The Cross in the Closet (28 page)

Ben says nothing. His face betrays no emotion. As the seconds pass, I feel my heart begin to race.

“I spent twelve months immersing myself in the community, questioning everything the church taught me, so I could see for myself, and to the greatest extent I could, understand how the label makes life difficult for anyone who lives with it. I am so, so sorry for lying to you. I am so afraid of hurting you or angering you. I don’t want you to hate me.”

I feel so much fear, and so much apprehension, so much guilt. Why doesn’t he say anything?

Everything inside me is twisting and knotting as I wait for him to give me some sign that he is either angry or upset.

Silence.

He puts his glass down on the bar and breathes. I fear the worst.

Ben begins to cry.

Tears roll down his cheeks like shiny beads, and his lips quiver. He breathes heavily, but still says nothing. And then, as if in a dream, Ben lightly touches my lips with his hand and begins to pray:

“Lord, be with your servant, Tim. Inspire the words that come out of his mouth as he shares the reality of this news with the masses, and as he shares your love and your grace with the masses.”

He slides his hand to my eyes.

“Lord, protect his eyes and what he sees. Help him not to see any hatred, but only love, as he sets out on this journey of grace.”

His hand once again moves, to my ears.

“Lord, block his ears from hearing the hateful words directed at him from people in the religious community and from this one. Protect his ears from the words of hate that they’ll inevitably speak.”

His hand moves to my heart.

“Lord, thank you for this heart! Thank you for the sacrifices he has made. Lord, bless this beautiful heart with every power you possess. Help him
never
to change, Lord, to be jaded, to be hurt. I love you, Lord, and Tim loves you. Thank you for letting us love each other. Amen.”

Ben pulls me into a hug…not just a hug, but an embrace. He holds me so tightly I can feel his heartbeat through his chest. I feel the wetness of his tears on my shoulder as they soak through my shirt. I feel his breathing and the shivers rocking through his body. He pulls away for a moment and looks into my eyes, which have filled with tears, too.

“Timothy, I have never in my life felt so loved by a straight Christian. You have just given me the ultimate gift. You are going to be a force of love and grace for this community, for to any community you become a part of.” He pulls me back into a hug.

I look around and I see a room of people staring. They are watching the exchange with interest. Then he lets go, we wipe our eyes and blow our noses on the small bar napkins, and we are silent. I look around the room again and something powerful happens, again. The Pharisee is nowhere to be found. He is gone. Something inside of me confirms that he’s left for good.

“Who are you looking for?” Ben asks, his arm still around me.

“No one. Just taking it all in,” I reply. I am free!

For the next three hours, Ben, Phil, and I talk. We talk about God, about our lives, about the experiences we have had that have taught us who we are, and about coming out. Ben prods me to tell my coming-out story as everyone in our circle has done. He tells me he feels it is every bit as valid as anyone else’s coming-out story. For the first time in my life, I am standing in a gay bar, a straight and Christian man, and I am accepted as one of the group without a second thought. I have found a new home and a new family—one that I never imagined I would be part of. My cup runneth over.

Ben prayed over me, prayed for my safety and my calling; and when that happened, the Pharisee in me was overcome. I think the Pharisee left me because nothing is left to tie us together. For the first time in a long time, I feel whole. Not because my eyes have been opened to a “new way of life,” because there is nothing new about this.
Love is the original way
. I also feel inspired because most of my fears were never realized. I was, in the end, accepted wholly and completely, as myself, by people who I have only this year learned to accept and affirm.

I leave the bar after tear-filled hugs and goodbyes, and I feel like a different person than I have been before…a better person. I think I am, for the first time, really following Jesus. The relationships I have formed along the way are a blessing. Nothing about life is easy, but walking in another person’s shoes is essential, because only then can we live with and for each other the way we are meant to.
Ubuntu
. I am because you are.

I have learned something about labels this year. It is the journey that defines us, not the labels people try to associate with us. I am not gay Tim; I am not even straight Tim.

I am Tim, and in the end, that is all that really matters.

My experiment ended, but it hasn’t finished. I don’t think it will ever finish because every day I am learning more about people and about myself.

I am sitting in a café in Southeast Portland, sipping a latte, and trying to decide what still needs to be said, and what is better left off the page. In the two years since coming out as straight, I am only now able to process everything that happened. Writing two drafts of this book has helped. As I wrote I was forced back into the memories of people and events that so radically changed me. I wrote about them and felt like I was back in Nashville listening to their stories and enjoying their company. Oddly enough I feel more capable of loving them now than ever, and I feel closer to them somehow, even with the distance.

Four months after my second coming out, I decided to leave the nest, once and for all. Nashville became too small, and leaving felt like the only tangible option. I packed up my Honda, and set out to Portland having never even visited the Pacific Northwest. It was the most therapeutic journey of my life, and my pilgrimage from the East to the West was a healing experience.

The friends that I made during my year have more than kept in touch. Shawn and I are closer than we ever have been. Weeks and months may pass in between conversations, yet somehow we know that the role we have played in one another’s life has solidified into something beautiful, a life-long friendship. Likewise, my childhood friend, Will, has continued to be an endless source of encouragement, and seeing his face when I visit home is always something that warms my heart. I have been blessed by the honesty and trust we share. He has never held my experiment against me. If anything it has strengthened our bond, and I am honored to be a part of his life.

Lindsey Hawkins, aka Samantha Zander, is now married to her soul-mate, Jesse. She has become my mentor in non-violence activism, and every so often when we talk, I still facetiously try to convince her to have an affair with me. I know we will always be close, and that our paths will always run parallel. She has made me a better man and a better human, and no one has ever set a higher example of peacemaker for me to aspire to. And Elizabeth, my childhood pastor’s daughter, has also become an unexpected sister. We met so randomly towards the end of my experiment, and I am thankful for that. She and Nicole married soon after my move to Portland, and both are flourishing in their faith and their marriage.

And then there’s my best friend Josh. No one in my life has ever invested in me the way Josh has. Josh is my brother, and none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for his unyielding support, and endless encouragement.

My relationship with my family has also been reconciled. My mother, once an adamant conservative, is now an ally of the LGBT community. She and I have walked into this world of grace together, and her friendship is priceless. I love my mom. Her strength and passion for people is my North Star. It guides me and inspires me and I owe her so much more than I could ever hope to express.

Shortly after my move to Portland, my sister-in-law, Maren, gave birth to my first nephew, and I have never been as proud of my brother as I am seeing him as a dad. We have more than reconciled, we have bonded together as a family, and I still look to him as a hero and one of my closest friends. Our family has lived in a perpetual state of transition for the past eight years, but now, as things settle down, I am filled with gratitude. We have made it through so much, and I am thankful to God for his endless mercy.

In the past two years I’ve continued to immerse myself in the LGBT world. I’ve attended churches, both conservative and open and affirming, I have participated in Pride days and AIDS walks (where I still saw not one conservative, mainstream church presented), and my community of friends has never been more diverse. I am in tune with people, for the first time in my life. I feel the pulse them in the pulse of Portland, inside myself, and I am thankful that God has taught me how to love.

We live in a society that condones culture wars, and even proudly proclaims them, but as with any type of war there are casualties, and those casualties are not people we can afford to lose. The sanctity of human life that I have been taught about all of my life doesn’t just apply to a fetus inside its mother’s womb, it applies to all living and breathing men and women. It applies to me and to you. It applies to the murderer on death row, and the 5th grade school teacher that faithfully teaches children day in and day out. We don’t get to choose who is made with the
Imago Dei
, the image of God, and we don’t have the right to choose who we are called to love.

For years I have been living on a self-created mountain of moral absolutism, and thankfully my year taught me that that life is not what Christ has called me to. Since my year ended I have struggled daily with one question.
Where do I belong
? And now I feel I know the answer. As a Christ follower, I am called to live in the wounds that my mountain has created. It goes beyond living in the tension because it means living within the hearts of others, walking with them in the ever deepening of their pain, and if I am ever to fully emulate Jesus then I must live in the blood and gore that the church has created. That I created.

I have heard the question posed, at what point can one be an ally to the queer community? I think for me being an ally means that I must shift my focus off of my perceived moral imperative and live in community and relationship with all people. I must sacrifice and serve without the condition of labels, and without worrying how it will make me look. And while all of this may sound like the typical ranting of a now liberal Christian, I challenge you to see past those labels.

My mother said it best towards the end of my year. She looked at me and said in earnest, “I don’t think Satan is just the father of lies, I think he’s the father of labels.” And I have to agree. I am Tim. After two decades of trying to define and categorize myself and everyone else around me, that is the only label that I choose to keep. It’s funny how names are underrated. The world seems to be addicted to labels. Steve the lawyer, Josh the rapper, Renee the lesbian, Methodist minister…Every name has to be paired with something “greater”, or more recognizable than itself. Before I started writing this book I always dreamed of being Tim the writer, and now that I have actually written a book, I think my name will do. Names are what this ended up being about. This has been my journey from Tim the writer, to just Tim. It’s also how Steve the lawyer, Josh the rapper, and Renee the lesbian, Methodist minister became Steve, Josh, and Renee. I think that is all that matters.

As a Christian oftentimes people expect me to have the answers, and in my pride I’d like to think I do—I can’t help it, I was raised Baptist—but there are certain things I’ll never have an answer for.

I may never again be confident that my truth is absolute, and I doubt I will ever be able to take definitive stands on certain ideas that seem to divide everyone else. There are issues that conservatives rally behind, and those outside the church rally against, and I may never be one hundred percent either way. I will never understand how people that claim to love Christ can bully someone to death, nor will I understand why certain people among us allow their self-destructive natures to guide them towards a reckless abuse of alcohol, power, or sex. I will never understand hate and the many forms it takes. It is a cruel shape-shifter, and an evil master.

All said, there are a few things I am sure of, and in the context of my own life I feel blessed. I am sure of love, of the radical and unyielding power it holds, and I’m sure of the barriers it can overcome. I am sure of relationships, especially those fueled by love, and sure of the prejudices that relationships can overcome. I am sure of my God, who I believe more than ever sent his Son for me, and I am sure of the reconciliation he offers, whether that be between families split apart over divisive issues, or members of opposing political parties. I am sure of the beauty that all mankind has inherited—a beauty that can never be stripped away by bad words or deeds, or even other human beings—and I’m sure of arrogance, and its ability to poison anything that can be called good. Most of all I am sure of my teacher
empathy
, who taught me that if we take a moment to step into another person’s shoes before we open our mouths, we can learn more about this life and our God, than by any other means. She is our greatest tool, operating hand in hand with love to create something dazzling, something that gives our breaths meaning.

Until this year I never quite understood why the LGBT community adopted the rainbow as a symbol for its existence. Diversity, unity and promise, a rainbow is said to express these ideals, but I believe it was chosen for an entirely different reason. I believe it was chosen because, above all else, a rainbow is beautiful, and everyone desires to be thought of as beautiful. For years I've lived color-blind in a world of rainbows, ignorant to the beauty all around me. And for the first real time, the words from my favorite hymn have meaning and are alive to me. "
I once was lost, but now I'm found, was blind but now I see.
" Maybe beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, and whether or not we see it is the choice. Maybe it is the only
choice
that matters, after all.