The Cross in the Closet (22 page)

I walk forward through the sanctuary and set my messenger bag on a pew. I wait for my old pastor to see me. And when he does, the look on his face is one of shock. He looks happy to see me…but pained at the same time. I memorize that look. It burns into my memory.

“Tim, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, it has. How are you?” he asks, still surprised by my sudden reappearance in his church.

“Never better, actually. This year has been a good one.”

“Well, I’m happy you are here. We’ll have to talk after the service.”

“I look forward to it.” I shake his hand and feel mixed emotions. I am happy to see one of my old mentors—but I cannot forget his email and how much it hurt me. I sit down in the pew after saying hello to several other parishioners. Everyone seems to be looking at me. How many of them know I came out? How many understand why I left the church in the first place? Maybe the pastor didn’t tell them, but surely word got around. I sit in the pew uncomfortably, praying that I can make it through the service.

During worship I think back to that room of people in the community center being led in worship by the drag queen—Jesus in drag—singing the same songs we are singing now. I sing with them in mind, and it makes things easier. It is easier because I feel more mindful of my faith. The “body of Christ” has gotten a lot bigger for me this year. I know I can’t discredit others’ faith the way I used to. I wish the people here could see what I have seen, and I wish they knew how much in common they have with people they refuse to acknowledge.

The music ends, we sit down, and the pastor gets up and starts preaching. My old life becomes real again and the glimpses I get into my past are healing. The Pharisee is right. I have thrown the baby out with the bathwater, and it is humbling to think that not everything I was part of before all of this was bad. I had forgotten how at home I always felt here, with these people, and I wish I could combine both my lives…impossible as that would be.

The sermon ends and the pastor explains communion. I sit as everyone walks forward and participates in it. I don’t. I know the church disagrees with what they think my lifestyle is, and I don’t want to participate for multiple reasons. I don’t want to disrespect their beliefs while I am here. That’s not why I came. More than anything, I don’t want to participate in communion in a church that would not be okay with my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters partaking. It is a non-violent protest of sorts. Several parishioners look at me questioningly, probably wondering why I am not going forward, but eventually they move on and I keep my seat.

After the service, people line up to hug me. All of them are cordial, and all of them treat me with kindness. Once again I am convicted, remembering what I have thought of these people since I came out. Assigning blame to those who haven’t reached out and being honest about how certain people have directly hurt me are two different things. I have perceived and assumed what these people have been thinking about me for months, and I have used those assumptions against them without giving them an opportunity to prove me wrong. Maybe I was afraid to. Maybe my instincts were to push them away because
I
felt pushed away. For better or worse, these people are my brothers and sisters, and all of them are a part of me. Even the pastor is a part of me. While it may take me a while to overcome the emotions attached to his words, I am hopeful that in the future I will be able to reconcile my frustrations with him. Life is so much richer when we can acknowledge everyone without bias. It is more beautiful when we can see each other as beautiful—in spite of their hurtful words or actions. Maybe this is what being a peacemaker is all about.

And then the moment comes when my reason for being here tonight presents itself.

The pastor and I are at the front of the sanctuary, alone.

My nervousness returns, but I’m ready for it. “You know,” I say, “I’ve missed being here. I feel like I left a part of myself here when I left.”

“You did, and we’ve missed having you.”

“Thank you for saying that. It’s been an interesting year, but a good one. I’m a lot happier now.”

“That’s good, Tim, really. You know, I’ve thought a lot about you since you left, and I want you to know that if I had it to do over, I wouldn’t have just written you. I would have talked to you more about your choice. Granted, my position wouldn’t have been much different, but I would have approached it more personally.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes,” he says thoughtfully.

“I don’t need you to agree with me,” I say, “but I do need you to respect that it’s my life, and our involvement in each other’s lives is a privilege, not a right. We need to be more mindful of that privilege when we are sharing our beliefs.”

“I wish I had it to do over. I’m sorry if you were hurt by my message.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I know he means what he’s saying. Even though I don’t agree anymore with his theological approach to his faith, I feel a certain measure of perspective regarding how he and I are supposed to relate as humans.

“I was hurt by a lot more than your message. A lot of people have hurt me this year, but I guess that’s okay with me now.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because for the first time in my life, my beliefs are my own. They aren’t hinged on anyone else.”

“That’s always a good thing. The church has gone through a lot of changes and lost several people. I didn’t know if we were going to make it…I know what it’s like to face criticism, and the question of how to respond, more now than ever.”

“And I’ve been watching how you handle it, from a distance,” I add. “I think you are doing a good job. The church really seems to be more like a family since I left.”

“Believe me, we are. It’s been a humbling thing to experience.” The emotion in his voice and on his face is the most authentic I’ve ever seen from him. He really has changed. I just wish he knew how damaging his beliefs can be, especially when spoken so carelessly.

We make more small talk and eventually make our way back to the parking lot. Before I leave, he hugs me.

“You know I love you, right?” he says.

“I love you too, brother.”

I get into my car and turn the key in the ignition. The engine comes to life and I put the car in reverse, waving to him as I pull out of the driveway. The Pharisee sits next to me.

I’m proud of you.

Why?

Because you’d forgotten that Christians are people too, and now you remember.

They are people—but I won’t forget how much pain they can bring by carelessly judging other people.

Everyone causes pain. Everyone hurts everyone else. It’s a fact of life, a sad one.

I can see that, I guess.

Think you’ll ever go back?

Not this one, my friend. Unfortunately, I was only meant to be here for a season. It’ll probably be a long time before I’m comfortable at any church again. I will always do my best to follow God with my life, but being part of a brick and mortar church doesn’t appeal to me at all.

Fair enough.

I drive back to my dad’s and sit in my car for an hour. The sheer number of thoughts and emotions I feel make going inside impossible. I sit, captive to the dialogue playing out inside my head, and I know it will probably take years for me to process all of this. But tonight was a good first step. Tonight I got to confront hurt and encourage a brother. I am starting to believe my past was necessary, so that I can be the man I am becoming. Everything really does happen for a reason, even if we don’t understand it until years later.

I have never been one for causes, never thrown myself behind any cause other than the church. I looked at organizations as crooked, misdirecting money, cheating the people they claim to serve. I have been skeptical. But when a friend asked me to walk in the Nashville Cares AIDS walk, I thought back to New York and the homeless man I saw covered in lesions indicative of the virus. He was a skeleton covered in paper-thin skin, barely able to hold his cardboard sign that read simply,
Please help me eat. I have AIDS
. I thought back to this man, sitting in a stairwell covered in pigeon shit, this man created in the image of God, and I told my friend I would most definitely join him for the walk.

When Nashville Cares emailed me the information about the walk, I scanned through the materials looking for the “gay message.” Years in the church had taught me that AIDS was a definitively “gay issue” and some went so far as to say that it was a terrible punishment from God for men engaging in anal intercourse. But when I looked through the packet, LGBTQ folks were hardly mentioned. What was highlighted were the many ways that AIDS can be contracted. While I read, I began to see the big picture. AIDS a devastating virus that kills people, gay and straight, every single day.
AIDS
is the enemy, not the people with AIDS; I feel guilty for avoiding the epidemic by turning it into a “gay issue.”

I drive downtown to the site of the walk, park, and people-watch as rain turns the grounds into a thick pit of soft mud. Even though I was only able to raise $100 the week of the walk, I feel good for having been able to raise anything, and I feel good about this walk and this cause. I’m a tiny piece of a much larger puzzle here, and as I stare at the people walking back and forth, families and friends, all smiling, I realize how beautiful the puzzle is. It feels beautiful, like life feels beautiful. To see so many come together for a cause, and to know that this whole thing is still just one city doing what so many others across this country are doing today as well, makes me feel hope.

By the time I reach the registration tent my shoes are caked with mud. It is a thick Southern mud left by the thick Southern rain, and even though everywhere I look I see cold, wet faces, everyone looks happy.

“Name?” the man asks me as I reach the tent.

“Tim Kurek,” I say.

“Hello, Tim!” He is very welcoming. “It says here that you raised $100 for the walk. That’s great! Are you excited?”

“Very. It’s my first time here.”

“Well, thank you for helping us out. Without you and everyone else, we’d be even further from finding a cure.” He hands me a bag with bumper stickers and AIDS ribbons, and also a t-shirt.

“A t-shirt? Wow, that’s cool.”

“Yep. You also get a water bottle with the ribbon on it. Have a great walk!” He smiles, and before I step away he’s greeted the next person in line. What a nice guy.

I reach the main stage area and look around. Everywhere I see tents from local businesses and organizations. It’s eye-opening to see how many groups in the community came out to support the cause. I make my rounds from tent to tent and see the many businesses present. The
Tennessean
and every bank in the area are here, and numerous restaurants and other small businesses are selling their goods—their profits, of course, going towards AIDS research. I even stumble across two churches…but neither of them are mainstream. And then I am struck by a realization that leaves me immobile, shaking my head. I look over at the Pharisee, angered by the epiphany.

Why aren’t they here?

Why isn’t who here?

Who do you think? Nashville has multiple multi-million-dollar mega-churches, and none of them are here! Why? There isn’t a single mainstream church represented here! Don’t they care enough about the community to participate?

Be fair.

Fair? Be fair? Are you kidding me?

Don’t judge them for not being here. They probably don’t even know this is happening.

I
know
they do.

How’s that?

The information is plastered all over every Starbucks in town—and every non-denominational pastor I know is addicted to Starbucks.

Still, don’t dismiss them. The church does its part for people with AIDS. Think about Africa.

Maybe little orphans in Africa…but how about people in our own backyard? Why does the church send millions of dollars and thousands of people across the globe, when there are men and women dying every day within walking distance, completely alone?

You also have to look at AIDS as a symptom of a bigger heart problem. By preaching the gospel, the church is helping to prevent the spread of the virus.

Are you serious? So we ignore the people who already have it? Sounds like a cop-out to me. In fact, what you just said offends me. The church can teach abstinence or the dangers of using illegal drugs and needles, but it all seems like talk without action.

Don’t write off an entire religion because Nashville churches didn’t show up.

Look around you, for Christ’s sake! Everyone is wearing a “Nashville Cares” t-shirt, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that maybe, just maybe, some of Nashville doesn’t give a shit. Believing is seeing. When I see a non-affirming church show up to an AIDS walk, I’ll apologize.

This is
your
first AIDS walk.

It was a tad off my radar until recently. But I won’t make that mistake again.

I walk to another booth and see some friends from Tribe. They smile and wave me over, but I hesitate. They are stretching for the walk under a covered area. I would join them, but I need to process all of this. What would I do if I ever found out I had HIV or AIDS? Would I lose hope?

After stretching I see an old friend, my former manager from Revive Café, Brent. As soon as I see him I feel a deep sadness that Revive was taken from us so abruptly. I miss that little café more than I have ever missed a job before. I only had a few months there, but they were a few of the best months I’ve ever had. I remember the smell of a perfectly timed espresso shot poured into silky steamed milk. I wonder if Brent misses it too. He’s walking with his partner and their puppy, and he probably has a new job by now. I wonder if working with me was as pleasant an experience for him as working with him was for me.

Brent and I walk together and catch up on life, and he is not the only one I’m reunited with. Most of the regulars from the café are also here. It’s funny how much more we can appreciate the good things when they’re getting lost in the rearview mirror. Everyone agrees that what we shared in that little shop on Church Street was a truly profound blessing.

The Nashville Cares AIDS walk is three miles long, but it feels like a hundred yards. The rain actually provides a peaceful ambience to the walk, and though it is getting cool outside, the warmth of the crowd somehow makes up for it. It is a profound experience: we aren’t just walking in a big circle, we are walking towards a goal, and with every step we are closing the gap on finding a cure for an epidemic I never knew existed.

“I’m going to go see the boyfriend,” Brent says.

“It was great seeing you!” I say.

“Bitch, I love you,” he says as he walks away.

“Bitch, I love you…”

Brent rejoins his partner, and I see another regular from the café and decide to walk with him.

“Jonathon! It’s so good to see you.” I haven’t seen Jonathon since opening day of softball. He was on the travel team this year, so we never had the opportunity to play each other. I give him a tight hug, and he pop-kisses me on the cheek.

“Tim! How are you?”

“I’m good. And you?”

“Been better.”

“What? Why?” I ask.

“A friend of mine just found out he contracted HIV from a needle he used a few years ago before he got clean. His whole family is here walking with him today,” Jonathon says, breathing deeply. “Oh, look, the finish line!” Jonathon always had a short attention span, with conversation and with men, but I cannot help dwelling on his friend’s situation.

“I know. It went so quick. Your friend, is he going to be okay?”

“We hope so. HIV can be monitored and managed, sometimes for decades. But it’s still a battle.”

“I can’t even comprehend it.”

“He’s not my first friend with HIV. I’ve known several men who didn’t take care of themselves and were a lot less lucky. Every time one of them passes, I feel like a part of me dies with them…But listen to me—I’m probably depressing the hell out of you! You’re young. You won’t have to see what I’ve seen. The ’80s and ’90s were tough.”

“At least we’re raising money for the research.”

“Yeah, but we could be raising a lot more,” he says as we walk past the finish line and high-five volunteers to the left and right.

“How so?” I ask, taking a bottle of water and an orange slice from another volunteer.

“Look who
isn’t
here. No one from my church, or any of the major churches, for that matter. Do you know how efficiently churches can raise money? Could you imagine how much we could raise if we were committed to finding a cure, together?”

“So you noticed.”

“It’s hard not to notice. I guess they won’t be passionate about the AIDS research till they find out their kids, or brothers, or parents have it. Then just try to stop them!”

“I thought the same thing.”

“Well, I’m going to go meet up with my friend’s family. Pray for him, okay? I know you’re one of the Jesus people.” He hugs me and kisses me on the cheek again.

“Will do. See you later.”

Jonathon walks away and I feel the same anger from earlier, just worse. It is worse because it’s not just me that has noticed the absence of my old community…other people noticed it, too, and those people have less reason than me to defend the church. I am frustrated. I didn’t know that loving your neighbor as yourself was contingent on the neighbor being a white Christian male, between ages eighteen and forty-nine—and straight.

I walk back to my car and try to kick the mud from my shoes before getting in. The rain has picked up, and it is getting cooler outside. But before starting my car, I grab my bag of stickers and peel the back off one of the little red ribbons. I stick it on my dashboard and flatten it to the surface with my thumb. I do not want to forget any of this. I look at the little raised ribbon, lightly touch it with my finger, and I wonder just how long it will be before we actually do find a cure. I hope that in the meantime, someone will have given that homeless man in New York a blanket and some food. I refuse to let myself think of him being gone.