The Cross in the Closet

by Kurek, Timothy

  “You are not my bro—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all. Pax vobiscum.” I turn around and walk away.

  I don’t wait around to see if the street preacher stays and preaches on or if he leaves. I can’t hear him anymore as I walk away. Either way, I had to get away from the man on the bucket. The spectacle of the gospel being brutally twisted and manipulated by people addicted to telling others that they are going to hell is more than I can stomach anymore.

  “I tried,” I say under my breath.

  “We know.” A young woman behind me smiles. Her eyes are gentle and the sun reflects brightly off her hot-pink hair. “We heard, and we appreciate what you said.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.

  Over the next four hours, I spend time with my softball team, grab a Coke with Jason and Scott, and sit under the Vitamin Water tent with friends, trying to stay cool in the oppressive June heat. Things feel right, and I am having fun…but I still feel angry about the street preacher.

  Conservative Christianity teaches us to love everyone; however, that love can take many different forms. It seems to stem from an “I’m right, you’re wrong” biblical perspective, which imposes only two rather limited options: Insist others conform to your spiritual world view, or ignore those who don’t. A friend of mine calls it the “brother’s keeper” method.

  If I have learned anything this year, it’s this: Condemning people from a soapbox doesn’t work, nor do attempts to modify the behavior of others. It is not the words of scripture that change an individual’s heart; it is the Spirit in and behind those words. That same Spirit teaches us to leave the finger-pointing to someone far more capable, and to love sacrificially and completely, without motive or thought of personal gain.

  I quoted I Timothy to the street preacher because it seems like something he was never taught. The aim of our charge is love. and certain persons, by swerving away from that aim, have been caught up in vain discussions, desiring to be teachers of something they don’t understand. Unfortunately, modern-day Christianity has created more than a few of these “certain persons.” For the longest time, I was one of them.

  When Christians begin to question whether options one and two might both be false and consider the possibility of a third, or even fourth option, they are often swiftly labeled by their fellow church members as heretics—or emergents, if you prefer the religious lingo—and are told to either accept “in faith” one of the first two options; or they are pressured, like splinters, out of the church body. More and more, these splinters are leaving organized religion, and now I just might be one of them.

  These believers are beginning to question things as I am questioning things, not content to stay in the religious bubbles of their youth. Social justice and acceptance of differing worldviews is, for many, replacing the “turn or burn” interpretation of the gospel. I see this even in the Bible-Belt culture of Nashville, and it gives me hope as I move forward on my journey.

  It pains me to think that my life will be forced in so many different directions when this year is up. When I started, I did not know that once I set out on this path I would never be able to go back. I am changing. And my community won’t accept those changes in me. They rejected me because of a label, because I didn’t hide my “sin” like they do and keep a smile on my face while we sing our hymns and hide our true selves from one another. No, we won’t bring up their addictions, their gossip, or their infidelity. Instead, we’ll mark my “sin” with a capital S— maybe it’ll even be scarlet—and count me as lost to the enemy. I really do have it better now, having made my exodus from the churches of my youth.

  I wonder what would happen if…instead of preaching from soap-boxes and shouting through megaphones, or spending millions on political campaigns meant to hinder the rights of the gay and lesbian community…what would happen if we pointed the finger at ourselves? What if we chose to live intentionally in community with everyone, regardless of our differences? What would happen if we shut our mouths and simply served the people in our neighborhoods and cities, without an agenda? Would the message of Jesus survive? Would the gospel still be as powerful and applicable, in our modern context, if our methodology evolved?

  I think so.

  Rescued

  I am in the second act of this story now, and the novelty, like new-car smell, has worn off. The novelty of the closet wore off a long time ago, but I’m still inside it, alone. I cannot imagine living this way for much longer. It’s crushing my spirits to a degree I never anticipated. We were not created to be alone, you and I. We were created with a need for otherness, a need for community, and I am just beginning to realize how much the closet hinders community and even more than community, how it hinders love.

  Two weeks have passed since Gay Pride Day, and boredom is killing me. No job and no money makes my time on Church Street less enjoyable. I am sitting on the back patio of my father’s with a case of piss beer, listening to “The Best of Puccini” and the sound of cicadas trying to mate with each other. I miss my friends, the regulars, and all of the conversation and laughter we shared at the café. Loneliness and desperation are growing as my social life deteriorates into nonexistence. I’m still living at my dad’s house, and I often resort to drinking alone. The realization hits me that this year is more than half over.

  Losing my job at the café has turned my black cloud into a tropical depression. I haven’t felt this bogged down, this trapped, in years. The combination of pretending to be someone I’m not and the emotional distance between me and my family are taking a toll. I wonder, is this plunge into the melancholy unique to me, or is it a natural byproduct of the closet?

  The green of the grass is topped with the light frosting of the freshly cut grass that lies atop it, and it has a distinctly Southern smell that I have never found anywhere other than Tennessee. I love Nashville…but even the city itself is starting to feel oppressive. The claustrophobia of my life is shattering any semblance of stability I’ve found.

  And then the phone rings with a distinctive ring, and I know I might just be okay. It’s my good friend Connie, who could more aptly be described as a guardian angel or a second mom than just another peer. I met Connie through our mutual friend Jay from New York, but until recently, I was always put off by her brand of faith. She lives several hours away, in Memphis, so we rarely get to see one another. Jay told her about my experiment and she reached out. Connie is a very liberal United Methodist pastor; throughout her ministry, gay and lesbian issues have been a passion. Lately she has been calling me daily, and I wonder how she knows, or always seems to know, when I am struggling. I wonder how she knows just the right time to call and check up on me. Every time I hear that ringtone I know that at least for a moment, I’m not completely alone.

  “Hey, kiddo. How’re you holding up?”

  A few seconds pass and I don’t respond. I hiccup. “I was just smelling the grass. My dad mowed the lawn, and it smells great out here!”

  “That bad?”

  I can’t hide anything from her. “No, no! Everything is good. I was thinking about going to Tribe tonight to spend some time with the guys.”

  “Sounds like you’ve already brought the party home. How much have you had to drink?”

  “Not enough.”

  “Oh, hun…Have you seen Shawn lately?”

  She doesn’t press me for details I don’t want to give. I like that about her.

  “Not much. He’s been really busy.” Another hiccup. “I miss Shawn!” Everything comes to me like an epiphany when I’ve been drinking, even the smallest things.

  “Sounds like you could really use a friend.”

  “I’m okay, really. I’ve only got five more months of this thing, and then I’ll get my life back!”

  I try to focus but I see a small yellow butterfly several feet away. I like the way it floats, bobbing up and down on the air like a kite, only more graceful. Part of me wishes I could float like that. I wonder if it will ever be p
ossible. I would probably have to lose a lot of weight…but then again bumblebees have a body mass higher than any other flying bug and somehow it seems to work for them. Why aren’t there any bumblebees out here right now? It is summer, after all. I wipe my face with a wet rag.

  “Hello? You there?” she asks.

  “Connie, I’m not well.” Another drunken epiphany.

  “Tim, just come here.”

  “Where?”

  “Memphis! God, I hate it when you’re drunk!”

  “That makes one of us.”

  “So is that a yes?”

  “Can we visit Graceland?”

  “Does that mean you’re coming?”

  “I don’t know. I need to find a job. And what about softball?”

  “You sent me your schedule months ago. After tomorrow, you’ve got the next three weeks off before your tournaments. Just come stay with my family and I’ll help you with your project.”

  “How can you help?”

  “Well, for one, Charlie and I are the only ones who will know about your project. We won’t even tell our kids, or anyone else for that matter. You’ll get to see what it’s like to go somewhere new, where the label of gay is connected to you from the first impression.”

  “That sounds like a great plan! I’ll be there in two hours!” I stand up and start walking to my car. I don’t even have my keys.

  “Hell, no, Tim! Are you crazy? Sober up, play your games tomorrow, and then come down sober!” She yells that last part and I have to pull the phone away from my ear.

  “Okay, okay! I’ll stop drinking.”

  “That a boy!”

  I can hear her smiling on the other end of the line. I open another beer and hope the hiss of the carbonation escaping is not loud enough for Connie to hear. I have never felt so low.

  ~~~

  After a little over two hours of driving, I pull into Connie’s driveway, barely able to park on the steep incline. I pull my backpack and duffel bag from the back seat and see a furry cat jump onto my hood. The cat turns in two quick circles before curling up and closing his eyes. What an oddly charming little creature. And then I feel it. For the first time in years, I feel home.

  I see Connie through my driver’s side window, standing on the porch. It is an odd thing to leave Nashville without any plan or itinerary, awkward, but somehow good and comfortable. Connie gives me a huge hug and tells me it’s great to see me. She has the warmest spirit, and I feel instantly at ease.

  “How was the drive?”

  “As good as can be expected. Got to think a lot…and sing opera at the top of my lungs.”

  “Glad I wasn’t there!” She smiles.

  “You know, this is the first time this year I’ve done anything with me in mind. To get away and just breathe.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable. My daughters are beyond excited to have a guy to talk boys with!”

  “Thanks for this.”

  “I believe in you, Tim. Just count the past month as a hiccup and keep moving forward. You know I’m here for ya.”

  We sit in Connie’s study, and I put my feet up on the ottoman, exhausted, drained, paper thin. I look over and see myself in a mirror. I look like I have aged several years in a matter of months; the creases in my forehead are a preview of what’s to come. I’ve even lost twenty pounds. Between a softball and dancing diet, I have spent most of my summer running from bar to bar, and ball field to ball field. I sigh and Connie tilts her head, a look of curiosity on her face.

  “What’s wrong, hun?”

  “I’m just so tired.”

  “You want to take a nap?”

  “Not that kind of tired,” I say, taking a deep breath. “My soul is tired, and my heart has broken so many times this year for so many people, and for myself, that I feel like I’ve got nothing left.”

  Connie smiles.

  “Tim, you’re growing, and that’s never easy. Don’t put so much pressure on yourself. It’s not your job to save the world.”

  “No, but it’s my responsibility to make amends for my life. I feel so much guilt for who I’ve been all this time and how I’ve treated these people.”

  “What’s going on with your brother?”

  “Still no word, but I can’t push it. I’m just going to give him the space he asked for and hope things work out.” I retrieve the letter he wrote me before his wedding out of my bag, and I hand it to Connie. “This is what I’ve lost. I can’t believe it’s been less than a year since he wrote this.”

  She reads the letter and I see tears in her eyes. Then she looks up and smiles.

  “Trust me: your brother will be your best friend again before too long. He feels like he’s been played for a fool and that he didn’t have a choice,” she says, echoing the guilt that exists inside of me. She sees my face. “Tim, you’re doing the right thing, but you’ve got to follow through with respecting his wishes.”

  She thumbs the letter and looks down at it thoughtfully. “What you’re doing is important, but you already know that. What’s left to doubt?” she asks.

  “I think the reason I haven’t loved other people has just as much to do with not loving myself as if does with what I’ve learned growing up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I’ve realized anything this year about myself, it’s that I am a pretty insecure guy. I used my religion to bully people, to feel superior to them. If I loved myself, I probably would’ve known better.” I lean my head back against the top of the leather chair and sigh.

  “I’m so proud of you. You are getting to the point that you aren’t just carelessly pointing the finger. You’re looking inside first, and you need to keep following that path.”

  “Someone else I know told me to start within. Why am I the last to figure these things out?”

  “Don’t worry. Eventually your eyes will adjust to the gradient of colors that the black and white’s have cheated you from.”

  Ana•s Nin once said, “We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.” Connie’s words confirm that. As my perspective continues to be challenged, my view of others is changing. I look back on who I was before and feel humbled. All we really have in this life is each other, and I think that was God’s intention. The gospel really is simple: loving Him means loving each other.

  Hours later, after running errands and eating dinner, Connie and I sit on her back porch. Before I arrived, she stocked the fridge with foods she knows I like and even purchased Captain Morgan and Coke for mixed drinks. So we sit, talking about God, and life, and faith, and otherness, and I feel…at home. I feel free to melt into my wicker chair and free to release every thought I have kept so tightly locked away from people in the past seven months. I release it. I share stories of all the people I have met and about the downward spiral I’ve fallen into since the beginning of summer. Connie does not respond; she just sits, listening while I talk, crying with me when I cry. And I know she accepts me for who I am. For the first time in my life, I feel a true sense of safety. This unexpected haven in Memphis has restored something I thought I had lost my hope and I know that Connie is right. Everything really will be okay, and I am doing the right thing. I just have to keep trusting God to direct my path. And this experiment is my cross to bear, my opportunity to learn empathy. Everyone has a calling in life, a cross to bear. I never anticipated that I would find my cross in the closet.

  Don’t Tread on Me

  I wake up and stretch, trying to remember the last time I slept through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. Tossing and turning and dreams have been the bane of my nights for the past few months. I feel like I am in emotional rehab and Connie is my sponsor. I look down at my phone and see no missed calls or texts. I haven’t spoken with my parents in a week, and I wonder how long it will be before they call. I have all but disappeared. When will they notice?

  Lying back on the bed, I pull out a book I got from the bookstore attached to the Revive. I long for the little café li
ke a lost friend and wonder what all of the boys are up to. The book, Thou Shalt Not Love, is a compelling read. I feel fortunate to have been directed to so many books and movies that challenged my old ways of thinking and continue to challenge me as I question and re-question the assumptions that I clutched with white-knuckled pride.

  I hear a tapping on the door, and Connie tells me that breakfast ready. Breakfast? How on earth could I have gotten so lucky? Two nights ago I was alone in my dad’s house, eating expired ramen. Now I am in a house with a family and Connie has made breakfast.

  I throw a t-shirt on and walk to the kitchen, where I see eggs, sausage, and biscuits. The smell curls its way to my nose, drawing me as though two cartoon fingers were pulling me by my nostrils. Julia, Connie’s oldest daughter, just shy of seventeen, laughs at the expression on my face and the rabbit-like twitch of my nose as I smell real, home-cooked food.

  “What’s wrong? Haven’t eaten breakfast before?”

  “It’s been way too long,” I reply.

  “You better leave some of that sausage for Becca, or she’ll eat you for breakfast!” Connie yells from the next room.

  “We will!” Julie and I yell in unison.

  “Have you ever been to a drag show?” Julie’s question catches me off guard.

  “Are you really asking me that? Of course I have!”

  “Have you ever been in one?” she asks.

  “No! I would never want to subject anyone to that sight!”

  “That’s too funny!” Connie laughs from the other room.

  “Well, we’re all girlfriends here!” I say, leaning back far enough in my seat to wink at Connie in the other room.

  After breakfast Connie tells me that she’s taking me to an LGBTQ potluck at a nearby Catholic church. I feel uncomfortable and picture the Catholic embassy in Lower Manhattan.

  “Who knows, Tim, you might meet a boy.” Julie laughs, her smile infectious.

  “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that too much, but there’s nothing wrong with flirting. Besides, I’m pretty picky about the boys I go out with.” I wrap my arm around Julie’s neck and pull her into a hug. I feel like I have a little sister, and it makes me feel warm inside, like I am needed.