A Runaway Named Freedom

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The following is a moving testimony from an incredible woman of faith. We’ll call her Freedom. Read it. Be changed.

I watched the scene, trying to hold back tears. It was a simple scene, and I’m sure the depth was lost on most of the audience. Yet for me it was so real, so personal. Thomas was putting into words what I never could. As he spoke to the wounded soldier, he shared his pain in growing up different. Through tears he grabbed the blind soldier’s hand and united with him in the margins.

Lost somewhere in the midst of the familiarity, my heart was suddenly ejected into reality by the girl sitting next to me on the couch. She covered her eyes and scoffed a homophobic comment, certain that Thomas was trying to seduce the soldier. She must have uttered “gross” five times within a second.

I closed my eyes, and I was on another couch – a young girl watching television with her mother. Two men grabbed hands and my mother covered my eyes, grasping for the remote with urgency. She too expressed her disgust with homosexuals – their behavior was so repulsive to her she couldn’t bear to watch, much less expose her child to that indecency.

I learned two things that day: (1) I was detestable and (2) God did not love me. I vowed to spend my entire life burying my secret. Even if it killed me.

The ignorance of my mother brought only death into the world; it extinguished any candle of hope with utter darkness. With each homophobic expression, I lost hope that God would ever love me – though I desperately cried out to be free. I didn’t want to be gay, I didn’t choose this. How could they say this was a choice? Every day I would wake up soaked in self-hatred, trying to motivate myself to get out of bed. I didn’t feel worthy to live, though I didn’t know my crime. I dreamed of death, of freedom. Why would anyone choose this? They could never understand. Science could never understand.

October 17th, 2005. I woke up that morning knowing freedom was imminent. My neighbor’s shotgun was loaded in his garage, ready to secure my departure from Earth. I didn’t know my destination, but I did not care. I could not imagine any reality worse than the one I lived in. I was only hours from the end, and my heart was full of hope. The curtains were about to be closed on the most horrifying script of all time.

I found freedom that night, but not from the barrel. God wrapped me in His embrace as I wept for the first time in a decade. What kind of child doesn’t cry? The child that doesn’t believe they deserve to cry. The child that feels so wretched that tears do not belong to them, only to the righteous.

I came out of the closet that night, and was met with love and grace. The lies that I was a divine mistake or an irredeemable outcast were shattered. The mother that had unknowingly kicked me to the margins held me in her arms, a broken mess. Her lifelong battle with homophobia was cured when she looked in the eyes of her beloved child. A child she would willingly give her life for.

That night I began to walk towards freedom – for me it was a freedom from self-hatred, guilt, and shame. For her it was freedom from ignorance and bigotry. Jesus welcomed us both. He transformed us both. He is transforming us still.

I wanted so badly to lash out at my friend – to point a finger at her ignorance, her hatred. I immediately assumed she could not know the Jesus that I know. How could anyone saved by the grace of Jesus condemn anyone else? How could she not show compassion, knowing how much grace it took to save her?

I lay in my bed that night, stewing with a righteous anger. I was plotting my exit from our friendship – wondering if it would be best to inform her why or to simply stop returning her phone calls.

The Lord spoke to me in a vision.

I saw the group of men prepared to cast stones at the prostitute. I was certain my friend was standing in the fold, rock arched.

Yet I saw my face in the crowd, with a handful of jagged rocks – my face ugly with anger. She was the prostitute, and Jesus stepped in my way to defend her. Her lovers were pride, ignorance, and intolerance. And Jesus was offering to pay them off – to pay the price for her freedom.

As I prayed that night, Jesus asked me to be the one full of grace and love. To kneel and wash her feet, to share the truth that saved my life. The gospel wasn’t only for my breed of sin, but hers as well.

Before I would have mocked her in front of my like-minded friends – puffing my chest as I displayed my humble affection for tolerance and love. But now I find myself on my knees in prayer. Praying that she too will find freedom.

 

Lord, give me the courage to defend the voiceless and the marginalized in the GLBT community, and the boldness to do it with love, understanding that I too am a sinner who struggles to offer grace.

TreePeople

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“22 They came to Bethsaida, and some people brought a blind man and begged Jesus to touch him. 23 He took the blind man by the hand and led him outside the village. When he had spit on the man’s eyes and put his hands on him, Jesus asked, “Do you see anything?”

24 He looked up and said, “I see people; they look like trees walking around.”

25 Once more Jesus put his hands on the man’s eyes. Then his eyes were opened, his sight was restored, and he saw everything clearly. 26 Jesus sent him home, saying, “Don’t even go into[a] the village.”

         – Mark 8:22-26 (NIV, emphasis mine)

One of the greatest treasures within the story of Christ is his sneaky way of inserting subtext into all of his actions. It keeps us guessing, and more importantly, expresses the eternally relevant messages that freshen our eyes with every turn of the page.

Taking the blind man by the hand, Jesus led him to a remote location where they could be alone. No crowds, no ovations. Just an intimate one-on-one conversation.

Between the lines of this story remains that mysterious walk and the conversation that must’ve occurred. It seems, and I have no real historical evidence for this, that Jesus intended this walk to be an intake of sorts. I think he wanted to hear this man’s story. More importantly, I think he wanted to establish a friendship.

After they settled into their makeshift hangout, Jesus spit on this man’s eyes and then laid his hands upon them. When he asked him what he saw, the man gave one of the most easily understandable descriptions, people look like trees, I know they’re not trees, but that’s what they look like. Jesus received the man’s perceptions, laid his hands upon his eyes again, and perfected his vision.

In 1st Corinthians, Paul writes:

For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.”  -1 Corinthians 13:12 (NIV, emphasis mine)

 

Jesus did not have to make a second go at healing this man. He was all-powerful. If he wanted to, he could’ve snapped his fingers and given this man the eyes of a hawk. But there was a deeper subtext he sought to convey.

We all have moments when all we need is perspective. Two weeks after I came out, I remember lying on the couch in the living room, burying my face in a pillow, shouting at my parents about the loss of my sanity. Seriously.

In the tangled mess of my thoughts I started to question whether I truly existed or if I was living in some sort of Matrix. I threw my middle finger in the air at a God that I had reduced to a mere flight of the imagination. And I just laid there, shivering in a nightmarish world that I had no hope of waking up from.

My mom looked at me, smiling.

“Honey. You’ve known that you were gay for roughly ten years and have been afraid to open up about it until now. Furthermore, you came out to the whole family and you did so less than 24 hours after a failed suicide attempt. That is a lot to happen all at once, for anyone. Now, here’s what we can do. If you believe that you are truly losing your grip on reality, you can come upstairs and lay in our bed for as long as you want. We could just sit on this for a few days. I think after this night is over, you will see that much of this is simply the anxiety of the moment. If it turns out its not, we’ll go to the hospital.”

She couldn’t possibly put herself in my head that night or roll the tape of my past decade. This was completely unfamiliar territory for her. But yet, she could still relate somehow. She knew what it was like to be swept away in the anxiety avalanche and she knew where to look for the clearing in the clouds. She took what her tears taught her and showed me that trees are not people.

That what I see is not necessarily what is.

The dialogue that takes place in Mark is an undertone of a greater truth. It is an intentional example of how we are all blind when left to our own devices. Without the hands of healers and the words of the wise we will always fail to see where we are situated in the greater story. I don’t think that this account is simply about repairing the fellow’s retinas. It was about restoring reality.

In our prayer life, the old adage: “pray until something changes or you change”, fits this story well. When we meet with Christ, he desires us to vent about our life. He wants us, if just for a minute, to forget the fact that he already knows and instead let him in like we would a confidant. I think he wants to take that walk with us first. As we return and return to that oasis of confidence, he continues to rub our eyes clean of lies.

It’s clear that Christ is the only force capable of clearing out our inner cobwebs, but that doesn’t mean that this happens only through prayer.

It’s a call to walk with one another no matter the distance. It’s a promise that when we reach that place of intimacy, we will see that our walls are stumbling blocks not shields. In that place, we stop theorizing about the future. We cry out: Carpe Diem! The scales slowly pile up at our feet and our distortions no longer deny us that sweet breath of life. And then, we dust one another off and take a different road home.

We see trees and we see people.

RR