The Cross in the Closet

by Kurek, Timothy

And there you go, proving once again that you don’t get it, proving that you’re just as much a hypocrite as ever.

  But I looked up to him!

  And he let you down?

  More than let me down, he made me feel alone. I knew he wouldn’t be happy I was coming out…but did he really have to be so impersonal?

  Ah! Now I understand! You love those who don’t hurt you, but you don’t have to love those who do…

  That’s not the way it is. But I’m not going to talk to him right now. It’s not the right time.

  Excuses. I thought you were “better than this”—“enlightened,” even.

  Maybe I’m not.

  Is it possible that you want to have a grudge against him because it gives you a villain? You’re wearing your hurt like a badge of honor, as if it gives you credibility in this experiment to have faced persecution.

  Doesn’t it give me credibility?

  No, it doesn’t. But how you respond to it does.

  I look back towards the counter and see him signing his credit card slip. Without seeing me, he turns and walks out the door, fumbling in his pocket for his car keys. I watch him walk away as if in slow motion, each step he takes an abundant opportunity to run after him and talk. No. I refuse to talk to him. He’s the last person I want to talk to right now.

  One step forward, two steps back.

  Shut up!

  But the Pharisee is right, and I don’t like what he’s saying. I want to hate him, too, but I can’t. I want to discredit everything he says, so I do not have to step farther outside my comfort zone—which, ironically, now excludes the church I was a part of—because if I have learned anything this year, it is that leaving my comfort zone is the last thing I want to do.

  Life has a funny way of teaching us things. I think the obstacles I will face tackling my bitterness against conservative Christians will be more difficult, even, than tackling my hatred of gays. Why? Because the way a lot of Christians practice their beliefs, the way I always practiced my beliefs, hurts people. It hurts me now. Maybe I never truly did leave my comfort zone. Maybe this year is more about conquering my prejudice than accepting and affirming gays and lesbians. And if that is true, maybe my religious programming alone is not to blame.

  Maybe all of the questions I’ve been asking have been too small all along.

  Once again I feel as though I’m standing at the foot of an Everest-sized dilemma. I just hope the rest of this year provides enough time to resolve some of these realizations. I put my headphones back into my ears. My coffee is lukewarm now, and I feel the urge to smoke a clove. I stand up and look around, making sure no one else I know is around. I walk outside and look at the Pharisee.

  You should go to church tonight.

  What? Are you crazy?

  If you want the answers to your questions, maybe you should go back to the beginning. Maybe you should go see what happens if you take his advice and go back to church, but…

  But what?

  But instead of going somewhere else, go back to his church.

  ~~~

  Several hours pass before I allow myself to get dressed and ready for church. I do not want to go. Even the thought of going scares me. My hesitancy runs much deeper than mere hurt; I really don’t want to be around people who believe I am unnatural and vile because they think I am gay. Who would want to purposely surround oneself with people who vote against equality and think that just because you are interested in only the same gender means you are also, at best, a pervert? I know gays and lesbians who attend conservative churches. But those people are, in my experience, the minority; and they usually have a deep attachment to their church because of family or friends.

  Maybe I would be less vexed if somebody in the church had noticed my prolonged absence and sent me an email or text message…But that is the past now, and even though I would rather do anything else, I know I am supposed to confront this anger inside of me.

  The drive to the church is a short one, not nearly long enough for me to mentally prepare. I park and lean against my car and smoke a cigarette, and I pray. Lord, help me love these people, too. Help me love everyone. I feel conflicted. I don’t want to go inside even though I know I need to. I have had these feelings before, this apprehension: It was the first night I went into a gay bar. I was so nervous my body was shaking. Now I feel as if I am in some bizarre alternate reality that is somehow opposite but the same. I look up and see the steeple of the church. It looks as foreign as the club lights did back in January; the church clothes people wear as they walk into the sanctuary seem as alien as the drag queens were, that first night. I am a different person, that much is clear; but I still seem to build my comfort zone on the extremes, and the exclusion of the other side is unacceptable. Is it possible to readjust again?

  An old friend sees me standing by my car and runs over to greet me. The smile on his face is enormous, and it warms my heart. “Tim Kurek! How are you doing?” He ignores my outstretched hand and pulls me into a hug. “I’ve missed you, brother. How are you?”

  “I’m doing well. How are you?” I say, somewhat shocked by his genuine greeting.

  “I’m doing great. I’ve missed you, man.” He’s always been a good guy, my friend, and standing with him makes me realize how much I have missed him, too. It feels odd, though…wrong, somehow. How can I miss someone who hasn’t tried to reach out to me? How can I feel a connection to someone who thinks of me as an abomination?

  “Yeah, I’ve missed you, too. It’s been too long,” I say, feeling awkward.

  “Let’s go inside! Everyone will be happy to see you.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I toss my cigarette and reluctantly follow my old friend.

  Walking inside the small building is painful. My heart feels stressed and it aches with each breath. I feel guilty for being here, like I am betraying my new friends. By re-entering this place, I feel like I am condoning the attitudes and beliefs that have hurt so many. But I have to go inside, I have to understand why I feel so angry at these people. Until I took my first two steps inside the church, I didn’t understand just how hard my heart has become; but as I confront my own bitterness and feel it tangibly for the first time all year, I am overwhelmed. I look around like a stranger and feel like one even more. Very little has changed here.

  I walk forward through the sanctuary and set my messenger bag on a pew. I wait for my old pastor to see me. And when he does, the look on his face is one of shock. He looks happy to see me…but pained at the same time. I memorize that look. It burns into my memory.

  “Tim, it’s good to see you.”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Yes, it has. How are you?” he asks, still surprised by my sudden reappearance in his church.

  “Never better, actually. This year has been a good one.”

  “Well, I’m happy you are here. We’ll have to talk after the service.”

  “I look forward to it.” I shake his hand and feel mixed emotions. I am happy to see one of my old mentors—but I cannot forget his email and how much it hurt me. I sit down in the pew after saying hello to several other parishioners. Everyone seems to be looking at me. How many of them know I came out? How many understand why I left the church in the first place? Maybe the pastor didn’t tell them, but surely word got around. I sit in the pew uncomfortably, praying that I can make it through the service.

  During worship I think back to that room of people in the community center being led in worship by the drag queen—Jesus in drag—singing the same songs we are singing now. I sing with them in mind, and it makes things easier. It is easier because I feel more mindful of my faith. The “body of Christ” has gotten a lot bigger for me this year. I know I can’t discredit others’ faith the way I used to. I wish the people here could see what I have seen, and I wish they knew how much in common they have with people they refuse to acknowledge.

  The music ends, we sit down, and the pastor gets up and starts preaching. My old life becom
es real again and the glimpses I get into my past are healing. The Pharisee is right. I have thrown the baby out with the bathwater, and it is humbling to think that not everything I was part of before all of this was bad. I had forgotten how at home I always felt here, with these people, and I wish I could combine both my lives…impossible as that would be.

  The sermon ends and the pastor explains communion. I sit as everyone walks forward and participates in it. I don’t. I know the church disagrees with what they think my lifestyle is, and I don’t want to participate for multiple reasons. I don’t want to disrespect their beliefs while I am here. That’s not why I came. More than anything, I don’t want to participate in communion in a church that would not be okay with my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters partaking. It is a non-violent protest of sorts. Several parishioners look at me questioningly, probably wondering why I am not going forward, but eventually they move on and I keep my seat.

  After the service, people line up to hug me. All of them are cordial, and all of them treat me with kindness. Once again I am convicted, remembering what I have thought of these people since I came out. Assigning blame to those who haven’t reached out and being honest about how certain people have directly hurt me are two different things. I have perceived and assumed what these people have been thinking about me for months, and I have used those assumptions against them without giving them an opportunity to prove me wrong. Maybe I was afraid to. Maybe my instincts were to push them away because I felt pushed away. For better or worse, these people are my brothers and sisters, and all of them are a part of me. Even the pastor is a part of me. While it may take me a while to overcome the emotions attached to his words, I am hopeful that in the future I will be able to reconcile my frustrations with him. Life is so much richer when we can acknowledge everyone without bias. It is more beautiful when we can see each other as beautiful—in spite of their hurtful words or actions. Maybe this is what being a peacemaker is all about.

  And then the moment comes when my reason for being here tonight presents itself.

  The pastor and I are at the front of the sanctuary, alone.

  My nervousness returns, but I’m ready for it. “You know,” I say, “I’ve missed being here. I feel like I left a part of myself here when I left.”

  “You did, and we’ve missed having you.”

  “Thank you for saying that. It’s been an interesting year, but a good one. I’m a lot happier now.”

  “That’s good, Tim, really. You know, I’ve thought a lot about you since you left, and I want you to know that if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t have just written you. I would have talked to you more about your choice. Granted, my position wouldn’t have been much different, but I would have approached it more personally.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Yes,” he says thoughtfully.

  “I don’t need you to agree with me,” I say, “but I do need you to respect that it’s my life, and our involvement in each other’s lives is a privilege, not a right. We need to be more mindful of that privilege when we are sharing our beliefs.”

  “I wish I had it to do over. I’m sorry if you were hurt by my message.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I know he means what he’s saying. Even though I don’t agree anymore with his theological approach to his faith, I feel a certain measure of perspective regarding how he and I are supposed to relate as humans.

  “I was hurt by a lot more than your message. A lot of people have hurt me this year, but I guess that’s okay with me now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because for the first time in my life, my beliefs are my own. They aren’t hinged on anyone else.”

  “That’s always a good thing. The church has gone through a lot of changes and lost several people. I didn’t know if we were going to make it…I know what it’s like to face criticism, and the question of how to respond, more now than ever.”

  “And I’ve been watching how you handle it, from a distance,” I add. “I think you are doing a good job. The church really seems to be more like a family since I left.”

  “Believe me, we are. It’s been a humbling thing to experience.” The emotion in his voice and on his face is the most authentic I’ve ever seen from him. He really has changed. I just wish he knew how damaging his beliefs can be, especially when spoken so carelessly.

  We make more small talk and eventually make our way back to the parking lot. Before I leave, he hugs me.

  “You know I love you, right?” he says.

  “I love you too, brother.”

  I get into my car and turn the key in the ignition. The engine comes to life and I put the car in reverse, waving to him as I pull out of the driveway. The Pharisee sits next to me.

  I’m proud of you.

  Why?

  Because you’d forgotten that Christians are people too, and now you remember.

  They are people—but I won’t forget how much pain they can bring by carelessly judging other people.

  Everyone causes pain. Everyone hurts everyone else. It’s a fact of life, a sad one.

  I can see that, I guess.

  Think you’ll ever go back?

  Not this one, my friend. Unfortunately, I was only meant to be here for a season. It’ll probably be a long time before I’m comfortable at any church again. I will always do my best to follow God with my life, but being part of a brick and mortar church doesn’t appeal to me at all.

  Fair enough.

  I drive back to my dad’s and sit in my car for an hour. The sheer number of thoughts and emotions I feel make going inside impossible. I sit, captive to the dialogue playing out inside my head, and I know it will probably take years for me to process all of this. But tonight was a good first step. Tonight I got to confront hurt and encourage a brother. I am starting to believe my past was necessary, so that I can be the man I am becoming. Everything really does happen for a reason, even if we don’t understand it until years later.

  The Walk

  I have never been one for causes, never thrown myself behind any cause other than the church. I looked at organizations as crooked, misdirecting money, cheating the people they claim to serve. I have been skeptical. But when a friend asked me to walk in the Nashville Cares AIDS walk, I thought back to New York and the homeless man I saw covered in lesions indicative of the virus. He was a skeleton covered in paper-thin skin, barely able to hold his cardboard sign that read simply, Please help me eat. I have AIDS. I thought back to this man, sitting in a stairwell covered in pigeon shit, this man created in the image of God, and I told my friend I would most definitely join him for the walk.

  When Nashville Cares emailed me the information about the walk, I scanned through the materials looking for the “gay message.” Years in the church had taught me that AIDS was a definitively “gay issue” and some went so far as to say that it was a terrible punishment from God for men engaging in anal intercourse. But when I looked through the packet, LGBTQ folks were hardly mentioned. What was highlighted were the many ways that AIDS can be contracted. While I read, I began to see the big picture. AIDS a devastating virus that kills people, gay and straight, every single day. AIDS is the enemy, not the people with AIDS; I feel guilty for avoiding the epidemic by turning it into a “gay issue.”

  I drive downtown to the site of the walk, park, and people-watch as rain turns the grounds into a thick pit of soft mud. Even though I was only able to raise $100 the week of the walk, I feel good for having been able to raise anything, and I feel good about this walk and this cause. I’m a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle here, and as I stare at the people walking back and forth, families and friends, all smiling, I realize how beautiful the puzzle is. It feels beautiful, like life feels beautiful. To see so many come together for a cause, and to know that this whole thing is still just one city doing what so many others across this country are doing today as well, makes me feel hope.

  By the time I reach the registration tent my shoes are caked with mud. It is
a thick Southern mud left by the thick Southern rain, and even though everywhere I look I see cold, wet faces, everyone looks happy.

  “Name?” the man asks me as I reach the tent.

  “Tim Kurek,” I say.

  “Hello, Tim!” He is very welcoming. “It says here that you raised $100 for the walk. That’s great! Are you excited?”

  “Very. It’s my first time here.”

  “Well, thank you for helping us out. Without you and everyone else, we’d be even further from finding a cure.” He hands me a bag with bumper stickers and AIDS ribbons, and also a t-shirt.

  “A t-shirt? Wow, that’s cool.”

  “Yep. You also get a water bottle with the ribbon on it. Have a great walk!” He smiles, and before I step away he’s greeted the next person in line. What a nice guy.

  I reach the main stage area and look around. Everywhere I see tents from local businesses and organizations. It’s eye-opening to see how many groups in the community came out to support the cause. I make my rounds from tent to tent and see the many businesses present. The Tennessean and every bank in the area are here, and numerous restaurants and other small businesses are selling their goods—their profits, of course, going towards AIDS research. I even stumble across two churches…but neither of them are mainstream. And then I am struck by a realization that leaves me immobile, shaking my head. I look over at the Pharisee, angered by the epiphany.

  Why aren’t they here?

  Why isn’t who here?

  Who do you think? Nashville has multiple multi-million-dollar mega-churches, and none of them are here! Why? There isn’t a single mainstream church represented here! Don’t they care enough about the community to participate?

  Be fair.

  Fair? Be fair? Are you kidding me?

  Don’t judge them for not being here. They probably don’t even know this is happening.

  I know they do.

  How’s that?

  The information is plastered all over every Starbucks in town—and every non-denominational pastor I know is addicted to Starbucks.