"Queer as Faith"
by Nathan Gunter

Queer as Faith is a weekly column by Nathan Gunter.  Unconventional and thought-provoking, Nathan writes as a gay Christian struggling to live authentically in the real world.

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Week 20:
Hocking the Past

I had some money troubles of late which almost prevented me from paying a month’s rent on my new apartment. As I lay in the dark in my bedroom and hyperventilated, I prayed to God for a financial miracle, all the while listing off people of exorbitant wealth and questionable morals (many of whom are in the current administration) to whom I don’t think so much capital should be bequeathed. They say that if you want to know how God feels about money, look at those to whom he gives it. But as I was in a pinch, and it didn’t look like Ashcroft or Cheney would be cutting me a big check anytime soon, I had to find a quick way to come up with some cash.

I looked around my room and saw absolutely nothing of value. Some furniture I inherited from my great-grandmother, my computer (which isn’t up for auction), some books and DVDs. I looked around and started longing for happier, safer times when I had even less money, and therefore less of an opportunity to be so stupid with it.

Then my eye fell upon my old guitar. It was a Christmas present from my mother about five years ago, and as I checked my online banking statement one more time I realized that it really was the only thing I could get rid of.

Now, this guitar had some major sentimental value. It was given to me at a time when music was my life’s main passion and when I was practicing piano and singing every day. I had led worship in my church and my fellowship group and found it remarkably satisfying. My friend Tish and I pursued this goal together, and every night for a semester we met in a small chapel on the Wake Forest campus and played our guitars, talked, prayed, and sang together. We left the chapel late every night, feeling closer to God and more eternal than when we’d entered. It was known as “guitar time” and we became minor celebrities in our group of friends for being so dedicated.

Five years later, the guitar sat dusty and unloved in my corner, more of a decoration piece than a musical instrument. My fingers had long since stopped being callous, and I could only remember how to play D and G chords and “Light the Fire.” I knew that if I wanted a roof over my head this month, the guitar would have to get pawned.

So I picked it up the next morning and headed to the pawn shop, listening to cheesy worship music such as Tish and I had once played and still looking out the corner of my eye for a big sack o’ money that might be sitting on the side of the road marked, “Nathan,” with a note inside that says “Please don’t sell your guitar. Love, God.”

Didn’t happen of course, and I ended up getting only a measly fifty bucks for my memories and my sentimental value. Apparently those things don’t up the resale value of a musical instrument, although I promise that if I’d been there to tell the stories of guitar time to perspective buyers, they would’ve sold it for a lot more.

The fifty bucks wasn’t enough to remedy my financial problems, of course, but it was a start and I started to feel less panicked about money. That night my mom called me with some news of a major financial break for her, and offered to share the wealth in order that I might get back on my feet a little bit. Jesus showed up to help disguised as my mother.

Things improved, which they’ve been doing lately. I got caught up on some bills, kept my bank account in the positive, and went right back to living my basically-impoverished-but-enough-life. I didn’t really miss the guitar when I thought about it, but I did miss guitar time, and college, and having a community around of people who really loved well and cared for one another. So I called people, wished them well, caught up on their lives. I gathered my geographically convenient friends – I’ve made a lot since returning to Oklahoma – and we had dinners, movies, and time to make plans for when the days get longer, and warmer.

The significance of all this hit me this week when I accompanied my dad on a trip to the small town in western Oklahoma where I spent my childhood. My dad was a college professor at the little state college there, and he received word that one of his oldest friends and colleagues in the chemistry department, a guy named Hal, was dying of cancer. He didn’t think he could make the trip out to say goodbye, but when I convinced him that it was in fact the right thing to do, he insisted that I go along.

We spent the day wandering the campus, visiting his friends – all college professors around whom I’d grown up – and discovering that the old adage is true: the more things change, the more they stay the same. The town was almost as we’d left it; with a few more franchise retail outlets, a hip coffee shop, and the presence of my “adopted brother” Bryon, who is working his graduate degree at the college. But by and large it was the same place I knew as a kid, and the better part of the day was spent remembering things I’d thought were long forgotten.

Regarding his old friend, my dad said he didn’t want to make the trip because he didn’t want to remember Hal any way but that in which he already did; that is, he wanted to remember the good times, when he and Hal and all the “old guard” in the chemistry department were healthy and happy and could get around just fine. I did my best to remind him that his vision of Hal wouldn’t be complete without saying goodbye, without seeing him as he is now, and he agreed. Dad and his old friends made plans for fishing trips and future visits and shared news of their kids and their retirement.

For my part, I walked downtown to the coffee shop to meet with Bryon in between his choir rehearsals. He and I gabbed and gossiped about our common friends and managed to get in a little verbal dreaming about the future: where we’d like to go from here, how great things will be when That Boy calls us back, how fabulous it will be to pick up and move to Chelsea.

I began to wonder if Dad and Hal and all the other professors used to do things like this. They must’ve. After all – they were 23 at one time as well. I tried to picture Bryon old and coming to visit me when I have cancer, when I’m breathing from an oxygen tank and courageously joking in the face of imminent death, how I’ll be all brave and forced into loving myself. I think hanging around dad’s friends, hearing about their various illnesses and trips to the hospital really turned up the volume on my hypochondria. It also reminded me that my dad is getting older, that he’s diabetic and has high blood pressure, that he lives alone and has five grown kids and my heart was heavy with missing him, even as we rode around together.

I wondered if I’ll be eighty and still remember guitar time. I wonder if it will still seem so present and thrilling, that sense of the presence of the Spirit of God in all her nowness. It’s a struggle for me – and a lot of gay folks who really treasure their faith – to look to happier, easier times when fellowship was easily accessible and wonder if life hasn’t hardened us to the spiritual journey.

What I believe in the most is that we have no choice but to take care of each other. That “love” commandment doesn’t have a loophole, and it isn’t always about what we want so much as what is right. “Abide in me,” Jesus says, “and I will abide in you.” We can’t abide in the past, looking to times when things were far improved over what they are now, and look to return to them. We keep getting called back to the present, and we have all these things – these memories and relationships – to remind us.

We drove back through the plains to Oklahoma City, and I watched out the window as the sun bathed the winter wheat, thinking about how much the hills and fields looked like Ireland, praying for Hal and my dad, missing Tish, and thinking I really should call That Boy tonight and see if he’d like to go see a movie. I grabbed my dad’s hand and squeezed it, and he tousled my hair and we drove on in silence.

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