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Coming Out & Coming Home to Spirit

Edwin's Story

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I was brought up in a family of eight in a very poor, uneducated, fundamentalistic, dogmatic Puerto Rican home, in a small 'barrio' of San Sebastian, Puerto Rico. While I was growing up, I became very shy, amazingly introverted and withdrawn.

I recall one day at the age of four, before becoming an individualistic child, playing with a young charming Puerto Rican boy of the "barrio". With blond hair, blue eyes, Wilson was an amazing Puerto Rican beauty not to be missed, not even at such early age. It was as I played the role of the physician, and doing a complete physical examination on Wilson, that I experienced an inexplicable but extraordinary wave of intensity all over my body. This marvelous wave would recur in my mind for many years to come. It was then, after experiencing such strong fluctuations of energy and, after yearning and fearing it, that I withdrew from playing with Wilson and the rest of the boys.

I became a quiet good little boy, far from the 'worldliness' that other children of my age were involved in, Instead of watching TV., I prayed, read the Bible as much as I was able, spending my days singing and praying. We were a very religious family. Every single night, after school and our meager meal, we would go to church. We would kneel there and pray for at least 45 minutes before the program began. One night, in particular, I remember I prayed for only 15 minutes, and as I began to sit back on the bench, my father raised his head, saw me, stood up and grabbing my hand, yanked me down past the first floor to the basement of the church. He left me in that pitch dark room, after placing me in front of a huge, antique boiler. I was six years old; it was the longest ten minutes of my life. Finally , I started to scream: "Papa, Papa where are you, come and help me." From far away, in depth of that darkness, his booming voice said, "Hell is seventy times hotter and darker than this room. This is what will await you, Edwin, if you do not seek God through prayer now that you can." Terrified, I thought later when I was free from that boiler room, that if this is the lesson for only praying 15 minutes instead of 45 out of the six other times we go to church during the week, what awaits me if my father or God discovered what in my covert inner world I was really like?

I can recall, when in fifth grade, I was taken on a field trip to a nearby high school's swimming pool. Arriving we had to go through the men's locker room. Oh my God! What a view! As we arrived in the locker rooms and got ready, two ravishing blond young high school students were also getting ready. They both stared at each other's bodies in ways at the time I did not understand, yet envied. While yearning for their aroused sensual experience, I became curious, yet stimulated by the device of flesh and blood that stood out like the torch in the hands of the statue of liberty from their muscular bodies. However, perceiving someone might discover through the windows of my eyes, I became ashamed.

I grew up into an isolated, lonely introverted teenager. I remember watching from the balcony on the third floor of my school as other teenagers played games and sports or, in their burning passionate Puerto Rican nature, stood wooing girls, as I stood glacially apathetic, above it all. I had grown from that terrified little boy into one who spent his time isolated and alone in his room reading the Bible or serving others. When I was not serving others, I would be locked in my own little inaccessible world.

At the age of 16, I was able to escape from one of the closets I had enclosed myself in by writing and reading philosophy and psychology. By reading and deeply thinking, gradually, I began to heal myself. As I re-invented my own self, from an ultra-introverted child into an extroverted one, I became the light bulb that began to shed light on every dark area of my family's life, for I taught everything I learned to any member of my own family and community. I became a counselor, not recognized by the state, but by mothers struggling with their children, wives in conflict with their husbands, and to teenagers on the brink of suicide. My life was reaching self-realization, except for one thing, my sexual orientation. I can recall my constant prayer, "God, why me? If I have been a good child, what did I do to deserve this? Why? Why such punishment? Why don't you destroy my existence? Yes, destroy me in a way that would not leave one trace of this homosexual, not even in the memories of my loved ones!"

Knowing I was not happy, and, though I felt conditioned to feel this way, I knew I had to change. Realizing I could strive for what is considered the savior to most of our problems: education, I decided to go to a university, study and find a solution to this problem. After five long years passed, I finally made the decision to go to a theology school hoping to find answers to my questions, and a solution to my "problem." While in seminary training, I started to ponder Theology of Liberation in depth. I began to see myself as, invented by the church, a self-oppressor and was challenged to re-examine my own beliefs. Once I did this examination, the internal structure of my narrow minded thinking process, "my shack", began to shatter. I had to learn to think for myself, to doubt whatever the church taught, always researching and confirming, and, if still in doubt, to remain hesitant until I could freely choose what to believe. But I was very deeply trained and programmed to believe that homosexuality was a sin.

In two years, I was able to graduate with a 4.0 average and be the only one who obtained the President's Honor Award. However one thing was clear to me, in my religious context becoming educated was discouraged. Finally, I realized that if I remained in San Sebastian, I would die intellectually, so I packed my one suitcase and came to California a year and a half ago, at the time.

In supporting an Hispanic church in California, I was assigned to present a research. The issue selected was suicide, but as the leader of the group I shifted the topic to homosexuality. This provided me the opportunity to finally research as much as possible on the issue, which was the main concern of my life. As I investigated, I interviewed different gays and lesbians in the streets of San Francisco. As I closely listened to their stories , I heard glimpses of my own life. Although I felt proud for all the enlightenment I was experiencing, I felt as if day by day I was becoming more and more buried in that dark obscure boiler room I had been placed in.

One day, someone dared challenge me to open the lid that held all the boiling steam of shame inside. During a visit to a marvelous professor's office hour and sharing certain aspects of my life story, she dared to ask with compassionate words of empathy, and insight, "Are you gay?" and I dared to be honest. "Yes, I think I am, but I am still discerning," was my response. After saying that immediate yes, I felt as if a load of tons of emotional shame, fear, and depression had been removed from my spirit. I experienced a relief in my insides, as if the worst of a storm was beginning to subside, as if the inner tornado that tormented my entire being was starting to weaken, as if the inner battle was being won by integrity and honesty and not by shame and fear. After this experience, I thoroughly continued my research, and the information discovered shed light into my darkness. I went to the city on my own and started cruising Castro Street in San Francisco for the first time without the fear of being caught. Why should I be apprehensive, after all, all I was only doing was research.

While I continued my research, I remembered reading about a "church for homosexuals" called MCC, and finally, October 26, 1997, I found it. As the church celebrated the day of the reform, it was certainly the day of my renovation. As I sat and observed everyone and every event in the program taking place, tears began flowing, emerging from the deep inside my soul. This day I learned that one can be gay and experience the divine in a graceful way like no one that has never been at the margins can.

October 31st, 1997, the day of my presentation of my research finally came. It was the day of my birthday, and also a meaningful day, for as many commemorated it as the day when Martin Luther nailed the 95 theses on the doors of the Wittenburg Church, I nailed a gay 12x12 rainbow flag in the altar of the religious Pentecostal La Palabra de Dios Church, in Pittsburg, CA, as a statement of reconciliation between my calling to be a minister and my identity as a gay man. This was perhaps the most gratifying moment for me. Martin Luther made an allegation of reformation, and I, with great joy and pride, on the Day of the Reform, reformed myself, made my statement of reconciliation. For the presentation, I had created a bulletin board with information about what was later to become my church, MCC/SF. As I disclosed diverse information, I noticed how uncomfortable the congregation was becoming, not wanting to hear. Only because they respected me, the audience remained and listened. For two hours I informed, educated and challenged the church. At one point, during the presentation, the minister's dogmatic, fundamentalist wife stood up and said, "Our brother (Edwin) here tonight is saying that homosexuality has no cure for it is not an illness, but I want to make it very clear that homosexuality is a sin that can be liberated by the blood of the lamb. God loves homosexuals but hates their sin." I interrupted her by responding, "You have it almost about right. God loves homosexuals, but the church does not. It is true that many gays and lesbians have gone to the blood of the lamb and discovered that Jesus does want to liberate them, yes, but liberate them from the oppression of dogmatic religious institutions that operate based on a convenient side of the letter of the law, because it follows its agenda by using selective literalism." Once again she interrupted by saying, "They are sinners; the Bible says so." To which I responded, "If we are going to be literal about the Bible then I have to command you to be silent, for in accordance to 1st Corinthians 14:34-5 it says, 'Let the women keep silent in the churches, for they are not permitted to speak; but they are to be submissive, as the law also says. And if they want to learn something, let them ask their own husbands at home; for it is shameful for women to speak in church.' " I was no longer interrupted. That day marked my last day as an official member of this church.

The following Sunday I visited MCC church once more. In this occasion I decided to sit on the main floor. As I arrived early, very quietly and shyly I sat in the third to last row. By me sat a 40 year old dazzilingly fine gentleman who introduced himself. We started sharing our religious backgrounds, but the night's program was about to start, and I did not want to miss any of it. From the beginning of the service to its ending, I sobbed and cried. In the beginning, I cried out of regret for not having experienced this liberation earlier in my life. A turning point came in my crying when, while doing the community prayer, we had to join hands. This was the first time I had held the hand of a gay man. At first I feared, yet as I felt that gracious compassionate hand that transmitted an energy that revealed "I can understand your pain," I cried more than before, but now out of joy and freedom. When the service came to an end, we talked and, as I had hoped the splendid man invited me for coffee and dessert. You must understand this was the first time ever that I walked side by side with another gay man. I felt no shame. As we reached our destination, ordered and sat to enjoy that heavenly night, we conversed. In the midst of the conversation, I dared not make eye contact, but at one moment, I could not help myself from getting lost in the beauty of his turquoise blue eyes, and I said "If God ever has a man for me, I want him to use the same mold he used to make you." I swallowed, amazed at my daring!

As I traveled home by BART I thought about this "Sweet Inspiration man who loved poppy-seed cake" whose versatility and enthusiasm perhaps hid romance and passion. That night I could not sleep. The following Sunday came, and, early as possible, I sat in the same seat as the week before. As I sat and waited, suddenly I felt touched by an angel, for it was him, the lover of poppy seed cake, who had arrived and announced his presence by a charming squeeze on my left shoulder. I can still feel that magical touch every time I think of him. That night was the last one that we shared smooth and graceful moments over a cup of milk and a Sweet Inspirations cake, for I never saw him again. Ever since, I have hid my head, not in shame, but waiting for the right moment, and the one to come. I still feel his strong but gentle hand on my shoulder.