The Year of Living Biblically Part 23

"No." I pause. "New York."

"Great! What are you doing here?"

"Um, just traveling around the South a bit."

Oh, man. Biblically, I should have been honest and told her about my book, but I only have a day here at Falwell's headquarters, and I didn't want to waste any time.

"You're here with your wife?"

"Uh, yeah. She's back at the hotel."

Another lie. I didn't want to seem like a lout who abandoned his pregnant spouse, which is what I did.

"She didn't want to come?"

"She was going to, but, uh, she had morning sickness."

And on it grows, the tangled web. She keeps asking questions, I keep spitting out lies.

Mercifully, the meeting starts. The pastor, a man who looks like a thinner, younger, brown-haired Falwell, has some announcements. An upcoming luau, a couple's twentieth wedding anniversary--and a welcome to me, soon-to-be-father of twins. The parishioners applaud. I wave a sheepish thank-you.

Man, these people are friendly. That's the overwhelming first impression: They're disorientingly friendly. When I walked into the church, an official greeter named Tip said "Good morning!" with such enthusiasm, I'd have to append a half dozen exclamation points to get across his tone. n.o.body is aloof. Everybody keeps eye contact. Everyone smiles. In my four hours there, I got more pats on the back, arms on the shoulders, and double-handed clasps than I've gotten in ten years in New York.

I know that this friendliness has limits--and disturbing ones. I know that Falwell has said "AIDS is the wrath of a just G.o.d against h.o.m.os.e.xuals." I know that after 9/11 he said "the pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays, and the lesbians . . . the ACLU . . . I point the finger in their face and say 'You helped this happen.' " I know that he recently said that we shouldn't worry about so-called global warming because, in Psalms 119:90, it says G.o.d has "established the earth and it abideth." I know that his magazine crowbarred poor pursecarrying Teletubby Tinky Winky out of the closet.

Presumably, Tip and others share these views. But that intolerance coexists with a stunning bonhomie. The place is a study in sweet and sour.

After about fifteen minutes of announcements with no end in sight, I decide I need to get out of there. This was no different than a thousand other churches or temples in America. I need something more spicy.

"Be right back," I lie to the guy next to me, as I slip out. "I have to go to the bathroom."

I wander down a flight of stairs to the singles seminar. That could be good.

The woman at the singles welcoming table asks how old I am.

"Thirty-seven," I say.

"You're right in there," she points. "It's for singles thirty-five to fifty."

That hurts. I am in the oldsters' group. By the way, another fib. I am thirty-eight. Vanity.

The leader of the singles group is a burly ex-military guy with a bald head, a gray goatee, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses balanced on his forehead, and a huge amount of energy. He seems more into tough love than the folks at the Growing Families cla.s.s.

He paces back and forth, telling us that we should give up the idea that we're perfect.

"Anyone ever say bad things about other people?"

We nod.

"Anyone ever think bad s.e.xual thoughts?"

Yes.

"Anyone ever have envy?"

Yes.

"Anyone ever lie?"

It's a sermon directed at me.

"Did I ever tell you the story of when I was working as Dr. Falwell's bodyguard?" says our leader. "I handed him the mail one Tuesday, and he says to me, 'Did you vote today?' And I said, 'Um . . . um . . . um . . . yeah.' But I hadn't. I lied. I lied to Dr. Falwell. I had forgotten that it was Election Day. But I know that I have voted in every election since."

I can't figure out how this applies to dating, but there's no time for questions. The cla.s.s ends at eleven o'clock, and the featured show begins right after: Falwell's sermon.

The sermon takes place in an enormous room with comfy, Loews Cineplex-style seats; three swiveling TV cameras; and two huge screens that display the hymn lyrics karaoke-style over photos of seagulls and purple orchids.

On the side are two "Cry Rooms." When I saw the words Cry Room Cry Room on the church map, I thought it was for parishioners who became too wildly emotional. Actually, it's a soundproof s.p.a.ce for screaming babies. on the church map, I thought it was for parishioners who became too wildly emotional. Actually, it's a soundproof s.p.a.ce for screaming babies.

Falwell himself walks onto the stage. There he is: He's got that familiar silver hair with the tidy part. He's packing a few more pounds than he used to. As the three-hundred-person choir sings a hymn, Falwell leans way back on his heels, his hands clasped together in front of him, smiling beatifically.

Falwell starts with some announcements of his own--that the cafe is open from eight in the morning to eleven at night, that Rick Stanley, the stepbrother of Elvis Presley, is visiting today. And then Falwell puts his hands on the pulpit and begins his sermon proper. And here's the thing about the sermon. It is kind of . . . bland. There was no fire, no brimstone, no h.o.m.ophobic remarks, no warnings of the imminent Apocalypse.

I've read dozens of Falwell's sermons online since that visit. And this wasn't a total aberration. More than half of the content is run-of-the-mill stuff: the importance of pa.s.sing the baton to today's youth. The suggestion to keep a prayer journal. A moral lesson about being optimistic, another about having patience--both of which I find hard to argue with.

I noticed the same thing from watching hours of Pat Robertson's 700 Club 700 Club. Sometimes you'll get a crazy "Let's a.s.sa.s.sinate Hugo Chavez"-type comment. But a lot of it is indistinguishable from standard morning TV: an interview with a gospel singer, or a health segment on the club's weekly "Skinny Wednesday" feature (the wackiest thing I learned there was that Robertson has a side business in "age-defying protein pancakes").

That's the big secret: The radical wing of the Christian right is a lot more boring than its liberal detractors would have you believe.

Falwell's sermon today ties his church's fiftieth anniversary to the concept of the Jubilee in the Bible, which occurs once every fifty years. He encouraged us to be "soul winners" and win over the two hundred thousand souls in the Lynchburg area.

It's not a particularly offensive sermon, but I will say that it has absolutely nothing to do with the Jubilee the Bible talks about. The Bible's Jubilee year is about forgiving debts and returning all property to the original owner, about social justice, about evening the balance between rich and poor. Falwell's was about expanding his church.

After the service, the curious seeker can get one-on-one counsel with one of Falwell's pastors. I am a.s.signed to Tom, who looks to be in his twenties, and has a spiky boy-band hairdo to offset his suit and tie.

Tom works at Liberty University, Falwell's nearby college. It's an amazing place, Liberty, the total opposite of my permissive, grades-optional alma mater. The Liberty rulebook contains such items as: "Six reprimands and $25 fine for attendance at a dance, possession and/or use of tobacco" and "twelve reprimands and $50 fine for attendance at, possession or viewing of an 'R,' 'X,' or 'NC-17' rated movie, or entering the residence hallway of the opposite s.e.x."

I decide I have to redeem myself. I have to stop lying, so I tell Tom that I'm Jewish and writing a book about my spiritual quest. He's interested. I ask if I could gain anything from following the moral teachings of Jesus without being born again.

"It's OK to follow his teachings. It can make you a better person," he says. "But it's not enough. You need to accept Him, to be born again.

"I got saved when I was a freshman in high school," Tom continues. "I was a good Christian already. I went to church. I acted as morally as I could. I had accepted Jesus here." Tom points to his head. "But not here." He points to his heart. "I was off by twelve inches."

He talks so pa.s.sionately, so intensely, with such freedom from irony, I feel myself becoming unanch.o.r.ed. Perhaps to counter this, as a defensive measure, I bring up the gay issue.

"I have a lot of trouble with the Bible's stance on h.o.m.os.e.xuality," I say. Adding somewhat lamely: "I have a lot of gay friends."

"So do I," Tom says.

This takes me aback. A Falwell pastor hanging with Lynchburg's gay community? It turns out, Tom meant formerly gay people trying to overcome their gayness, which made more sense.

"Yes, h.o.m.os.e.xuality is an abomination," says Tom. "But I'm a sinner too. We're all sinners. You just have to love them."

This is a pretty mild stance--the hate-the-sin, not-the-sinner idea. I'm guessing he toned the rhetoric down for his Northeastern Jewish audience of one. But, still, I find this stance intolerant in its own way. It's like saying that we should love Jesse Jackson, except for the fact that he's black.

After about a half hour, my questions slow, and Tom asks if we could pray together. We close our eyes, bow our heads, put our elbows on our knees, and he begins addressing the Lord. "Thank you, Lord, for giving A. J. and me the time to talk today. And may you give him more guidance in his spiritual journey, Lord."

More guidance--that I need for sure. We can agree on that.

. . . The men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with pa.s.sion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in their own persons the due penalty for their error.

--ROMANS 1:27.

Day 256. Back in New York, I'm continuing my tutorial in evangelical Christianity. It's Friday night, and I'm sitting in on a Bible study group. The group has been around for thirty years and meets every week on the Upper East Side of New York. Tonight we'll be delving into the Epistle to the Hebrews, chapter three. We'll be led by a man named Dr. Ralph Blair, who is a hardcore Christian evangelical.

Oh, I should mention one other thing: Ralph Blair is gay. And outof-the-closet gay. Not, mind you, the I-once-was-gay-but-now-am-cured type of gay. Ralph--and all the other men in his Bible group--embrace their h.o.m.os.e.xuality with the same zeal that ultraconservative evangelicals condemn it. They're the anti-Robertsons.

"Come in," says Ralph. "You're the first one here."

Ralph has a calming, velvety voice. Which is appropriate--his day job is as a psychotherapist. The Bible study meets in his office, which is everything you'd want in a shrink's office: black leather chairs, indirect lighting, dark wood everywhere. The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders weighs down one shelf, weighs down one shelf, The s.e.x Atlas The s.e.x Atlas another. And Ralph himself looks pleasingly shrinkish: bald except for a fringe of gray hair, dressed in a dark green corduroy jacket, a blue sweater, a red tie, and chinos. another. And Ralph himself looks pleasingly shrinkish: bald except for a fringe of gray hair, dressed in a dark green corduroy jacket, a blue sweater, a red tie, and chinos.

"I'm glad you found us," he says. "It's not what your average gay man in New York is doing on a Friday night."

I chuckle.

"The New York Times New York Times wrote us up in the eighties, and that's how they started the article," he says. wrote us up in the eighties, and that's how they started the article," he says.

Ralph has arranged a dozen seats on the edges of the room, each with a thick blue Bible on top. It's more than we'll need. Most of the regulars are out of town, so only three diehards show up: a stout songwriter who grew up in Florida; a square-jawed architect; and a dance teacher at a New Jersey college who takes copious notes.

They are all members of Evangelicals Concerned, an organization that Ralph founded in 1975 for gay and gay-friendly evangelicals. It's not a ma.s.sive movement: Ralph has two thousand people on his mailing list. But its existence alone was a surprise.

We begin. Ralph appoints the dance teacher to read some verses from Hebrews 3 out loud. Ralph stops him to discuss. "Faith is not merely intellectual a.s.sent," Ralph says, taking off his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses to punctuate the point. "You have to be willing to act on your faith. In other words, talk is cheap. Except in therapy."

Ralph returns his gla.s.ses to the end of his nose. He's not overbearing, but he's definitely in charge. He's the a.n.a.lyzer, the pa.r.s.er, the one who knows the original Greek words.

"Go on," says Ralph.

The dance instructor reads a verse that likens Moses to a house and Jesus to the builder of a house.

This is an important verse. It's at the heart of Ralph's theology: Jesus isn't just a great prophet. He isn't, as Ralph says, "the fairest flower in the family of humanity." He is G.o.d, and the Resurrection was literal. Ralph quotes C. S. Lewis here: "A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic--on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg--or else he would be the Devil of h.e.l.l. You must make your choice."

In short, Ralph is theologically conservative. That's what makes him an evangelical. The Scriptures' social and humanist message is important, but Blair puts the emphasis on the divinity of Christ itself.

The ninety-minute session glides by without a single mention of h.o.m.os.e.xuality. If an evangelist from Thomas Road Baptist Church happened to drop in, he might not even notice anything different. Well, let me revise that. Ralph and his group do, at least, fulfill one gay stereotype: They know a lot about clothes.

At one point, the conversation drifts to b.u.t.tons, and the dance instructor starts throwing around terms like placket placket--which apparently means the part of a man's shirt that covers the b.u.t.tons.

The architect tosses in a factoid about Eisenhower-style jackets, which were truncated to save fabric in World War II. They had no skirt.

"The skirt," he explains to me, "is the part of a man's blazer worn below the waist." He looks at Ralph: "You wear a skirt almost every day."

Ralph smiles.

After Bible Study, we go out for chicken kebabs at a Turkish restaurant and I get a crash course in Ralph's life. He grew up in a moderately religious Presbyterian home in Ohio. He knew he was gay early on, certainly by high school. He also knew he loved religion.

In his high school library, he found a catalog for Bob Jones University, the fundamentalist college. He was drawn to it, he says with a laugh, because it was bright yellow. "All the other catalogs were dull colors, black and white."

He liked Bob Jones U's emphasis on Christ, and enrolled in 1964. It didn't go smoothly. For starters, Ralph got chewed out by an apoplectic, finger-wagging Bob Jones Sr. for defending Reverend Billy Graham, who was considered too liberal. "I thought he was going to have a heart attack," he says.

Ralph didn't come out of the closet at Bob Jones U. He went public slowly, steadily, as he crisscrossed the country attending other seminaries and grad schools. He started Evangelicals Concerned in 1975 after the president of an evangelical college took him out to dinner in New York and confessed that he was a tormented, closeted gay man.

Of course, Ralph's organization is controversial. And at first blush, it makes about as much sense as an a.s.sociation of Vegan Burger King Owners. It's at once inspiring and depressing. Inspiring that they have found one another, and depressing because they are part of a movement in which the majority thinks of their s.e.xuality as sinful.

But Ralph says that you have to distinguish between evangelical Christianity and the religious right. The religious right's obsession with h.o.m.os.e.xuality comes "out of their culture, not out of Scripture."

"But there do seem to be antigay pa.s.sages in the Bible," I say.

"Yes, the so-called clobber pa.s.sages," he says. "But I call them the clobbered pa.s.sages."

Ralph's argument is this: The Bible does not talk about loving sames.e.x relationships as they exist today. Jesus would have no problem with two men committed to each other. One of Ralph's pamphlets has this headline on the front: "What Jesus Said about h.o.m.os.e.xuality." You open up the pamphlet, and there's a blank page.

Ralph says that if you look at the Bible's allegedly antigay pa.s.sages in historical context, they aren't antigay at all. They are actually antiabuse, or antipaganism. Consider the famous Leviticus pa.s.sage: "You shall not lie with a male as with a woman, it is an abomination."

"In biblical times, there was no parity between men and women. Women and children were just a little bit above slaves. To lie with a man like a woman was to disgrace him. It's what soldiers did to their conquered enemies, they raped them."

That famous Leviticus pa.s.sage is actually merely saying: Do not treat your fellow man disgracefully.

Or take another commonly cited pa.s.sage in the New Testament, Romans 1:26-27. Here the Apostle Paul rails against those who gave in to "dishonorable pa.s.sions."

". . . Their women exchanged natural relations for unnatural, and the men likewise gave up natural relations with women and were consumed with pa.s.sion for one another, men committing shameless acts with men and receiving in their own persons the due penalty for their error."

Ralph says that Paul is preaching here against pagan cultic practices-- the loveless s.e.x that went on in the idolatrous temples of the day.

I hope Ralph's right. I hope the Bible doesn't endorse gay bashing. But even if it does, there's another tack religious people can take. This one I learned from Ralph's acquaintance in the Jewish world, a man named Steven Greenberg. Greenberg is the first out-of-the-closet Orthodox rabbi in America. Like Ralph, he's an extreme minority. Most Orthodox Jews still believe that Leviticus bans same-s.e.x relationships of any kind. Your average far-right Orthodox Jew is just as antigay as your average far-right evangelical; in 2006 the ultra-Orthodox Jews held violent demonstrations in protest of a planned gay pride march in Jerusalem, an event that was eventually canceled.

I call Greenberg. He has plenty to say about the Bible and h.o.m.os.e.xuality. But the point I find most fascinating is this: G.o.d and humans are partners in a quest to reveal new meanings of the Bible. The letters of the Bible are eternal, but not its interpretation.

"The whole Bible is the working out of the relationship between G.o.d and man," says Greenberg. "G.o.d is not a dictator barking out orders and demanding silent obedience. Were it so, there would be no relationship at all. No real relationship goes just one way. There are always two active parties. We must have reverence and awe for G.o.d, and honor for the chain of tradition. But that doesn't mean we can't use new information to help us read the holy texts in new ways. We don't have to sit back and pa.s.sively accept that Leviticus bans s.e.x between men at all times and in all ways if other convincing ways of reading can be found."

Or put it this way: Greenberg says that G.o.d is like an artist who is constantly revising his masterpiece. Sometimes He nearly erases his whole work, as with the Great Flood. Other times, He listens to what humans say. Moses, for instance, argues with G.o.d and convinces him to spare the lives of the complaining Israelites. "It sounds strange to say it," the rabbi says, "but in the Bible, G.o.d is on a learning curve."

Greenberg tells me, "Never blame a text from the Bible for your behavior. It's irresponsible. Anybody who says X, Y, and Z is in the Bible--it's as if one says, 'I have no role in evaluating this.'"

The idea that we can work with G.o.d to evolve the Bible's meaning--it's a thrilling idea. It makes me think back to Mr. Berkowitz and his shoes and the whole issue of religion providing freedom from choice. Greenberg is at the other end of the spectrum from Mr. Berkowitz. He says that just because you're religious doesn't mean you give up your responsibility to choose. You have to grapple with the Bible.

Give thanks in all circ.u.mstances . . .