The Cross in the Closet (13 page)

For years I have sought victory by evangelism, not reconciliation between God and His children. I write down Matthew’s words.
Victory creates enemies, and reconciliation creates unity.
We are on this thing, this journey, together, and we have only two options: cooperation or condemnation. I hope we all prefer cooperation.

Three: I will walk and talk in the manner of love and nonviolence.
“We are not here to argue or condemn Catholics. We are here to be here, to love others, and to show a better alternative. Please, if faced with someone who wants to argue, speak lovingly to them and show them the respect you hope they show you.”

Four: I will contemplate daily what I can do so that all can be free.
“We are not fighting for ourselves, we are fighting for everyone. Think in terms of others, and don’t fall into a mindset of complacency. Contrary to what some of you might be thinking, we can and will make a difference tomorrow. It may not be instantaneous, but our voices will be heard.”

Five: I will sacrifice my own personal wishes that all might be free.

How many times have I ever thought about sacrificing my comforts for another person’s freedom? The Bible teaches us to take care of those in need, to give freely. Jesus even said in Matthew 25:40, “
Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me
.” I was taught this, but never had it spoke to me of social justice. If I was taught to take the Bible and apply it to my life, why was I also not taught that spirituality and social justice are connected?

Six: I will observe with friend and foes the ordinary rules of courtesy.
“This is simply the golden rule reworded. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Don’t be a jerk. It’s too easy to be a jerk. It takes courage to speak love to those who condemn you.”

Seven: I will perform regular service for others and for the world.

Eight: I will refrain from violence of fist, tongue, and heart.

“We can use our words for good or for evil. We can use them to build up others or to tear them down. Physical violence is destructive, but hateful words and a hard heart can be just as detrimental, if not more so. Non-violence dictates that we use neither our bodies, words, nor hearts to hurt one another.”

Nine: I will strive to be in good spiritual and bodily health.

Seven through nine are read twice each, slowly, and they pierce my heart. I have spent years working on my spiritual life, but never my physical.

Ten: I will follow the directions of the movement leaders and other squad captains on our nonviolent direct actions.
“This one is important,” Matthew says. “Police officers will be present over the next two days, waiting to see if this protest gets ugly. They’re also there for our protection. Please follow our direction and everything will go smoothly. We want to make a difference, and that means we all need to be on the same page.”

Matthew calls for a break and I make my way to the bathroom. I do not have to go, but I need the solitude. I reach the first stall and practically fall onto the seat. All of this time, I have been taught that activists were godless robots, that they were hateful to anyone who had an opposing world view. The tenets of non-violent protests, at least Soulforce’s tenets, are all about two things: reconciliation and respect. How could I have not known this?

I will sacrifice my own personal wishes that all might be free…

I feel an indescribable guilt for mentally painting these people as monsters, and worse yet, for treating them as monsters that spring day at Liberty University, years ago. I pull the list from my pocket and read it silently a dozen times.

And my mind begins to pin scripture references to each principles. They are scriptures I have always known but never applied. The sickening realization dawns on me that I have never really followed these ideals, all the while claiming to be a Christian. The people I condemned most heartily have shamed me by walking more closely with the faith I have proclaimed so boldly. Talk really is cheap.

If I am honest with myself, I have to admit that these people whom I have always felt prejudice against are better people than me. Living love is so much more tangible and powerful than speaking love. I feel inspired to follow suit. When I die, I want people to remember me as the guy who loved everyone—because if I loved everyone, then I really will have followed the example of the Jesus I serve.
Love your neighbor as yourself
, the Bible says. How foolish I was to pick and choose only my fellow conservative Christians as neighbors.

Lord, please forgive me for believing as I have, and for blindly condemning people I never even understood
, I pray. I pull a pen from my pocket and steady the non-violence pledge card on the monstrous plastic toilet-paper dispenser.
I will do my best, Lord, to follow these in my life
. I sign the pledge and date it, and feel a profound sense of peace.

After a few more hours of talking, everyone who has a place to stay in New York leaves for the night, and those staying at the church, including me, settle down for the night. We are all sharing the big room with dark red carpets, and I pull two comfortable chairs together to create a makeshift bed in the corner of the room.

Mel looks over at me and smiles. He has the spirit and vitality of a man half his age, and I know that his work has kept him young. He cracks jokes and we all laugh, and he tells us stories of his work with Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson, and others. His life has been unorthodox but impactful, and I am amazed by his humility. Mel, the founder of Soulforce, is here, but he never spoke at the meeting, contentedly giving others the spotlight.

We turn off the lights and curl up, ready for sleep. All is quiet save for a few coughs and deep breaths, and my exhaustion overtakes me. I feel something at the foot of my makeshift bed, and I half awaken to see Mel covering my legs and feet with a blanket so I won’t be cold. He moves over to Samantha and does the same, tucking her in like a doting grandfather. I feel tears well up in my half-closed eyes and I weep silently.

I was
so
wrong about this man.

Day one of the protest ends much as it began. The Vatican’s embassy remains closed and locked, and even the mailman was unable to deliver the mail for the day. Neighboring businesses tell us that they have never seen the embassy closed like this during the middle of the week, and it is obvious they are doing everything in their power not to engage our group as we vigil on the sidewalk outside.

Before today, I never understood how simple a non-violent protest is. We take turns passing out flyers, answer questions if anyone asks, and hold signs that say
Stop Spiritual Violence.
We are led in song by Matthew and spend time in reverent silence. There is nothing about it that could be construed as morally wrong. It is a time of sincere peace. Several members of the group pass the hours in prayer, others in conversation.

The only thing I have a difficult time with is the rain. It is unrelenting and miserable. My feet are soaked to the bone. After our day ends, I walk to a nearby Walgreens and spend $12 on three pairs of fresh socks. I shiver uncontrollably while I swipe my debit card, and it takes me three attempts to put in my PIN and successfully make my purchase. Samantha stands next to me, reassuringly rubbing my back. I feel weak and hungry but am in good spirits.

After paying for my socks, Samantha and I decide to grab a bite to eat back by the church where we are staying. Brandon, another activist, decides to go with us. He is tall and dark with a shaved head and glasses, and he has the gentlest demeanor of anyone in the group. He was at the same protest as me, that day at Liberty years ago, and hearing his memories of that protest makes me feel even more like an ass, if that were possible.

We emerge from the subway and walk six blocks to the church. Changing into dry clothes feels like a rebirth, and as I am finishing, I see Mel changing into a suit.

“Looking sharp, Mel!” I whistle and Mel blushes.

“I got two free tickets to the opera, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to go!” Mel sounds like a kid on Christmas morning, his enthusiasm contagious.

“Have fun!” I say.

“You too!” he says as he walks out the door.

Samantha and I are meeting Brandon at the sports bar three blocks away, and the walk allows us our first opportunity for privacy. “So you’ve read Kevin’s book?” Samantha asks. Recently a mutual acquaintance of ours wrote a book about a semester he spent undercover at Liberty University. He wanted to see if the stereotypes about the evangelical right were true, and in the process he made friends with Samantha.

“Yes I have. It was really good. Ever think you’d be fooled again by someone ‘undercover’ writing a book?” I ask.

“Absolutely not! I’ll smell an experiment like Kevin’s a mile away.” She sounds so confident.

“Yeah, you probably would.” I hope she doesn’t hate me when this is all over.

After a block or two, I broach the topic of sexuality. Samantha’s devout Christian faith makes me curious about her opinion of the gay scene.

“I want my life to be an example. Conservative Christians perpetuate the stereotype that being gay means being promiscuous and godless, and then when their children come out, those stereotypes create barriers. I just want people to know morality has nothing to do with orientation. The everyday relationship we have with God is all that matters. The promiscuity you’re asking about is a symptom, not the problem.” As she speaks and I listen to the passion in her words, I know I can learn a lot from her.

“But what if the fundamentalists are right, and being gay is a sin?”

She stops walking and looks at me, grabbing my hand delicately. “Tim, if God knows my heart, then He knows how much I love Him and want to serve Him with my life. If being gay is a sin, then I’ll just have to trust that when He said that
His love covers a multitude of sins,
He was telling the truth.” She kisses my hand and smiles at me. “Have faith, brother. Just because the people in your life doubt you and are trying to change you doesn’t mean for a second that they’re right.”

“You are an incredible woman,” I say. She looks up at me, grinning. “Too bad we aren’t straight,” I add, squeezing her hand.

“Yeah, too bad!” She laughs. “But, for the record, you are kinda cute.” She winks at me and we start walking again. And I feel as though I have found yet another friend for life.

The three of us sit at a table in the modest sports bar and I listen as much as possible. Listening is easy when you are eating the biggest burger you have ever seen, a twenty-ounce triple with bacon. Brandon and Samantha laugh at me as I eat the entire thing.

“Congratulations, Tim. You eat like a straight slob!” Brandon says, biting a cherry tomato in half off of the end of his fork. His salad is tiny compared to the plate of food in front of me.

“I’m from the South, and we Southerners know how to eat,” I say, wiping burger grease from the corner of my mouth with a crumpled napkin.

“And you’re proof of that!” Samantha laughs.

Several hours later and we curl up in our makeshift beds. Once again Mel makes sure the covers are keeping us warm, and I realize the oddest thing. I do not feel like I am at a protest with a group of gay activists. I feel like I am at a reunion, and these people are my family. There is much more to this than standing on a sidewalk with signs. This is as much for our group, in the moment, as it is for the people and cause we are advocates of. And I am having fun.

Day two of the action is much like the first, but without the rain. Once again the Vatican’s embassy is closed and locked, so we stand outside and hold our protest signs.
Stop Spiritual Violence!
I hold the sign high, and a taxi-driver honks and gives me the finger. I see a rosary hanging from his rearview mirror. Go figure.

About three hours into the vigil, the mailman comes again to deliver the mail. He walks up to the gate and inserts a key that he did not have yesterday. Mel and I look at each other, trying to comprehend this sudden turn of events. We have composed a letter, out thoughts on the contradiction of the Church’s Path of Peace with their United Nations veto, and we want to deliver our letter directly. This morning we decided that we had to get inside the building if possible, to deliver the letter, and this is our first and probably only opportunity. The mailman leaves the gate slightly ajar. “Tim, let’s go!” Mel says urgently.

Mel, another activist, and I run through the gate and into the building. I hear nervous shouts from the police behind me, but we keep moving. We will probably be arrested, but it does not stop me. Let them arrest us if they want, for walking through an open door to deliver a letter to a man who thinks it is okay for people to die just because they are gay.

Inside the lobby, time seems to slow almost to a stop. I look up at the golden words on the wall of the lobby:
The Path to Peace
. It is the first time I see them unobstructed, and I think for a moment that I rushed inside the building because I needed to see these words up close. I need to see them without the bars blocking them, to see how beautifully the golden letters contrast with the black marble of the wall they hang from. I needed to taste the contradiction up close—the contradiction of the place, but more so, a similar contradiction within my own heart.

I have hated this building from the moment I saw it, because this building reminds me of myself. It is closed off, impersonal, political, and religious. The similarities are unnerving. There are too many to name. I stand inside the lobby and survey the inside of my own heart. Outside the gate, the Pharisee watches me. He is yelling something, but I cannot hear him. I choose not to hear him. I do not need anything distracting me from the palpable tension I am living, second by second, in this building. I feel outside my own body, as though I am watching myself stare up at that godforsaken lie on the wall, a lie I have lived all along.

When I tell my family the truth of my experiment, I will tell them about this moment. I will tell them that the lie I told them about being gay is nothing compared to the lie I have lived all my life in the church.

Can I truly claim Jesus and be at odds with his children? Are they even his children? I remember the scripture that says “by your fruit you shall know them.” Yes. They are his children, as much as I am his child. Salvation is not a country club, and we do not have the right to deny anyone admittance. People and their relationships to God are their own concern, and no good can come from my shoving my theology down someone else’s throat.

And then the answer comes to me: There is only either
a path to peace
—or a barred gate protecting an empty wall. Both cannot exist simultaneously within me.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. It is a police officer, and I know I am about to be arrested for trespassing. I hold my wrists behind my back, resign myself, and take a deep breath. If I get arrested, it will all have been worth it. I got to see myself under a microscope, and even though what I saw has shaken me, the moment seems fated.

“Why are you putting your hands behind you?” the officer asks as he leads me towards the door.

“Haven’t I just broken some sort of law?” I look at his face and he smiles sympathetically.

“Son, I didn’t see you do anything.” He winks. “You look pale. Go drink some water.”

I walk outside and a few of the Soulforce crew gather around me to ask what happened, but I can barely talk.

“What happened inside?” Samantha asks.

“I’m not sure.”

I look over at the Pharisee and as he opens his mouth to talk. I glare at him. He closes his mouth and walks over to the stairs of the next building. Coward.

“I gave them the letter we wanted to give them. Mission accomplished,” Mel says. He walks over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Good job, Tim. I’m proud of you for charging in like that.” His praise means more than I can describe.

“I don’t understand. Tim, what happened?” Samantha presses me for an answer.

Mel smiles at me and I shrug my shoulders. Samantha drops the question and puts her arm around my waist.

And then, just as quickly as the drama began, the moment is over and we are back at our posts in the vigil line.

I am on the plane flying home. The experience of New York City and the action with Soulforce is something I will never forget. But as I lie back in my seat and close my eyes to rest, I still see those golden words.
The Path to Peace
felt more like the path to hell. For what the church leaders allow to continue to happen to gays and lesbians all over the world, it is hard not to wish ill upon them. I am thankful that the God I am finally getting to know transcends my prejudice, that He is able to show grace where I have a difficult time of it.

I flew to New York not knowing what to expect; looking back, I have to say everything culminated in that ever-so-brief moment in the lobby. I feel like I might just be grasping why I felt called to this journey in the first place. My life has been a lie, a lie even bigger than the one I have had to tell my friends and family in order for this journey to be possible. I can only hope my eyes will continue to open to the inconsistencies and lies I have believed all along.

Weeks later I receive an email telling me that there is news about the action on the Soulforce website. Five paragraphs down, I read the news I have been praying about since returning home:

…
Several weeks later, as we persisted in trying to meet with the ambassador, we were able to persuade the ambassador to sit down with our representatives. The meeting was again cordial and the ambassador indicated that he would be discussing the Statement with the United Nations when they meet in Switzerland this summer for their summer sessions. This meeting was significant in that after eight years of trying to negotiate with the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church, this was the first time we have been able to sit down with a high-ranking representative of the Vatican.

Given the years of hostile rhetoric between the Vatican and the LGBT community, we are hopeful about the improvements we have made in helping the Vatican understand the sacredness of LGBT lives. Soulforce will continue to monitor the situation and will keep people up to date.

Some may read my account of New York and scoff at the attempts we made those days to help improve the quality of life for lesbians, gays, bisexuals, and transgender individuals across the globe; to those people I offer only one thought: Jesus fought for the oppressed. If you claim to follow him, his mission is your mission. You do not have to agree with the organization that I protested with—or with me, for that matter—but if you can see a cause for what it is, a chance to live the gospel instead of just preach it from a pulpit, you will be able to share your faith in a much more tangible way.

I learned this because of Mel White. I learned this from Matthew, Samantha, Brandon, and others. I learned this after finally listening to that still, small voice within my heart, and I finally obeyed its call to stand up for something bigger than myself. I learned this from the “unnatural and abominable,” and for them, I am thankful.