The Cross in the Closet (20 page)

A month passes in Memphis and I feel rejuvenated. I had forgotten what it felt like to be part of a family. Even though I am struggling as much as ever, Connie has filled a unique role in my life. She is a counselor, a teacher of sorts, encouraging me to question my beliefs in a way no one else has before. One of the more recent topics of conversation is gay marriage; the more we talk, the more I feel my eyes opening to the arguments of equality. Why do I believe I have the right to marry a woman, but individuals involved in same-sex relationships don’t have the same access to sanctioned lifetime commitment? Is the concept of gay marriage at its core really even a moral one?

I am less and less sure of the things I used to think were black and white, especially in light of the beautiful, long-lasting relationships I have witnessed this year. I think of Mark and his partner, who have been together for much longer than I’ve been alive. I wonder what it must be like to be told by the government and the church that my relationship holds no more validity than that of two boyfriends going against the social and biological norm. Their relationship convicts me of narrow-mindedness. Similarly, my softball coaches have been together for twenty-five years, and the way they are together is inspirational.

One of the things I love about Connie’s house is that I am free to spend time by myself in the guest room, and her family does not consider me anti-social for taking that time. Connie encourages me daily to spend time in thought, prayer, and writing in my journal. I sit on the bed, stretch, and flex my hand after writing three pages in the black notebook on my lap. It feels good to process my thoughts on paper, to argue back and forth with myself. The endless debates I wage have filled two notebooks in the month I’ve been here. It is the most productive way for me to process. I stretch my arms above my head and yawn, trying to ignore the Pharisee sitting at the desk.

You’re taking your doubt too far. Marriage? An obviously sacred, heterosexual covenant? Don’t spit on that sacrament.

Sacrament? So you’re a Catholic now? We live in a country where politics and religion are supposed to be separate, yet the conservative Christians get to withhold rights and privileges from people outside their faith?

You can’t separate politics from morality. People vote the way they believe.

But our country is not run by the Southern Baptist denomination…or at least it shouldn’t be.

God created marriage for man and wife. Why didn’t the Bible have examples of homosexual marriage, if it is okay to be gay?

The Bible doesn’t talk about a lot of things. That doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

Adam and Steve, was it? Oh wait, that’s right it was Adam and Eve.

Doesn’t the Bible also say it’s better that a man not be alone? So that excludes gay men? That excludes lesbian women?

Weak argument!

Not really. You throw out scripture passages with no regard for historical context or logic.

So you’ve made up your mind, then?

We’ll see.

A result of the back and forth of the equal marriage debate is an event Connie decided to put on several months ago. “New Bridge” will be a night of comedy, speaking, and conversation in downtown Memphis. Beale Street is renowned for its bars, its blues and its barbeque, but Connie hopes to bring the marriage equality conversation into that public forum, too…and if nothing else, to entertain. The event’s keynote speaker is our mutual friend, Jay Bakker. Who better to speak on the issue than a man who has held both beliefs and was cast out from the mainstream church like an outlaw? Jay
is
an outlaw, an outlaw preacher…and as I continue to question the dogma I have been force-fed most my life, I think I may just be one, too.

I stand on Beale Street on the afternoon of the event and pass out fliers to anyone willing to take one. It is almost a hundred degrees outside. And then time runs out and I walk back to the theater, hopeful that a crowd of people will participate. Only a handful have shown up. The theater seats seven hundred and we have maybe seventeen people there to participate in the conversation. But the show must go on, and so Connie nods her head for everything to begin. I know she is disappointed with the turnout. Months of planning and hard work have gone into tonight. Marriage equality is an issue Connie feels very strongly about. I wish more people had come.

The lights in the spacious theater dim, and multi-colored spotlights illuminate the stage in plethora of colors. It wasn’t planned, but the lights reflecting off of Connie’s shirt as she goes on stage are reminiscent of a gay pride flag. She announces a local improvisation group, and they perform
Proposition 8, the Musical
. I laugh, but am simultaneously frustrated. The writers of the satirical tribute seem to understand Jesus more than I ever have, and that really unnerves me. Jesus fulfilled and freed us from the law, yet I have lived most of my life a slave to law. Addicted, even. The conflict elicits a dilemma for me. Am I supposed to love everyone unconditionally and model the teachings of Jesus without forcing my beliefs on others or is it my moral imperative to force-feed my interpretation of the Bible on everyone that disagrees with me? What is my interpretation now?

Pharisee stares at me knowingly.
You know the problem I see? You have consistently thrown the baby out with the bathwater, compromising your beliefs on a whim.

No, I haven’t. I’m just beginning to understand that I have to look at the world through a bigger lens than my own personal faith.

This musical is blasphemous.

It’s satire.

My Jesus is holy, he’s not a comedian. My Jesus is God.

Mine is too, but he was also a man. Don’t take that away from him. He laughed and cried and told jokes, just like the rest of us.

I don’t think you’d recognize Jesus if he was sitting next to you.

Because I don’t believe my faith in him gives me license to ruin peoples’ lives?

The Pharisee doesn’t respond. The commotion on stage has ended and I hear a single voice. I look up and see Jay on stage, talking about his late mother with tears in his eyes. I feel for my friend. So much pain in his life, yet he uses his faith as a tool to alleviate pain in others. Maybe that is his way of healing.

At the end of the night, as we walk back to the car, my suspicions are confirmed: Connie is depressed. She is sad that the event did not reach as many people as she had hoped it would. I want to comfort her, but I don’t know how. I want to celebrate with her that she pulled it off, but the numbers were not what we had hoped for.

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.

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.

“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.