The Cross in the Closet (18 page)

Alcoholism doesn’t run in my family and I don’t consider myself to be an alcoholic, but waking up with a splitting headache and a dry mouth makes me question my use of alcohol to numb pain. Starting with the time I took my first drink, years ago, my brother taught me to drink water and take Advil before going to bed—but after drinking the entire twelve-pack last night, I purposely ignored his advice. The light pouring through the living room window in the morning wakes me up, reminding me of that horrible decision. I feel the hangover inside my bones. Every movement elicits the pain of dehydration, but I don’t care. I wanted this.

I wanted to feel it so I would wake up remembering everything from the day before. My mom comes downstairs for her morning devotionals and sees me lying on the couch. God only knows what I must look like. She doesn’t say anything but silently picks up the eleven empty bottles next to the couch and walks into the kitchen. A minute later, she comes back with a glass of water and two Advil.

My stepdad, Larry, comes down the stairs. “Twelve beers on a nearly empty stomach isn’t a good thing to do,” he says.

“I feel like I had forty,” I say, limping my way upstairs to the guest bedroom.

As I reach the door upstairs I hear my mom and Larry talking about me in the kitchen.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s got to go through this, and we don’t have to understand why,” Larry tells her.

“But he’s in pain, and I can’t stand seeing him in pain,” she says. I hear her crying.

“Then you’d better speak to your other son, too,” he says.

I reach the bed and collapse.

For the next two weeks, I live two lives. At work I am trying to learn and engage my new friends, but at home I am quickly becoming the sulking drunk. Admitting that isn’t easy, but I am losing myself—and the me I am becoming is not the me I ever wanted to be.

It is Wednesday night at Tribe, and Will puts a second pint of Blue Moon in front of me.

“How’s life?” he asks.

“My brother isn’t talking to me.”

“How long now?”

“Over a month.”

“I’m so sorry, Tim.” Will does not ask me why my brother and I aren’t speaking; he just rests a hand delicately on my back, trying to comfort me. “Let me know if you need anything, even just a shoulder.”

“Thank you, Will.”

“Love you, bud,” he says.

“I love you too, brother.”

I look to my left and see two guys kissing in the corner. I used to feel awkward, witnessing that, but now I don’t mind. The two guys have been together for several years; I serve them coffee every Tuesday afternoon like clockwork.

I decide to walk down the street to Revive. It is hot, too hot for a Wednesday evening. I miss the cold. I wipe sweat from my forehead and walk inside. My manager, Brent, looks up, surprised to see me.

“Tim, I’m glad you’re here. We need to talk about something.”

I wonder if I am in trouble, or if somehow my secret has gotten out. “What about?” I ask nervously.

“The café.” It’s all he can say.

We walk next door to the community center. I look at the stage where I saw Jesus in drag and I smile. This place has memories attached to it that I treasure—but I wonder what other memories it will hold before I leave today.

“So here’s what’s happening. The owners love the café, and it’s been their dream come true to have it. But they just found out last week that their bank is going under because of the economy, and they don’t have the cash for the upkeep until it takes off.”

“What? You’re saying we don’t have jobs anymore?” I am shocked. Brent puts a hand on my shoulder, and I feel the burden of unemployment once again.

“We have a week to get things ready for close, or for a new owner to take over.”

“A new owner? Who’s going to buy the place?”

“The catering business that rents out the back kitchen of the café is interested. But they will be using family to run the place,” Brent answers.

“But they’re all straight!”

“I know.”

“But this is an LGBTQ café! The only one in town!” I feel a deep sense of loss, and anger that Revive won’t be Revive anymore.

“We’ll have another full week of employment, and a great reference if we need it.” Brent looks at the ground, and I am speechless.

“When it rains it pours,” Brent says. “It’s too bad. We just got this place running smoothly, and we were really enjoying ourselves here.”

“This café, this job…is the only thing keeping me from losing it right now.” My eyes fill with tears, but I try to compose myself.

“I’ll make sure you get a glowing recommendation. This place has been a breath of fresh air, for me, too.” Brent seems as upset as I am.

“I understand,” I say.

I get up, walk back to the café, open the door, and look inside as if I am seeing it for the first time. The café is beautiful. The waning light of the summer evening casts a brownish glow over the wooden tables and bar. Our merman even looks beautiful, his golden tail and Mardi Gras getup reflecting bright streaks of sunlight in my direction.

I love this place.

I love this job.

I love going to work every day knowing that I’ll get to be around people I care about.

I look at the couch and see the Pharisee sitting next to Marco, his arm wrapped nonchalantly over the merman’s shoulder.

I’m sorry, Tim, but it’s for the best.

No, it isn’t!

He doesn’t answer, and my mind turns to the faces of my regulars, the guys who’ve walked the past few months of my life with me and taught me so much about myself—and what it
doesn’t
mean to be gay.

Being gay does not mean you are promiscuous or perverted.

Being gay does not mean you are blind to a life of faith. What I witnessed next door proved that. Seeing that drag queen praise God was the most powerful moment I’ve experienced so far this year—maybe even of my life.

I step behind the counter to make a latte. The hiss of the steamer and the slurping sound of milk as it goes from cold liquid to smooth and silky cream comforts me. I pour the silky froth into the espresso shots and draw a white heart. Being a barista is one of the first things I have ever really been good at. Part of my heart will die when this place closes, but I am thankful for the memories. I have a week left, a single week to take all of this in before it’s gone. I take a sip of the latte. I ache. Why does everything good in my life have to fall through like this?

My last day at Revive comes too quickly. I have savored the experience of this place like a good cigar. Everyone is sad. It is 4:00 p.m. when I clock in for the last time. I see a familiar face. Marshal is one of my favorite regulars because he always stays until closing, keeping me entertained in conversation while I clean.

Marshall is one of the most enlightened guys I have ever met. He wears a black fedora, slacks, and a maroon vest over a black button up, and he’s sitting at his usual table with his usual drink: a cinnamon chai with skim milk. Next to his bag I see a wrapped present. When he sees me, he waves and gets up, grabbing the beautifully wrapped present in one hand and his chai in the other.

“Hello, Timothy!”

“Hey, buddy,” I answer.

“I got you something that I feel you need to read. It informs the conversations we’ve been having, and I thought you’d appreciate it, since we won’t be able to talk here anymore.”

He hands me the gift and I untie the purple lace ribbon and finger the tape open on one end of the gift. I slide off the wrapping and find two books Marshall has talked about for several months. Both are on the topic of AIDS and the spread of the virus across the country. Both are stories of the pain and suffering of those inflicted with the virus, and about the struggle of the gay community to overcome the epidemic.

“I know you’ve been out of the closet for less than a year, and I’m happy for you…” He hesitates a moment before continuing. “But I want to share these with you because we live in an imperfect world, and I never want you to fall victim to anything harmful. As wonderful as the LGBT folks are, we are still just flawed people. I don’t want you to put us on a pedestal the way you used to put your conservative church on one. Be realistic and be honest. And if you ever end up writing a book yourself, like you’ve talked about, remember that nothing in life is ideal. You have to be honest about peoples’ strengths and weaknesses.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“The more you know, the less you need,” he replies. “Our community, if you can even call it that, is a lot bigger than the label. And like everything else, there’s good and bad in it. There’s a lot of pain, hurt, and baggage here. I want you to know that I’ve only ever seen good in you. I pray you stay away from the bad.”

“I’ll do my best for the rest of my life to stay away from the bad, Marshall. And I’ll always treasure our nights on the patio at closing.” Part of me wonders if he somehow knows my secret, or if he is just sharing practical wisdom.

“Me, too.” He hugs me. I feel a deep sense of sorrow. I don’t know if I’ll ever see Marshall again. He doesn’t frequent any of the gay bars on Church Street. It isn’t his scene, he says.

Losing the café means losing more than a job. It means losing members of my family, people I have come to love. Marshall sits back down and I put the books and the wrapping paper in my messenger bag.

Only a few minutes pass before Jason and Scott show up for their last sweet teas, and our last chance for conversation in the café.

“Looking handsome today, boys,” I say pouring their drinks.

“Not as handsome as you! Want to come home with us tonight?” Jason asks coyly, his comment half attempt at humor and half attempt to sleep with me.

“We’re going to miss you, kiddo,” Scott says, putting his hand on mine.

“Not as much as I’m going to miss you guys.”

Jason fakes like he is crying . “But, Timmy! Who is going to be my eye-candy now?” His lower lip sticks out as he makes a pouty face.

“I’m sure you’ll find someone to charm.”

“So what’s next for you?” Scott asks. “Are you okay, financially?”

“I guess. Could be better, could be worse.”

“Do you need some money?” Jason asks with a smile.

“No strings attached,” Scott clarifies. Jason frowns.

“That means a lot, guys, but I think I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

“Are you sure? We want to make sure you’re taken care of. We would be happy to loan you some cash if you need it.”

Their generosity reminds me of the first church, in the New Testament book of Acts. There wasn’t a need among the community because they shared with each other and provided when there was need. I have never been to a church so willing to meet my needs.

“Well, you can’t argue if we tip you a lot tonight, then!” Scott says.

“What kind of tip are we talking about, hun?” Jason asks his partner.

“You guys have been wonderful to know. I’m so thankful for both of you.” I look down at the counter and we all sigh. There are no words for our grief.

The café is empty by the time I pull the chord, turning the sign from
Open
to
Closed
. It is a moment thick with emotion, frustration, and also thankfulness. I found out that the café is indeed being sold to the caterer in back, and my manager will stay on part time to oversee the transition. He will be the only gay employee, and the café will pay the price. The beauty and life of a business is defined by the people who frequent it; Revive’s light will inevitably dim with the transition. I have never been more frustrated by straight people in my life as when I think about the changes that will kill this business.

Brent mops the floor while I do dishes, but we don’t speak. We are both too sad to talk. I never thought I would enjoy a job so much. I never anticipated the emotional imprint a gay café in a small gay district in the Bible Belt would leave on me.

I count the money in the tip jar and laugh at the obscene amount waiting for me. Scott and Jason took care of me. Everyone took care of me tonight. Even though they do not know about my experiment, I feel comforted that every single one of them knows
me
. After we finish cleaning, Brent and I take one last look at our little café.

Behind us, the manager of the bookstore is deep-cleaning behind the appliances. The café has to pass some sort of health inspection for the new owners to take over. He tells us that we are free to go, but I don’t want to go. I want to enjoy the place a little longer. Brent seems just as frustrated.

Brent and I walk to the back gravel parking lot, and he hugs me.

“It’s been a pleasure working with you…” he says softly.

“I owe you a lot for hiring me. It’s been great,” I reply.

We walk to our cars. Before I close my door, Brent rolls down his passenger window.

“Bitch, I love you!” he says, smiling.

“Bitch, I love you, too!” I reply.

It is nearing late June, the season for celebrating Gay Pride Day. I have never been to a Gay Pride celebration, but I’ve got an idea what it’s like, hearing so much this month from friends. Everyone at Tribe and Play has been preparing, the way one usually prepares for a holiday like Christmas, with parties and presents and drag shows. I park my car several blocks away from the festivities and make my way to Riverfront Park. It is 10:00 in the morning, but the weather application on my phone says it’s already over a hundred degrees. Sweat pours down my neck and chest, and my purple t-shirt clings to my body like saran wrap. I look awful—but then again, so does everyone else out in the heat. I think of the drag queens, of their makeup that must be melting off of their faces, poor girls! Sindy (Ian by day), a regular at Tribe, told me yesterday she was planning on wearing black, but I hope she changed her mind.

By 10:45, the park is crowded with people. To my left is a group of drag queens, to my right a group of drag nuns, representatives of the order of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. This group of Nashville sisters is a non-profit that raises money for the underprivileged—and they wear rather shocking outfits. The impression they give is a combination of the
Sound of Music
and
Beetle Juice
. The Sisters do a lot for the community.

I walk up and down the waterfront, surrounded by more shirtless men than I have ever seen in one place. Shirtless men and rainbow flags,
everywhere
. Shawn told me heat plus homosexuals equal skin, and he wasn’t lying. I wish some of the lesbians would follow suit...

The closet is killing me.

There is really only one day a year that everyone can get together like this, and everywhere I look, I see reunions. People are hugging, kissing, laughing, and talking with each other. I am surrounded by thousands of people, and for the first time in my life, I am in the minority.

That’s when I see him: a guy standing on a bucket, street preaching, noisily proclaiming his message of “absolute truth.” The young man reminds me of my former Liberty University schoolmate, Patrick, who has since become one of the most vocal street preachers in Virginia. I feel bad for his community—or any community that has to listen to him on a regular basis.

This man is in his early twenties and is sweating as much as I am. I hand him a bottle of water. Instead of thanking me, he yells down at me, asking if I want to repent of my sins and turn to Jesus.

“Jesus knows my heart,” I say, repeating something Samantha said in New York. I bet she would treat this guy with grace, but I feel angry. I feel violated by his assumptions and proclamations. He is another reminder of who I was…what I am coming out of.

“Are you a homosexual?” he asks, eyes locked on mine.

“I’m gay, if that’s what you are asking.” It has never been so easy to answer the question as it is right now. I am proud to be thought of as gay. Someone behind me laughs.

“I implore you, turn away from your sin and repent!” He punctuates the word
repent
through his small megaphone, and I cringe.
Implore
? Even his vocabulary is self-righteous. I feel his prejudice in his tone. If I feel that, I know everyone else does, too.

“Jesus knows my heart,” I repeat.

“Then when you reach the gates, He’ll say, ‘Depart from me, I knew you not,’ and you’ll be damned. Do you really want that?”

I look to my right and see the Pharisee frowning at the man.

“Why do you stand on a bucket and put yourself higher than the people you are shouting at?” I ask. “Why do you exalt yourself so arrogantly? ‘For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.’”

“Luke 14?” he asks.

“You tell me, preacher. You seem to think you know enough for the both of us,” I say.

“I am exalting Jesus, not myself,” the man says. “‘God opposes the
proud
, but gives grace to the humble.’ What are you celebrating today, again?” he asks.

I ignore his question. He is baiting me.

‘“The aim of our charge is love that issues from a pure heart and a good conscience and a sincere faith,”’ I say. ‘“Certain persons, by swerving from these, have wandered away into vain discussion, desiring to be teachers of the law, without understanding either what they are saying or the things about which they make confident assertions.”’ I quote I Timothy as if I wrote it, and I feel ownership of it. It is the first time I feel like I am using the Bible justly, like I am using the passages I’ve committed to memory to defend instead of attack. It is fulfilling and empowering. The street preacher stares at me in silence. “Or to put it more simply,” I continue, “we can either throw scripture back and forth at each other, which serves no one, least of all God, or you can back off, before you do more damage. Brother, you have no idea what you are doing.”

“You are not my bro—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it all.
Pax vobiscum
.” I turn around and walk away.

I don’t wait around to see if the street preacher stays and preaches on or if he leaves. I can’t hear him anymore as I walk away. Either way, I had to get away from the man on the bucket. The spectacle of the gospel being brutally twisted and manipulated by people addicted to telling others that they are going to hell is more than I can stomach anymore.

“I tried,” I say under my breath.

“We know.” A young woman behind me smiles. Her eyes are gentle and the sun reflects brightly off her hot-pink hair. “We heard, and we appreciate what you said.” She reaches out and squeezes my shoulder.

Over the next four hours, I spend time with my softball team, grab a Coke with Jason and Scott, and sit under the Vitamin Water tent with friends, trying to stay cool in the oppressive June heat. Things feel right, and I am having fun…but I still feel angry about the street preacher.

Conservative Christianity teaches us to love everyone; however, that love can take many different forms. It seems to stem from an “I’m right, you’re wrong” biblical perspective, which imposes only two rather limited options: Insist others conform to your spiritual world view, or ignore those who don’t. A friend of mine calls it the “brother’s keeper” method.

If I have learned anything this year, it’s this: Condemning people from a soapbox doesn’t work, nor do attempts to modify the behavior of others. It is not the words of scripture that change an individual’s heart; it is the Spirit in and behind those words. That same Spirit teaches us to leave the finger-pointing to someone far more capable, and to love sacrificially and completely, without motive or thought of personal gain.

I quoted I Timothy to the street preacher because it seems like something he was never taught. The aim of our charge is
love.
and certain persons, by swerving away from that aim, have been caught up in vain discussions, desiring to be teachers of something they don’t understand. Unfortunately, modern-day Christianity has created more than a few of these “certain persons.” For the longest time, I was one of them.

When Christians begin to question whether options one and two might both be false and consider the possibility of a third, or even fourth option, they are often swiftly labeled by their fellow church members as
heretics
—or
emergents
, if you prefer the religious lingo—and are told to either accept “in faith” one of the first two options; or they are pressured, like splinters, out of the church body. More and more, these splinters are leaving organized religion, and now I just might be one of them.

These believers are beginning to question things as I am questioning things, not content to stay in the religious bubbles of their youth. Social justice and acceptance of differing worldviews is, for many, replacing the “turn or burn” interpretation of the gospel. I see this even in the Bible-Belt culture of Nashville, and it gives me hope as I move forward on my journey.

It pains me to think that my life will be forced in so many different directions when this year is up. When I started, I did not know that once I set out on this path I would never be able to go back. I am changing. And my community won’t accept those changes in me. They rejected me because of a label, because I didn’t hide my “sin” like they do and keep a smile on my face while we sing our hymns and hide our true selves from one another. No, we won’t bring up their addictions, their gossip, or their infidelity. Instead, we’ll mark my “sin” with a capital S— maybe it’ll even be scarlet—and count me as lost to the enemy. I really do have it better now, having made my exodus from the churches of my youth.

I wonder what would happen if…instead of preaching from soap-boxes and shouting through megaphones, or spending millions on political campaigns meant to hinder the rights of the gay and lesbian community…what would happen if we pointed the finger at ourselves? What if we chose to live intentionally in community with everyone, regardless of our differences? What would happen if we shut our mouths and simply served the people in our neighborhoods and cities, without an agenda? Would the message of Jesus survive? Would the gospel still be as powerful and applicable, in our modern context, if our methodology evolved?

I think so.