Hypocrisy and irony

The moment I first acknowledged myself as gay unfortunately coincided with the horrible murder of Matthew Shepard. If a notorious hate crime wasn’t bad enough, the Westboro Baptist Church added insult to injury as they protested the Shepard funeral in a most appalling manner. For many, their antics stung like knives. At 16, I was too young to understand that this church had a few light bulbs out in its attics. I knew religion had some hang-ups with the gays. But my Republican family and the church we attended didn’t often bring it up. With the Internet explosion happening around the same time, I found more than enough proof that the religious community existed as the sole enemy of the gays.

Church suddenly felt dirty. Every Sunday, the people singing hymns together sounded more like choir songs of self-righteous cults. None of it resonated with me anymore. And as a teen, it also did not resonate to wake up early on Sunday mornings. I knew the time was right to come out to my mother – as an atheist.

My mother responded with fury. She even refused to do my laundry for one whole week.  With such punishment, I figured it best not to come out as gay too. Each Sunday she would give me the silent treatment for not coming to church with her. I returned the silent treatment.

For years, the mere sight of a Jesus fish bumper sticker would cause my blood pressure to spike. I just simply could not tolerate their intolerance.

When I met my partner Luke, I immediately disqualified him as a love interest due to his work in the ministry and strong passion for Christ. At most, I would have him as a weird Christian friend.

On the evening I received my HIV diagnosis, I didn’t know who to turn to. Something urged me to pick up the phone and call that wacky Christian friend of mine. Perhaps the thing that made him different from everyone else could be the very thing I needed.

Luke didn’t hesitate to come over. He hadn’t been out of the closet that long so HIV should have been scarier to him than it was. Instead he stayed to help invest in my frazzled brain. I had never met a more compassionate man in my life.

“Would you mind if I prayed for you?” he asked as we sat on the couch in a half hug position.

I didn’t mind. I wanted to hear whatever it was that gave this man the kindhearted qualities he possessed. His prayer didn’t ask God to correct any of my mistakes or have me repent for my actions. Instead, he asked that God protect and guide me through the trials of this journey. The words were beautiful. It was the first time in a decade that someone’s faith inspired me rather than enraging me.

Luke eventually asked me if I would like to attend the Metropolitan Community Church of the Rockies with him. He assured me that the congregation consisted mostly of gay people who struggled with their own tribulations in life. I decided to take him up on his offer.

Skeptically, I rolled my eyes at all of the Jesus icons in the sanctuary. But I liked watching all of the human interaction. People seemed genuinely happy to see each other and be there. None of it felt forced.

I refused to take part in any of the rituals such as communion or singing. But the contemporary music style did make me want to bop my hips just a little bit. However, I refused to bop for Jesus as I still felt scorned by his followers.

The sermon had my full attention as the pastor spoke about beneficial lessons with edges of wit and humor. When it came time to pray, I purposely looked upwards so that I wouldn’t pray by accident.

Clearly still conflicted, I knew I would have to come back for more. The sermon left me feeling curious to hear what else I might relate to out of a book that I had detested for 10 years.

Each Sunday, I learned a little more. Luke and I had theological conversations without any feelings of pressure to adapt to faith. Unexpectedly, I discovered a whole other side to religion that I had been ignoring. I had pegged the religious community as a one-stop shop for hatred and hypocrisy. I never bothered to look around the other side and see those whose faith led them to a better life.
Ironically, the big hatred that had held me back was that of my own. I sought after empathy while fighting fire with fire and that didn’t make sense. If I wanted love and compassion from others, I would first have to offer it to them. I realized that to lead by example, even while feeling wounded, would be a fundamental form of grace and hope of tolerance.

Today, my mother laughs at the irony that I am her only child who attends church weekly. Unfortunately, I am too old for her to reward me with clean laundry. While I still don’t take communion or pray, I enjoy the fact that I moved from atheist to agnostic. My war with religion no longer feels like war. And that feels pretty great.