I’ve given up trying to explain what it is I do when asked at a family reunion or some other social engagement. I’ve seen too many eyes glaze over and I won’t responsible for another person slipping into a coma while I try to explain Jboss, Tomcat and Apache. Most people are surprised to learn that I didn’t attend a four year university, nor in fact did I ever graduate High School. Many are even further shocked to learn I actually went to Bible College.
So how does a nerdy little scrap of a gay boy like myself end up at Bible College? I think the story begins way back at Sunday School in the First United Methodist Church. Sunday School was probably the very beginning of where I started feel like I didn’t belong. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just because I kept asking “but what about the dinosaurs?” At a young age it was becoming clear that little NSDS wasn’t like all the other kids. And that I was enamored with the idea of dinosaurs. I really wouldn’t stop asking about them. I had a great many questions about the world, the universe and how everything worked. There weren’t enough answers in Sunday School to keep me satisfied. There also wasn’t enough Ritalin. There never was.
I’m not clear if there was any actual final straw that precipitated my release from Sunday School into the regular congregation, where I would sit on the floor and using the bench of the pew as a sort of desk, color on strips of paper while under my parent’s watchful eyes. They would struggle to keep me quiet and still whilst I was bored to be my very core. I remember that I was to be as quiet as possible and that church seemed to last forever. It required so much from me in the way of self restraint – and gave back so precious little. This was my experience as a young hyperactive child. Church was to be endured.
My father was involved in the lay ministry – that is, he participated in spreading the gospel from door to door. There was a movement to that end called Evangelism Explosion back in the 80’s. My dad works in sales to this day – he’s quite persuasive. He’s genuine and sincere when he talks one on one and he was able to use this talent to bring a great many into the fold. One of the men who joined our FUM Church, along with his family, was Gerald Spindle. (actually that’s not his real name, but you get the idea) Gerald had two sons and a daughter, a very blessed man. A very strict man. The Spindle’s house became one of those that had a great deal of religious iconography on the walls like the hands praying image and crosses, and giant Family Bibles on coffee tables. This coupled with the fact that Mrs. Spindle’s hamburger patties always came out like hockey pucks made meals over there a really charming experience.
Jerry spun off and became a bit of a nut about things. I remember I had chicken pox when I was young and since my father had never had it in his youth, I had to go stay with the Spindles, who were all safe from my contagion. The Spindles had two boys that shared a large bedroom with bunk-beds. The younger of Jerry’s kids was Greg. Greg was listening to some Beastie Boys. I think it was Brass Monkey. I can remember he was trying to get me listen to it on his Walkman, the one with the old ear-pads that had the little foam stretchy covers on them. I didn’t care for it. There, I said it: Brass Monkey wasn’t my deal. Before I could register my distaste, in rushed Mr. Spindle.
“Son this music is poison!” He exclaimed, with sincere drama.
“It’s like ‘Garbage In: Garbage Out’ son. This music may be ok for him,” pointing at me. “But I don’t want you listening to this”
I believe there was also some hugging that I was not included in.
I realize, looking back, that Mr. Spindle was totally within his rights to try to protect his kids. I even agree with his review of that particular track from the Beastie Boys (although for different reasons and I’m not soliciting an argument). But what I recall feeling was that I was less than Jerry’s kids. That there was something passionately wrong with this music and its influence, but that there was no reason to protect me from it. I felt very clearly separated from Greg and his older brother, with their blonde hair and affluent lifestyle. They had a lovely home with a TV in every room.
As time went by my father became less involved with the ministry. My mom used to work a clerical position within the church offices and she tells me that she saw financial shenanigans from within the leadership which later fueled a church split. This is at least part of why there are so many churches. All you really need to start a new church is a coffee pot and a resentment. My mother still refuses to attend church to this day. She told me once about how the pastor was driving a brand new automobile and one of the ladies working in the office had her children pretending to campout in the backyard to hide the fact that the lights were cut off in her home. I learned to hate church.
Public School in Texas wasn’t a very safe place for me as a gay child. My main defense was the ability to hide. That’s me missing from all the yearbook photos. Still I did end up with a few friends, and one of them was a dude named Reece. Reece is at least part American Native with hair past his shoulders and he also was adopted. His parents were fairly protective yet somehow also fairly permissive. There seemed to be this thin line that Reece walked at all times. He liked to smoke a little grass from time to time.
No seriously, he smoked something called Sweetgrass. Reece didn’t walk down the halls with a herd of friends around him. He moved at his pace and he made his own decisions – one of those decisions was to be my friend. Greg had told him about me once: “Don’t bother with him, he’s not able to be saved. He’s too far gone.” This is the kid who’s father was converted by mine. What a douche.
Reece and I ended up sitting together in an English class. We had this teacher that had started the year off on the first day of class by passing out nearly illegible photocopies of Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. We read it aloud in class taking turns. This charming sermon from 1741 features some rather explicit imagery and severely polarized religious doctrine such as the following:
“There is no Want of Power in God to cast wicked Men into Hell at any Moment.” and “They deserve to be cast into Hell” and also “Justice calls aloud for an infinite Punishment of their Sins.” – Jonathan Edwards, Church of Christ
I was currently in a very Tarot Cards, Psychic Readings and Drawing Down the Moon phase of my life. I was actually pretty good at what I called Probabilities. I was able to predict the gender of babies, even fraternal twins – one boy, one girl. I had actually been briefly hired to work on a psychic hotline before they found out how old I was. This also happened again with Microsoft tech support later on. I’ve worn many hats. I was also trying to be in a very gay pride phase of my life, but I was having trouble getting that off the ground. I know now that being gay isn’t the end all or be all of my existence but in high school I had messages from all sides calling me “faggot” this and “fucking faggot” that. It felt like being gay was all I was and here now an authority figure is leading the class in reading about how I’m going to Hell and that I deserve it. This was my experience. I was 17 and the world revolved around me, but in a bad way.
This was not an auspicious start to English class for my senior year. So I did what came natural to me: I took it personally and launched a one man crusade to boycott any and all discourse from that teacher. I refused to do any of her schoolwork. I lived to argue with her and let her know she didn’t matter to me. As I write this now I can imagine how loudly my actions were saying otherwise. I like to believe that I am a fairly articulate person. I credit my Mother and hers for my vocabulary and love of reading. I however did not have the language to express that I was already quite distressed at school and that this sermon wasn’t helping any.
Something about my one man crusade to act a fool at all times in this teachers classroom garnered me a small amount of acceptance, if only from a few of the other outcasts. One of them was Reece but I didn’t yet know why. I had lost track of Greg Spindle but he still knew who I was and he went to a church youth group with Reece. Greg’s comment to Reece that I should be avoided was all Reece needed to prompt him to do otherwise. I love this about Reece.
I was actually well known, notorious really, at my high school. I would often make a new friend – likable guy that I am – only for that new friend to ask me what my last name is, my first name being so common. When they learned my full name the stigma I carried for being gay would show as they pronounced my full name out loud. I learned to regard my own first and last name with shame. There was precious little that I liked about myself at this point in my life.
Reece began to ask me what I was doing and where I was going after school. We rode around in his smoke filled car. I began to smoke too, it seemed like a good idea. Reece listened to Pink Floyd. He’d drive us around to a park where we’d sit with the t-tops off and the doors open listening to The Wall. Reece was a man of few words with an easy presence and no pretense. He seemed to know who he was and what he was all about. Mellow melodic baselines, a cloud of soothing smoke, and quiet companionship created an oasis of acceptance that I had never known. One evening around dusk Reece looked at his watch and said he had to be somewhere but that he’d be free again in around an hour.
Intrigued by his aloof description of this obligation I asked what he had to do. Reece said that I was welcome to join him but that he needed to swing over to a church group thing. This was the first time Reece had ever mentioned he went to church in front of me. I looked at Reece taking a drag off his Camel Wide (he smoked these so you wouldn’t bum one off him) and saw his leather vest, long hair and Native American choker. Reece seed a far cry from white suburban Christianity I had already passed judgement on, and I was intrigued by the idea he was welcomed at a church, let alone that I could be his +1.
We arrived at a fairly remote, new and very clean strip mall that had a fledgeling church as one of it’s anchors. Trinity Church Dallas it was called. There were a lot of multipurpose rooms and on this Wednesday night the main room was given over to the Youth Group. There were Youth Leaders, complete with guitars and gilded bibles with their names monogrammed on them. A projector was running with lyrics of the contemporary christian praise and worship music that the group was singing. A mood was descending around the room and it was palpable.
When Reece entered the room with me in tow there was quite a commotion. I was not aware that the leaders of this youth group had solicited names of people to pray for. This is my assumption as it was clear at least one of the youth group leaders was already aware of who I was, and she was very excited to meet me. This being a Neo-Pentecostal Charismatic church, there was the raising of hands, the pointing of hands, speaking in tongues and before long, the laying on of hands.
The amount of attention I received coupled with the fact that I already carried the idea that there was something wrong with me made this an extremely inviting reception. As I said, I was already involved in matters spiritual having been on a search for meaning in my life. I’m not knocking the Methodist Church but there wasn’t anything there for me. Here I learned about Spiritual Warfare, Prayer of Intercession, and other practices of Christianity that were very hands on. This seemed to be a flavor of Christianity that allowed much more audience participation. They also believed in Gifts. Immediately the problem of my sexuality came up, but they had ideas about how to fix that and they were very glad I was here. Something I hadn’t heard in a long time.
Coming Soon: Thank God I couldn’t Pray the Gay Away.
