Secular

He had pretty eyes and a charismatic smile. His sweater was the nicest yellow color—like mustard—and it looked to be cashmere. Its carefully woven surface seemed to cloud across his pale skin, so soft. As I sat on the velvet seat I couldn’t help but wonder how it would feel if I ran my hands across that perfectly plush sweater, and if his smile would reach his eyes if he looked down at me. His teeth were so white it was blinding. They were perfectly carved and rounded, like beautiful piano keys struck out of his pink-hued gums. He talked about God in a casual way, a friendly way. That was reassuring. This was my introduction into Jesus, into religion, and I had expected a stuffy man; one who wore a hat like the Pope’s and had satiny robes carefully created by his disciples. I supposed the man’s mustard sweater would suffice, as its sheer fibers were woven by silvery machines that pumped out millions like it.

His eyes were a soft blue and they crinkled around the edges when he grinned, like his red tissue was sealed with white wrapping paper. He quoted the bible with a sense of satire. This made me like him. He spoke of Jesus curing a man who couldn’t walk, explaining how he cured him to prove his powers. It was intriguing. My plush pew was positioned on a balcony, giving me a clear view of his preaching like a spectator at a baseball game. My new stepbrother and stepsister were with me. They had perfect thighs concealed tightly in bleached jeans. Sheila was a few years my senior, with curved eyes and elfin ears branded with studs. She had a porcelain katydid body that made me cross my arms over my stomach. Her eyes drifted to her cell phone constantly, knowing that there would be unanswered messages. People sought her out—even in church.

Kyle was busy shaking his head, his blond hair laid out across his forehead. He was one year younger than I was. Girls liked him. I remember the night when Sheila and I stole his cell phone and looked through his pictures. We found the shirtless photos of him, his twelve-year-old body stretched and tense. I had felt sick. Sheila began laughing, her ossified fingers reaching rosy lips.

“He sends that to his girlfriends,” she had whispered.

Now, as I watched his bored eyes wander across the holy stage, I wondered if he thought I was pretty. I didn’t like him. Not like that. I just wanted to be one of his girlfriends with too much eyeliner, the girls with pants tight like cellophane. When the handsome pastor told us he had a friend to introduce, I didn’t pay much note to it. A man with haunted eyes stepped center stage and Kyle’s own eyes unfocused.

“Hello. Thank you for having me,” the man said politely. He had good stage presence and a searing smile, just like the thirty-something pastor.

“I,” he said, “Used to lead a homosexual promiscuous lifestyle.”

The church quieted. Kyle’s eyes focused.

“I recently met a pastor in Nashville, and I told him I had news I’d like to discuss over coffee. The next day we were sitting in a nice little shop, and I explained my confession to him. He said to me ‘James, I’m glad you’ve shared this with me. How can I help?’ Since then, the church has been my home.”

The man continued to tell us about his rebirth, about his healing and reintegration into society. I was wide-eyed and curious. This was before I had become a gay activist, a prosecutor of ignorance. The only thing that I thought was odd was how the fresh-faced man on the stage had told so many people about his homosexuality. He obviously regarded his acts as sin, but he seemed so very eager to tell as many people as possible. It all felt wrong. I had assumed faith would seep into me by way of diffusion, the pastor’s tentacle words enveloping and saturating my heart. This man was a verification of why I had been so suspicious. After he finished speaking high school kids in cashmere sweaters dashed down the aisles like lemmings, collecting money. The handsome pastor told us that we needed to part with our worldly possessions. His smile was infallible.

The buckets passed around quickly, quietly, and my family gave no money. Kyle’s stares drifted down to the cushy velvet chairs, prodding them with his Popsicle stick fingers. He looked up at me, at my face, but didn’t see me at all. I swallowed. I couldn’t help but wonder if the ‘friend’ on the stage ever had a boyfriend who cared about him. Maybe he actually loved a man and it meant something. Did they ever rent a studio apartment together? Did they wake up in the morning and feel the joy of clear light, playing with each others hair? Maybe they just spent an awfully long time being drunk, drowning in blasphemy, keeping each other company because they had nothing better to do at all.

Kyle’s body rose from the seat and stretched. My eyes were burning. I thought back to when we sat in my dark bedroom, talking casually about school woes. He told me how he kissed a girl with tongue, but didn’t want to.

“Why did you do it, then?” I had asked, feeling my throat tighten.

His watery eyes never showed conviction, never cared. He looked down at his lap. He was probably Christian, just because his mom was. His mom was probably Christian just because her mom was. Kyle didn’t go to church or pray. He spent his time dating girls, taking pictures exploited his skeletal body, and sticking his 7th grade tongue down the throats of classmates with pink bra straps.

“Kyle? Why did you do it?”

He didn’t bother looking at me, his face apathetic. The darkness of the room made me want to brush his hair from his forehead, as if he wouldn’t be able to actually see the motion. He looked so young.

“You don’t get it. I had to.”