The Cross in the Closet (6 page)

“I don’t really know…” I say. “I won’t be dating anyone else.” The no-women rule of my year weighs heavily on me as I speak.

“You know, the only thing you really need to understand is that the people you’re going to meet and have relationships with this year aren’t any different from you.”

“But we believe so differently.” I can’t help but argue internally over the semantics.

“You’ll figure it out, sooner or later.” Shawn speaks from experience. His coming out was a radical one, though not of his own volition.

Shawn was raised in a single-parent household, and his mother was all he had. Much like me, he had been very active in church growing up, but when a close friend who attended the same church “repented” of a physical relationship they’d had on a few occasions, Shawn couldn’t hide his orientation any longer. He was outed in the worst possible way: by a former lover, confessing to a group of leaders in the church—a group that included Shawn’s own mother. At the time of his friend’s confession, Shawn was walking past the quad to practice for a theater production, and his cell phone rang. It was his mother, calling to confront him about what she had just been told. And Shawn told her the truth and bore the overwhelming stress with grace. He even forgave the friend who outed him and remained in the church, taking a stand that I would not have had the courage to take. Shawn inspires me.

Not only does he inspire me, Shawn makes me question myself. Why do I believe I’m any different, any better, than anyone else? Why do my beliefs give me a sense of entitlement? Everyone is human, fallible, and flawed, and it is not my job to determine who’s better or worse. It is my job to be myself and to learn as much as I can from anyone I meet. This year is about that, and Shawn is showing me that I need to experience the discomfort, especially since I’ve put myself into this position.

“Just remember, be kind but be unavailable.” Shawn’s tone is serious, and I know he is trying to spare me future awkwardness. “And if you ever need me, just call my cell. If I can make it, I’ll be here to help out!”

I feel like I may have bitten off more than I can chew. Adopting the label of gay isn’t enough to understand gay. I have to know how to interact and what not to do. The other day, I probably sent all the wrong signals, probably made an ass of myself by being the me I’m hoping to change. I feel remorse for letting down everyone, even if they don’t know it.

Have you ever wondered what it’d be like to wear another person’s shoes? It’s not easy. The setting of my life’s story is changing at a pace I can barely keep up with, and I know this is just the beginning. Going from homophobe to boyfriend is a huge leap, but it feels right. I feel like I am finally understanding
life
, and my time with Shawn is a huge step forward.

Tribe’s crowd dwindles as we talk. It’s a weeknight, and people have to work, including Shawn. We settle the bill and make our way to the patio while we finish our drinks. It has been a different kind of night than I anticipated: I was faced with the fact that
I’m
the weird one, and that my beliefs make
me
the alien. Going from the majority to the minority isn’t what most people would consider doing, but I know I have to learn that life really isn’t about me. Even the thought of this is refreshing, and I am excited to see how this plays out.

My boyfriend (
boyfriend
!) hugs me as we separate, and I cannot thank him enough. He has spared me the possibility of falling on my face while I’m getting used to the LGBTQ nightlife, and he has increased my chances of changing my life for the better.

There is a fine line between tolerance and rejection. Waking up to that fact has cost me dearly. In the past three weeks, I’ve received emails and text messages from people whom I always believed loved and valued me. But now I know the truth. Instead of speaking with me in a personal way to understand my decision, many of these people took the easy path of judgment, and they did so using the impersonal and soulless tools of social networks and email to do the dirty work.

Upon hearing the news of my coming out, multiple friends voiced their concern over my “evil” decision; but instead of speaking to me in person or even on the phone, they resorted to black letters on a white page—and not the kind I can touch and feel, and fold up to put in my pocket. They manifest their worldviews so impersonally that I am left wondering if they ever really loved me to begin with. On the other hand, I also feel relieved. I don’t know how much more I could handle right now.

Patrick, my old nemesis from Liberty, messaged me the other day and asked me how I could claim to love Jesus and be gay. I told him that I did love Jesus, and he told me that I may love Him, but Jesus doesn’t love me. Just like that, because the label of my orientation changed, he says that the gospel doesn’t apply to me anymore.

Four of my other friends got together and let me know with one clear voice that they could not condone my decision. They said that upon my “repentance,” not only would my relationship to Christ be restored but also my relationship to them. But until that day, they could no longer, in good conscience, continue to be my friend.

These were just a few of the responses that I received after sharing the news, but these few hurt the most. Pastors, friends, enemies…

Karma really is a bitch.

I take Shawn’s advice, and in the weeks following our conversation I spend as much time as possible in the small gay district of Nashville. I read books in the LGBTQ bookstore and drink coffee in the LGBTQ café attached to the bookstore. I eat dinner and drink beer and spend more time with Shawn at Tribe, and I try to make friends whenever possible with the only community that doesn’t judge me for who everyone believes me to be. I feel benign resignation, and with each trip I make to Church Street, I become more comfortable. The people whom I always considered moral pariahs are becoming my grief counselors, the “abominable” my only support structure in a time when I need love and acceptance the most.

On Wednesday nights at Tribe, from 6:00 to 8:00, well drinks are only a dollar, and the result is a crowd. A huge crowd. A huge gay crowd. I still find it slightly unnerving to go from a life in the pew to a life on the barstool, but I am content with the change. I approach the bar in the third room, attached to the restaurant, and see someone I know. Tending bar is my childhood best friend! When he sees me he grins.

“Tim?”

“
Will
? Oh, my God, is that you?”

Will runs from behind the bar and hugs me. “I was so happy to get your message. I was hoping I’d see you one of these nights,” he says excitedly. After coming out, I’d e-mailed him to share the news, and I have hoped for weeks I would get the chance to reconnect with him.

“How’ve you been?” I ask. The reunion brings back a flood of memories from my childhood…and, more recently, the day I found out
he
was gay.

“I’m great. Still in school. I don’t know if I’ll ever graduate!” Will is dressed in a tight t-shirt and jeans, and his hair is spiked. He looks good, and he looks happy (contrary to everything his mom has told me). “Let me buy you a beer. I want to hear how life has been since you dropped the bomb on your family.”

I met William when I was six years old and we were in Cub Scouts together. Our mothers became instant friends, bonding because they were both homeschooling their young children and because of their conservative faith. So for years, Will was a big part of my life. We played t-ball together, did our school work together, and he came to my high school graduation. But Will was always different from my other friends.

Two years before my experiment, I bumped into Will at an American Eagle in the same mall I worked at, and he introduced me to his fiancé. But after talking with him for a few minutes and then hearing the news about his engagement, I felt perplexed. Will wasn’t like the guys I surrounded myself with, and I even wagered with a co-workers who knew him that he was secretly in the closet. I hope he’s not just another queer, I remember saying; but in the back of my mind I always had the suspicion. Several months later, Will got married, the mall I worked at closed down, and we lost touch once more. I decided I was probably wrong about his being gay.

A year passed, and I bumped into Will’s mom at the grocery store. She seemed very upset when I asked how Will and his wife were doing, quickly changing the subject without answering. I gave her my phone number, but just like that, my childhood friend was once again out of my life, and my curiosity about Will was again left unanswered.

In February, four months before the fated night with Liz, Will’s mom called me, and it didn’t take more than a few seconds to hear her crying on the other end of the line.

“Oh, Tim…” She took a deep breath. “I’ve got a problem and I need your help.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Will’s marriage is over. His wife caught him making out with another guy, and they decided to get a divorce. And now Will
thinks
he’s gay, and you’re the only one who could get through to him. I know he’s devastated…We are all devastated about it. I just know that the devil is influencing him.” She paused for a second, taking a few deep breaths.

“Me? What could I possibly do?”

“Would you please talk to him and try to help counsel him out of this? You’re in ministry—if anyone can do it, it’s you. Please just try.” She sounded desperate, and her confidence in me inflated my ego.

“I’ll try. What’s his number?” I took down the number and told her I would pray for her and for Will. “I’ll do what I can, and I’ll try to show him that what he’s choosing is going to hurt him, but that’s all I can do.”

For the next two months, I called Will nearly every day, multiple times. I left voicemails and sent emails. I showed up at his work (he wasn’t there at the time) and I talked with his Christian friends about him. I even met up with one of his closest friends and had a strategy meeting about how we could “show him the light.” And all this time I was talking with his mom about him, trying to get the latest intel on what he was doing, so I could finally catch and convert him.

But nothing happened. Will never answered his phone, never responded to my emails, and even stopped talking to the friend I had met with. Looking back, I can only say I am happy he did. My approach wouldn’t have done any good because it was not the approach anyone ought to use. There was no love in my methodology. I became an Inspector Javert, trying to hunt down a moral criminal. Though I believed I was fulfilling my moral obligation, I became an antagonist in the story of Will’s life.

“So how’d your mom take it?” Will asks with concern.

“She seems to be taking it okay, but it’s obviously not what she would have chosen for one of her sons.” The understatement of the century.

“At least she’s trying.”

I know what Will is inferring. “About that…” The pang of guilt washes over me. “Will, I really need to apologize.”

“Why? Tim, you don’t need to apologize to me.”

“Yes, I do. I harassed you! I was trying to change you. My intentions were flawed from the beginning. Your mom called me when you came out and wanted me to help counsel you out of it. I feel like an idiot.”

Will’s eyes show sympathy. “I appreciate that, but don’t worry. You weren’t the only one. She still refuses to believe that I’m not that perfect little child she always thought she had, but she’ll figure it out eventually.” Will smiles. “I’ll be okay. And Tim, you’re forgiven.”

“I saw you, and the first thing I felt was guilt because of how I treated you.”

“I’ve been treated much worse, believe me.” Another understatement.

“So I saw you’ve got a boyfriend! He seems like a nice guy. Has your mom met him yet?” I ask.

“Yeah, but she won’t have anything to do with us together. He’s not even allowed at my house, and they won’t see us together,” he says. I can see that he’s struggling with his mom’s less-than-warm welcome. “God only knows why he’s putting up with it. Makes me love him more, though! I see him dealing with my parents who don’t like him, and I can’t help but be thankful for him.”

“So he treats you well?”

“He’s a prince.” Will’s face lights up when he talks about his boyfriend, and I can see he’s in love.

“You deserve a prince.”

“I’m just going to give my mom time. She still thinks her ex-gay therapy groups will straighten me out; but until she realizes I’m being me, we won’t be able to move forward.”

I can’t imagine. If my mom tried to shove ex-gay literature at me, I’d probably throw it right back at her.
Reparative therapy
, they call it. They should call it “repression therapy.”

“Well, it looks like you’ve got a line of thirsty men,” I say.

“And a few that want a drink, too!” he says with a laugh.

“It’s awesome seeing you. We need to hang out soon.”

He nods. A few steps back towards the bar, he stops. “Oh, and one more thing: Do me a favor and realize that in every community there’s good and bad. Don’t get caught up in the bad, now, no matter how much you may want to.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re free of the closet, but don’t lose yourself by acting out. Take your time acclimating and don’t rush into anything. I see too many guys come out, and in the happiness of it all, make some very unwise decisions. Break the stereotypes, Tim. This is an opportunity to break the stereotypes.” He turns and walks back to the bar where a line of people wait to order drinks.

“I will,” I say, even though he is too far to hear me. I’ll have to ask him to elaborate, but for now I am so caught off guard by Will’s concern for me that I don’t know what to say.

I wonder what’s worse: rejecting someone for being gay or accepting him with ulterior motives. Will’s mom, who has always been very sweet and caring, is not only permitting a wall between herself and her son—she’s helping to reinforce it. I just don’t get it. How can someone separate themselves from another person, especially a child, using theology as bricks and dogma as mortar? It makes no sense.

I think that’s a problem with conservative theology: it allows one’s beliefs to keep one from a relationship. And unfortunately, she has fallen into the trap. Will is her son, and by keeping his boyfriend at arm’s length, she’s keeping her son at a distance. I feel distraught for Will, and I wish his mom would love him without trying to change him. Even more, I wish the same for myself. Loving without motive seems like the more Christ-like way to go, but maybe it is more easily said than done. Maybe this year I’ll get to a place where that is not only my mindset, but my habit, too.