Trapped in a White Box (a personal essay)

  Trapped in a White Box

    The bible belt, can you picture it? Can you envision a church standing piously on every block in these antiquated sleepy small towns south of the Mason and Dixon line? This is where I spent the most impressionable years of my life. I remember every “god bless you”, every disingenuous Sunday morning smile, and every repetitive worship song. At a very young age, I remember being taught a “healthy” fear of my creator. I remember a particular feeling I had growing up in this way. I can only describe it as suffocation. 

    There are many images that cross my mind when I reflect on this time of my life, but none that I can imagine more clearly than a particular church. It is stationed in a meadow situated some ways off Interstate 44 from Tulsa to Oklahoma City. It is precisely square, and impressive in height. The first feature that struck me was its insufficiency of windows. Its only windows were pastel stained glass located within the two sizable front doors. Not less than one hundred yards from this building is an impressively sized stark white cross mounted high up on a pole. It is impossible to not feel small below it. I’ve driven past this church an enumerable number of times; however, it never fails each time to give me a foreboding feeling. I can not help but think of the congregation in their uncomfortable pews within that white box without windows. I imagine how fervent the sermons might be. I view this church as an effigy of religion in the context of my upbringing. How trapped must those people feel inside that box with no air? I imagine it is not unlike how I felt as a young person.

    I struggled with identity for most of my youth. I had discovered an aspect of myself that would often drag me to tears without warning. What does one do when everything they have been taught tells them that this secret part of them is an abomination in the eyes of their creator?

“If a man lies with another man as he would lie with women, both of them have done what is detestable. They shall surely be put to death, their blood is upon them.” 

- Leviticus 20:13 

I remember having three versions of the bible as a teen. I combed over each book to find three different variations of this same verse. I have had a war inside my head for quite some time now. How can I be both gay and Christian simultaneously? How can these two identities co-exist within me? It took me a while, but I came to terms with my sexuality; however, I have yet to resolve my spiritual dilemma. When deliberating on this topic in my head, I feel like I am on a merry-go-round that never stops spinning. In some ways, I still hold onto the fear I had as a kid. I had read about gay Christians, but I did not know how they achieved peace. In fact, I had never met one before I moved to Tulsa. 

    My first time witnessing unconditional love came, ironically, from within a church. I attended an LGBTQ+ prom during high school. I was astonished to find out it would be held within a church. Normally dances are not my forte, but I agreed to go. I am glad I did. There is one memory, from that night, that I have always remembered. Two members of this church attended that night as custodians for the building. At first, I had not paid them much attention. However, a slow song was played, as is expected at some point in every prom. These two women took to the floor together holding each other closely as they swayed back and forth peacefully in sync with the song at hand. My first reaction was discomfort. It was one thing for the other kids to be here together, but these were two adults representing their church. My second emotion came slower than the first and then all at once. I felt like I was watching Mary Magdalene and Mother Mary hold each other in a display of divine love. My thoughts were inflamed. If there was a god, surely this is what his love must be like. The affection between these two women was tangible and I had never seen anything like it. 

    I reflect on this memory often, especially when plagued with spiritual existentialism. In that moment I felt peace in my soul, as if everything I was taught as a kid was incorrect and that would be okay. It would be a lie to say that night fixed all my anxieties regarding religion, but it helped me contrive a new image of that aforementioned church off of Interstate 44. Whenever I find myself trapped inside this white box, I imagine a beautiful and calm inferno consuming it. I imagine the light that finally floods through the rafters. It shines down on a boy who has spent his childhood locked inside, yet it only took a slow dance to ignite his heart. I know God loves this boy, and the fire in his heart is a gift.