that leads us to repentance.”

  Reverend Harper leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms.

  “Do you attend church here, Hunter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “The people who attend church here trust me to shed light on Scripture for them. If anyone in my congregation is in error, it is my responsibility to show them how their error violates God’s Word.”

  Hunter thought back to the church service he had attended on Sunday. He pictured the stoicism in the faces around him.

  “But sir, I don’t think it’s possible to change people by controlling their thoughts and beliefs, rather than letting God work on their hearts,” Hunter said, careful to communicate a tone of respect. As he thought back to the lack of detectable joy among this minister’s parishioners, Hunter ached for those who might be in the midst of private pain. “When you try to control them, you either make them feel like they’ll never measure up, or they want to shake themselves free of that total control. But you can help them by showing them they’re loved. That’s what people want more than anything: to know someone cares about them. They don’t need anyone to tell them they fall short of perfection—they already know that about themselves.”

  A smirk returned to the corner of Reverend Harper’s mouth.

  “Thank you for your advice, Hunter, but I did spend four years in seminary. With all due respect, I think I’m a little more qualified to lay out Scripture than you might be. You’ve read the Bible, no doubt. But there’s a difference between reading the Bible and being a serious student of it.”

  At that, Hunter paused. A minister had never pulled rank on him before. He didn’t know rank existed among Christians; he thought ministers’ first concern was to help people, not position themselves as experts.

  Hunter recalled the Bible’s instructions in chapter 13 of 1 Corinthians, on how to treat people with love, even if he didn’t receive corresponding treatment from others. Despite the stern expression on Reverend Harper’s face, Hunter couldn’t help but feel compassion for the man. Granted, this minister’s preaching and latest insult had made Hunter feel horrible. This minister hadn’t considered the roots that might underlie Hunter’s struggle. But regardless, this man was, to borrow a phrase from Jesus, Hunter’s neighbor. He was still Hunter’s brother in Christ.

  At the same time, Hunter remembered the Bible’s words instructing him, if possible, to be at peace with all men as much as it depends on him. Reverend Harper might not respond with peace, but Hunter knew God held Hunter responsible for making the effort. At this point, Hunter assumed he couldn’t persuade the minister to reconsider his approach in dealing with others, so Hunter decided to end the meeting in peace.

  “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Hunter extended his hand, reaching halfway across the minister’s desk, then reaching a few extra inches to make his sincerity clear. They shook hands.

  “You’re welcome, Hunter.”

  Hunter rose from his seat and headed for the minister’s door, scared for anyone in the man’s congregation who might have questions about their sexuality or any other issues that weighed heavy upon them.

  If they couldn’t find hope in their church, not even with their pastor, to whom could they turn?

  CHAPTER 43

  One week later, Hunter didn’t know why the meeting with Reverend Harper continued to bother him, but it did.

  What had he hoped to accomplish by trying to change the man’s mind? He couldn’t tell if the minister thought he was a good person or not, but the man’s lack of mercy, his unwillingness even to try to understand the private pain, illustrated why Hunter had never wanted to confide in anyone. Hunter felt as alone as he was now—in a physical sense—as he stood at the site of Ellen’s new home. He wanted to spend an hour away from his house. Away from the world. Somewhere nobody would find him.

  The construction workers had left for the day. Hunter knew Ellen wouldn’t care if he stopped by. Lingering in front of the house, he noted how it loomed over him.

  The walls had gone up. Hunter could no longer see through the structure.

  He walked through the front doorway, which still lacked a door, and peeked into the rooms on each side of the foyer. With no destination in mind, he turned into the same hallway Ellen had showed him on their last visit. Hunter wandered down the hall, brushing his fingertips along the walls and marveling at how much progress the crew had made in what seemed like a short amount of time.

  He stopped halfway and stared at the nook at the end of the hall. Though it lacked a door and shelving, with its walls in place, it looked like a linen closet now, as Ellen had said.

  Hunter sauntered toward the closet and tiptoed inside. Its two-foot width felt cramped, but in this moment, the close quarters brought an odd sense of comfort. Hunter turned to face the hallway, as Ellen had done. With his back against the closet wall, he slid to the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs, planting his head between his knees. Hunter closed his eyes.

  Once, as a teenager, he had tried to confide in Randy, the friend with whom he had run cross-country, the one he had known since childhood. To be more precise, Hunter hadn’t tried to confide; rather, he had tried to determine if it was safe to confide—to see if Randy was someone he could trust.

  “Do you know anyone who’s gay?” Hunter had asked, trying to sound blasé.

  “Don’t make me puke,” Randy had replied. “Can you imagine how disgusting that
would be? They should round ‘em up and keep ‘em together in a colony or something, like they used to do with the fucking lepers.”

  Hunter winced. Randy’s voice echoed in the corridors of his memory. Hunter lifted his head from between his knees, ran his hands up and down along the smooth, white surfaces of the walls. He peered up and tried to determine the height of the ceiling, but without enough natural light, the closet was too dark for him to calculate anything.

  Hunter recalled himself at twelve years old, when he first sensed something was amiss. By that point, he had discerned that his attraction to the opposite sex, although present, hadn’t felt as strong in him as it seemed to reside in others. And he’d noticed it didn’t resonate in him to the same degree same-sex attraction did. But Hunter hadn’t known at the time whether to concern himself with it or brush it off as a passing phase.

  He had decided to ask his father about it. When you’re a boy that age, your father is your most accessible resource for learning how to operate as a man. Due to the sensitivity of the subject, though—not to mention its awkward nature—he hadn’t wanted to ask his father about it outright. So Hunter had decided it best to wade into the topic by feigning confusion.

  Hunter sat in the passenger seat of his father’s car, on his way to one of his middle-school baseball games.

  “Dad, did you know some guys don’t like girls?”

  “Some don’t.” His father had shot him a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. “What makes you ask that?”

  “There’s this kid at school,” Hunter had said. “He told somebody he’s gay.”

  “His poor parents, having to hear that,” his father had said, shaking his head. “Tell you one thing: No son of mine will ever turn out gay, not so far as I can help it.”

  That had marked the first day Hunter shut himself down, the day he had lost his innocence. From that day forward, Hunter went into permanent hiding.