Holding Hands in Church by Phillip Hoyle

          When I was a kid, Buddy and I held hands in church. We didn’t do it just once, but often. I’d cross my arms with my hands underneath, then lean against Buddy’s shoulder. He’d do the same, and we’d interlace our fingers. Although the act usually occurred during the sermon with us sitting in the back of the congregation, our leaning into each other was clearly visible to the preacher. He didn’t see it, I suppose. Perhaps his eyesight was poor or he simply didn’t want to deal with what may have been happening between two boys in his congregation. 

          The touch surely indicated that we were special friends. At least, we were friendly. Buddy was an outgoing jock; I a skinny weakling with personality. He was humorous, fun to be with although sometimes arrogant. Still, we had a great time, especially when we spent nights together, evenings full of sexual exploration and pleasure. 

  I learned from him more than just how to kiss and have sex. This young teen shared his ideas about girls, a recommendation of the underarm deodorant I still use, the need for exercise and sports I never followed. A wise teen myself, I realized I was somehow a replacement for his older brother who had left home. I had no brother. 

  We became more than friends. I don’t think either of us experienced infatuation, a crush, or puppy love, but we had sex. Enthusiastically. The experiences began with back rubs, progressed to kissing, and then to more explorations. Like most boys, we were not cautious. We didn’t think much about what we left on sheets or blankets, didn’t think about our moms or about the social ramifications of discovery. We just had fun together. 

  That was about it. Ten months into our affair, Buddy’s family moved away, and I went on with my life. I dated girls and really liked some of them, but I didn’t fall in love or hold hands with them in church. 

* * * * *

  Things changed in college with the young woman who would become my wife. We prayed together in the privacy of the prayer chapel, leaning into one another there. I taught her how to kiss when we made out in the car or in the cloak room of the administration building of the Bible college we attended. We liked each other and realized we were in love. Finally I had found someone to hold hands with again. 

  For many years we learned from one another, shared the rich experiences of a full life with children, friends, family, and congregations. We kept up a sexual exploration that increasingly brought satisfaction. Even with the richness of our relationship, its shared values and work, and its serious commitment to one another, I seemed to need more. 

* * * * *

  I met a man while attending graduate school. We couldn’t get enough of each other’s company, walked across campus sharing ideas and hopes, talked endlessly while sipping warmed-up coffee in his apartment. I knew I had fallen in love with this man. I wanted to hold him, to do the things I had done with Buddy, but I did not. Sitting alone on his living room couch, we sometimes did touch, rubbing each other’s feet and, you guessed it, holding hands. That was the extent of it. Neither of us verbalized our feelings although we both recognized that they were strong and loving and, we both hoped, lasting. 

* * * * *

  Years later I separated from my wife and soon after that from professional ministry. I moved to Denver to live as a gay man. During my first months living alone, I attended the Metropolitan Community Church. Each Sunday I would weep during some part of the service perhaps when I glanced across the faces of the many gay men seated there or when the singing roused a feeling of solidarity with gay believers or when the preacher’s words challenged the wider church to be loving, supportive, and open to gay people. Eventually I achieved a modicum of healing. I quit crying but then became annoyed with the language of the liturgy. I sought religious community elsewhere, looking for a church that would accept me and make sense to me. Perhaps I didn’t try hard enough for eventually I quit attending services altogether. My recovery continued outside the church: my community place, a coffee shop; my support group, friends I met there; my ministerial service, massage to clients who came to my practice. With these non-church groups I built a meaningful life and a purposeful career. 

  In Denver I have lived with three different men who provided me good relationships. Two of them were lapsed Catholics, the other a back-slidden Methodist. We kissed and had sex many times. We held hands but not in church. We never went to church. They felt no need, and I didn’t want to be irked. Sundays come and go with little thought of attending service, but I wonder if my religious healing will ever be complete until I again hold hands in church and this time openly. 

  “Hey,” I guess I could ask my back-slidden Methodist buddy, “what are you doing this Sunday?”

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

Read more at Phillip's blog  artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com