The Cross in the Closet (26 page)

“I’m glad you came over,” Andrew says, looking over at me. I can see the same relief in his eyes that I feel in my heart, and the burden lifts off of my shoulders.

“Me too, brother. Me too.”

I walk into the restaurant, excited to see Shawn. Reconciling with my brother was a paramount experience, and there isn’t anyone I want to share the news with more than the man who has been there for me throughout this entire unorthodox journey. When I think of Shawn, I think of goodness. I see a beautiful man who has shared his life with me more than anyone else has this year—I daresay more than anyone in my life has—and I am thankful for him. Shawn has been my shoulder to cry on, an endless well of encouragement as I have struggled to overcome years of dogma and make sense of the chaos. He has been my protector and my teacher. He’s been my pastor and my family, my dance partner and my drinking buddy. He has been more than a friend. In every way possible, Shawn has been my better half.

A few days ago I had another epiphany: My relationship with Shawn has been the most stable, functional, and healthy relationship I have ever had. And as I’ve considered that fact, part of me wishes that things were different and that I could be with him legitimately. It will never be a reality; this relationship evolving into something more, for very obvious reasons. No matter my esteem, I cannot look at Shawn in the way that would be essential for us to be together, in the way he so deserves. I was born straight. He wasn’t. It is a given…but somehow that still hurts, still gnaws at the spaces of my heart. If anyone has ever deserved happiness, it is this man who has sacrificed and served me as a friend, while I sought the answers to my prejudice. I would have been lost without him on this journey.

I see Shawn sitting at a table, looking at a menu, his gentle posture and relaxed demeanor a trademark of his being. He’s wearing a dark blue button-up shirt, nice jeans, and an unassuming gold chain around his neck. His hair has been cut, and he is freshly shaved. As I get closer to the table I can smell his cologne, which is somewhere between a masculine citrus and an outdoor, earthy pine. He looks at me. He looks at me and recognizes
me
—in a way so few ever have. I feel a heaviness in my soul, heaviness that I do not understand.

“Hey there, beautiful!” Shawn stands and hugs me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, enveloping me. He holds me with more purpose than usual, as though he’s trying to hold onto this moment, as though it might be the last time for us.

“You smell good,” I say, my cheek pressed against his upper chest.

“I wore it just for you,” he says flirtatiously.

I look into Shawn’s eyes and something feels
off
. His expression, outwardly positive, masks something else, and it unnerves me as I sit down and scoot my chair in closer to the table. It is not the look a friend gives another friend. It is the forlorn look of a lover. It’s a look hinting at the unrequited, hinting at something hidden but about to boil to the surface. I feel unsure, like I know what’s about to happen yet naively hope for something else.

Shawn reaches across the table and grabs my hand. He has reached out this way a thousand times before, but I feel an urge to pull away. I have never felt the urge to pull away before. There has always been the agreement, the understanding that what we can be is limited. But the line of understanding dividing us feels muddled and broken now, and I know everything between us is shifting off track. I have had this same feeling before, this same prediction of loss…but never with a man. Never with someone like Shawn.

“Are you okay?” I almost mouth the words because I know something is very wrong, that my dear, sweet friend is struggling.

“Of course…Do I seem like I’m not fine?” Shawn’s voice betrays a soft frustration.

“Something just feels different, off somehow.”

He looks at me, and I see emotion welling up in his expression. He looks like he’s in pain, and I so want to help him with that pain—except I can’t. Deep inside, I know I am the root of his pain. I do not know why, or how, or what has led us to this point, but I can feel the wrongness inside of me, and the guilt. Earth-shattering, life-changing guilt. I may not have lied to Shawn about my orientation, but honesty has not prevented pain. His face…I see it in his face, in his eyes, I see it in every bit of soul behind those eyes. I am to blame for this.

Shawn doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

“It’s me isn’t it? It’s our arrangement…It has gotten too real.” I hold back a tear from falling and feel shame. It is the first time in my life that I have felt this kind of shame, because, I think, it is the first time that I have hurt someone so pure and so dear as the man sitting across from me. But Shawn knows me too well. He reads my expressions as I have read his. He squeezes my hand and cuts me off before I say anything else.

“It isn’t you, Tim. You were always up front with me, always honest about this thing. I guess I just let myself get carried away. This has honestly been the best relationship I’ve ever had…and go figure, it’s with someone that I’ve known all along I can’t have.”

I shudder and let out a breath. His words confirm every fear inside of me.

“Tim, it isn’t your fault. Don’t ever blame yourself for this. What you are doing is brave, and I have been so happy to be a part of it. I am so blessed to have been a part of it. Really and truly.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I don’t. I do not have a clue how to put words to the feelings of sadness and gratitude I feel. I want to tell him so many things, but it isn’t the right time. Right now, no words would do justice to the pain Shawn feels. I fidget with my free hand, thumbing the black rolled napkin that holds the silverware. “What’s next?” I ask, voice shaking.

“Well, I think we should enjoy our last dinner. And then I need to take some time. I have to protect my heart and figure all of this out. We’ll still see each other around, I’m sure…just not like this. Not like this.” His words trail off into a whisper, and we are both left in silence, him holding my hand, and me wishing, for the first time in my life, that I could make him happy.

After dinner I struggle to say the words, to speak the truth. I have to. I can barely even say them for fear of making things worse, but I want Shawn to know he wasn’t alone in this. I want him to know that this was real for me, too—just not in the ways that would make us possible.

“Do you remember that first night at the bar when I told you about my experiment?” I ask, my tone solemn.

“Yes, I do.”

“That was the first time I looked at the men around me as
men
, not as gay men. I don’t know how you did it or why it happened the way it did, but yours was the heart that showed me how backwards I was. In the entire time we’ve known each other, I would have never been able to predict that the best relationship I’ve ever had would be with a guy. I’m fucking straight, for Christ’s sake! I guess what I’m trying to say is that it takes a pretty special guy to make a straight guy wish he was actually gay. You have no idea how much I wish I could be that for you. It breaks my heart knowing you’re hurting.”

Shawn doesn’t respond with words. Instead he wraps his arms around me, like before, with a sense of urgency and purpose. In our embrace, we both struggle to let go. I feel a tear slip down my cheek, and I know I am not the only one. We are stuck in this moment, stuck in the raw emotion of it. We are stuck in future nostalgia, knowing that we will both look back on this and smile, and not just smile but feel the deep melancholy when we remember that this faux relationship grew beyond anything we could have foreseen. This is not the end of a fake relationship. This is as deep a breakup as I have ever experienced.

I have finally learned a lesson. I would do this entire experiment again just to stand in the presence of this man, my friend, and to feel the warmth radiating through me because of his overwhelming love. I have never felt such love from another human being. There is a stirring of thanks within my soul that softens the parts of my heart that religion made so callous. Shawn has been Jesus to me. He has proven that love is something I cannot limit to an orientation, and that sex is not really the ultimate goal of anyone with a pulse.
Love is
.
Otherness
. And while we all have our baggage and our pain, and love may seem impossible or out of the question, the need for it is still always there, that irresistible need makes us human. Maybe that is the reason why I Corinthians 13 ends the way it does, with three simple but divine words. Three words that are the answer to most of our problems on this beautiful blue planet. Three words that make faith so beautiful. Three words that I understand now—because of Shawn.

Love never fails.

Period. End of story.

Love. Never. Fails.

Shawn’s arms relax, and as I am released from his embrace I feel parts of me falling away. It is an avalanche of the soul that I owe to this one man, this lone angel of goodness whom God has brought into my life to make me a better person. I feel born again yet vulnerable, and better because of him. I am more myself than ever before, more confident in my life’s journey. I have always believed in higher callings, divine journeys that we are given to undertake so that we can learn or unlearn whatever will be essential for us to reach our potential. This calling of empathy is the highest I have ever known. To empathize is to understand intimately; and what could be more profound than understanding, even if only in a small way, the hurts, joys, victories, and defeats of another? This is why Jesus is my hero, and this is why Shawn is now too. Shawn taught me how to do this. I owe him for it.

Shawn says a simple goodbye and kisses me on the cheek. And as he pulls away and turns to walk from the restaurant and from me, I feel a wholeness in this experience. I feel a small measure of peace that I didn’t before tonight. While it is only a small piece of a much larger puzzle, it is an important piece. I take a deep breath, turn away, and walk towards the park. I need to sit on the bench by my favorite statue, look up at the lights of the Parthenon, and process this entire experience. Even though I am alone, I know now that I’m not. I possess a part of Shawn’s heart, the most intimate gift he could give—and it will always be with me, because love never fails.

Love never fails.

Love never, ever fails.

Spending the holidays in Missouri isn’t my first choice, even though it has presented me with the blessing of seeing extended family I haven’t seen in several years. But I have to do it. I have to do it because one of the last pieces of this beautiful puzzle is an opportunity I never thought I would have: Visiting Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas.

Westboro Baptist has become notorious in recent years for its outspoken protests at the funerals of soldiers and spiritual leaders. Even more deplorable than the act of protesting a funeral are the methods they use to do it. “God Hates Fags” and “God Hates America” are the two most recognizable slogans one sees Westboros carrying as they exercise their First Amendment right. Even though they’ve been featured on news programs, documentaries, and movies, I need to see if they will speak with me.

In March I found the church’s phone number online. It was on a list of organizations most likely to be prank-called, and I decided I’d see if the number was legit. The voice that answered was a young man’s, and before I could even say hello, I was met with the most defensive tone I’ve ever heard. Go figure. The number of phone calls they receive in a day probably trumps the number most mega churches receive in a month. And almost all of them are combative, I’d imagine.

“Is Fred there?” I asked meekly.

“No, he’s not, but we wouldn’t let you talk to him even if he was,” the young man snapped.

“Okay. Who could I talk to about visiting your church?”

“Why do you want to visit?”

“Because I would like to learn more about what you believe.” I spoke as respectfully as I could, blocking out the images flashing through my brain of their signs. It took focus.

“Oh, well, you’d want to talk to Shirley, then.”

“Is she in?”

“No she’s at the hospital right now.”

“That’s not good. Is she ill?”

“No, she’s fine. She’s there because a family member is in labor.”

“Oh, wow! Congratulations. Could you leave a message for her?”

“Sure.” He seemed surprised by my sudden burst of positivity. “What do you want it to say?”

“If you could just tell her a guy named Timothy called to get info about the church, I’d appreciate it.”

“Okay. I’ll make sure she gets this.” His tone was friendlier.

“Thank you, bro. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Have a great day!” he said.

“You do the same, my friend.”

The change in the young man’s tone from the beginning of our conversation to end was dramatic, an evolution more than an attitude change, and the interaction was convicting. It was convicting because even though Westboro’s congregation is looked at as the most evil the Christian religion has to offer, they’re still people. They still grieve, suffer, and celebrate joy as much as anyone else. My decision of whether to call back was a no-brainer after that conversation. If the young man playing secretary treated me decently, even if only in small talk, maybe the older members of the Phelps clan could do the same.

The next day I call back, and a woman’s voice answered. From the interviews I listened to, I recognized it as Shirley Phelps, Fred’s daughter; and just as the young man had been defensive, Shirley was even more so.

“Who’s this?” she asked sharply after I said hello.

“My name is Timothy, and I called yesterday. Did you get my message?”

“Yes, I did—”

“Congratulations on the baby! Is he or she healthy?” I spoke in the most upbeat voice I had inside of me, hoping to break the ice like I had with the young man.

“Oh, he’s healthy, and he’s going to be another powerful voice for God!” She sounded combative but also conflicted, like she was trying to decide if my call was a prank or if I was genuinely interested in speaking with her.

“That’s awesome! What’s the little guy’s name?” The silence on the other end of the phone lasted a few seconds, and I waited, hoping she hadn’t hung up.

“His name is Ezra Joel, after the Old Testament prophet who knew the law like the back of his hand!” She held his name up, proclaiming it like the baboon in the
Lion King
presented Simba to the rest of the animals from atop Pride Rock.

“That’s a great name! My mom named me Timothy, but I think I was named after a family friend instead of the Bible character…” I said. And then something both unexpected and beautiful happened. Shirley began laughing.

“Well, we can’t all be as lucky as little Ezra!” Her laugh, albeit brief, was filled with something beautifully human. It revealed a heart that I never thought I would see—and it gave me hope that I might have made a good impression.

“No, we can’t,” I said with a laugh.

“So you wanted to get some information about the church?” Her tone became less personal and more business-like, and the brief window into Shirley Phelps’ psyche closed.

“Yeah! I’d love to visit, if you guys are okay with that.”

“Why do you want to visit?”

“I’m writing a book, and you guys present a pretty extreme view. I was hoping to hear more about why you believe what you believe.”

“Because the Bible preaches God’s wrath and God’s hate as much as his love and grace! Why do you need to visit?”

“I’d just really like to, if that’s okay with you.”

“Well, I guess that’d be okay. You’ve got to understand, we have to be careful. People have tried to blow up the church in the past few years.”

“What? Are you serious? That’s awful!”

“The children of Satan outnumber the children of God.” Her responses seemed rehearsed, as if from a script written from Levitical law. “When are you planning on coming?”

“Honestly, I don’t have a clue; I am just hoping before the end of the year I’d get the

chance to come visit.”

“Just let us know when you are coming, and we’ll see you then!” Her voice became pleasant again, catching me completely off guard.

“Thank you, Shirley. I appreciate your time. Looking forward to meeting you in person!”

And as odd as it may sound, I actually was. I would love to have a conversation with the daughter of Fred Phelps. I would love to see if showing her even a small measure of respect would take the edge out of her voice for an entire conversation. I would love to see if showing her the love of Jesus will soften her heart towards me.

It probably won’t make a difference, but it’s worth a try.

So now I’m driving, crossing the state line from Missouri into Kansas, listening to Christmas music as I make my way to Topeka. It is an odd feeling to be driving into the heart of a church so many people deplore—and that I myself feel so strongly against. They have caused so much pain. The Phelps protested the funeral of Tammy Faye, the mother of my friend Jay, and the hurt and anger on his face when WBC is mentioned is eye-opening. They poured salt in the wounds of a life-shattering moment, and Jay still feels the burn.

A few short months ago I realized I had become a Pharisee towards believers, and while I feel more balanced now than before, I need to know whether I am able to love everyone.
Everyone
. If I can’t, this whole year is a wash. I think the thing I have learned best is that I really don’t have a choice in who or not to love…even if they are the Phelps. This year has taught me that extreme hate is almost always born out of extreme fear, and fear is the product of insecurity and abuse at the hands of cruelty. And if that is true, then Fred and Shirley are either beyond crazy or just beyond terrified.

I told my friends and family I was going to visit Westboro, and all of them seemed afraid, their apprehension apparent in their responses. My mom asked me not to go, and my friends asked me to take someone with me: “If those people are audacious enough to wave signs like that around a bunch of soldiers’ families, they’re audacious enough to hurt you.”

I declined both suggestions.

And as I pull into Topeka, I notice something on the directions that I missed when I printed it. The zip code of Westboro Baptist Church is 66604. Some might call this a coincidence, some an omen, but I call it divine irony.

The Pharisee looks over at me and smiles. Even he disagrees with Westboro. The Phelps are the furthest extreme on the religious spectrum, and their theology of God’s hate and wrath are disgusting to even the most ardent fundamentalists.

Do you honestly think they are going to let you inside? You’ve got earrings, and you are a big guy. They are going to see you as a threat.

I hope not. I’m coming in peace.

They don’t know that.

I’ve got to try.

Do as you must, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I drive down the street and park my aunt’s car. The church is bigger than I expected, much bigger. I see a huge banner advertising their new website:
Godhatesamerica.com
it reads, in huge bold, red letters.

I make my way to the corner of the sidewalk to get a better look, and I see a traditional church sign that would usually announce service times and church updates. With the exception of the name, it’s empty. It is empty because it has been vandalized, and the message written with red spray-paint reminds me of the banner on the front of the church. It shows me that there is a little Phelps inside us all, because it reads
God hates the Phelps!

If I believe that God is a God of love, I cannot pick and choose the objects of that love. God
even
loves Fred Phelps. I wish I had paint thinner and a scrubber. I wish I could take down the
God Hates America
banner too. All of it makes me sick because both messages are untrue, equally untrue. I do not care how closed off Westboro is; the iron gates and wood fencing are nothing more than a piece of the image they want to portray.

Making my way back towards the side of the building, I find an opening in the gate, walk to the door, and attempt to open it. It’s closed. I push the bell and knock a few times. No one answers. I knock on the door again and ring the bell next to the frame and listen. Nothing. I hear nothing and feel a sense of defeat. I have driven the hour and a half from Kansas City for no reason, and won’t get the chance to talk to anyone. And then I hear muffled voices, arguing inside the door, and it opens, revealing a woman. She is not like any women I have ever seen in church growing up. She is dressed in old-fashioned clothing, and her head is covered.

“Hello!” I say, grinning from the excitement that I am finally face-to-face with someone at the church.

“What are you doing here?” the woman asks sharply.

“I spoke with Shirley and told her I would be visiting. Is she here?”

“Go away! You aren’t wanted here!” She snaps at me like a dog snaps at an intruder.

“I love your head covering. Very traditional!”

“Get out of here, you little shit!”

“So you cover your head but you curse at visitors? Not as traditional as I thought.” I take a step back and turn sideways, trying to speak through my body language. “Shirley said it was okay for me to visit. I spoke to her after Ezra was born.” I drop the name, hoping it’ll give me some credibility.

Another door to my right opens. It’s the door to the sanctuary. Another woman pokes her covered head outside. “Leave, or we are going to call the police!”

Her words surprise and amuse me. “I was invited here. Could you please let me talk to Shirley?”

“Listen, you child of Satan…Go away!” says the woman in front of me.

“My mom always used to call me that. She’ll be pleased to hear it confirmed by someone else.” I don’t think she appreciates my attempt at humor.

“Fine, have your way. You can talk to the police about it,” says the woman to my right.

“I just want you to know, even though you guys are speaking to me this way, I love you. And that vandalism on the sign outside isn’t true. God loves you too.”

I notice the Pharisee is watching both women as I speak, shaking his head in frustration.

“We know he loves
us
! It is
you
he doesn’t love.”

“I’ve been told that before”—I think of my old hall-mate Patrick. These women said exactly what he said to me when I came out—“and I know it’s not true.”

“Get out of here, you little bastard! We are having a meeting, and you aren’t allowed in.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” I smile and speak lightheartedly again.

“We’ve called the police. Repent of your evil! Are you a fag?”

“As a matter of fact, I guess I am.” I’ve never been so proud to be associated as gay.

“Your deplorable sin is going to damn you to hell for an eternity. Repent and accept the fire,” says the woman to my right.

“So even if I repent, I’m damned? Your God kinda seems like a dick.” My response is emotional and reactionary. I have lost my objectivity and my grace, but it really is hard not to be a smartass in the face of such ignorance.

“You’re the dick, kid!” The woman in front of me sneers.

“Can you just answer me one question?” I ask.

“What?” she asks.

“Why do you embrace hatred the way you do?”

“That’s easy. Because the mighty and holy God of the word says that He hates sin and sinners alike. This nation is an abomination, and his wrath will pour out upon it in holy judgment.”

“Well, I guess a visit may not really be the most appropriate thing for me at this point, but I want to tell you something. You represent everything I am against, but I do love you, and I hope that the Lord opens your eyes to the true message of the gospel. I hope it saturates your hearts and that you find peace…because you will need supernatural peace when you realize how many people you have hurt. Merry Christmas.”

“Don’t presume to teach us about God, faggot.”

And just like that, both doors slam shut, and I am left in the quiet winter morning once more. I walk back to the car, slowly. The Pharisee is in front of me.

Those women were scary—like Kathy Bates from
Misery
scary!

No. Those women weren’t scary, they were
scared
. God be with them.

I feel my heart breaking as I reach the car, and I turn to take one last look at the church.