Chapter 56. Mink Coats and Aberrant Theophany

This being Manhattan, a number of those coming were homosexual. The most flamboyant was Robert, a tall, striking Chinese man. No Adventist background. I can’t remember how it was he started attending Advent Hope. He always came late. He would waltz down the left center aisle to the second row and petulantly shrug his way of his ankle-length mink coat before stepping into the row. 

Others were deep in the closet. I listened to an old man from the Caribbean pour out a heart-breaking tale of alienation from church and family back home. This was compounded by a pattern of egregious racial discrimination against his nieces and nephews by a suburban pastor a decade or so before I knew him. Through months of conversation he slowly came to forgive the minister who had so damaged his family. His face changed. I was thrilled to see the transformation. However, parts of his story made sense only after his friends came to trust me enough to make oblique references to the real nature of his friendship with another non-Adventist Christian man from the Caribbean.

Then there was Andy. He was in his forties, had never been involved with anyone sexually or even romantically, but when he was a student in an Adventist college, a dean accused him of being involved with another student. They were just friends, Andy told me. Truly, there was nothing going on. He didn’t even know if the other student was a homosexual. But they were both musicians and that was enough. He was hounded from the school by terrified administrators.

Someone suggested I invite Colin Cook to come and talk about recovery from homosexuality. I thought it was a great idea. I knew people in our congregation were struggling with this issue. He was running a ministry in Reading, Pennsylvania, to help homosexuals become fully functioning heterosexuals. His own marriage was the greatest advertisement for his ministry. I thought he might bring valuable help to members in my church and others in the New York area. At some point before I invited him, someone offered a very oblique caution about having Colin come. They suggested I talk with a mutual friend who lived in New York, Ginger Thomas. I knew she had lived with a friend from many years and suspected she might be plugged into the network that would know if Colin’s coming would create more difficulties than it solved. In her characteristically deliberate, thoughtful voice she said, no, she didn’t think it would be inappropriate to invite him to make his presentations in our church.

Colin brought two of his counselees with him for the weekend of lectures. At that time, he was working to develop a national network of homosexual recovery groups called Homosexuals Anonymous. Because of Colin’s connections, a number of people came to the lectures who had no previous contact with the church. Colin gave his standard presentation. Homosexual desire is misplaced hunger for father love and resentment of maternal smothering. The key to new life, to transformation of sexual desire, is to see ourselves as we really are in Christ–whole, complete, beloved, valued, treasured. The church can play a role in this by offering healthy, non-sexual friendships. Colin was a compelling speaker–or perhaps I should say he was a confident and competent speaker. For those open to his ideas he was compelling. But I had already heard too many stories, including his own, of years and decades of desperate searching to discover this “new man” he preached about. His words were hopeful, but I was doubtful.

One outcome of his lectures was the formation of a local Homosexuals Anonymous group in Manhattan. The other outcome was several new people in regular attendance at our church. Half of the HA group attended my church so they invited me to their meeting. Eight or ten people gathered in a dingy third floor room down in the Village. The place was filled with beds rather than chairs. We sat awkwardly on the beds with our backs against the walls. The conversation was cryptic. I guessed my presence unsettled the group.

My heart ached for these young people. Most of them had conservative Christian backgrounds. They knew that homosexual relationships were wrong. They wanted to change, and Colin assured them it was possible. If they would just work the program, they could become ex-homosexuals just like alcoholics could become ex-drunks. But even in this group gathered to “work the program” I could feel the sexual chemistry. And the guys were not looking at the women.

Several in the group continued to attend church. Lydia was a singer with a wonderful voice. She began hanging out with one of the guys. His life story moved from drama to excitement to miracle to drama. He never worked anywhere very long. He was constantly being provided for by Christians who were amazed at his stories of God’s intervention in his life and by wealthy men drawn by other charms. I listened to his tales with dumbstruck fascination.

Lydia’s and Kenny’s friendship was real, but the promised change of sexual orientation was a mirage. I lost track of Kenny in the murky world of clubs and bars. Lydia moved away from New York, still pursuing her dream of a career in music.

The stories swirl in my head. An orthodox Jewish young man who found our congregation welcoming. Visiting with others who had attended Colin’s seminar, he found the courage to talk out loud about his lack of desire for women. He had come to the seminar because of his dream–no his divine calling–to be a husband and father and carry forward the faith of his people. But how do you marry if women awaken no desire?

Then there was John. He first began attending our church because of a vegetarian cooking class. The other young adults liked him. He was bright and funny, easy to be around. Like several others he enjoyed the freedom at Advent Hope to express his spiritual nature without having to take on the full religious baggage of his Catholic upbringing. He read Scripture and offered prayers in worship services. He helped organize work parties. After a couple of years of involvement, I invited him to formally join our congregation. He declined. He explained that joining a church would require him to align his life with his convictions.

I was puzzled at first, but he kept talking. After he began attending church he broke up with his boyfriend. Told him they couldn’t have sex any more. His boyfriend was crushed. He begged and pleaded, but John was adamant. What they were doing was wrong. They could still be friends, but they couldn’t keep sleeping together.

John felt like a jerk, a heel. But at the same time, it was the right thing to do. He was going to give himself wholly to God. But then he’d run into his boyfriend on the street. And always Fred begged him to reconsider. Finally, after months of chastity he had given in. They spent a Saturday night together. And Sunday. But Sunday afternoon john’s conscience asserted itself. He asked Fred to leave. Fred got angry. John started sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you but our love is wrong. God did not make us for each other.”

“What do you mean ‘our love is wrong.’? I don’t see anything wrong with it. And you didn’t either last night or this morning. This is why I don’t get involved with that God stuff any more. I had enough of the nuns when I was a kid. But I’m not a kid anymore.” Fred was shouting.

John collapsed in a chair and covered his face. “I don’t know. I don’t know what to say. Just go. Leave. Go.” John’s conscience was merciless. His love for Fred was unquenchable. The conflict between duty and love was unending agony.

So John didn’t join the church. And he didn’t leave. He continued to attend church, to brighten up parties, to help with projects. He was always cheerful, quick to notice others. I doubted anyone else in the church suspected his secret life–either his sexual orientation or his deep religious struggles. We talked occasionally. He’d go for a month or two or three, then succumb to Fred’s allure. Then, when John’s conscience finally reasserted itself, they’d have another nasty parting.

“Have you read any books or talked to anyone who thinks that monogamous relationships are okay?” I asked him one day.

“Yeah, but I can’t believe that. God didn’t mean two men to be together. No, that doesn’t work. At least not that and being a Christian. I don’t see how I can go to church and live with Fred. It just doesn’t work.”

John paused. “You know sometimes when I’m lying in Fred’s arms it goes way beyond sex or lust or whatever you want to call it. Sometimes it’s like God is there. Sometimes in the dark, in bed, God is so close. . . . It’s like Fred and the room and everything disappears, and God is there. When that happens, God is more real, God is closer . . . I know it must sound crazy . . .”

What could I say? It did sound crazy, at least in the context of classic Christian teaching about sex and lust and worship and theophany. Theologians contrasted the high moral tone of the Hebrew prophets with the sexualization of worship among the Philistines and Amorites. Sexual desire was seen as one of the greatest hindrances to spiritual enlightenment–not the path to it. That was the dominant message. But there were other stories. Like Judah and Tamar. And God chose the second-born son of the illicit union as the carrier of the Messianic line. And Hosea who is sent by God to a prostitute. And contemporary stories.

I told John, “Yeah, it does sound crazy. But I’ve heard other stories of God showing up in wild and crazy romances.” I did not know what to say. I knew what I was supposed to say. But I could find no words that put together my understanding of the Bible’s take on sexuality with what I heard in John’s story. I wasn’t ready to dump the Bible. Neither could I bring myself to dismiss John’s story as fiction.

I think I may be creating the wrong impression with these stories. There was no sense when you visited on Sabbath morning that ours was a “gay church.” Remember, this was the German New York Seventh-day Adventist Church. The old Germans were completely unaware that anyone in their church was homosexual. My sense was that the vast majority, even of the young people, were unaware. With the exception of Robert and his mink coat it would have required special sensitivity to detect the slightest hint of departure from gender norms. But I heard the stories. Over and over again.

We were not a democracy. The church was run by a small core of people, old and young, who were life-long Seventh-day Adventists. But this core understood we were not running the church for ourselves. We were creating a sanctuary, “a house of prayer for all nations.” We welcomed everybody and his dog. And they came.