And Paul, in the New Testament, admonishes the Corinthians: “Do not be deceived! Fornicators, idolaters, male prostitutes, sodomites, thieves, the greedy, drunkards, revilers, robbers — none of these will inherit the kingdom of God.”
In Romans, Paul excoriates idol worshipers who have abandoned the monodeity and lead dissipated, decadent lives in which men and women “were consumed with passion” for those of their own gender. “Men committed shameless acts with men and received in their own persons the due penalty for their error…. They know God’s decree, that those who practice such things deserve to die.”
Mary read the passages as if for the first time. To be gay is to be no better than a thief, idolater, or robber. Punishable by death. “Their blood shall be on their own heads.” The judgment and its implications held a nightmarish relevance to her son’s destiny.
But the ultimate conundrum lay in the Sodom and Gomorrah story. Nowhere else in the Bible did God’s judgment of sexual deviancy play out with such apocalyptic fury. For Mary, this story — along with that of the Flood — had always been the supreme affirmation of God’s willingness to wreak his vengeance on a wayward mankind.
The Lord warned Abraham, anointed to found the Hebrew nation, that he was going to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah in response to the unspecified “outcry” against the cities. Abraham tries to bargain God down, finally getting him to agree to spare the cities if his angel scouts, in the guise of two men, can find ten righteous people there.
The angels come to Lot’s house in Sodom and are treated well. But soon the house is surrounded by the city’s entire male population, who demand that Lot give up the visitors, so that they “may know them.” (Some versions say, “can have intercourse with them.”) Lot offers his daughters as substitutes, but the men refuse, proceeding to charge the house.
The angels blind the raiding throng, then lead Lot and his family to safety as the Lord rains “sulfur and fire” on the cities.
To Mary the account was flatly unambiguous. The Lord unleashed his wrath when his angels confronted the prospect of being violated by the males of Sodom. Confirmed in his belief that the town was evil, God destroyed it. Thus, homosexual sex is such anathema that God is capable of resorting to genocidal fury to punish it.
What consolation was there for Bobby in that account? she wondered. Mary plunged on, burrowing deeper and deeper into the Bible with a growing sense of despair. She located a classic biblical commentary by Matthew Henry from the seventeenth century, hoping it would help her decode the book and find a glimmer of optimism. But Henry, predictably, reserved his most eloquent denunciations for those groups most biblically indicted. She dug into her collection of Christian self-help books: A Man Called Peter; Don’t Wrestle Just Nestle: How People of All Ages Can Turn to God and Enjoy Life; Warfare Against Satan; and God’s Psychiatry.
She turned more and more frequently to Ed as a sounding board for her lonely search. Ed was now in junior college, working toward an A.A. degree in law enforcement, but he continued at Walnut Creek Pres, volunteering as a camp counselor, teaching Sunday school, and taking Bible study classes. He was the most religiously connected of her surviving children, and Mary felt comfortable discussing these issues with him. Ed detected a change in his mother. She was no longer spouting verses as gospel. She seemed to him like a student, or a seminarian, rummaging through the Bible in a spirit of inquiry. It was strange to watch.
In August 1984, a year after Bobby’s death, the scourge of AIDS had finally begun to penetrate the nation’s consciousness. There were already more than seven thousand Americans dead or dying, nearly all of them gay men, and there was no telling how many more were infected. Conservative ministers were calling AIDS God’s vengeance on gay people, a modern-day echo of Sodom. Shying from bad news, most Americans chose to focus on the Olympics in Los Angeles; the Republican National Convention, which nominated President Ronald Reagan to run for a second term; and the much-heralded fact that the “1984” of Orwell fame had actually arrived.
It was a year after his suicide, and Mary had found nothing to relieve the pain of Bobby’s absence. She hadn’t expected things to happen this way. She had thought at first that after a reasonable time she would have comfort and peace, that Jesus would take the sting out of her loss. That was what she had been taught — that you come to accept that the departed have “moved in with the Lord” and you trust the end results to a kind and loving father.
It hadn’t happened. Not a day went by without the stab of memory, the aching emptiness. What’s more, she found herself feeling guilty for begrudging God the presence of her son. “I experienced, through my spirit, how hurt our Lord was because I did not want Bobby to be with Him,” she wrote in a letter to a friend. “It really turned me around to how Jesus felt, instead of how Mary felt.”
But this complex of considerations rooting around in her brain could not suppress a growing mood of impatience, even bitterness. She could feel rumbling inside of her an unfamiliar anger, and she began venting it in a series of handwritten communiqués to God.
“Dearest Lord. I haven’t really gotten a grip on life since you let Bobby leave us,” she wrote.
I have no doubt Bobby is alive. I think that’s what bothers me. He’s alive and I’m not part of his life anymore.
I feel my relationship with you leaves a lot to be desired. Your Holy Spirit has taught me in a hundred ways, but I need something more. It seems like being Christian is somewhat one-sided. You see me every day. When do I see you? Why is everything so vague with you? It seems if I blink the wrong way I’ve quenched your Holy Spirit and, ooops, Mary, you’re out of fellowship. Whoopee! Have I been taught wrong? My sinful nature is always busy, so how can I ever be your perfect little dawling?
I’m really glad you gave us a free will and a mind to think with. When it comes to you, I’ve come up with some really unique questions. But a questioning mind is quite a privilege…. It is an exciting quest getting to know you more, one I’m sure will be rewarding!”
Her mind was beginning to engage gears it had never used before. The questions she could not resolve came tumbling out. On October 13, her fiftieth birthday, she wrote:
I’m sure you knew when Bobby left us, I would not take it lying down!..Joy, Nancy and Ed and my husband need me. I guess we didn’t need Bobby. How can we help people feel needed so they will not want to leave this world? Lord, how can we ever get along without our Dear Sweet Bobby?
When Jesus died on the cross in our place, his mother watched his suffering…. But Jesus rose from the grave and she saw him and knew all was well with him. I didn’t get to say even good-bye to Bobby. Nothing. I think that was very rude, impolite to say the least!
Indeed, Mary was very annoyed. Her faith had always provided assurance: God had removed her agony of paranoia over her husband’s fidelity. But he had let Bobby slip away and now she wanted — had to have, in her addled grief — some word that her son was safe. Hadn’t Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead? And after the Crucifixion, Jesus had appeared to many people, assuring them that he had risen. Take Doubting Thomas, for example. One of the twelve disciples, he refused to believe that Jesus had returned, and he told the others he would not believe unless he saw “the mark of his nails in his hands” and put his fingers “in the mark.” Sure enough, a week later Jesus reappeared and bade Thomas touch his scars. No longer doubting, Thomas exclaimed, “My Lord and My God!”
Others, less exalted, had received signs. Catherine Marshall, the widow of the saintly minister Peter Marshall, wrote that she had seen her husband in a dream in a beautiful garden, and that he had looked up and said, “What are you doing here?”