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“I didn’t say you were.”
“I think you just did.”
“No, I don’t think you’re a hypocrite.”
“I represent the church,” Paul said, trying not to sound hurt, “but I don’t agree with all of their positions on the issue. You’re right. The church would like to have it both ways and make everyone comfortable. I think they’re going the right way, affirming that we shouldn’t discriminate and trying to encourage an open dialogue. But I’m not talking out of both sides of my mouth. I’m just trying to explain what I think, and what the church says. That’s all.”
“I get that,” Ian said. “I really wasn’t saying you’re a hypocrite.”
“It’s a relationship with a church, like a friendship. You don’t stop speaking because you disagree on something. Say I’m a Republican and you’re a Democrat, I’m not going to say ‘let’s call the whole thing off’.”
“You’re a Republican?”
“Uh-oh. Maybe we should leave the politics for another night?”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
When they had finished their conversation, Paul went to his computer and looked up everything the church council had written on the issue of homosexuality. It was all well wordsmithed by some committee, designed to please everyone and offend no one. The more he read, the less clear he was on what it was trying to say. There were long passages discussing official openness to gays, laying out a commitment to nondiscrimination based on sexual orientation. Churches were to actively welcome gay members and also to understand that homosexuality made many people uncomfortable. They were not to do anything that could be perceived as “promoting a gay lifestyle,” and yet they were not to do anything that might promote homophobia. They were to welcome openly gay couples yet not perform any kind of ceremony to acknowledge a same-sex union. In all of this tight-rope walking, one thing was unclear—how was a member of the faith supposed to feel about gays. Was a gay relationship a sacred union or a sinful aberration? Were gays just like us in every way, or was there something wrong with them?
The only thing unequivocal in the literature was this: the church would not tolerate an openly gay minister. After a preamble about the “frailties of the human condition” and the “pressures of society” that ministers faced, it stated clearly: “practice of homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching.”
Reading the passage sent chills down Paul’s spine. “Incompatible with Christian teaching.” They were words he had never tripped over before. He must have read the material in the past, and it had seemed reasonable enough to him at the time. Now he was taking it all personally—and he was afraid. The church had always been his life. Who would he be if the church rejected him? Who would he be if he was not a minister?
“Frailty.” Wasn’t that a strange way to describe risking everything in the name of love?
“Incompatible with Christian teaching.” That was the most revealing passage of all. With all of the kind language about the “mysteries of human sexuality” and homosexuals being “equally deserving of God’s love,” it all came down to this. A gay relationship was not a blessed union of souls. That was why there could be no weddings. It was a “frailty of the human condition,” a sinful act, a weakness to be tolerated out of compassion, though “incompatible with Christian teaching.”
The next morning, Paul picked Ian up at his apartment as usual. The morning sun illuminated Ian’s face with a warm glow. His beauty made Paul especially nervous. Ian apologized again for the argument on the telephone.
“Don’t apologize,” Paul said. “You should say what you think. Anyway, you were right.”
“I don’t know,” Ian said. “I think maybe you were right about not expecting a church to be perfect. People aren’t perfect, right? A church is just people.”
In his office that day, Paul wrote a sermon about his disagreement with the church’s statement on homosexuality. It was truly inspired, passionate and soaring in places. The main theme was that no one was beyond Christ’s love and that the union of any two souls was truly blessed. After several hours writing and revising and then reading and re-reading, Paul was sure it was perfect. Then he deleted the document. He would never be brave enough to deliver it.
Pretty
“Now this sculpture by streams, or by gradual weathering, is the finishing work by which Nature brings her mountain forms into the state in which she intends us generally to observe and love them. The violent convulsion or disruption by which she first raises and separates the masses may frequently be intended to produce impressions of terror rather than of beauty; but the laws which are in constant operation on all noble and enduring scenery, must assuredly be intended to produce results grateful to men.”
—John Ruskin, Modern Painters, Volume IV
One of the benefits of talking with Ian on the telephone was that Paul could not see his face. Freed from the distraction of his beauty, Paul was able to be himself. What must that be like, he wondered, to be beautiful—to have that just be a fact about you—you’re left-handed, you’re tall, you’re beautiful. When Ian looked in the mirror in the morning, an objectively attractive face looked back. It was a question, of course, that would be laughable to speak out loud. “What is it like to be beautiful?” But it remained an undercurrent in Paul’s thoughts—an issue calling out to be addressed.
Finally, one night they were in their respective homes, each watching the movie Titanic while discussing the action over the telephone. Paul had the subtitles on and the volume on mute. He was lying on his side on the futon as he held the phone to his free ear.
“You see the priest there, praying with the people on the deck?” Ian asked. “That’s you, right? I mean that would be you if you were on the Titanic. You’d be praying with people.”
“Sure,” Paul said as he propped himself up on his elbow to get a better view of the set. “What else could you do? It would be good to have something you could do.”
“I wouldn’t be anybody,” Ian said sounding a little petulant. “I’d be, like, a random steerage passenger.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“I wouldn’t have anything to do but drown.”
“Well, I think the priest drowns too,” Paul said. “Leonardo DiCaprio is a steerage passenger. He’s the star of the film.”
“I wouldn’t be the star, I’d be one of those guys running around with the rats.”
