The Cross in the Closet

by Kurek, Timothy

  I pull her aside and hug her. And all I can say is “Thank you.” She looks into my eyes, her emotion more palpable than I have seen before, but she makes her best effort to smile.

  “Why?” she asks, voice stuttering in her sadness.

  “Because this entire night has made me think more deeply about marriage equality than I ever have before, and you gave me that opportunity. Even the absence of people showed me how important this issue is. My eyes and heart are open.”

  “Really?” Connie begins to cry, and hold her tight.

  “Yes, Connie. Mission accomplished.”

  ~~~

  How can anyone hate another human being with such a passion? That is the question I ask myself the morning after the New Bridge event, as Connie, Jay, our friend Tim, and I tour the National Civil Rights Museum. Martin Luther King, Jr. was shot and killed in this place, and I feel the prejudice and hatred in the air as I study the exhibit. We look at pictures, read the posted newspaper articles, and tour the timeline of the movement that changed the history of our nation for the better.

  Like any war, any struggle, there were casualties. There were many casualties. The most noticeable at the exhibit was the sacrifice of Dr. King, whose life gave hope to the second-class citizens of his day. I reach the site of his hotel room and see the place where a great man made a great sacrifice. Emotionally, it is almost more than I can handle. Twenty feet away, Jay stares solemnly into the small viewing area where a single pane of glass separates viewers from the hotel room. Dr. King is one of Jay’s heroes, and as I tour this museum he is quickly becoming one of mine, too. Jay breathes heavily, tears running down the length of his cheeks as he seemingly memorizes every detail. It is almost too difficult to watch.

  For me, humility is what makes a man or woman a leader, and the humility of Dr. King is what impresses me so greatly. Even the motel room is humble it is a hole in the wall, not a suite at the Hilton. Jesus was born in a small cave that probably reeked of sheep shit, and he lived in poverty during his three-year ministry. Gandhi also modeled humility, walking around in paper-thin sandals and barely any clothing, surviving on the generosity and kindness of others. Jesus and Gandhi brought powerful empires to their knees, and so did King. These are three of the most radical leaders in history, and none of them held the power of titles or money. They didn’t need to. They served their convictions and the people, and in so doing changed the world.

  Touring the Lorraine Motel reminds me of the Soulforce pledge to non-violence. It also makes the book Black Like Me come alive. I wonder how long it will be before a comparable museum is dedicated to the LGBTQ struggle for equality?

  Walking back through the exhibit, a sign catches my eye. It was posted in a white neighborhood cautioning parents not to leave their children unattended, lest black pedophiles kidnap and rape them. It is a striking sign: It is the same rhetoric anti-gay bigots used in California when Proposition 6 was on the ticket. Proposition 6, also known as the Brigg’s Initiative, would have made firing gay and lesbian school teachers and those in support of gays and lesbians mandatory. Why? Because “all gays are sexual deviants and pedophiles.” Thank God for Harvey Milk, who fought and helped defeat Proposition 6.

  The sign in the museum stirs something within me. How many of my beliefs are linked to the fear I see in these signs, and how much of what I was taught growing up was actually based in the Bible? Not much, it seems. Every day my conservative views on homosexuality are revealed to be less spiritual and more based on stereotype.

  I re-read the sign and sigh. Apparently we have only shifted our prejudice to another group of people we can safely call outcasts. Second-class citizens. Unnatural. Abominations.

  I point to the sign and Connie reads it and shakes her head.

  “Hate won’t ever disappear,” she says. “As long as there are people there will be hate, and these lies will be shifted to the next group of undesirables as soon as gays and lesbians win their equality like the African Americans did.”

  A few seconds pass.

  “Do you think that’s why so few people came last night?”

  “Maybe. It wasn’t planned as well as it should have been, but I think hate was a factor.”

  “If it makes any difference, I learned something.”

  “What’s that?” she asks.

  “I don’t think I can tell two men or two women that their love is less legitimate because they’re gay. I’m for monogamous, loving relationships. For marriage.”

  My five weeks in Memphis has succeeded in pulling me outside of my depression but not because things have been magically repaired between me and my family or because I feel more stable than I was in Nashville. My five weeks in Memphis have shown me that as things have become more difficult, I’ve become less experiment-focused and much more me-focused. Connie reminded me of that.

  Conservative Christianity taught me that Christians are the oppressed, that because we follow Christ and the Bible, we are condemned by society...but it isn’t that simple. I wonder how much of the persecution we face is the result of our own inability to coexist without being jerks. This year I have been on the receiving end of needless abuse, and this experience has shown me that love should never be coupled with an agenda. Sure, stereotypes exist about Christians that aren’t true. Sure, just like gays and lesbians, we Christians are known by the most radical among us…but at least we have the freedoms to live our lives as we see fit. We have freedoms that my gay brothers and sisters have been fighting for and will have to fight for for a long time to come. The ability to express affection in public without being sneered at, to marry who we love and want to marry, to build families and pass on the experiences and life lessons that we’ve learned to our children…these are things that I have always taken for granted. These beautiful rights are being withheld unjustly from so many of our citizens.

  I feel myself softening daily, cleaning out the closets in my own mind as I make room for my experiences. I’m sick of the little voice in my head disagreeing with someone’s story because his opinion doesn’t line up with my personal views of holiness. I want to believe that God is faithful in His mercy, and that He isn’t lying when He says my only job is to love. That’s it.

  That’s the only desire left in me: To love my God with my heart, soul, and mind, and to love my neighbor as myself.

  Another Season Ends

  Softball ends today. It is my last game, and I don’t know what to feel. On the one hand, I will have my Sundays back…but on the other, I am going to miss my team. There is something healing about going to the ball field on Sundays instead of the sanctuary. Maybe it is the feeling of the grass beneath my feet, or the crack of the oversized ball slamming against the aluminum body of the bat. It is therapeutic. I’ve played sports most of my life, but I have never had so much fun playing a sport or been so humbled by the athleticism of my fellow teammates.

  I kneel behind home plate and know I finally found my position. Playing catcher came out of nowhere, but for some reason my clumsiness is less obvious here. The only down side is that I can’t smoke in right field like I used to, but I would rather be in a position where I do my part instead of aimlessly tripping over my own feet as I run after a fly ball.

  The batter standing in front of me is a man named Julio. We’ve had drinks together at Tribe a few times, but he remains a mystery to me. A friend told me that he is HIV positive and that his partner just passed away. I feel sad for Julio, even though he seems to be moving on with his life. He uses the bat to knock the dirt from his heels and takes a few swings before the pitcher throws the ball.

  “Nice form!” I say, whistling at Julio before the first pitch is thrown.

  “Don’t get any ideas back there. I’m always the pitcher in my relationships!” he jokes. The pitch is thrown and Julio’s bat connects with the ball with a sharp crack. He drops the bat and takes off towards first base.

  “That’s very selfish of you!” I yell after him as he runs.

&n
bsp; “I know!” he yells back.

  I turn my attention to the runner rounding third base and I know she isn’t going to stop. “Give me the ball! Ball! Ball! BALL!” I scream. The softball hits my glove a split second before the runner slides home and I tag her out.

  “Yes! Good job, Tim!” Drew shouts from the dugout. The hoots and hollers from my teammates make me feel good. I toss the ball back to the pitcher and kneel, happy that I finally feel like part of the team. I’m going to miss this. This is so much more enjoyable than playing sports in high school. This is about fun and community.

  The game ends and we lose by two runs, but I’ve stopped caring whether we win or lose. The ability to play and the effect of the environment on my senses is rewarding enough. I love the smell of grass and dirt as the hot, wet blanket of heat from the summer sun reigns over me. I love the feeling of the baseball glove on my hand and sweat soaking through my team shirt. I love the sounds of laughter, happiness, and community from the people I have finally learned to love. All of it combines into something fulfilling.

  At the beginning of the season, in between our first double-header, I was reading a book on the bleachers. The book was called Finding the Boyfriend Within, and my teammates were merciless in their teasing. Every weekend I was asked, “Have you found him yet?” and I always answered “Yes! His name is Eduardo and he’s a bouncer at a club in Atlanta!” Every week I added to the story. While the joking always a source of entertainment, there is something to be said for finding that peace within ourselves. And I have found him, my inner boyfriend but his name isn’t Eduardo. His name is Me, and this year has given me my first chance to leave behind the expectations of society and religion, so I can find myself. I think I have found myself.

  The summer season draws to a close and I look towards fall and winter, and the end of my experiment. So much has happened, and so much has changed within me, but it isn’t over. I still have a lot to learn. Incidentally, I won the award for most improved player on the team. (I wasn’t able to go to the end-of-season party because I was out of town, but Drew made sure I got the news.) I can only hope I improve as a person as much as I did in softball.

  Part IV: Revelations

  “Progress is impossible without change, and those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.”

  —George Bernard Shaw

  The Other Side of the Rainbow

  Change is a funny thing. It can creep up on you unnoticed, or it can paint itself as vividly as the bright lights of the Vegas strip, illuminating your steps in a tapestry of reds and blues and purples, impossible to ignore. I walk into the gay bars now like I am walking into my home, and I greet the boys like I greet family. For months I walked into Tribe consciously, but now it all seems subconscious, thoughtless, and beautiful. It seems normal.

  Every night is the same. I walk into the bar and make my rounds from regular to regular. Will gives me a kiss on the cheek and asks me how I’m doing, and when I answer that things are great, I feel warmth radiating from inside, from knowing that I am being honest. Things that used to bother me, like seeing two guys kissing, aren’t a big deal anymore; nor is the flirtatious banter from the men I would have recoiled from only a few months ago. I feel a deep and calming peace; I still have questions and concerns, but I no longer see these men as my enemy or the enemy of God. They are just people, like me, as unique and gifted as any other individual made in the image of God.

  On the other hand, walking into a church feels about as natural as walking into oncoming traffic.

  It is Sunday morning, and I am attempting to visit the same local mega-church I went to in spring. Not long after the service begins, something horrible in me is confirmed. The band plays their cheesy music, and with every strum of the guitar or head-dip from the drummer “getting into the spirit,” I snicker and sneer and wonder how many of them are living in the closet. I laugh at the keyboard player as he plays the same three ambient notes while the praise leader gives us fortune-cookie thoughts for worship. I smile as he reads scripture passages from his iphone and drinks his coffee—a true hipster wannabe. I laugh at the lighting and the décor. Why are all of these churches decorated in the same cookie-cutter way?

  Then the pastor gets up to speak, and I analyze the sermon promo video like a snobby film critic. As he speaks, I listen for trigger words so that I can discredit him; I make a mental list of possible topics or phases that will piss me off enough to leave in protest. If he talks about gays, tithing, or politics, I resolve to walk out…not because I would be genuinely offended, but because I want to dislike what he has to say. I want to dislike him…even though he has never been anything but kind to me. I dole out judgments indiscriminately. I feel like I am better than these people. My heart is hard. It is bitter. I feel judgment welling up inside of me. I view this church the way I would have viewed a gay pride parade before any of this happened.

  And then the pastor begins speaking about fear. He talks about how there are times in our lives we pass up opportunities for relationship because we do not know how to accept someone who is different. He asks whether or not we are versatile in our adaptability with the people God places in our lives. I can say that my acceptance of gays and lesbians feels somehow full, but this new inability to tolerate Christians suggests that I may have strayed into yet another unhealthy extreme. The pastor says that hate is not the root of the ever-widening gap between Christians and those outside our bubble, but fear is. Fear. Pure, unhealthy, destructive fear. He’s right. I have spent most of my life afraid, and even now I’m afraid.

  Why am I so afraid?

  Why can’t I just love people?

  Why can’t I just accept people?

  I feel angry. I am overwhelmed and disgusted, overcome by frustration. I look at the Pharisee, and his face betrays a twisted measure of triumph.

  Now who’s the Pharisee?

  Me.

  At least you can finally admit that.

  Don’t even start! These people hurt me. They’ve hurt my friends. Damn them!

  Really? Who? Which ones have hurt you? Point them out to me.

  You know what I mean.

  Do I? You just said “these people.” What’s that supposed to mean?

  All of them, and what they believe; It is hate masking itself as relationship. They want to change people and make everyone religious robots who vote red and believe the earth is only six thousand years old.

  I feel sick, and nausea brings me back to that night with Liz. I feel the same kick in the gut, the same exasperation, the same feelings of guilt. I am on a path that will end in the same betrayal, but this betrayal will be wrapped in a different skin. A single thought squeezes into my conscience.

  I am still a bigot, just a different kind this time.

  My experiment seemed to have been drawing itself to a tidy close, and now…well, now I see that I have only just reached the next step in my journey. I stand up and walk of the sanctuary, but for the first time the Pharisee doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. I just proved him right.

  ~~~

  Until this morning I thought I had come a long way since the first days and weeks of my experiment, but now I feel somewhat defeated on the opposite extreme. Instead of loving Christians and hating gays, I realize that I’ve only succeeded in flipping the object of my prejudice. I feel at home in the gay bars and uncomfortable at church. I feel safe with my gay and lesbian friends, but I feel a constant, nagging irritation and discomfort around other Christians. This morning was an unholy confirmation of that. I know this reversal is partially due to the negative experiences I have either had or witnessed this year—but it is also a sign of bitterness.

  Prejudice is at the root of these polarized communities, I think. We embrace those whom we feel safety with and reject those that believe differently; and in so doing we miss the big picture. We live together on this planet and share the everyday places we inhabit, yet we are unable to see each other as we should. And right now, I am h
aving a hard time recognizing Bible-Belt Christians as my brothers and sisters. I feel like I’ve failed. I do not want to flip from extreme to extreme. I want to be a man of peace and reason, and a man who loves everyone without prejudice. But how? I am a bigot, and I just don’t know how to be anything else.

  I am sitting at a café by my dad’s house in Nashville, reading the Sunday New York Times, drinking coffee, trying not to dwell on the fact that I am back at square one…when I see someone from my past. My old pastor, the man who wrote me a devastating email the day after I came out, the man whose wife completely ignored me the last time I was here, walks over to the counter a dozen or so steps away and orders coffee. I hide myself from view. I see him, but I don’t want to be seen by him. As I hide, adrenaline begins to pump through my body and a barrage of emotions resurface after months of trying to bury them. I feel anger and hurt…but mostly I feel fear. Why am I afraid of him?

  Is it because the last time I saw him and his wife, she completely ignored me? Is it still the email he sent? I remember his email as if I read it yesterday. I think it was one of the most hurtful things that happened to me in the first weeks of my experiment, something I still haven’t allowed myself to process. I have been too busy to process it. And now here he is, only a few feet away, and alone. I feel bitterness as I watch him joke around with the barista, and I feel—I know—that my bitterness isn’t right, even if I do feel hurt by him.

  I look at my Pharisee and his expression telling.

  You’ve wanted an opportunity to be a man of peace, and here it is. What are you going to do?

  Hope he doesn’t see me…

  That’s it?

  That’s it.