Modesty Is Not My Middle Name

I think that I am gay because of the church. I'll swear it on a stack of gold-foiled edged Bibles getting ready to be used on the latest 700 Club episode. I think it may be their fault and they don't even know it. I don't even think that I knew it. Until I got to thinking yesterday.

Like pretty flowers in the springtime, the 1970s were bursting with relatively new Christian musicians like the Second Chapter of Acts, Keith Green and many others. I was embedded. Deep. Had all of the albums -- in fact, I think that a couple of them may still be hanging out in a box in the basement.

But at the same time that the musicians were traveling far and wide with a whole new era of music for the church, there was an equally vocal group of Christian speakers and teachers who promoted the gifts of the Holy Spirit including speaking in tongues, prophesying, and interpretation of tongues. One of the very first in the United States was Demos Shakarian. And there were others like Charles and Frances Hunter ("The Happy Hunters"). I remember revivals vividly. Year after year. All kinds of emotionally hyped music, preaching and special programs. Hundreds, even thousands, would show up. The place would be packed. We'd start with prayer, the hundred-voice choir, and a solo or two -- and then we'd move through the spectrum of a well-orchestrated service into hands in the air, jumping and shouting. Now, I couldn't jump too high. I knew if I did, they'd know for sure about things that I was hiding. My nicely feathered hair, parted just so and heavy with a lovely sheen of White Rain hairspray, would bounce ever so lightly and go right back into place.

I spent much of my life "on the pew." If the doors were open, I was there. At some point, I ended up being introduced to most of the type of spiritual activities including being slain in the spirit. Now, if you're not familiar with laying on the floor of a church facing up, sometimes your arms up in the air, sometimes speaking in tongues, sometimes crying, let me tell you.....it's quite clearly etched in the space between my ears. Somehow, I got roped into this and that in my church career. And one night, I was the curator of the modesty cloths. What? You've never heard of a modesty cloth? Well, as the preacher would pass along in front of the lines of congregants, he would touch or push on their foreheads and they would, typically, be "slain under the power of the spirit." They would fall backwards to the ground. Another volunteer would follow along behind them and guide them gently and peacefully to the ground.

And that's where the modesty cloths and me would come in. Modesty cloths are a square of cloth much like a small blanket to be placed on the area below a lady's skirt when she is passed out on the ground under the influence of the Holy Spirit. (And, it goes without saying, that if a lady were in church in early days, she'd be in a dress or skirt......never would a pair of trousers be found on a true Christian lady in a past time and place. She wouldn't be wearing jewelry either, but that's another subject entirely.) I would be standing sentry along the sidelines and run out at just the right moment, straddle the legs of the good Christian women, and ever so gingerly place the modesty cloth to keep the pervert males of the first few rows from sneaking a peek.

I can't help believe that those horribly visual and vivid memories turned me from being attracted to women. They keep me awake at nights. What they didn't know, or maybe they did, was that I had no interest in looking. I never tried to look....except away. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, maybe they knew very well that I was a "safe" person to put into that job. Not only am I not modest today, but -- I go back to my opening sentence -- I believe that I can place blame squarely on my evenings spent straddling the panty hose covered legs of women at the alter with a modesty cloth. I can't help but draw that conclusion. It's not pretty. No wonder I didn't want more.