Courage
An BigCloset TopShelf Exclusive Story

I took a deep breath as I peered toward the plain, copper protestant cross that stood on the altar. The air inside St. George's Episcopal Church was cold, just like the weather outside. A rare snow storm had moved in from Tennessee bringing with it not only snow, but a bitter wind that cut one to the bare bone. The Rector of St. George, Fr. George Stonewall had yet to turn on the heat. And thus the only warmth was from the tip of the altar candles.

The orange and yellow flames seemed to reflect the fire that was burning inside my soul. As I made the sign of the cross and knelt down and started to pray I started to silently reflect on life. I wanted to scream out, to curse God and to demand why? Why have so many sisters been taken from us this year? Why was man so cruel toward his fellow man? Why must we judge so harshly those who are different? Why? Did not Jesus preach love? Did not Jesus the one who's flesh we ate, and who's blood we drank break bread with the scum of society? Were not his followers, humble fishermen who toiled upon the storm tossed Sea of Galilee for their daily bread?

Did not this Jesus teach me that all who proclaimed his name would be saved by his grace? Did not this Jesus teach us that through his suffering mankind had been redeemed? These thoughts swirled around my head as I breathed in the cold air of the church. A sudden touch on the shoulder brought me back to reality. 

“James.” A man's voice said. “I was hoping to have a word with you.” 

I turned my head around and there gazing at me was a pair of dark brown eyes, eyes that were as hard as stone. The man's voice seemed to tremble with anger and disappointment. The man's hand seemed to tremble too as if he wanted to bring it up and bring it across my face.

“Yes Father?” I said making the sign of the cross as I rose up gazed into the eyes of Fr. George Stonewall. “How may I help you this morning?” I added trying to inject a little cheek, a little humor into the mood.

“You could have helped me by getting a proper haircut like I asked you too last week.” Fr. George Stonewall said as he peered at me. “Instead you disobeyed me, or you ignored me. You have disregarded the priestly authority I'm entrusted with. I'm disappointed in you.” There was no emotion in his voice. And no hint of any emotion in his eyes. Only coldness.

“Yes Father..” I said starting to tremble a little.

“It's unbecoming of a senior acolyte to flaunt the authority of the priest in charge of the parish.” His tone of voice was cold and condescending. “Please get that addressed before next Sunday's Mass.” At this point Fr. George paused. “Otherwise I am afraid I will be forced into using draconian measures to see that my authority remains unquestioned. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal.” I took a deep breath. 

“See you then.” He muttered. “Finish your prayers. We must get vested and prepare ourselves for Holy Mass.” He said as he turned away from me and with measured steps he strolled toward the backroom.
I watched him retreat and then once I was alone again I turned toward the heavens.  

A few minutes later I found myself vesting up for Mass. The air inside the vesting room was bitterly cold and my fingers trembled from the cold. There was frost on the windows. Fr. George seemed to have better humor than a few minutes ago. He was joking with one of the older men of the church. They were talking about football. Ole Miss seemed to have trounced the crimson tide last Sunday and was in position to give Mississippi state a good thrashing. Fr. George was a firm Ole Miss fan. 

“So.” The fellow said as he looked at me. He was a ruby face farmer with hands the size of hams. “James.” He tried to include me in the conversation. 

I raised an eyebrow.

“When are you going to get that haircut?” He said, smirking a little. “Cause, everybody thinks you're a girl. I mean from behind you look like a girl, with a ponytail. And your voice and all. I mean I'm sure between George and I we can find you a dress to wear.” 

Before I could open my mouth to speak. Fr. George butted in and in a harsh, snarling tone of voice said.

“Before next Sunday Mass. Or else I might result in very unpleasant measures.” He growled.

It was then I made up my mind to leave. 

What transpired next happened some thirty minutes after that little exchange. The first part of the service was over and now Father was giving a sermon. 

“As many of you know.” He said, taking a deep breath. “We are at war. The church is under siege. Our very morals are being undermined by those in high places. Though there is hope. The overturning of Roe Vs Wade by our Supreme Court shows us that there is still hope. That we as a nation have not fully turned our backs on God.” 

A mummer ran through the crowd.

“But there is still work to be done. Marriage is under attack, a priest can still be forced by his Bishop to perform a blessing of marriage of two people of the same sex. Sexual deviants are still allowed to change their gender. God fearing women are still in danger of having these same sexual deviants assault them in spaces set aside for them. Bathrooms, changing rooms, and other such special areas.  We have much work to do.” Fr. George's voice echoed like a bullhorn.

“God is with us, God is in the parish. But this parish must be purged. If anybody here feels that any person, young and old, should be free to choose their own gender and change their gender to suit their fancy.. I order them to leave now and never return.” He paused. “If anybody here thinks that marriage is just an expression of friendship and a union of two people who care deeply for each other. That gender has no part to play in the union. Then I ask you to leave now.” 

Silence.

I closed my eyes and before I could stop myself I felt myself rising from my seat. All eyes turned toward me. Even Fr. Georges. I could tell he was daring me to say anything. 
“Where is the love of God in that Father?” I bellowed. 

Dead silence.

With that I walked down from the altar and bowed before the cross. And I then started to walk toward the vesting room. I knew then I'd taken a side. And there would be no turning back now. In this world we must either be hot or cold. There was no room for lukewarmness. I also knew there were people in this world who suffered in silence, who had been killed for simply being themselves. For having the courage to express who they knew they were inside. As I stripped myself of the vestments. And tossed them on the cold, wooden floor.

I breathed another prayer, this time I hoped the blood of all those who had been killed for simply having the courage to be themselves, for being different, for being transgender, gender fluid, or whatever would water seeds, seeds that would one day bloom into a wonderful garden and the world would richer for this garden  And that this garden would bring peace to the world.

And I hoped that maybe one day my own blood would be used to water this garden. My blood, blood rich in Celtic heroism, blood forever tainted by a Confederate traitor. My blood, may it be made pure by being poured out in defense of those who could not defend themselves. That was the last prayer I ever breathed in St. George's Episcopal Church.