"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 36:
Reconstruction Site

“Behold, I will create new heavens and a new earth. The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.” – Isaiah 65.17

I was raised around all these great, eccentric, liberal college chemistry and physics professors who were my dad’s colleagues. When I drive an hour west of Oklahoma City to the town I was born in, I always drive up and walk around the building where they taught, because it’s like a home to me. As a child I spent every moment I could there, because it was the only place where it was okay for me to be smart, and bookish, and to run around doing my own thing without anyone asking too many questions. I was safe there to stare at a computer screen for hours, or lose myself in a book, or wander around alone, creating and destroying whole worlds in my imagination.

In my teens I attended science camp at this university for two summers, because by then I’d basically embraced my nerdiness, and I met one of my closest friends on Earth, my dear friend Summer, for whom I am always grateful. Again, this became the place where I was me, fully, because here, people didn’t seem to be dancing so hard to try to fit in or be cool, because once you’ve signed up for science camp, you have to assume the jig is up.

In camp, we used to call this building “The Asylum” because of the beige tile on the walls and interminable hallways. When I was a kid, I would turn off all the lights and close the hallway doors, and run across the tile, because if I looked down, it looked like I was running over nothing, through space. And yet, the floor was always there, and always held me.

This was where I learned how to get a little writing done every day. It was where I threw a bottle of White-Out at my brother that left a stain which exists to this day. I had my first kiss in this building. So you see, It’s home.

My dad retired ten years ago from teaching, but was called back this year to take over for a vacant position. He gave me a little money every month to help him work the computer, which slightly confuses him, and to help him grade papers, because after all this time, I still manage to be competent at science.

Last week I went to have lunch with him. I walked into the building, which I’ve always thought of a house, my second home, that place that will always be there – the Chemistry Pharmacy Physics building. When I walked in the door, the first thing I noticed was that the smell was wrong. You know how you take a breath in a familiar place, or near a familiar person, and a bit of your knowledge of that person, or that place, comes from the smell? But this time, the building smelled wrong. And the ceiling was missing.

When I saw this, time seemed to suspend like I was underwater, and then I became instantly distressed. Taking a few more steps, I saw that the walls were stripped bare – no more ugly beige tile – and the hallway doors were blocked with chains, and a sign: “Construction Site. Do Not Enter.”

I began to breathe heavily and I grabbed my dad’s arm for support. “They’re renovating my childhood!” I said loudly, and several people turned to appraise me.

He was nonchalant, “Yeah, they’re doing this floor, they already did the one above and next they’ll do the one below.”

“They…. they can’t!” I exclaimed. “This is home! Nobody asked me! I wasn’t consulted!”

I tried to peer through the thin windows on the hallway door but to little avail. What I could see told me that the entire hallway had also been ripped apart; no tile, or paint, or flooring, or ceiling. Wires hanging loose and tools and buckets of plaster strewn about everywhere. I thought I might be having an aneurysm, that the brain cancer I’ve been keeping under control all these years by getting good grades and making people like me had finally broken loose and was going after my upper spinal column.

Dad encouraged me to visit the third floor to see what they’d already done, and how the renovated hallway would look. When I finally started breathing again, I made my way up there but refused to like it. The walls were green, and gray, and sure, much nicer and more welcoming, but not what I knew. This was no longer the building in which I’d pretended to fight monsters, or written my first novel attempts. It didn’t feel like home. I felt wronged, and violated, like I’d lost something.

“Throw away my misery; it never meant that much to me. It never sent a get-well card.” – The Weakerthans.

I had a funny thing happen recently, too. I met a guy, and although things didn't work out quite the way I might've liked, I found that meeting a guy with long-term potential might be a problem for me. In our brief yet very meaningful time together, we seemed to live a lifetime of emotion and googly-eyes, and as I watched him sleep one night I heard a familiar door opening in myself.

This is the door that leads to Mean Street. Mean Street is the most dangerous place in my brain, because it’s the place I should never be allowed to go into alone. And yet, for the past few years, with everything that has been going wrong, it is the place that I seem to live. It’s the place where every sign is a bad memory, every resident a voice of despair from the chorus in my past. People I’ve wronged, parents, friends I’ve let down, teachers I couldn’t charm. It’s the “sin” side of Christianity writ large, and it’s always raining. It looks very much like the street in the opening chapter of The Great Divorce, only with more porn, and drunks, and dead things.

It’s the part of me that makes living with myself a real nightmare from time to time.

I felt that cold wind blowing through my heart, and all those voices piping up, and I felt I might die of despair because I’m so screwed up, and because I’m so wrong, and difficult. You see, growing up I learned about what Father Tom Weston calls the Five Rules: the basic precepts we’re all taught from birth: Rule Number One is that you must not have anything wrong or different about you. Rule Number Two is that if you do have anything wrong or different about you, you must get over it as quickly and as quietly as possible. Rule Number Three says that if you cannot get over it, you must pretend that you have, and Rule Number Four says that if you cannot get over it, and cannot pretend you are over it, you should not bother showing up at all. Finally, Rule Five is that if you insist on showing up, you should at least have the decency to feel ashamed.

So I lay, watching this guy sleep, my heart doing all kinds of flops, like a shoe in the dryer, staring down into this doorway to Mean Street. There’s always this voice that calls from inside, tapping its foot and looking at its watch as if I’m late, waiting to usher me into my mind’s bad neighborhood. “Do I have to go this time?” I asked it. It sighed, “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

But something happened there, in the dark, in the quiet. It was like the breeze became warm, and I began to pray. Jesus seemed to come in all around my scratchy little heart, and grab my hand, and walk me through the door. And I listened to what all these voices had to say, but he wouldn’t let me be afraid. There were the taunts of all the people for whose attention and approval I am desperate, from Michiko Kakutani and Professor Angelou to all my coolest friends and the guy who bullied me in fifth grade. I watched them all, detached, holding on to Jesus for dear life, and soon, all grew quiet, and I slept.

“Purity of heart is to will one thing, and one thing only.” – Søren Kierkegaard.

I have a dear friend who, like me, struggles with dreams versus destiny. She married her husband despite a deep desire to pursue overseas ministry, which she had several opportunities to do. How do we know when something is a calling, a strong desire, or a sinful urge? They all feel so similar, and yet all come from different places. It is funny how in life, as you reach the end of your rapidly fraying rope, you eventually have no choice but to pray your eyes out for someone to come along and tie it in a knot for you.

I returned to Oklahoma two years ago so that I might rest, and recover from a bad relationship and a bad coming-out experience. I came home to people who had absolutely no choice but to love me and care for me tenderly. I came home hoping things would be easy for awhile, and instead, they got more difficult.

After a couple years of dark nights of the soul, I find that my life is improving, in part because I’m praying furiously for the courage to repent, and to seek God in spite of my strong desire to flee from Him.

The night I let Jesus walk me down Mean Street, I felt afraid and crazy, like I might cry, or snap, or go have a drink and take up some leisurely heroin. At the very least, I thought, I am not equipped to handle a gift like this, because I am unable to treat myself as a beloved child of God – how can I do that for someone else?

I saw that I am a nutter. Absolutely off my gob. I realized that I need a lot of healing, because I have a lot of hurts. I’ve spent the past three years hiding my scars and wounds from God, because I was afraid of how I would have to pay for the grace with which He’d heal me.

I remembered a vow my friends Jonathan and Tish said to one another at their wedding: “As Christ laid down his life for us, so I lay down my life for you.” And this was the beginning of an answer.

When you suffer a physical injury, the muscles around it often cramp in order to protect it while it heals. Sometimes, the best way to get these muscles to relax is to use them. I realized that my heart had been hurt by a man, and by friends, and family, and by my own stubborn refusal to let go of, well, anything at all.

The light began to get in under the cracks, and a breath of fresh air blew through, and it was like something had been unleashed. I knew I was being asked to give up my hurt, because the cost of not doing so is never worth the gain. And I realized that it might actually demand everything of me; not just this boy I was falling for, but also everything I know about my life.

This has happened to me before. It happened once when I became a believer, when Jesus had been tailing along after me forever and finally I let him slide in through the pet door. It happened again when I came out, because I was carrying a burden I didn’t need to, and I finally let God tell me what to do with it.

I think that I came into this world with a bit of intelligence, some wit and talent, but also not a whole lot of self-esteem, or courage, because these were things that God wanted me to find in Him.

“God’s not punking you.” – Katie Parker.

The way I understand repentance is that it’s the laying down of a burden you never had the right to pick up to begin with. I stood with Jesus on Mean Street in my mind and looked around at all the places I was hurt, and all those cramping muscles and loud voices. Telling me that if I didn’t control the situation with this boy into a fare-thee-well then I’d never be happy again. Whispered judgments and accusations, mean glares and protest signs. Bob Dole. My fourth grade teacher. My mirror. My bank account. I am afraid that if I don’t manage my life down to the minutest of details, it will come back to haunt me when it turns out that God isn’t actually good and never had my best interests at heart.

It was never my job to heal myself from these things. I prayed, “God, I’m taking my hands off the control panel here and letting you drive, because I have no idea where we’re going.” And it seemed he gently guided me away from that bad neighborhood and into that moment, where the guy I liked was sleeping, and the room was quiet, and dark, and I breathed along with him until I fell asleep.

“Memory plays tricks on us – the more we cling, the less we trust. And the less we trust, the more we hurt. And as time goes on, it just gets worse.” – Mary Chapin-Carpenter.

Okay, so things didn't work out. And for a week or so, I cried a lot on and off, and I listened to sad music as I walked to my classes and to work. But also, I did something revolutionary: I continued to show up. After my last breakup, I retreated into my couch, and called no one. I didn't go to parties, or try to make friends. The first thing I did this time was to call my friends Laurie and Jaye, who made me dinner, and gave me a few tequila shots. Also, they prayed that I'd be given the courage to keep showing up for my little miraculous disappointment of a life.

What it comes down to is that I am scared of letting go of all my pain and despair, because I am not sure who I am without them. I don’t know how to be a beloved child of God, so what I decide to be instead is my own worst enemy, because I was always taught that I probably shouldn’t like myself too much.

I’m scared that if they redecorate the hallway, it won’t be home anymore. And here all they were trying to do was make it better and more livable.

So I let go. I fling open the doors, turn off the lights, and run full-stop across a floor I’m not entirely sure is there. And it always, always holds, and it’s faith that let me do it.

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds…” – Romans 12.2

I thought a lot about The Rules as I began to seek healing. I know in some true, undamaged part of me that if I want to live like a real person, The Rules have got to go. So, I am making every effort to show up for my life and be unashamed. It’s my own little bit of revolution. I am striving to be healthy in a world that rewards sickness, truthful in a world that honors liars, merciful in a world that likes its grudges, and faithful in a world of shifting alliances. Maybe I’ll end up leading the rebel forces.

I’ll let the hall get renovated, because I’m not the architect, and I'll let my life unfold as it will, for I am not the author of history. I’ll let my sanctification come from outside me, because no one ever nailed me to a cross for the sake of the world.

Later, I called some friends to find out their plans for the weekend, and they seemed to include me. It was my favorite kind of weather – cold and clear and sunny – and for once the door to Mean Street was open, and sunshine and cool breezes were blowing in, stirring up the leaves and shining light on the corners, and for once, things smelled all right in my slummy, redeemed, fixer-upper of a heart.

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