Death to Life
A story by Toby Foster: How one gay boy's tragedy brought healing to his queer brothers
The backstory:
Connor and Timmy, freshmen in college, have been boyfriends for several years. One of their friends, Don Knight, had been so tormented in a “conversion therapy” institution that he had taken his own life by jumping from the roof of his dormitory. A funeral Mass was held for the repose of his soul. This story is an account of what happened to those who attended the Mass.
Connor–
Goddammit! Fuck those bastards!!!!
None of us knew that Don Knight had been sent to a conversion camp when he was 15 years old. His classmates knew, but he asked them to keep it just in his group when the subject came up in their Seminar. Tuesday he sat up almost all night with Gene his roommate, talking about what happened and what they did to him and the other boys, how they convinced them they should hate the “sick” part of themselves and anything having to do it, how they were under the spell of terrible demons that try to destroy boys like them. He even told Gene what one of their counselors had brutally raped him during a session and told him that’s what it was going to be like for him for the rest of his life if he didn’t let them cure him of his disease.
He managed to get out of there by telling them everything they wanted to hear and he even took part in hollering at the new boys who had just turned up. He felt terrible that he did that but it was the only way he was able to convince them he was cured. That was over three years ago and he still has nightmares about it and he can’t bring himself to even kiss the classmate he had fallen in love with. Gene tried to convince him to talk to one of the counselors on campus who was affirming, but Don said he’d be too terrified to be alone in a room with an adult again because of what happened the last time.
That was Tuesday night. Two nights ago. Tonight, while Timmy and I were enjoying our supper at a barbecue place, Don had managed to get himself up on the roof of the five-floor dormitory, and then throw himself off the roof and onto the ground. He was still alive when the paramedics got to him, but he had crushed the back of his skull when he landed and that finally killed him. A few students were walking by shortly after it happened. They were the ones who called 911. Fuck.
Timmy was numb over the whole thing. I expected hysteria, but this was worse, him silently staring at the ground. I wished he’d just go nuts on me. I could deal with that. But the way he was scared the daylights out of me to the point where I was actually thinking of making a 911 call of my own. But instead, I called my therapist and told her what happened. She kept me on the phone for a long time, and while I was talking to her, Timmy came over to me–well, actually, he crawled over to me because he was already down on the ground. So he crawled over and wrapped his arms around my feet and curled up there. My heart was breaking, but Susan assured me everything would be okay. “Let Timmy show you what you need to do,” she said to me before she finally ended the call. I promised I’d let her know what happened.
Finally, I just got down on the floor myself and took him in my arms. We cried together. It didn’t matter that we didn’t know the guy who killed himself. That guy was all of us in a way. And he didn’t really kill himself: those bastards at the place killed him. His parents killed him for sending him there in the first place, and then for buying his claims he’d been cured. Sure, right up to the point where he ended up in a gay Seminar group. I’m not exactly sure how all that went down. Besides, it’s none of my business.
They said there’s going to be a Catholic funeral on Monday and classes are being cancelled so any students who wanted to attend the Mass could do so. You bet we’re going. In fact, I had this idea that we should volunteer to serve the Mass, but I was afraid Timmy wouldn’t be able to handle it and my main responsibility is to make sure he’s doing okay. He’s slowly coming out of it. I had to help him take a shower, but I really suspected he was perfectly capable of it himself but wanted the special attention, and I certainly wasn’t going to deny him that. At this point I wouldn’t deny him anything, even when he said he wasn’t willing to go for his interview unless they let me be in the room with them when it happened. Whatever he wanted was fine with me. As it turned out, both interviews that day were postponed until the middle of the next week, a couple days after Don’s funeral. He still insisted I had to go with him. I’m hoping he’ll feel more secure by then.
I have to say that the funeral blew my mind. We hadn’t been to Mass in such a long time and a lot of the guys we knew who were Catholic all said the same thing. The old guilt popped up, of course, and thoughts of mortal sin and not going to communion made me feel very out of place, almost to the point where I didn’t want to go at all for fear that the roof would cave in on my head. Typical thoughts by lapsed Catholics, I guessed. Surprisingly enough, it was Timmy who convinced me that if we didn’t go we’d probably always regret it. “Fine,” I said to him, “but God dammit, if I want to hold your hand I intend to do so and I don’t give a fuck what they might have to say about it.” As you can see, I was suspicious, but that was perfectly consistent with how disturbed my thinking was over all this. I mean, I had to be strong for Timmy, but it didn’t seem like there was anyone else there who could be strong for me.
Until we met Father Collodin. There he was, standing outside the front doors of the church, welcoming us and greeting us with his arms extended and an angelic smile on his face. “Come, my children,” he would sing. “God loves you and knows how much you’re hurting. That’s all that matters, my dear young men and women. All is forgiven. Come, feast on love. Come, hear the words meant for you. Come, there is nothing to fear. Come, your God understands you. Your God loves you. Come.” I held Timmy’s hand as we approached him. He looked at our clasped hands and smiled at us. “Hold on as much as you need to, dear boys. Let love heal the hurts.” Who the hell was this guy and where did he come from? Is he really a Catholic priest? Wow. I never expected anything like this. Not at all.
The church was packed and so many people–mostly guys–were crying that the sounds of weeping drowned out the organ music. In a sense, it seemed like all that grief was actually part of the music, that it was a duet between the organist and all the grieving boys. My goodness, I found myself thinking the weirdest thoughts! Of course, everything was in English and for once I was glad about that. I didn’t want to hear any Latin. It would bring back memories of how we got pushed away by nasty parishioners back home.
When it came time for the Kyrie, Fr. C stood in the center of the aisle. “I want to confess something,” he said. “I am a sinner. In fact, I sin a lot. So if you know you’re a sinner too, that’s just fine. We’re all in this together. And look up at the crucifix. Jesus is hurting up there and Jesus is in here hurting with all of us. All the sorrow. All the grief. All the guilt. All the pain. The horror of how one of our friends had been harmed so badly by hateful people that he didn’t think he could continue to bear the consequences, and so, he surrendered into the arms of God in a painful and fatal way.”
Wow. What an interesting way to talk about suicide! I couldn’t help but think of our friend Pete who also “surrendered himself” rather than be sent to the very kind of program that destroyed Don as well. Fr. continued: “Never forget, my children, that Jesus said ‘Do not judge.’ Above all, my friends, do not judge yourself. Leave that up to the tender forgiving love of your God. Let God do God’s work. You just open your hearts and shed your tears and let God’s love give you whatever you need so that your pain will make sense. Feel the pain, my dears, then let Jesus whisper to you that “tomorrow you will be with Me in paradise.” A big long tomorrow that for most of you will be years and years long. But receive that promise because that is why Jesus died for you and for me and for Don and for every other person in this entire world who is in pain right now for any reason whatsoever. And know this above all things, my children: Your God understands. Your God forgives you. Our God forgives all of us. Now and always.”
Timmy looked at me with those breath-takingly beautiful tear-dampened eyes. And he smiled, and raised our joined hands to his mouth and kissed each of my fingers. And for the first time in days and days, I didn’t need to be worried about him any longer. All I needed to do was just love him the way I always have. Wow.
43.
Timmy–
I kissed Connor’s fingers and would have bowed down to the ground to kiss his feet as well if I could have gotten away with it. His strength is my strength. His patience is my patience. His sense of hope is my sense of hope. Sometimes it’s hard to see where he leaves off and I begin, for in so many ways we are one. That’s the way it’s always been with us and I’m sure that’s the way things will remain.
He’s getting me through all this with his strength, his love, his devotion to our union. Were it not for him, I would have collapsed in a heap and been drowned in my own tears. But no, Connor is with me. Connor holds me up. Connor fills me with hope that things will get better.
And Don? Poor bewildered and tormented Don who has been through things I never could have endured. Curse those responsible for his death! Curse those who tortured and twisted his innocent spirit with their hate-filled sadistic lies. Curse those who assume they have the power to change what cannot be changed. Curse those whose ignorance is responsible for the broken souls of boys like us. Curse them. Curse them. Curse them all.
And the priest, Father C, showed me an aspect of priesthood I never knew existed. Rather than judge us, he simply shared Christ’s love for us. Rather than condemn us he showed us the power of Christ’s forgiveness. Rather than crucify us, he showed us the only Cross that could ever make a difference in our lives. He washed away our guilt and shame. He made us feel welcome despite the way we’ve felt unloved and misunderstood.
And then for the first reading, Don’s roommate Gene picked up the book and read us something from the Book of Wisdom about how sometimes God loves a young person so much that he takes that person to himself at a young age and protects him from all the terrible things that could have happened to him if he had lived longer. I don’t remember the exact words but I’m sure I could find them. Gene told us they came from chapter 4. We don’t have a Bible with us, but I’m sure I could find it online sometimes, or maybe even buy a cheap copy of the Catholic Bible at the bookstore–I don’t think Protestant Bibles contain the Book of Wisdom. Their loss, I’d say. All I know is that when Gene finished the reading and sat down, all my tears had dried up. I squeezed Connor’s hand–damn, I had to be afraid not to break his fingers I was holding on to so tight. He leaned over and snuggled my neck, not caring who would see it and judge it. But fortunately, nobody was in a judging mood at that Mass. We were all there because we were scared and confused. And haha, it’s curious how the word “scared” is so close to the word “sacred.” Does our fear make us sacred? After all, didn’t Christ say “do not fear” to His friends? It is possible that we can still be His friend even though His church tries to push us out the door?
Not today. We were there in solidarity and strength, over 600 of us! And we soaked up every word Father spoke. There was a second reading as usual, but I can’t say I remember it, but the Gospel passage Fr. C read to us was “I will not leave you orphans. I will come to you and take you to Myself.”
It never occurred to me that Jesus would still love me and want me to be with Him. I’d been convinced I’d lost all that because I love Connor. How absurd that thought was, how ugly, how utterly false. God is love. I love Connor and Connor loves me and God is right there in the middle of our embrace. And it is good. It is holy. It is right. It is honest. It sets us free from doubt and guilt and fear.
That’s what happened at that Mass, to a great many of us. And later, when it came time to go up to receive communion, we all hesitated until Fr. C stood there holding a golden chalice of hosts and said, “Come, my children. There is nothing to fear. You are welcome. Your Jesus wants to feed you and make you strong again. Come, every single one of you. Come and claim the gift your God wants to give you today. Come and be healed. Come and live free. Come and feast on love, then let your love grow strong and sure and stable.”
The first few brave guys stood up and left their pews to go up to receive. All of a sudden we all followed them, all of us, one after another. It took a very long time because Fr. C didn’t use any eucharistic ministers but gave each of us the body of Jesus from his own hands so that each of us would understand that everything he had said to us during his sermon applied to each and every single one of us.
I’ll never forget what he told us when he preached: Don’t forget that the ones I use the most are the ones who have passed through the fire and the floods and then have gone back to bring relief to those still suffering. That is the nature of things in the realm of grace. Those who have known failure are the only ones who can bring the assurances of grace to those who are still being overcome by their own personal demons. I hope I never forget what he said that day.
During communion the organist played something I recognized because I had heard it often at home because it was one of my mother’s favorite songs. It was called Jesus, Joy of Man’s Desiring. Very appropriate, because by the time we had all received and sat back then, as Father C put the unused hosts into the tabernacle, I realized that the entire church was overflowing with peace and joy. There were no more tears because we understood that something very important had happened in that church that day. We’d all been healed.
Connor and I were still holding hands when we went up to receive communion. Once again, Fr C looked at our joined hands and smiled as he said “Body of Christ.” After he had given us the hosts he said “keep loving one another. Find God in each other and in your love.” Wow. His words took away all the judgments, all the stigma, all the shame. Our love for each other is good. It is holy. It is cherished by God. Never before had I had the guts to believe all that, but right then and there, at that Mass with the Body of Christ in our mouths, we knew and understood what we never could have believed before: that God blesses our love for each other. Wow.
Amazing, isn’t it, how Don Knight’s tragic death became something beautiful because it represented the perfect opposite of everything that had been done to him in that awful place by those hideous and evil men. Everything got set right that day. And Don was–IS– in the hands of God.
Story by Toby Foster