Between These Walls (44 page)

Hunter hadn’t meant to unleash a stream of thoughts, but he found it encouraging. It didn’t answer all his questions or resolve his challenges, but sitting there, it brought him hope.

With pursed lips and creases along his forehead, Reverend Harper looked as though he wasn’t used to someone tying together Scriptures from the other side of his desk. Hunter wondered if he had gone too far with what he’d said to the man. Hunter hadn’t tried to argue with a minister; rather, he tried to sort through the questions that had swirled in his soul for years. He wanted to help the minister understand that people who struggle don’t always
want
to struggle.

At last, the minister leaned back in his chair, which released another squeak in the stillness of the room. He grinned at Hunter, but the man’s lips remained sealed, and the smile didn’t make its way to his eyes or the rest of his face.

“Our doctrine can be difficult to understand,” the minister said. “It’s a doctrine of right and wrong.”

“But what about the doctrine of love?” Hunter pleaded. “It seems God gives us guidelines on how to treat people: How about the Bible verse that tells us love
covers
a multitude of sins? Or the verse that says to love our neighbor as ourselves? Would you want someone to step up to a pulpit and announce
your
vulnerabilities, but never mention how difficult they are and that you might need
support
from other Christians? It seems to eliminate the aspect of loving people when we point a finger and then drive away, leaving them stranded to deal with the humiliation it creates.”

“God’s Law is clear,” Reverend Harper said. “I don’t want the people in my congregation to condone behaviors that violate God’s Law.”

“But isn’t there a place for
mercy
without condoning anything? Isn’t that how
Jesus
treated people? Wouldn’t you rather encourage people to treat others with love and let
God
lead them in how to interact with people they disagree with?”

“God shared the Law first, then the Gospel of Christ,” the minister replied. “If you’re in sin, you need the Law. You need to be shown the error of your ways so you can repent.”

“But the Bible says it’s God’s
kindness
that leads us to repentance.”

Reverend Harper leaned back into his chair and crossed his arms.

“Do you attend church here, Hunter?”

“No, sir.”

“The people who attend church here trust me to shed light on Scripture for them. If anyone in my congregation is in error, it is my responsibility to show them how their error violates God’s Word.”

Hunter thought back to the church service he had attended on Sunday. He pictured the stoicism in the faces around him.

“But sir, I don’t think it’s possible to change people by
controlling
their thoughts and beliefs, rather than letting God work on their hearts,” Hunter said, careful to communicate a tone of respect. As he thought back to the lack of detectable joy among this minister’s parishioners, Hunter ached for those who might be in the midst of private pain. “When you try to control them, you either make them feel like they’ll never measure up, or they want to shake themselves free of that total control. But you can
help
them by showing them they’re loved. That’s what people want more than anything: to know someone cares about them. They don’t need anyone to tell them they fall short of perfection—they already know that about themselves.”

A smirk returned to the corner of Reverend Harper’s mouth.

“Thank you for your advice, Hunter, but I did spend four years in seminary. With all due respect, I think I’m a little more qualified to lay out Scripture than you might be. You’ve read the Bible, no doubt. But there’s a difference between reading the Bible and being a serious student of it.”

At that, Hunter paused. A minister had never pulled rank on him before. He didn’t know rank existed among Christians; he thought ministers’ first concern was to help people, not position themselves as experts.

Hunter recalled the Bible’s instructions in chapter 13 of 1 Corinthians, on how to treat people with love, even if he didn’t receive corresponding treatment from others. Despite the stern expression on Reverend Harper’s face, Hunter couldn’t help but feel compassion for the man. Granted, this minister’s preaching and latest insult had made Hunter feel horrible. This minister hadn’t considered the
roots
that might underlie Hunter’s struggle. But regardless, this man was, to borrow a phrase from Jesus, Hunter’s neighbor. He was still Hunter’s brother in Christ.

At the same time, Hunter remembered the Bible’s words instructing him, if possible, to be at peace with all men as much as it depends on
him.
Reverend Harper might not
respond
with peace, but Hunter knew God held Hunter responsible for making the effort. At this point, Hunter assumed he couldn’t persuade the minister to reconsider his approach in dealing with others, so Hunter decided to end the meeting in peace.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

Hunter extended his hand, reaching halfway across the minister’s desk, then reaching a few extra inches to make his sincerity clear. They shook hands.

“You’re welcome, Hunter.”

Hunter rose from his seat and headed for the minister’s door, scared for anyone in the man’s congregation who might have questions about their sexuality or any other issues that weighed heavy upon them.

If they couldn’t find hope in their church, not even with their pastor, to whom
could
they turn?

CHAPTER 43

One week later, Hunter didn’t know why the meeting with Reverend Harper continued to bother him, but it did.

What had he hoped to accomplish by trying to change the man’s mind? He couldn’t tell if the minister thought he was a good person or not, but the man’s lack of mercy, his unwillingness even to
try
to understand the private pain, illustrated why Hunter had never wanted to confide in anyone. Hunter felt as alone as he was now—in a physical sense—as he stood at the site of Ellen’s new home. He wanted to spend an hour away from his house. Away from the world. Somewhere nobody would find him.

The construction workers had left for the day. Hunter knew Ellen wouldn’t care if he stopped by. Lingering in front of the house, he noted how it loomed over him.

The walls had gone up. Hunter could no longer see through the structure.

He walked through the front doorway, which still lacked a door, and peeked into the rooms on each side of the foyer. With no destination in mind, he turned into the same hallway Ellen had showed him on their last visit. Hunter wandered down the hall, brushing his fingertips along the walls and marveling at how much progress the crew had made in what seemed like a short amount of time.

He stopped halfway and stared at the nook at the end of the hall. Though it lacked a door and shelving, with its walls in place, it looked like a linen closet now, as Ellen had said.

Hunter sauntered toward the closet and tiptoed inside. Its two-foot width felt cramped, but in this moment, the close quarters brought an odd sense of comfort. Hunter turned to face the hallway, as Ellen had done. With his back against the closet wall, he slid to the floor and wrapped his arms around his legs, planting his head between his knees. Hunter closed his eyes.

Once, as a teenager, he had tried to confide in Randy, the friend with whom he had run cross-country, the one he had known since childhood. To be more precise, Hunter hadn’t tried to confide; rather, he had tried to determine if it was
safe
to confide—to see if Randy was someone he could trust.

“Do you know anyone who’s gay?” Hunter had asked, trying to sound blasé.

“Don’t make me puke,” Randy had replied. “Can you imagine how disgusting that would be? They should round ‘em up and keep ‘em together in a colony or something, like they used to do with the fucking lepers.”

Hunter winced. Randy’s voice echoed in the corridors of his memory. Hunter lifted his head from between his knees, ran his hands up and down along the smooth, white surfaces of the walls. He peered up and tried to determine the height of the ceiling, but without enough natural light, the closet was too dark for him to calculate anything.

Hunter recalled himself at twelve years old, when he first sensed something was amiss. By that point, he had discerned that his attraction to the opposite sex, although present, hadn’t felt as strong in him as it seemed to reside in others. And he’d noticed it didn’t resonate in him to the same degree same-sex attraction did. But Hunter hadn’t known at the time whether to concern himself with it or brush it off as a passing phase.

He had decided to ask his father about it. When you’re a boy that age, your father is your most accessible resource for learning how to operate as a man. Due to the sensitivity of the subject, though—not to mention its awkward nature—he hadn’t wanted to ask his father about it outright. So Hunter had decided it best to wade into the topic by feigning confusion.

Hunter sat in the passenger seat of his father’s car, on his way to one of his middle-school baseball games.

“Dad, did you know some guys don’t like girls?”

“Some don’t.” His father had shot him a quick glance before returning his eyes to the road. “What makes you ask that?”

“There’s this kid at school,” Hunter had said. “He told somebody he’s gay.”

“His poor parents, having to hear that,” his father had said, shaking his head. “Tell you one thing: No son of
mine
will ever turn out gay, not so far as
I
can help it.”

That had marked the first day Hunter shut himself down, the day he had lost his innocence. From that day forward, Hunter went into permanent hiding.

All that time he’d spent seeking someone to trust. Hunter marveled at how fast months and years could accumulate.

Hunter drew his knees closer to his chest, wrapped his arms around them again, and cradled himself in a tight embrace.

The darkness of the linen closet brought peace. And though Hunter felt empty, he savored the comfort he found in this moment of solitude.

In this closet, no one would discover him or judge him. No one would find humor at his expense.

Nobody would tell him how filthy they thought his soul was.

CHAPTER 44

“Am I going to hell?”

From the other side of the desk, Hunter watched Pastor Chuck’s expression morph into grave concern.

“Why would you think that?”

“So I’m
not?
” Hunter lifted his head and met Chuck’s kindhearted stare. “That’s one of the biggest things that have bothered me all these years—the fear that I’ll end up in hell.”

“Because you’ve felt attracted to the same sex?”

“Yeah.”

“Hunter, you’re not going to hell.”

“But what if I go too far one day? What if I act on those attractions? What if I act on it again, then act on it again, and it’s in progress the day I die? I mean, Gabe and I haven’t done anything, but ...” He trailed off, at a loss for how to complete his thought. “A lot of people seem to think I’m on my way to hell.”

Chuck studied him as though trying to pick precise words for his reply. That was one of the qualities Hunter appreciated most about his pastor: his willingness to slow down and prepare a helpful response rather than offer a platitude.

“Do you know anyone who has stolen something?” Chuck asked.

“How often?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Are you talking about a burglar, or just someone who took a towel from a hotel where they stayed?”

“Either.”

“Of course. The hotel thing, anyway.”

“Do you think they’re going to hell?”

“Because they took a towel?” Hunter said. “No, I don’t think so.”

“But it’s still stealing, right?”

“Of course.”

“And the Bible calls stealing a sin.” Chuck paused for a beat. “Have you known any Christians who drank more than they should on a regular basis?”

“Like going one drink too far? Sure.”

“The Bible tells us not to overindulge in alcohol,” said Chuck. “Do you think those people are on their way to hell?”

“Of course not. It’s just an issue in their lives, one of those areas where they’re vulnerable. A lot of them are sorting through something difficult and there’s no easy answer. It doesn’t mean they love Jesus any less.”

“Hunter, your salvation came by faith. You didn’t earn its entrance into your life,” said Pastor Chuck, “and you can’t earn its staying power. Your salvation isn’t based on your actions; it’s based on your willingness to believe and let God have your heart.”

“But what about in the Bible, that verse in Leviticus, where it puts a spotlight on homosexuality? It doesn’t just call it a sin—it calls it an
abomination.
”

“In God’s eyes, one thing is no worse than another. That verse in Leviticus existed under an old covenant between God and man, a covenant filled with requirements—what we call the Law—designed to show that man could never live up to God’s perfection,” Chuck said. “God designed His Law not to punish us, but to show us our need for a Savior. When Christ died, He took all our shortcomings with Him to the cross. He fulfilled the Law on your behalf. Everything the Law mandated, Christ satisfied on your behalf. So when you gave your heart to Him, you entered a
new
covenant with God, one that isn’t based on your performance. It doesn’t require you to earn anything. No action that conflicts with God’s Law is any worse than another. They’re all equal in God’s eyes—they prove our equal need for a Savior, regardless of what we’ve done.”

“But if God went so far as to call it an abomination, don’t you think He meant to designate it as worse?”

Chuck reached toward one corner of his desk and grabbed a leather-bound Bible. Hunter recognized the Bible as the one Chuck carried with him to the pulpit when he preached. Chuck turned its pages and settled on the book of Proverbs, angling the Bible so Hunter could read the words. Hunter leaned in and noticed Chuck had turned to chapter 16.