The Cross in the Closet (21 page)

—George Bernard Shaw

Change is a funny thing. It can creep up on you unnoticed, or it can paint itself as vividly as the bright lights of the Vegas strip, illuminating your steps in a tapestry of reds and blues and purples, impossible to ignore. I walk into the gay bars now like I am walking into my home, and I greet the boys like I greet family. For months I walked into Tribe consciously, but now it all seems subconscious, thoughtless, and beautiful. It seems normal.

Every night is the same. I walk into the bar and make my rounds from regular to regular. Will gives me a kiss on the cheek and asks me how I’m doing, and when I answer that things are great, I feel warmth radiating from inside, from knowing that I am being honest. Things that used to bother me, like seeing two guys kissing, aren’t a big deal anymore; nor is the flirtatious banter from the men I would have recoiled from only a few months ago. I feel a deep and calming peace; I still have questions and concerns, but I no longer see these men as my enemy or the enemy of God. They are just people, like me, as unique and gifted as any other individual made in the image of God.

On the other hand, walking into a church feels about as natural as walking into oncoming traffic.

It is Sunday morning, and I am attempting to visit the same local mega-church I went to in spring. Not long after the service begins, something horrible in me is confirmed. The band plays their cheesy music, and with every strum of the guitar or head-dip from the drummer “getting into the spirit,” I snicker and sneer and wonder how many of them are living in the closet. I laugh at the keyboard player as he plays the same three ambient notes while the praise leader gives us fortune-cookie thoughts for worship. I smile as he reads scripture passages from his iphone and drinks his coffee—a true hipster wannabe. I laugh at the lighting and the décor. Why are all of these churches decorated in the same cookie-cutter way?

Then the pastor gets up to speak, and I analyze the sermon promo video like a snobby film critic. As he speaks, I listen for trigger words so that I can discredit him; I make a mental list of possible topics or phases that will piss me off enough to leave in protest. If he talks about gays, tithing, or politics, I resolve to walk out…not because I would be genuinely offended, but because I
want
to dislike what he has to say. I
want
to dislike him…even though he has never been anything but kind to me. I dole out judgments indiscriminately. I feel like I am better than these people. My heart is hard. It is bitter. I feel judgment welling up inside of me. I view this church the way I would have viewed a gay pride parade before any of this happened.

And then the pastor begins speaking about fear. He talks about how there are times in our lives we pass up opportunities for relationship because we do not know how to accept someone who is different. He asks whether or not we are versatile in our adaptability with the people God places in our lives. I can say that my acceptance of gays and lesbians feels somehow full, but this new inability to tolerate Christians suggests that I may have strayed into yet another unhealthy extreme. The pastor says that hate is not the root of the ever-widening gap between Christians and those outside our bubble, but fear is. Fear. Pure, unhealthy, destructive fear. He’s right. I have spent most of my life afraid, and even now I’m afraid.

Why am I so afraid?

Why can’t I just love people?

Why can’t I just accept people?

I feel angry. I am overwhelmed and disgusted, overcome by frustration. I look at the Pharisee, and his face betrays a twisted measure of triumph.

Now who’s the Pharisee?

Me.

At least you can finally admit that.

Don’t even start! These people hurt me. They’ve hurt my friends. Damn them!

Really? Who? Which ones have hurt you? Point them out to me.

You know what I mean.

Do I? You just said “these people.” What’s that supposed to mean?

All
of them, and what they believe; It is hate masking itself as relationship. They want to change people and make everyone religious robots who vote red and believe the earth is only six thousand years old.

I feel sick, and nausea brings me back to that night with Liz. I feel the same kick in the gut, the same exasperation, the same feelings of guilt. I am on a path that will end in the same betrayal, but this betrayal will be wrapped in a different skin. A single thought squeezes into my conscience.

I am still a bigot, just a different kind this time.

My experiment seemed to have been drawing itself to a tidy close, and now…well, now I see that I have only just reached the next step in my journey. I stand up and walk of the sanctuary, but for the first time the Pharisee doesn’t follow. He doesn’t need to. I just proved him right.

Until this morning I thought I had come a long way since the first days and weeks of my experiment, but now I feel somewhat defeated on the opposite extreme. Instead of loving Christians and hating gays, I realize that I’ve only succeeded in flipping the object of my prejudice. I feel at home in the gay bars and uncomfortable at church. I feel safe with my gay and lesbian friends, but I feel a constant, nagging irritation and discomfort around other Christians. This morning was an unholy confirmation of that. I know this reversal is partially due to the negative experiences I have either had or witnessed this year—but it is also a sign of bitterness.

Prejudice is at the root of these polarized communities, I think. We embrace those whom we feel safety with and reject those that believe differently; and in so doing we miss the big picture. We live together on this planet and share the everyday places we inhabit, yet we are unable to see each other as we should. And right now, I am having a hard time recognizing Bible-Belt Christians as my brothers and sisters. I feel like I’ve failed. I do not want to flip from extreme to extreme. I want to be a man of peace and reason, and a man who loves everyone without prejudice. But how? I am a bigot, and I just don’t know how to be anything else.

I am sitting at a café by my dad’s house in Nashville, reading the Sunday
New York Times
, drinking coffee, trying not to dwell on the fact that I am back at square one…when I see someone from my past. My old pastor, the man who wrote me a devastating email the day after I came out, the man whose wife completely ignored me the last time I was here, walks over to the counter a dozen or so steps away and orders coffee. I hide myself from view. I see him, but I don’t want to be seen by him. As I hide, adrenaline begins to pump through my body and a barrage of emotions resurface after months of trying to bury them. I feel anger and hurt…but mostly I feel fear. Why am I afraid of him?

Is it because the last time I saw him and his wife, she completely ignored me? Is it still the email he sent? I remember his email as if I read it yesterday. I think it was one of the most hurtful things that happened to me in the first weeks of my experiment, something I still haven’t allowed myself to process. I have been too busy to process it. And now here he is, only a few feet away, and alone. I feel bitterness as I watch him joke around with the barista, and I feel—I
know
—that my bitterness isn’t right, even if I do feel hurt by him.

I look at my Pharisee and his expression telling.

You’ve wanted an opportunity to be a man of peace, and here it is. What are you going to do?

Hope he doesn’t see me…

That’s
it
?

That’s it.

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.