“DO YOU HAVE A SOLID plan for when you’re released from jail?” Pastor Randall Givens asked.
I looked into the kind, dark eyes of the older black man, knowing he would lose interest in saving my soul when he learned I was gay and that I had no intention of apologizing for who I was or who I loved.
“Why do you care?” I asked, not trying to hide the bitterness in my voice. “Do you earn extra points with God for showing up here each week and trying to convert us to Christianity?”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asked in an unflappable, calm voice. “I assure you I’m not trying to convert you to anything other than a happy life free of crime. I want to show you there is another way.”
“Then why do you work Bible verses into your lessons?”
“Like with Hallmark cards, there’s a verse for every occasion,” he teased. A warm, deep chuckle rumbled from his chest, reminding me of the actor James Earl Jones.
I leaned forward and looked him square in the eyes. “Pastor Randall, I think you’re a good man, and you mean well. I also thought the same about the members of the church we attended growing up. I saw them more than I did my cousins and loved them just like family. I learned the hard way their love, as well as my so-called family’s, was nothing more than hollow words, and they use their Bible to preach hate instead of love. I’ve had enough religion to last me a lifetime. Ha. Make it two lifetimes. You’re wasting your time with me because God has no room in his heart for me. I’m queer, and nothing and no one can change me. I wouldn’t want to even if I could. I like who I am.” I lowered my eyes to stare at my hands resting on the table between us, not wanting to see his kindness turn to scorn. I hated the way the garish overhead lights made my olive-toned skin look pale and dull. I nearly cringed when the words olive-toned crossed my mind. As usual, it triggered memories I wanted to forget.
“Oliver has inherited his father’s Greek genes,” my mother used to say when people wondered how a blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman could claim someone with skin, hair, and eyes as dark as mine. “I bet he inherited his father’s way with the ladies too,” she added when I hit puberty.
“You’re making an awful lot of assumptions based on the actions of one group of church members.” Pastor Randall’s deep voice pulled me back to the present, but I still couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Don’t forget my family,” I added sullenly. “They tried to convert me, and when I refused to cooperate, they kicked me out of our home. Do you know what it’s like to be homeless at fifteen years old with no money and no safe place to rest your head at night?”
“While I can’t say that I personally experienced rejection and homelessness, it happened to someone I loved dearly,” Pastor Randall said solemnly. “I wasn’t in a position to help him at the time, but I can help you. There is a better life waiting for you outside the walls of this jail. It might take a while for people to see the good in you that I see, but it will happen. Oliver, I’d like for you to look at me so I know you’re listening to what I have to say next because it’s very important.” I raised my eyes and was surprised to find his gaze warm and inviting instead of the chilly disdain I expected to see. “God does love you just the way you are, Oliver. He’s not going to stop loving you because you love men, but he will want you to stop stealing things.” Pastor Randall smiled wryly and added, “Some might call you a modern-day Robin Hood, but a crime is still a crime. You took things that didn’t belong to you and sold them, there’s no way around it, even if you used the money to feed other homeless people.”
“Not just homeless people, Pastor Randall. Hungry kids discarded by their families just like I was. I didn’t want them to sell their bodies on the streets to have money for food or turn to drugs to escape their misery.”
“Like you did?”
I looked away again because my shame made it impossible for me to hold his gaze, but I nodded because ignoring his question didn’t seem right.
“This is your chance to turn your life around, Oliver. I know it’s hard for you to have faith, but if you can learn to trust me, I will show you there is someone who loves and believes in you.”
“You?” I asked
“Okay, make it two people who will love and believe in you. Me and God, Oliver.”
I wanted to believe. I ached to have a better life. I spent the first three weeks of my six-month jail sentence going through withdrawal as my body detoxed from the poisons I put into it. I kept thinking to myself there had to be more to life than bone-deep loneliness and highs that only took off the sharp edges of my pain. “What will you require of me? Attend your Bible study here at the county jail?”
“I’d love for you to attend, but I will settle for one-on-one meetings like this one.”
I thought about it for a long time, debating the pros and cons of putting my faith in a stranger. “Why are you different?” I finally asked. “Why are you willing to say being gay is okay?”
“I’m going to be really honest with you, son, because it’s the only way I can earn your trust.” Hearing someone refer to me as a son and not a disgraceful bastard started to thaw my heart the tiniest bit, even though I knew he meant I was God’s son and not his own. “I was raised to believe homosexuality was wrong, and I held firm to those beliefs for many years. Like in your situation, my family turned my older brother away when they found out he was in love with another man. This was 1965 and men didn’t love other men, especially African American men. I felt so much conflict in my heart because John was the best person I knew. He was so kind-hearted, loving, and dedicated to our family. He was my hero, and I worshipped the ground he walked on. Yet, I didn’t stand up for him when my family turned their backs on him. It didn’t matter that I was a seventeen-year-old kid; I should’ve told him that I would always love him no matter what, but I didn’t. I was afraid my family would turn on me too. John knew it; I saw the truth in his eyes when he winked at me before he left.”
“What happened?” I asked, although, I could tell by the solemn tone in his voice there wouldn’t be a happy ending to the story.
“He wrote me a letter as soon as he was diagnosed with AIDS in 1989, and I boarded the first Greyhound bus to Philadelphia. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived, but seeing my brother and so many others crammed into this quarantine room shocked me to my core. The room was cold, sterile, and without windows or hope. They didn’t even want to grant me access to my own flesh and blood.” Pastor Randall narrowed his eyes like the memory still angered and possibly haunted him. “It was for my own good, you see. They still were ignorant as hell about AIDS, but I wouldn’t let my brother die alone. There was this one nurse who I swear was an angel on earth. Her name was Christina, and she fought hard for me to see my brother. I ended up signing paperwork that I wouldn’t hold the hospital liable if I contracted AIDS. She spent as much time as she could with the men, reading newspapers or books to them, and she wasn’t afraid to touch them. She’d place her hand over theirs or press the back of her cool hand against their fevered foreheads. She encouraged me to simply be myself around them, and together, we made sure my brother and the other patients felt love before they died. I have so many regrets about the years I lost with my brother. He was only forty-four years old when he took his last breath.”
“I’m so sorry, Pastor Randall,” I said solemnly.
“My brother never lost his faith. Right up until the end, he knew he was going to heaven to be with the angels. I use the Bible as a guide to do good things with my life. I use scripture to guide me and enlighten those around me, but I also accept the Bible was written more than thirty-five hundred years ago, Oliver. It has been translated so many times there’s no way to know the true word of God unless you can read and speak Hebrew.”
“And you can?” I asked.
“I cannot, but I’ve read many articles from people who can, and it all boils down to this: God does not discriminate. He loves all of his children equally and without favor.”
“You really believe that?”
“I do.”
I stared into his eyes, looking for any sign of trickery but found none. He looked and sounded sincere, and I wanted to believe in him. I needed a champion, a mentor, to show me life wasn’t all bad. Pastor Randall was willing to be that for me and only asked for one thing from me in return: to try.
“What time is Bible school?” I asked after several minutes.
“One o’clock in the afternoon.”
“I’ll be there,” I said, earning a smile. Little did I know how much the decision would alter my life.