TWIS: Processing Hate... and Excuses

Sorry about the lack of posts lately. With work back in full swing (I work full-time with special needs kids in an elementary school), along with my personal training gig and writing full-time (3rd edit of The Last Angel), it's been a bit chaotic. I kept telling myself I didn't have time to post a coherent blog until I realized I was spending more time dropping five hundred word comments on Facebook threads. Not particularly productive. So instead of commenting there, I figured I'd post them here and give more people a chance to throw eggs at me. (Or nod sagely in agreement)



This Week in Sports (T.W.I.S.)

News is always bad news, but this week has been particularly tough. First, the Ray Rice video broke the NFL and finally shattered that thin glass separating our conscience from the horrific and violent stories consistently brushed over by the league. 87 arrests by 80 players in fourteen years, and yet suddenly the climate has changed. Hell, even after the first video of Rice pulling his unconscious girlfriend, Janay Palmer, out of the elevator, the outrage was on its death knell until the second video of him punching her in the face and knocking her unconscious was released. We had to see it to process it.

Maybe we didn't believe that someone, someone we watched play our favourite game on Sundays, could actually commit such a hateful act. Maybe we'd learned to disconnect our conscience from reality when we read the other stories. Maybe we came up with other reasons (she started it) for him to be pulling her unconscious form from the elevator. Either way, it was the tipping point. We saw it. We were forced to deal with it. And now, everything is different. Will it last? Who knows. I hope so.

But the gut punch has been listening to people like Panthers coach Ron Rivera. Listening to him talk about the "changing climate" regarding his own player, Greg Hardy, who has already been convicted of beating up his girlfriend and threatening to kill her, as if it were somehow the media's fault, or the fault of the "changing climate" to inexcusably play Hardy in Week Two.

These coaches, and in extension, the talk show hosts and fans who keep insisting that these players should be forgiven and given their jobs back and what right does the NFL have to prevent their employment, echo like the sound of a cat being tortured in the back alley. Have they so completely lost their sense of right, of kindness, of freaking life, that they can no longer find their way out of the maze of psychological dependency on a team or a sport as some kind of last frontier where everything goes. And oh yeah, fuck women and fuck morals, it's football! No pussies here! It's hatred run wild, and processing it has been increasingly difficult.

Adrian Peterson, who stuffed leaves into the mouth of his naked son and beat him with a switch until the boy had lacerations on his legs, his buttocks, his scrotum and yes, his hands, where he held them up, trying to prevent a 210lb NFL athlete from hitting him, has somehow become a discussion on spanking. This sparked one of the most idiotic comments from Charles Barkley in his terrific broadcasting career when he suggested that "every Southern black person would be in jail" if they were charged the way Peterson had been.

To be clear, spanking is favoured in uneducated areas for a reason. Studies have shown how damaging it is, how unnecessary it is, and yet, even though Peterson's son had welts on his freaking scrotum, some people are insisting this is a spanking issue.

Yeah, I got spanked. I was never abused. If people can't figure out the difference, then maybe we're all stupid.

All in all, its felt like a week of processing hate and excuses. I'm glad the sponsors are speaking up. I'm glad Hardy won't be playing this week. I'm glad Peterson won't play again this year. But that window is shattered now, and I'll be watching closely. I shouldn't have to swallow my conscience to watch sports. And if it continues to be a problem, maybe I'll stop worrying about processing hate, and just change the channel.

  

Sex, Gay Marriage and a Culture of Vitriol

The cashier frowned as he took the cash from the man standing in front of me. It wasn't an obvious frown, merely the downward wrinkle of lips and gathering of skin between the eyebrows, as if he was thinking about something important. Unless you had seen it before, or you were looking for it, it was difficult to spot. I was standing next in line, waiting for my turn to pay for gas, so it wasn't hard to miss. The gas stop was painted a bright red and white, as if to counter the gloom of another rainy night. The smattering of conversation from a couple of girls buying snacks drifted up towards the front. The man in front of me however, didn't seem to notice the slight as he accepted his change with a smile. He was wearing a dark sports coat and gray slacks with a white button down shirt. Well dressed, but nothing out of the ordinary. But his movements just felt wrong. Too fluid. Too much wrist. As if he was dancing while standing still. He was about my height, but lean and smooth shaven. He said good night, and the cashier whistled silently through his teeth, watching him for an extra second as the man glided out into the rain.

I bit my lip and frowned at the cashier, a burly man in his early forties, but he didn't notice and brightened considerably when he saw me.

"Another rainy night, eh?" He said, taking my money.

"Another rainy night." I repeated, my voice flat.

I wanted to say something more, but what could I say? Hey, Mr. Uneducated Jerkoff, I saw how looked at that guy because you thought he was gay? Instead, I was left to fume at the obvious bigotry, and headed out into the rain without saying another word.

Rain teased down the windshield, blurring the lights into a miasma of yellows and greens and reds. It was still warm enough to leave my window open, and I drove slowly through the streets, listening to the patter on my roof and the squish of tires, enveloped by the silence that always seemed to follow the rain. I had a hard time getting the incident at the gas bar out of my head. The cashier was probably a conservative, I thought. Probably a Christian, too, since there weren't a whole lot of white Muslims here. The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. How could someone be so prejudiced? Hadn't he read the papers lately, heard anything at all about the rash of gay suicides by teenagers down in the States? Who was he to judge someone like that?

By the time I pulled into the underground parking lot, I was so angry that I nearly drove into one of the columns before finally bringing my car to a screeching halt. I had to write about this… do something. For a writer, turning thoughts into words on a page is largely how we deal with things, but it doesn't necessarily mean we deal with them correctly. This however, was something else. I was tired of the prejudice, misogyny and bigotry so evident in our society. Why couldn't people see it? I didn't know the cashier, but I'd seen his type before. White, of course, and male. Probably loved Glenn Beck and wondered why the world didn't look like 1950. Probably watched Mad Men and wished things could go back to the way they were. (Missing the entire point of the show) That women and minorities had few rights sixty years ago probably affected him not at all. By the time I was sitting in my spot on the balcony, I was ready to chew nails. For the next four days I pounded out two thousand words on a fictional white male who tries his hand at both the Tea Party and Homosexuality before realizing that he might have made a misjudgement. I let Bethany read it, and she gave it back with a few suggestions. (She's a great editor) There was something about it however, that I didn't like. I knew a few liberal magazines that might be interested, but I had this feeling that I was missing something. Something important.

You have to understand that I am not a classically trained writer. I did not major in English or do an MFA. Most of my formal education, though not all, is theological. Whatever you see here (and hopefully you find it stimulating) is the result of fifteen years or so of reading How-To books and sitting at the Desk, pounding things out. As a rule, I write by feel, not unlike a musician who plays by ear. (There are more effective ways to write, and I do wish sometimes that I had more formal training, but it has always been such, and I've learned to live with the results.) I put my ear to the winds blowing in both my heart and mind, to the phrases that stick and those that stick out, to the order of thought and clarity of presentation, and try to listen. More importantly, I listen for the tone of the writing itself. Tone is important, because once you're comfortable in your own voice, the first step for any writer, the tone is more than just another tool. It is the music behind the lyrics. More than that it a reflection of self, it is a vivid mirror that reveals a great deal about where you are along the road to discovery.

And so, as I looked at my article a few days later, I realized what was wrong. I was ashamed of what I'd written, and spent some time in prayer to do some soul searching with God. Why? Well, we must go back a ways to understand…

2002

"If we let gays marry, what's next? Polygamy? It's a slippery slope once we go down that road." I said.

I was sitting at the Starbucks after another long week at the school. Jim sat across from me, playing with the lid of his cup.

"I don't know, Steve. Seems kind of… wrong. I don't like dudes, but what if I did? Seems kind of crappy that they can't get married and be unhappy like the rest of us." He said, smiling.

"Bah. It's a lifestyle. A choice. Marriage is a sacred institution."

I felt good saying that. After two years of separation my wife and I had put everything back together. Things weren't great, but marriage was sacred. A covenant. A vow to God. And if it wasn't great, so what? You just had to work harder. I certainly wasn't going to let people who chose to have sex with the same gender up and change our society with their liberal views. Hell, if we made gay marriage legal what would be next? Brothels? Men with six wives? Animal lovers? Why couldn't people see just how dangerous it was?

Jim didn't say anything, just played with his cup.

"How are things at home?"

"All right." I said. "Well not great but we got a lot of issues. We'll figure it out. We have to."

2004

The pub was packed. We were near the front though, so it was quiet enough to talk. I sipped my beer, and Duane plopped down beside me. He was a relatively new friend, a friend of a friend, and we'd been hanging out throughout the summer. The divorce had gone through the past winter, and I found myself out more often than ever. I guess it was to be expected. Being alone was not a lot of fun, and while the pain of the divorce had slowly receded, my life had changed drastically. For now, I was happy to be out and have a few drinks and forget about the past two years.

"I have a question for you, Steve." Duane said.

"Shoot."

"You're religious, right?"

I nodded cautiously. Less so than in the past, I thought, and yet in some ways, it meant more to me now. Most of my friends weren't Christians, but it wasn't an issue. If anything, we'd had a lot of great conversations about faith and spirituality and what it all meant. Or what it might mean. In some ways, it was a role, and one I didn't mind. I liked talking about God. I certainly had never been shy about it.

"Do you think God would love a gay man if he got married?"

I nearly choked on my beer, but managed to smooth my features in time. Barely. Duane was well dressed, as always, with an open collared shirt and black jeans. His hair was long and wavy, and though his smile suggested this was just another one of our 'religious' discussions, I knew there was weight to the question. The thing is, we all knew Duane was gay. He hadn't admitted it to his friends, but it was fairly obvious. He'd never had a girlfriend and showed no interest in girls whatsoever.

"Well, the Bible is pretty clear about sex outside of marriage. And so-"

"I know, but what if they were married?"

"Um, I don't know, Duane. I mean, marriage is between a man and a woman. It's always been that way. And the Bible…" I stopped and looked at him. Watched his fingers curl around the glass of his beer. Noticed the flex across his jawline. "It doesn't mean God doesn't love you. I'm not sure it's right, but God always loves you."

My answer sounded lame even to myself. It wasn't right, I thought. For a moment, I allowed myself to walk in Duane's shoes. What would it have been like to spend all those years growing up and NOT being interested in girls? Especially when your classmates and friends were talking and joking about them. Girl watch and social status are the two highest priorities for a straight adolescent boy. As awkward as that was, what would it have been like to be attracted only to boys, the same ones who were asking you about girls? And then there were parents and family expectations. Long dinners and reunions answering questions about when 'you were going to bring someone home'. And then, of course, was the inevitable bullying that occurred if the other males caught a whiff of your sexuality.

I wanted to say something more, but what? When I finally looked up however, Duane had drifted over to another group of friends. When I went home that night, I thought long and hard about his question. I was determined to give him a better answer the next time.

It never came.

2010

People always tell us that sex sells, to the point where it has become a truism of our society. Perhaps fifty years from now we'll discover that it doesn't sell nearly as well as we think it does, and something else will take its place. There is however, something that sells even more readily than sex, especially within an increasingly diverse, postmodern population. Advertisers use it. Writers and talk show hosts use it. Churches use it too. Even more than sex, surety is the greatest force of all. With all the choices now available to us, either through the market place or the information highway, nothing sells like surety. This is the paradox of choice; that given too many options we are mostly apt to freeze. We want someone to tell us what to do, what's best how we should think. We want our choices narrowed so that we don't have to think about everything. In some ways, it not only makes sense, but it's a legitimate response. (Whether it's lifestyle or business or our choice of movies, there is simply too much out there to know everything.) And the ones who take advantage of that vulnerability can reap the greatest rewards.

How else can we explain the counter movement of fundamentalism cutting a wide swath through our cultural landscape? I'm not talking simply about religious fundamentalism, but the entrenched black and white thinking that dominates politics as well. We so desperately want to be assured that we are either right or wrong, that we have created a polarized culture that has become increasingly judgmental and filled with vitriol. Just go to any article on the internet. Listen to the radio and you'll hear it.

Hate mongering is on the rise. Instead of being more understanding about sexuality, despite what we've learned, hate crimes and bullying, and consequently, gay suicide, are on the rise. Despite all we've learned about gender and equality, there is a boorishness in young males who can find any number of books to wallow in their destructive stereotypes regarding women. And yet, the source of this vitriol has skipped no one, not even the ones who count themselves to be enlightened and tolerant. People who question religion and tend to think of themselves as better than others because their worldview is more understanding.

Yes, people like me.

Self-righteousness and arrogance are two sides of the same coin. And wherever they are present they inevitably infect whoever else is there. Self-righteousness tells me that I am right most of the time. It gives me special status and allows me to look down at others, because I have somehow advanced myself more than the other humans with whom I share this planet. Self-righteousness is a creeping disease because it knows no boundaries, and cannot be stopped by any single belief or system of beliefs. You may think that you are more loving and tolerant and wise because of your religion, or because you reject religion, or because of your politics, but that is merely the voice of self-righteousness speaking through you.

It is one thing to believe that you are right. It is another to know it. One requires faith and humility. The other asks you for nothing. Self-righteousness does not need you to feed it, it merely needs you to ignore it. To brush aside questions about your own mortality and beliefs and accept your own convictions. I have sometimes wondered how it is that people can be so wealthy, and yet so nasty, so dismissive of others. But if we never question our own ideas, or at least entertain them with humility, why would we be considerate of those we consider less than ourselves.

Ultimately, self-righteousness is about status, and our hunger and desire for it. So long as we believe that all humans are NOT created equal, it will continue to grow and fester, and as it does, continue to spread its vitriol throughout our culture.

…The balcony was still a bit damp, but the wind had pushed away the clouds, and the stars glimmered in the night sky. Beads of rain water clung to the railing like a row of unlit lights. In the distance, the blue lit CN tower nestled in along the other lights of the city. I didn't like admitting what I'd written or the way that I'd written it. It was akin to saying that I'd been a jerk. That I hadn't published it or sent it out didn't matter. That I supported gay marriage, or worried over the increase in bullying and taunting in light of the gay suicides this past year, were important and weren't going to change. However, thinking that I was better than people who did not agree with me was unacceptable. Had I not thought the same things myself? Had I not been wrong in the past about my convictions? Where was my humility?

The white light of my laptop seemed unnatural somehow, as I watched the beads along the railing shimmer in the wind. Some days it was hard to be human. More than that, it was difficult to continually admit that I was fallible and often wrong about how I considered the world. It was so easy to get drawn towards self-righteousness, so easy to sneer at others through either my words or my actions. I could pray that I would get better, that I would remember we were all just trying to figure out this thing called life. In the meantime, I asked God to forgive me as I clicked off my computer. Tomorrow was another day. Another day to remember what I'd discovered and respond accordingly. Perfection wasn't attainable, but with God's help, a bit more grace and a little more understanding could go a long way.

-Steve

Christianity vs. Islam

Part I: The Games, 2025

A roar went up from the stadium and thundered in the locker rooms below the arena. Jean Belanger, aka the White Knight, fiddled with his white cloak. His sword lay next to him on the bench. The room was stark, little more than a set of banged up lockers and wooden benches for the participants. Beside him, Joe Brown, aka the Black Joseph, was stretching out his hamstrings with a series of yoga exercises. Jean watched his colleague, unable to hide his disdain.

“You know, if you weren’t the Captain and the crowd ever saw you stretching like that, they’d throw you into a Turban factory.”

Joe ignored him, moving easily from Warrior One to Warrior Two. The doors banged open as the rest of their colleagues sauntered in, their packs over their shoulders, laughing and yelling.

“This is it, boys!”

“Time to take down the Ragheads!”

Joe finished his stretching and picked up his sword. It was surprisingly light for its length, and he double checked the edges for any nics in its razor sharp blade. He’d never imagined himself as gladiator, but the times had been hard for his family, and if there was one thing Joe knew for certain, it was who to blame. The Muslims had been multiplying like rabbits for the past twenty years, and small wars had broken out all across the planet. His pastor had been right to warn them about the spiritual darkness that was Islam. Within a span of five years the Muslims had infiltrated the country with their blasphemous language and funny robes and war-like manner. The United States had resisted, thank God, as more and more Christians had armed themselves. Ten years of civil violence had led to the proposal and development of the Games. Leading clerics on both sides (though calling a Muslim cleric was ridiculous to Joe) had hammered out the details.

The rules were simple. Each year Christians and Muslims selected their twelve best warriors. They fought until all the members of one side were dead.

For the remainder of that year, the winning side’s religion received complete immunity from any pending lawsuit and was officially declared the State’s Religion. The Supreme Court had refused to even consider such a law when it was originally proposed, but the rising crime and lawlessness, along with the death of the three most vigorous judges on the court, had paved the way for the Games. Christianity had lost the first two years, but as the Games gathered momentum, more resources had been poured into training, and they’d won the past three contests. Warriors for The Right, so the Christians had named themselves, were considered heroes, and making the team considered a great honor.

Joe checked his blade. This year’s team was as strong as any he’d seen. As the lone survivor from last year’s contest, he was an easy choice for the Captain’s role. “Lord, bless my blade again this year.” He prayed softly. He thought about his wife and two young girls back home. He wasn’t worried about their well being, making the Team automatically gave them a healthy pension in the case of his death, he simply missed them. Training days were long, and he rarely saw them. The sound of clinking armor and the rustle of swords and curses reverberated through the locker room as he quieted his breathing. As the hour passed, the rest of the room became increasingly silent. Joe glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to show time.

He stood and waited until he had his team’s attention.

“Tonight we fight for more than a religion. We fight for our country. We fight for our faith.” He paused. “Tonight, we fight on God’s side!”

The locker room exploded with the rattle of swords hammered on shields and shouts from the men. He held up his hand and unsheathed his sword. The whisper of eleven swords joined his own.

“Honour. Life. Faith.”

“Honour. Life. Faith.” The men responded.

“Watch your back.”Joe said. “Don’t do too much. Stay with the team. If you remember these things you may live to fight another day. Okay, let’s pray.”

The men took a knee as Joe asked for God’s blessing. When he’d finished, he led them up the ramp into the bright lights of the new Texas Stadium.

***

I was sitting in the Gold section, about eight rows up with some of the guys from my Bible College. The stadium was over twenty years old, and the small plastic seats were chipped and worn, but nobody cared. Just to be able to get seats took either a lot of money or a special connection. Thankfully, the Bible College was always given ten seats, four of which my buddies and I had won in a school contest. The stadium was full, the crowd roaring and waving. Each year two blocks of tickets were sold; one for the Christians and one for the Muslims. I could see the enemy on the other side of the bowl, their turbans and hijabs and other strange head coverings unable to mask their anger or venom with which they yelled at the Christians. The bearded man man beside me was standing, along with his two young children, a boy and a girl.

“Go back to the desert, you stupid ragheads!” He screamed.

He handed his pennant, a cheap, white stenciled piece of foam that said “No God but Jesus”, to his little boy, who waved it vigorously to the delight of his father.

“That’s it, Johnny! One day that might be you down there!”

I nodded in approval, though me and the guys had refused to buy any gear from the proprietors. Bible College students were the intellectual force, or so we’d been taught, and were expected to show restraint. Despite that, the school offered a basic weapons course, and I’d chosen it as one of my electives for the coming fall.

The crowd roared as the participants entered the arena, and I stood with my feet, clapping and chanting as The Black Joseph led the men onto the field. When the Games had started five years earlier, I wasn’t sure what to make of it, but I’d quickly bought in. Especially after the bombing in Phoenix. There was a significant difference between the two religions. Christianity was about ushering in God’s Kingdom, and Islam, as they’d shown consistently, was about the worship of a false prophet and violence. They were not interested in the welfare of others like Christians were. The tragedy was that it wasn’t even their fault. How could they become more loving if they didn’t know about Jesus? The announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium.

“Please stand for a moment of silence and the Lord’s Prayer.”

As the reigning champions, the Christians had earned the right to pray before the game, and we all bowed in unison as the sacred words of ‘Our Father’ were repeated throughout the stadium.

“You ready, bro!” Mike said, standing next to me.

“Yeah! We’ll get ‘em!” I said.

The fight started quickly, as the two teams rushed each other before parrying off into groups of two and three. The action was fast and vicious, and blood soaked the sand within minutes. Six of the Christians had already fallen, and only three Muslims. My heart hammered in my chest. No. No. God, don’t let us lose! Black Joseph had managed to group the remaining Christians, and they fought back to back now, their swords flashing in the lights, the clash of steel and grunts magnified by the microphones embedded in the sand so every moment could be captured by the fans and the cameras.

Another Christian went down. Then another. Black Joseph had been isolated away from his teammates now, and his sword flashed desperately as two of the Muslims fought to destroy Christianity’s leader. As I watched, my heart began to sink. What would happen if the Christians lost? What would happen if the Muslims became the State religion again? Unwilling to concede my world to spiritual darkness, I turned and yelled at my buddies.

“Guys, let’s pray. We need to pray!”

They looked at me uncomprehendingly for a minute, their gazes filled with the violence of the fight, and then nodded. I pointed to our warriors.

“They need it!”

I grabbed Mike’s hand, bowed my head, and began to pray aloud. I felt a little hand grabbing my free hand, and I opened my eyes a crack as I realized that everyone around us had joined in. The young boy beside me didn’t look up even as he clenched tightly to my fingers. His eyes were squeezed tight, and I nodded even as I continued to pray. What I didn’t see was the sudden spread of what we were doing in our corner. In the midst of the battle, the Christians began to bow their heads and pray.

And it was working.

First one Muslim went down under the fury of Black Joseph’s sword. Then another. Soon enough the odds had evened up, and there was only four warriors left. Two Christians. Two Muslims. We continued to pray aloud, though most of us kept our eyes open now.

“Lord, we pray that your will be done!” I said, over and over, certain of what it meant and that it was about to happen.

Two more died, and it was all down to the two captains. I could feel my heart pounding in excitement. God would do it again. Once more he would pull his people from the fire and rescue them.

“Kill him, Black Joseph! You’re the Man!” I screamed, before starting once again to pray aloud.

The two men circled warily. Black Joseph was bleeding from his left shoulder and walking with a visible limp. Both men seemed to pause, and then… pounced. There was no other way to describe it. And suddenly the Muslim Captain was on the ground. Black Joseph paused long enough to take a breath and raise his sword for the killing blow.

“Yaaaaa! For God be the Glory!” The man beside me yelled, hugging his children.

Suddenly Black Joseph paused, his head driven back as if hit by something, and then stopped before collapsing on the field. The Muslim captain stood, his own rapier thrust high in the air even as the Muslim crowd went wild with delight. His short quick thrust ended the career of Black Joseph, and the entire Christian assembly sat in dejected silence.

“It’s not fair.” I said to Mike. “They cheated. Someone in the crowd hit Black Joseph with a rock.”

All around me I could hear those same murmurs, rising until they were full throated shouts and screams. The Muslims did not seem to notice until a Christian darted on the field and grabbed Black Joseph’s sword. He charged into the Muslim crowd, swinging wildly. A number of Christians followed him, and within minutes the entire stadium had erupted into a violent spree. Police officers flowed out of the tunnels, but ended up joining their side in the fight. Soon enough, gunshots rang across the stadium as the policemen emptied their pistols into the respective crowds.

“It’s crazy! Let’s get out of here!” I had to yell to be heard.

Everyone jammed into the aisles. Some ran towards the field. Others tried to get away. The acrid smell of smoke rose from somewhere, though I couldn’t see any fire. The stadium had turned into a cauldron of eighty thousand people in full panic, a boiling, wriggling mass of confusion and hatred. Two policemen pointed their guns in our direction and started firing. I dropped low, but not before the father beside me fell clutching his chest. I looked for his kids but couldn’t see them, and ducked my head again as another gunshot snapped overhead. I was breathing hard, flat on the ground, staring at the litter in front of my face even as the world ignited around me.

Oh God, what’s happening? Where are you? Why didn’t we win? How can this happen?

I lifted my head just as a scuffle broke out beside me. A boot lashed out at my head, and everything went black.

...to be continued

Why the Church Hates Homosexuals… and Why It Shouldn’t

“There’s no way you’re going to beat me, Jim. I’m superior tonight. Just face it.”

Jim rolled his eyes and slid his chair back to his cubicle.

“Whatever, Burns. One game of Risk does not make a champion.”

I laughed and started humming.

"Okay, we got time for one more game before the morning calls come in.”
The massive call center was empty and silent. Jim and I had been working the overnight shift as computer techs for the last four months. Despite our vast political differences, we’d become close friends. His slender frame and quiet personality belied an inherent toughness, and his intelligence and intellectual curiosity paved the way for many interesting conversations when the phones went quiet.

“Hey, Steve, have you seen these?”

Jim had started working on his photography, and while I was no expert, I could appreciate his work. We looked through the pictures he’d posted on his web site and then suddenly he turned as the next picture came up. It was a man’s shoulder, artfully taken.

“That’s my ex-boyfriend.” He said quietly.

I blinked and then frowned, mostly out of confusion. I knew that he’d been dating his current girlfriend for nearly three years. He sat quietly, waiting for me to say something.

“Oh. But you’re dating a woman…”

“I’m bisexual.”

I nodded and let that sink in. After a minute we started chatting, and I asked him frank questions about his sexuality, about what it meant, about his experience. I’m sure that some of my questions must have seemed a bit insipid, but because of our friendship he answered them readily enough, happy to be open with me. For the next six months we worked together, developing a strong friendship until the day he moved out West.

Jim was my first gay friend.

I didn’t realize it then, but my relationship with Jim changed my view on a lot of things.

I pulled into the church and headed for the end of the parking lot. It was empty tonight, and there was a vast, prairie like feel to the empty asphalt. At the edge of the lot (next to the church) was a medium security prison, complete with barbed wire fences and massive stadium lights. It was early in the evening still, and the bright sunlight illuminated the empty church and tightly knit prison structure with equal abandon. I steered my car towards the small island of grass between the two properties. I hadn’t thought about Jim in a long time, but it was time for me to write about him. And it: the highly politicized, and highly toxic, issue of homosexuality and the church.

Studies had revealed that the number one thing people associated with the church in North America was “anti-gay.” When I first read that, I wasn’t sure I believed it. After doing an informal study for a seminary course project which involved interviewing people on a Sunday morning however, it was easy enough to confirm. The church was known more for what it was against than what it stood for. At the top of that list was homosexuality. And for all I could argue, with much success, of all the good the church had done and still does in the world, this was not something I could defend. Why? Because it was true.

The church was anti-gay. Even worse, it did hate homosexuals.

Most people who attended Sunday morning service however, weren’t even aware of it, especially in the conservative denominations. Perhaps that was the saddest part of this whole tragedy. And yet, understanding how little this hatred was perceived by its members revealed more than any statement of faith ever could.

I pulled out my notepad and took a seat under the small tree in the middle of the island, enjoying the wisp of shade it provided from the early evening sun. From my spot on the ground, I had to squint to find the large arch out front of the church entrance. Suddenly I glanced over my shoulder at the prison, less than twenty yards from where I sat. Am I trespassing? I hadn’t considered it before, but I wasn’t sure if the grass island belonged to the church or the prison. I smiled sadly at the irony and leaned against the tree.

The politicizing of a moral question was the nature of the church, and without question, sexuality was a moral issue. It went without saying. (Just as many people today do not recognize the simple fact that Jesus was extremely political.) What bothered me however, was how the church had turned sexuality into only a political issue.

Over the years I'd seen the church divide into two camps when discussing homosexuality. One camp said that homosexuality was normal and wasn’t sin. Some churches, such as the United Church, had ordained gay and lesbian ministers. The other camp said that homosexuality was not only sin, but that encouraging homosexuals to attend your church was akin to encouraging licentiousness. Both of these views were extreme and neither, in my mind, reflected the message of Jesus.

It was impossible to read Scripture, from Genesis to Revelation, and not understand that God’s idea for marriage was to consist of one man and one woman. Any theologian who argued otherwise was simply not being intellectually faithful to the text in front of them. God, who despite Richard Dawkins’ blustering, fatuous theories to the contrary, consistently revealed Himself in the Bible to be a loving Father concerned about how best for his people to live. The ideal, God's best, was a marriage of one man and one woman. (Thousands (or millions) of years later, we know from our own data that this is still the case.) And yet, even in the Old Testament, King David (a man after God’s own heart) had multiple wives. I'd heard many politically minded Christians call gay marriage the step before legalized polygamy. (Which I agreed with) Well, if that was the case, David and Solomon and Abraham were ahead of the game. All of them were polygamists, and yet somehow God loved them and used them in powerful ways.

In the New Testament, it was quite clear what God’s hopes and expectations were for humanity in regards to sexuality: no sex outside of marriage. And that marriage consisted of one man and one woman.

So while I could agree that homo or hetero sexual relations outside of marriage was sin, it still didn’t answer the question.

Why did the church hate homosexuals?

I glanced up from my notebook. A cloud had covered the fading sun and a cool breeze swept across the parking lot. I’d been attending evangelical churches for fifteen years, different churches in seven different cities, and it was always the same. Not once had I met a gay person, an openly gay person, at my church. I’d heard pastors say, myself included, that the church didn’t hate anyone, that all were welcome. And maybe they thought, as I did, that they were being sincere. But if we’d stopped to examine how we did church and the things we said, the jokes we made, we’d have realized that wasn’t true at all. We were ignorant about understanding homosexuality, because for most of us, it simply wasn’t an issue. I would never know what it was like to desire another man, so it was easy to categorize in strong language about how moral “we” were. What we did was to make it an issue, and forget the humanity of it all.

The truth is that the church doesn’t like homosexuality because we're uncomfortable with it. It has a very high ‘ick’ factor. It has nothing to do with the fact the church thinks homosexuality is sin. If that was the case, why doesn’t the church have a hard time talking to addicts or prisoners or murderers or adulterers? Adultery, by any account, is a far more painful and flagrant sin than a man not understanding why he is attracted to other men. And of all the sins in the Bible, the greatest, by any exegetical rendering, is pride, not sex. Of any kind. (C.S. Lewis)

Unfortunately, there's no easy answer to the ISSUE of homosexuality. In the church, we've done a poor job welcoming people with lifestyles with which we disagree. We have, in fact, shown not love, but hatred. That may sound harsh, but if we're honest, we realize that it's true. I think that we feel threatened because we feel like we have to choose sides. Either we're pro-gay or anti-gay. But what if we don't have to choose? What if we just love people, whoever they are, and let them figure out what God has for them? Isn't that what Jesus did?

Look, loving homosexuals doesn't mean we have to give up our convictions, but it does mean we must give up our agendas. And what agenda does love have? It doesn't.

Love has no agenda.

I looked up from my notebook and rolled my neck. The sun had eased into twilight, and I glanced over at the stadium lights humming behind me. Sometimes the church was like a prison. Sometimes we let our fears get the best of us. Somehow we needed to break down the walls between cultural distaste and our distaste for sin. To remember the sinner wasn’t just the man or woman outside the church, but that the sinner was us. When Jesus invited the prostitutes and tax collectors he wasn’t being metaphorical. How sadly ironic that the Literalists, the Fundamentalists, taught this mostly as parable.

I still think of Jim these days. I miss his company. I think about the things he taught me about acceptance and love. It's normal to think politically when talking about morality. But to address people as 'issues' is inherently wrong, more sinful than any position we agree upon when it comes to sex. The church's first priority is not politics but relationships, and when any segment of our population no longer feels welcome within our walls, its time to get back on our knees and remember who we are, who God called us to be, and what we can do to make a difference. Until then, we are just another political party without an office.

May God open our eyes to see the prejudices within our hearts, and help us to become the loving people, within a life of love, that He has called us to be.

-Steve