The Pharisee looks over at me and smiles. Even he disagrees with Westboro. The Phelps are the furthest extreme on the religious spectrum, and their theology of God’s hate and wrath are disgusting to even the most ardent fundamentalists.
Do you honestly think they are going to let you inside? You’ve got earrings, and you are a big guy. They are going to see you as a threat.
I hope not. I’m coming in peace.
They don’t know that.
I’ve got to try.
Do as you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I drive down the street and park my aunt’s car. The church is bigger than I expected, much bigger. I see a huge banner advertising their new website: Godhatesamerica.com it reads, in huge bold, red letters.
I make my way to the corner of the sidewalk to get a better look, and I see a traditional church sign that would usually announce service times and church updates. With the exception of the name, it’s empty. It is empty because it has been vandalized, and the message written with red spray-paint reminds me of the banner on the front of the church. It shows me that there is a little Phelps inside us all, because it reads God hates the Phelps!
If I believe that God is a God of love, I cannot pick and choose the objects of that love. God even loves Fred Phelps. I wish I had paint thinner and a scrubber. I wish I could take down the God Hates America banner too. All of it makes me sick because both messages are untrue, equally untrue. I do not care how closed off Westboro is; the iron gates and wood fencing are nothing more than a piece of the image they want to portray.
Making my way back towards the side of the building, I find an opening in the gate, walk to the door, and attempt to open it. It’s closed. I push the bell and knock a few times. No one answers. I knock on the door again and ring the bell next to the frame and listen. Nothing. I hear nothing and feel a sense of defeat. I have driven the hour and a half from Kansas City for no reason, and won’t get the chance to talk to anyone. And then I hear muffled voices, arguing inside the door, and it opens, revealing a woman. She is not like any women I have ever seen in church growing up. She is dressed in old-fashioned clothing, and her head is covered.
“Hello!” I say, grinning from the excitement that I am finally face-to-face with someone at the church.
“What are you doing here?” the woman asks sharply.
“I spoke with Shirley and told her I would be visiting. Is she here?”
“Go away! You aren’t wanted here!” She snaps at me like a dog snaps at an intruder.
“I love your head covering. Very traditional!”
“Get out of here, you little shit!”
“So you cover your head but you curse at visitors? Not as traditional as I thought.” I take a step back and turn sideways, trying to speak through my body language. “Shirley said it was okay for me to visit. I spoke to her after Ezra was born.” I drop the name, hoping it’ll give me some credibility.
Another door to my right opens. It’s the door to the sanctuary. Another woman pokes her covered head outside. “Leave, or we are going to call the police!”
Her words surprise and amuse me. “I was invited here. Could you please let me talk to Shirley?”
“Listen, you child of Satan…Go away!” says the woman in front of me.
“My mom always used to call me that. She’ll be pleased to hear it confirmed by someone else.” I don’t think she appreciates my attempt at humor.
“Fine, have your way. You can talk to the police about it,” says the woman to my right.
“I just want you to know, even though you guys are speaking to me this way, I love you. And that vandalism on the sign outside isn’t true. God loves you too.”
I notice the Pharisee is watching both women as I speak, shaking his head in frustration.
“We know he loves us! It is you he doesn’t love.”
“I’ve been told that before”—I think of my old hall-mate Patrick. These women said exactly what he said to me when I came out—“and I know it’s not true.”
“Get out of here, you little bastard! We are having a meeting, and you aren’t allowed in.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” I smile and speak lightheartedly again.
“We’ve called the police. Repent of your evil! Are you a fag?”
“As a matter of fact, I guess I am.” I’ve never been so proud to be associated as gay.
“Your deplorable sin is going to damn you to hell for an eternity. Repent and accept the fire,” says the woman to my right.
“So even if I repent, I’m damned? Your God kinda seems like a dick.” My response is emotional and reactionary. I have lost my objectivity and my grace, but it really is hard not to be a smartass in the face of such ignorance.
“You’re the dick, kid!” The woman in front of me sneers.
“Can you just answer me one question?” I ask.
“What?” she asks.
“Why do you embrace hatred the way you do?”
“That’s easy. Because the mighty and holy God of the word says that He hates sin and sinners alike. This nation is an abomination, and his wrath will pour out upon it in holy judgment.”
“Well, I guess a visit may not really be the most appropriate thing for me at this point, but I want to tell you something. You represent everything I am against, but I do love you, and I hope that the Lord opens your eyes to the true message of the gospel. I hope it saturates your hearts and that you find peace…because you will need supernatural peace when you realize how many people you have hurt. Merry Christmas.”
“Don’t presume to teach us about God, faggot.”
And just like that, both doors slam shut, and I am left in the quiet winter morning once more. I walk back to the car, slowly. The Pharisee is in front of me.
Those women were scary—like Kathy Bates from Misery scary!
No. Those women weren’t scary, they were scared. God be with them.
I feel my heart breaking as I reach the car, and I turn to take one last look at the church.
I drive past the old church sign, the one that was vandalized, and I feel calm. God may hate sin, but God does not hate the Phelps. God does not hate anyone, for that matter. I drive away from the city with something inside of me missing. I have left a piece of my heart at Westboro Baptist Church, and I will pray God changes their hearts.
The Ball Drops
It is New Years Eve today, and I am sitting at the bookstore, formerly attached to what was Revive Café. I’m trying to capture and write down a few of the thousands of thoughts running through my head. It is comforting to be back here, to enjoy the vibe of the bookstore. Although this may be the last day of my year, it is the beginning to something else completely, something new and exciting and real.
My experiment has led me around the country and taught me to appreciate the people in my own backyard. Although I will miss my ability to blend into the community, it will be nice to be myself. Fortunately, “myself” has changed a lot this year. How could I not have? Every day I was confronted with new questions and new answers. I was inspired and encouraged, and as I look out at the bookstore and see people perusing the shelves, I am hopeful that I will be able to show these beautiful people just how much they mean to me.
I look over to the registers and see some of my old bosses. They are in good spirits, and I wonder how their view of me will change when they learn that I am not really gay. Will they be angry…or will they feel as though they have contributed to changing the life of someone, even though they weren’t aware of it at the time? I hope they feel part of something special.
The couch I’m sitting on faces the back window, but I hear the small bell attached to the door ring as someone opens it, announcing arrival. The bell hasn’t rung much since I’ve been here, but it’s New Years Eve, so I doubt it will much at all today.
I wish you could see this place. I wish you could experience it the way I have experienced it. I wish you could understand the impact that this little establishment
has had on me, and all that I’ve learned while I was here. It is fitting that I am spending my last hours before the party tonight writing at this little store on Church Street. It is a stone’s throw away from the places I spent countless nights, from this little gayborhood that I have called home for a year now.
The bell on the door rings again and I hear the familiar voices of Scott and Jason. They are in the middle of a conversation, but they stop and greet me as soon as they see me.
“Looking sexy, handsome!” Jason says, pinching my butt while he hugs me. Scott laughs at him and ignores the flirtation.
“How’ve you guys been?” I ask.
“We’ve been doing well. We’re here with some friends from out of town who have been staying with us. Our house is clothing-optional…” Scott winks at me.
“You really should come over!” Jason says.
“Alas, I’ve already got plans, but we’ll have to hang out soon. I have a lot to tell you two,” I say, dreading the thought of what they might think of me when it’s all over.
“Sounds like a plan,” Scott says giving me a kiss on the cheek. “Sure you don’t want to ring in the New Year with us?”
I kiss his cheek and smile. “Would that I could. Would that I could.”
“Okay, kid. We love you!” Scott says, sighing.
“And we miss you terribly!” Jason adds.
“I’ve missed you guys too…a lot. You have no idea what you two mean to me.” I feel teary-eyed and nostalgic. “Just know that no matter what, I love you both!”
“I love you too, Tim,” Scott says thoughtfully.
“And I love you more!” Jason hugs me, and I smack his butt as we separate. “Ooh! Saucy!” he says, winking.
I sit back down on the couch and take a deep breath. Is this moment possible? Am I really going to miss being thought of as gay as much as I think I will this moment? I think I will, but only because of the relationships I have been able to have because of it. The sad fact in life is that labels really do divide us. They seem to dictate, in no uncertain terms, how we relate to each other as people. Labels serve as a barometer of sorts, how comfortable we will be in each others’ presence…and I do not think I’ll ever be as comfortably received again as I have been this year. I may be an ally. But that is just another label.
After another hour of writing I pack my things and put on my coat. I say goodbye to my old managers and make my way to the door. It’s a moment I have thought about for a long time, a moment I have pondered as I walked under the blue-grey sky of Nashville, and it is every bit surreal as I dreamed it would be. I look back around the bookstore and take a deep breath. The door’s opening rings the bell, and I feel content. I did all that I could here, and I let the place change me.
Cold air meets my skin and I shiver.
See you later, Church Street. You’ve been a wonderful teacher.
~~~
An hour passes before I arrive at the party at my brother and sister-in-law’s home. It is the first party of theirs I am attending since we reconciled in October, and it seems fitting to know that as clock strikes midnight, I will be with the same people I was last year at this time. Everything has come full circle. I am happy that my brother and I are a part of each others’ lives again. I park the car and look over at the Pharisee, who shows no sign of leaving.
It’s been a year since you started this crazy thing.
It’s been life-changing.
You’ve successfully become an apostate.
Oh, no. I’ve finally become a Christ-follower. But things aren’t ending the way they should be ending.
Why is that?
Because of you. You’re still here.
Yes, I am. You want me to leave?
I want you out of my life forever. And after seeing the things we’ve seen…How can you still be here?
That’s a good question. I’ll be here until I can’t be here anymore.
I get out of the car and grab my things. This year has left me feeling emotionally constipated. Will things be different, come midnight? Will anything be different tomorrow, or the next day? I hope so, but I cannot say for certain.
The walkway to the front door is slick, but I make it to the door without slipping. Before I even knock, Maren answers. She hugs me, and I see two glasses of wine on the table. “How are you?” she asks.
“Good. I’m ready for midnight!”
“I bet.”
Andrew comes out of the bathroom and gives me a big hug. “How’s your day been?”
“It was good, really very good. I spent the last few hours on Church Street. It wasn’t easy.”
He nods his understanding. Things with my brother have gotten better lately. It was encouraging that he allowed me to share my pictures of the past twelve months with him. It showed me that he was trying to understand, and trying is all I can ever ask of anyone.
“What’s the next step?” he asks casually.
“I’ve got to come out of the closet.”
“How do you think people will take it?”
“I think most of my friends will react positively. There are a few I’m worried about…well, three people, specifically.”
“You scared?” Maren says.
“Definitely afraid of hurting someone. I’m afraid of hurting someone and losing my friends.”
As the hour passes, people begin showing up. They are the typical eclectic bunch that usually appear at my brother’s parties. High school friends, college friends, church friends, couples, singles, family. And while spirits are high, everyone looks at me hesitantly, knowing that my relationship with my brother has been strained. Does it bother me? No. I’ve been in more stressful situations in the past eighteen months than these people can fathom. This is a party, and nothing stands a chance of flustering me more than the prospect of my re-entry into the label of straight.
I haven’t written about it, but my first day at Revive Café, I purchased a necklace and have been wearing it ever since. It is a silver dog tag with the pride flag on it and a second tag with the Bear Organization’s darker-colored pride flag. The Bears are an organization of burley gay men that socialize and raise money for charity. While I was a barista, I became a Bear Cub, and I got the second tag to add to the necklace. I have been wearing both silver dog tags around my neck all year, and they feel like part of my body. While I stand at my brother’s side and talk with the various people coming and going, every few seconds I trace the outline of the necklace around my neck and think fondly of all the memories I’ve made this year.
The clock strikes 11:00, and I am taking everything in. I want to be present every second I have left. I want to know the feel of turning the key to my inner closet and letting straight Tim out again. I want to celebrate the ability to be who I am. As I think about how life will change, I hope it never goes back to how it was before. I am acutely aware and thankful for everything that being who I am means. It is empowering to know yourself and to be yourself, no matter how that affects your life with others.
And that is something I have learned to appreciate this year. My first coming out was daunting because I was going into the closet. This time around, I gain the freedom of being me. When someone comes out as gay, it is a pinnacle moment in his or her life. It is the moment when the decision is made to be who he knows he is, and to let the chips fall as they may. Will he face persecution from the mainstream? Yes. Will he risk relationships, friendships, and his standing in the family? Probably. But what good are those things, if you cannot be honestly you? It takes courage to declare that you know yourself, and that you do not care who else knows it because you know it—and I admire that courage. It also takes an incalculable strength to live in the closet, and that is part of the journey, too. I would not have been able to live in the closet longer than I did. I am weak. My heart goes out to all of those who are not able to be open and honest about who they are, for fear of what they will lose.
I long for the day this issue is obsolete, the day tha
t my friends do not have to feel like their lives are political. I long for the day when equal rights isn’t a campaign issue, when the news won’t run front-page stories about celebrities and news anchors coming out of the closet. Then maybe, just maybe, our focus will be on something meaningful, something we can eradicate for the better, like the sex trade, or poverty, or AIDS, or homelessness.
The countdown starts in one minute, and I hold my necklace in my right hand and a glass of champagne in my left. Everyone is hunkered around the television watching the ball drop in Time Square, and I think fondly of my time walking through Manhattan. I think of Soulforce, of Memphis, of Revive Café, and of my softball team, P3. I think of Shawn and Phil, Ben, Scott, Jason, Will, and Angela. I think of Mel White and of Elizabeth and Nicole. I think of everyone, and I wonder what they are doing at this very moment. I also think of Patrick and his judgments, and of the Phelps family. One is probably open-air preaching right now, and the others are probably picketing some televised event, saying that God hates all of us. I think of Samantha and Matthew, and I think of Brent. I think of Jesus in drag, and I say a silent prayer of thanks for her. I think of all the people and the faces that have become so powerful and beautiful in my life, the mental collage of inspiration that has made me a better man.
Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The seconds passed like hours last year at this time, but time passes normally this time around. And then the host shouts, “Happy New Year!” and the camera pans to Time Square where billions of confetti pieces rain down upon the thousands gathered for the festivities.
Everyone in the room begins kissing, hugging, and wishing each other a Happy New Year—but I stay in the background by the kitchen. I silently take a sip of my champagne and reverently take off my necklace. I don’t have a girl to kiss this New Year, but I do not need one. I kiss the pride flag on my dog tag and thank God for the things and people He has shown me.
I hear my brother next to me.
“Everyone, I’d like to raise a toast in this New Year’s moment to my little brother, and to the fact that he’s made it through a very interesting experiment. To Tim, straight once more!” Everyone laughs and raises their glass, toasting me. Anyone who hadn’t heard about my experiment by this moment in the party did when my brother toasted me. But they aren’t who I am worried about coming out to…Oh no, the ones that I am will know soon enough. I look over at the Pharisee and he raises his glass.
The Cross in the Closet Page 28