The Sons of Tantalus, Post 'Psycopatha Sexualis'
Devan Hite, December 2007
CHARACTERS.
ethan, a young,
college-aged musician.
bishop farnes, a
middle-aged Mormon ecclesiastical leader.
isaac, the son of a Mormon
general authority.
mike, a Navy seal, and a convert to Mormonism.
ashley, an actress; friend
of Ethan’s.
tantalus, a Greek demigod.
colby, Isaac and Ethan’s “home
teacher.”
ACT I
SCENE I
The Present Era.
The set is simple. There’s a formal-looking table on the left side of
the stage, with three chairs around it, and a lamp on a stand just left of
it. Behind the desk, there’s a free-standing chalkboard at an
angle. Ideally, behind them is a large, white screen, which should be
utilized to enhance the context of each scene (i.e., a picture of the Mormon
Temple in Salt Lake City might be appropriate—or Isaac’s cabin, etc.)
Ethan stands. He’s meant to be someone that most people might relate to,
especially gay men of a religious background. He’s a clean-cut,
good-looking man with short hair, a slight five-o’clock shadow, and a smart,
Mormon smile. There is a certain naivety to him that is almost
uncomfortable. He’s about twenty-five years old, and a student at the
University of Utah in Salt Lake City, whence the story takes place.
Ethan. (To the audience.) I want to make sure you
know before we begin here: there isn’t any sex or nudity. I think I swear
once, but it’s only because I’m really upset. Mormons don’t swear.
We never get naked in front of other people, unless we’re married, or it’s in a
locker room, or at the doctor’s. We don’t drink coffee, tea, or alcohol;
we don’t smoke. We’re not even supposed to masturbate. (A beat.)
A lot of us kill ourselves, though. Not a huge percentage, but—
A light shines on the other side of the stage. Bishop Farnes is
standing at a chalkboard. He is a tall, white gentleman, dressed in a
conservative suit—grays, blues, or blacks, and pinstriped. He has no
facial hair, and is balding. He’s about fifty-five years old. The
kind of guy that is educated, married, with six kids, and living in the
suburbs: a statuesque and safe neighborhood on the hills of the Wasatch front,
within walking distance from one of the handful of Mormon temples in the
area. He is Ethan’s ecclesiastical leader, in charge of over-seeing the
spiritual welfare of about two-hundred single men and women Ethan’s age in what
is called a “ward”—a medium-sized unit of the LDS Church.
There is a large picture of Jesus above him, pictures of current Mormon
prophets under the picture of Jesus, and an imaginary circle of eager students
in front of him—he’s teaching Sunday school. This movement from Ethan is
abrupt—almost as if to suggest that Ethan is in his class.
Bishop Farnes. For our lesson today, I have decided to talk a
little on the love of God. (He writes it on the board.) The
Greek word agape is translated as the “pure love of Christ”; it is
charity. C.S. Lewis writes that it is different than philos or eros,
which the Greeks often used to describe other forms of love—filial or erotic
love. (He writes these words on the board as well.) When
Jesus questions Peter at the end of John’s account, he asks Peter twice if he
loves him with this word: agape. “Do you love me?” He asks. “Do
you love me?” Agape.
Lights up. We see Ethan, Mike and Isaac in the “living room” of
Isaac’s family cabin in the Uintah Mountains of Utah. Isaac is the same age
as Ethan. He’s handsome. He comes from a very privileged
background. Mike is about thirty-one years old. He is a very
attractive, Navy SEAL, with the physique to show for it.
Ethan and Isaac are facing each other, sitting at the table. Isaac has an
LDS “quad” in front of him, as if he had just read the story of David and
Jonathan from the Old Testament. Mike is behind them at a small portable
counter, making a bowl of pasta.
Ethan. Isaac, I don’t think that David and Jonathan were gay.
Isaac. Do you want me to read it to you again?
Ethan. They kissed each other, but—
Isaac. They kissed each other, and held each other, and fell on each
other’s necks—
Ethan. David was happy—Jonathan saved his life.
Isaac. And then later it says— (Flipping through the chapters.)
Hold up, it’s right here. (Still looking.) Give me a
sec. Here it is! Chapter one of Second Samuel. “I am
distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan: very pleasant hast thou been unto me:
thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women!”
Ethan. Okay. Why does it have to mean they’re gay?
Isaac. “…thy love was wonderful… passing the love of women”!
Mike. (In search.) Ethan, where’s your pasta
sauce? Cause, I can’t find it anywhere.
Ethan. Nothing in the passage you just read suggests that they
were gay.
Isaac. I’m not following—everything in this passage suggests that.
Mike. (Again.) Still looking; where oh where could it
be?
Ethan. (To Mike.) It’s not in the cupboards—
Mike. (To himself—barely audible.) Not in the
cupboards, okay.
Ethan. (To Isaac.) So, they may have loved each other
very much. (A pause.) Why do you always have to assume that
they were gay?
Isaac. Well—
Ethan. (Interrupting him.) It’s like you’re saying
that anytime a man feels a bond with another man—that he’s gay, right?
You can’t believe that, can you?
Isaac. Fine, Jonathan’s gay.
We see Bishop Farnes.
Bishop Farnes. We might also note that there is a sense of
redemption for Peter in Jesus’ question to him. The third time, he asks
Peter “Do you love me?” the word phileo is used. Phileo. It’s a
different kind of love. In many ways, phileo and agape seem the
same—their meanings often overlap. But, phileo and agape differ in their
contexts. Agape is the command to love all people. But, phileo
personalizes things. It is different. It is a love that binds one
person to another person.
We move back to the circumstances of the previous conversation.
Ethan. (Somewhat indignant.) I think we live in this
stupid box, where every man has to keep to himself—keep guarded with his
affections—when men in Tonga are holding hands on the street, or hugging, or
touching noses, or whatever. No one will grant men any grey area—at least,
not like they have for women, right? I mean, you see them in church all
the time: they tickle each other’s backs during sacrament meeting. And
they hug, and say kind things to each other—but we never, for a second, think
that they are lesbians. Now, why not? Why can they hug and kiss and
cry with each other, and when two men do it, they’re fags?
There is silence for a moment, then,
Mike. When I was in the Philippines last year on duty with
the SEALS, there were some Filipino Marines that we were debriefing on some
maneuver, and a few of them were sitting on each other’s laps—one on top of the
other—the guy on the seat was holding the guy on his lap across his
chest. They didn’t think anything of it.
Ethan. I wonder how much more healthy the world would be if we
were allowed to sit on each other’s laps a little more.
Lights go down on everything but Ethan.
SCENE II
Outside the Temple.
Ethan. (To the audience. Affectionately.) So,
this is Mike. (A pause.) We became close very fast.
There are about six temples in the Salt Lake area. Mormons are encouraged
to go to the temple often, in addition to Sunday worship at a regular church
house—he and I started going once a week. I so looked forward to those
trips to the temple. (He collects himself.) “And it
came to pass, when he had made an end of speaking unto Saul, the soul of
Jonathan was knit with the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own
soul… Then Jonathan and David made a covenant, because he loved him as his own
soul… Then Jonathan caused David to swear again, because he loved him: for he
loved him as he loved his own soul… and David fell on his face to the ground,
and bowed himself three times: and they kissed one another, and wept one with
another, until David exceeded… And Jonathan said to David, Go in peace,
forasmuch as we have sworn both of us in the name of the Lord.
We move to Temple Square, Salt Lake City, Utah. Ethan and Mike are
just leaving from a session at the temple, dressed nicely and holding temple
bags with their special clothes and scriptures. It’s a beautiful, autumn
day—we hear sacred Choral music playing in the background.
Ethan. (In mid-conversation.) Well, we could get
together on Saturday morning, if you want, and look it over. But, I
wouldn’t worry. Professor James is usually good about turning things in
late, right? (The music changes. He stops.) Oh, hold
up! (He listens until the chord changes and he’s certain. He
relaxes.) Oh, it’s the Lord’s Prayer! By Nikolai Kedrov. (A
pause—taking it in.) I sang it in high school when I was in the
madrigals. (Ethan sits. He is very quiet for a moment;
contemplative.) I had this, this really good friend named Rick
Jacobsen my senior year. We sang tenor together. I always looked
forward to choir practice, just because I knew he’d be there—I knew we’d get to
make jokes about Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor was kind of a jerk, but he took
us to state. First place against a bunch of really good schools. (He
looks at Mike who is standing with the sun behind him. Then, with
admiration,) I really love you, Mike. (Mike looks down at
him.) Does that make you nervous—the I love you’s, the hugs? (Looking
away.) I know I like to hug a lot. (A pause. Mike is a
little astonished.) I don’t want to freak you out.
Mike. Nah, I’m not freaked out. I’ve never really been
freaked out.
Ethan. Good. Because in talking with Isaac the other night—
Mike. Except once.
Ethan. Except once? When?
Mike. It’s not a big deal, Ethan.
Ethan. Tell me, when?
Mike. It was a couple of nights ago, when you were over at my
house. (He struggles, and then,) You’re not going to like
this question, but I have to ask you. (Ethan cringes. Mike sits
beside him.) Why do you tell me you love me all the time? (A
bullet has just hit Ethan’s heart.) Is it that—
Ethan. No, I’m not gay.
Mike. You’re not? Well, then why?
Ethan. I don’t know, Mike. Why does it have to bother you?
Mike. I just want you to be my friend, you know? Maybe,
without all the hugs, the emotion, the feelings.
Ethan. How? (A pause.) Like, seriously.
Because, I can’t trust myself on this one.
Mike. What do you mean?
Ethan. You’ll have to be more specific on what you mean by “be
your friend.”
Mike. Just, be my friend.
Ethan. Michael. Look at me. (Mike complies.)
Can you imagine how frustrating it is—
Mike. What is?
Ethan. And how totally alone I feel when you say that?
Mike. Say what?
Ethan. Do you honestly not know?
Mike. That I want you to be my friend?
Ethan. No. That you want me to do it on your terms.
You told me a few weeks ago that you have always wanted a good friend that
would let you into their heart—remember?
Mike. Yes.
Ethan. So, you’ve got it.
Mike. All right. I appreciate that, Ethan. (A
pause.) So, what did I say that makes you feel alone?
Ethan. It’s not what you’re saying, it’s what I know you mean by
what you’re saying. (They look at each other. Mike is
clueless. He gives a ‘you-got-me’ grin.) I want to hug you—I, I,
want you to know that I love you. But, you just prove it to me in actions
what Isaac was saying the other night in words—that we can’t be friends if it
looks like it’s a gay thing. I don’t think that’s fair. (Facing
the audience.) Besides, who’s looking anyway? It’s not like the
world is watching us right now and thinking: “what a bunch of fags.”
Okay? (Mike nods.) Plus, I can tell that you get excited
when we’re around each other, too, Mike. (He recalls a good memory; he
grins.) It actually reminds me a little of Elder Snow; we were an
extremely effective companionship; people responded to us. (Looking at
him affirmingly.) They could tell we loved each other, and they
wanted in on it.
Mike. (Still not quite convinced.) Okay.
Ethan. Mike, it’s not a sexual thing. When I hug you, in
that place, there’s nothing sexual about it. (He thinks.)
And even if there was, I’m not trying to get you to—you know?—I’m not coming on
to you. Elder Snow and I were effective missionaries because we loved
each other so much, and we weren’t afraid to show it to other people. (Looking
down, with shy hope.) I always thought that it gave us more power to
be a force for good.
Mike. I guess I felt used. Like you were getting off on it
or something.
Ethan. You mean the other night? (He studies him.
He is stunned.) Really?
Mike. Yes.
Ethan. You felt like I was getting off on it?
Mike. Yes, Ethan. (Ethan pulls back and is quiet—he is
genuinely embarrassed, in deep thought over the implications. Then, after
a few moments,) It’s okay. It just freaked me out a little.
Ethan. (Almost in tears; he is horrified at what this might suggest
about himself—more specifically to Mike, but also in general. For Ethan,
within himself, the possibility of his homosexuality is not revelatory anymore.)
Mike, I am so embarrassed. Whatever signal I gave—I didn’t mean it to—
Mike. It’s okay. (A pause.) Look, I’m over
it.
Ethan. (Collecting himself.) Why don’t we make a
compromise?
Mike. What’s that?
Ethan. (Being purposely facetious.) Where two people reach
an agreement.
Mike. (He smiles.) No, what’s the compromise?
Ethan. If we’re both uncomfortable, it’s going to be hard for both
of us to be good friends—especially for me. And that’s what you want,
right? To be good friends? (A pause.) Because how fair
is that, that I have to hold back how I feel all the time?
Mike. (A side thought.) I think if you had a
girlfriend or something.
Ethan. Just think of it like David and Jonathan.
Mike. Maybe. But, I don’t think I can do it anymore.
Ethan. Why?
Mike. To be honest, Denise and I haven’t been doing very well
lately. We’ve had a few fights. (A pause.) Part of the
reason is you. She doesn’t like that we’re spending so much time
together. She didn’t even want me to come with you to the temple this
morning. So, we’re probably going to have to stop going together, at
least for a while.
Ethan. (Devastated.) How long?
Mike. Well, I think we need to down it to once a month, maybe
less.
Ethan. (Even more devastated.) Mike, please don’t
take that away.
Mike. Ethan—
Ethan. Why is she upset with me because we’re going to the temple?
Mike. She’s upset with me because I’m not spending enough time
with her. You’re just in the middle of it. She doesn’t like me to
go out with friends when there’s so much to take care of at home—I mean, you’re
single. I’m a full time student, I’m in the military, I’ve got three
kids.
Ethan. Mike, I’m so sorry.
Mike. Don’t say you’re sorry.
Ethan. How bad is it—at home?
Mike. Just normal marriage stuff, I guess—I don’t want to talk
about it, really.
Ethan. (After a few moments.) Can I ask you…?
Mike. What?
Ethan. (He struggles, thinking for a moment. This is very
hard for Ethan, in the sense that he feels duty-bound to extend to Mike the
‘best’ answer, even though it will lead to a stronger sense of their
separation—a kind which Ethan has come to appreciate and find helpful.)
Well, I mean… are you… are you reading the scriptures together?
Mike. Sometimes.
Ethan. How often?
Mike. I don’t know, once a week.
Ethan. Well, why don’t you try reading the scriptures with her
every night? And saying a prayer together before you go to bed? The
family that prays together, right? My mission president used to tell me
that it is better to be one with your companion than to be right. (Mike
is skeptical, but Ethan continues, gaining confidence and momentum as he
advances this very common, Mormon prescription.) Look, Mike, will you
just try it? I promise, you’ll notice a difference in your life and in
your marriage. Just read the scriptures every day and pray with
her. In fact, pray for her so she can hear it. If it doesn’t work,
I’ll take your whole family out to dinner at Baci’s. (A pause.)
I’m serious, if you don’t start noticing an improvement in the general sense of
your household within two weeks.
Mike. Okay.
SCENE III
With Confidence.
Ethan. (To the audience.) I believe I can communicate
with God when I pray. And I believe that God responds. We’re taught
to pray often, even over the little things. It has convinced me that, at
least, there’s something out there responding to me—call it what you
like. That night, I started to pray for Mike and Denise, and for their
family. But, we never went again after that morning.
Ashley enters with energy, almost interrupting Ethan. He joins her at
the table. She is in her early twenties—an African-American friend of
Ethan’s, and a full-time student in the Actors’ Training Program at the
University of Utah. She’s spunky, energetic, compassionate, and
honest—full of energy and wise to ways of the world.
Ashley. So, what’s the matter? Is it about Mike?
Ethan. We bumped into each other.
Ashley. What happened?
Ethan. We skipped our morning classes—he never skips his morning
classes. (A pause.) He told me that he has been feeling a
spiritual change in his life, since he started reading the scriptures and
praying with his wife. He started to cry. (A pause.) I
came home this afternoon and said a prayer, the longest one I think I’ve ever
said. My nose started to bleed.
Ashley. Your nose started to bleed?
Ethan. I was praying pretty hard.
Ashley. (After a moment.) Well, what’s the problem?
We move to see Bishop Farnes in his usual place, teaching Sunday school.
Bishop Farnes. I have found—especially since I have been a
Bishop—that it’s quite a challenge to convince people of your love for
them. It takes help from heaven to know what to do or say to get into
people’s hearts. And even when I say that, it sounds like it’s making
room for a “program”—the perfect “program” for love—but I can’t even begin to
offer that. Except to say what my experience has taught me—and this is my
testimony—that God knows how to reach people. And if we want people to
know the love of God, we have to be very proactive, while at the same time,
very sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit—setting Jesus as the ultimate
standard. (He is touched.) Do we realize how radical He was
for his time? Think about it—we’ve had two thousand years to adapt to,
not only His teaching, but the way He conducted Himself in public—the way He
moved in to depraved circumstances and turned the worlds of other people upside
down and over to God. It must have been very radical for the people
around Him—but at the same time, they who were ready—they knew it was of God,
because they were sensitive to the Spirit. In the same way that we must
be sensitive to the Spirit, if we want to affect other people’s lives.
Because, I think most people don’t know how to accept the love of God.
We move to see Ethan and Mike on campus—the same location as the scene we
saw earlier with Ethan and Ashley. Ethan is giving Mike a hug.
Ethan. I love you, Mike. (Mike pulls away.)
Mike. (Hesitating.) Right back at you, Ethan.
Ethan. What? (Making light of it.) Because I
said, “I love you” in front of all these people? (He smiles.)
Everyone’s looking at us, Mike. What if they think we’re gay?
Oh—my—holy—hell! (Mike is amused, which inspires Ethan more.)
What if the papers get a hold of it?
Mike. You’re, uh, being kinda silly, aren’t you?
Ethan. (Ethan interrupts him. He gets up on the bench.)
Excuse me, world? I’d like to make an announcement. (Shouting to
the silence—nobody.) I love Mike! This Mike! Right
here! Political Science major! Navy seal! He’s an incredible father, an amazing student,
and he’s my hero! (He looks down at him.) Shall I even say
your last name? (Shouting.) That’s Wilcox!
W-i-l-c-o-x! (Mike is moved. Lights out.)
SCENE IV
Possible Roots.
We move back to Ethan and Ashley. During this moment, we might see on
the screen behind them a montage or water-color sketches (something of this sort)
depicting the events of which Ethan is speaking—i.e., kids at school, Greg
Louganis, etc.
Ethan. On the first day of school, after we moved to Arizona, I
went to impress everyone by doing flips on the monkey bars during recess.
All the girls loved it. I was a bit of a gymnast, you know.
Inspired by the 1988 Olympics. You remember that?
Ashley. I was four years old.
Ethan. Well, in diving Greg Louganis got the gold, even after
hitting his head on the diving board, and totally made a comeback. (A
beat.) So, after that, the boys in my school labeled me as a “faggot,”
and it stuck. But that was just a bunch of close-minded jocks,
right? It was just my reputation. I was very feminine when I was a
boy.
Ashley. Ethan—
Ethan. And I heard it every day it was pounded into my head, this
idea about myself: something I didn’t even know about when I first heard it.
Ashley. Ethan, listen—
Ethan. A “fag.” I didn’t know what it was. I had an
idea, at least, that it wasn’t a good thing to be. It followed me all the
way through high school; even when I was a missionary, I heard it again.
But, “pounded”—this is the best word I can use: “pounded.” It was pounded
into my head. I heard it at least once a day. At least. I’ve
even calculated it. (At this point, the images discontinue.
Ethan pulls out a piece of paper and shows her the figures.) That’s
about eight-thousand times I would have heard it through growing up.
Eight-thousand times I heard it from my classmates, from the kids in my church.
Even my teachers.
Ashley. Are you gay, Ethan?
Ethan. (Referring to the calculation.) Can you not
see this?
Ashley. (She looks at it again.) Of course, but, are
you gay?
Ethan. What does that mean? I don’t know how to respond to
that.
Ashley. Do you like other guys?
Ethan. I don’t know. I don’t know what’s normal. It
hurts to say “yes.”
Ashley. But, do you like men? Do you want to have sex with
men?
Ethan. Why do you think that?
Ashley. I’m in the Actors’ Training Program. I can count on
one hand my guy friends who are straight. You start to notice the signs,
if you get me.
Ethan. So, you think it’s true then?
Ashley. I—
Ethan. Because, what if they convinced me by pounding it into my
head eight-thousand times—”you’re a fag”! If everyone told you
eight-thousand times something like you’re special or smart, or that you’ll
never make it to heaven because you’re black—you’d start to believe me, wouldn’t
you—especially if you were at a young and impressionable age?
Ashley. (She’s listening.) Yeah?
Ethan. You know the Church used to tell black members that they
couldn’t receive the priesthood because they didn’t have enough faith in the
pre-existence, right?
Ashley. (Annoyed.) Ethan, come on. Of course I
do. My dad was a convert before the 1978 revelation, and it was one of
the hardest things for him to reconcile.
Ethan. (Caught; a little stunned.) Okay, I’m sorry
Ash.
Ashley. It’s okay, we’re in Utah; I’m used to it—I guess. (A
beat.) So, have you tried to kiss a guy before, or anything like
that? Or a girl?
Ethan. The first time I ever kissed another person was prom night,
senior year. Anala.
Ashley. And?
Ethan. And what? It felt wrong. We didn’t even really
kiss.
Ashley. Well, doesn’t that clue you in?
Ethan. (It hits him in contemplation.) Then, there
was this time when I came out of the bathroom, and Elder Cranney was lying on
his stomach, icing his lower back. I almost fell over. (She is
quiet.) I wanted to get on the floor with him, I wanted to hold him.
Ashley. (With sensitivity.) So, you are gay then?
Ethan. Why—Ashley—does that have to mean I’m a homosexual? (A
pause.) It’s all so silly. Everyone has a category, and I don’t
know what the hell to think.
Ashley. Ethan, you asked me and I’m telling you—it sounds a lot
like you’re gay. I mean, what else is it? You talk about Mike all
the time in a way that’s very—
Ethan. (Determined.) No. I’m not going to
submit to this. This is my battle. They can call me a “faggot” all
they want. The Lord has said that he will make it possible for anyone to
do the thing that he has commanded, right? That’s what I have to hold on
to! The power of the priesthood—the power of promises from heaven—the
power of modern-day prophets.
Ashley. I love you.
Ethan. You do?
Ashley. I’m having trouble getting inside your mind right now, but
it’s true. I love you very much. (A pause. She gets up.)
I have to go to rehearsal.
Ethan. Wait.
He gets up and faces her. He kisses her somewhat clumsily.
Ashley. Ethan!
He kisses her again—determined to get it right. She allows it more
because of shock than anything else.
Lights out on everyone but Ashley.
During this moment, we see images in dark, blue shadows of what she’s
describing—particularly, the figure of Tantalus tied to a tree and the reality
of his predicament. Note: I imagine that this moment will be most
effective if it is played live. The actor playing Colby may play this
moment well. I imagine that he would be half-naked with a “titanic” sort
of look, and a very pitiful disposition that encourages our sympathy. In
a sense, it is okay for this moment to be a little over the top in its sense of
mystery and intrigue.
Ashley. (To the audience.) So, surprise! I get
the pleasure of telling you about the story of Tantalus. It’s where we
get the word “tantalize.” Zeus invites all the other Gods to a special
dinner on Mount Olympus, and Tantalus takes some of the food and gives it to
the humans. Well, of course, this pisses Zeus off so much that he
punishes Tantalus by tying to him to a tree. His hands are bound behind
him. Above him, the fruits of the gods dangle; below him, fresh
water. And every time he reaches for the fruit or bends his head to take
a drink, they recede. He never gets either of them. For all
eternity. (A pause.) Kind of a drag, huh?
SCENE V
About Isaac.
Ethan is seen in the shadows. He is remembering a conversation that he
overheard between Colby, his “home-teacher” and Bishop Farnes. Colby is a
muscular, not so bright, rugby player who can be obnoxious, trendy, and a
little too in to girls at times. He is a pre-med student, and very active
in the Church.
They are sitting at the table, across from each other.
Colby. What do you do when you’re home teaching a gay guy?
Bishop Farnes. What did you just say?
Colby. Isaac Broden. You assigned me to be his home
teacher. I was hoping you could switch it.
Bishop Farnes. He’s not gay, is he?
Colby. Yeah, he is.
Bishop Farnes. His dad is a general authority.
Colby. Yeah, but he is Bishop.
Bishop Farnes. How do you know that he’s gay?
Colby. He wrote me an email last week and he told me. (He’s
embarrassed.) He said that I should know if we’re going to be
friends.
Bishop Farnes. Did you write him back?
Colby. Yes I did. I told him whatever, as long as he
respects my boundaries. (A moment.) But, if you want to know
the truth, Bishop, if he would have been there, I probably would have floored
him.
Bishop Farnes. Well, I guess it makes sense. He always got
kind of uncomfortable when we’d talk about eternal marriage.
We see Ethan again.
Ethan. Eternal marriage! How it presents an enormous amount
of pressure for us Mormon gay folk! Marriage—to a woman, that is—is the
most important part of salvation. (The mood changes. We see
images on the screen behind him that illustrate what he’s talking about in
charts and graphs, arrows, and silly characters and music with a bit of a
‘Leave it to Beaver’ flair. He pulls out a pointer and extends it, as if
to ‘present’ the ‘material’ for the audience.) Now, according to
Mormon belief, everyone in the world receives what’s called a “degree of glory,”
after death, depending on one’s faithfulness. You can achieve the “highest”
degree of glory through marriage to someone of the opposite sex: the most
significant act of faith in Mormonism. When we speak of humanity as
children of God, we mean it literally. God’s glory is His
offspring. And when you die, if you’ve been “sealed” together in the temples,
your relationships as families: parents to children, and couples to each
other—they last for eternity, but only if all in the circle keep the
commandments and live faithfully. Nothing is more antithetical to the
grand scheme in Mormonism than homosexuality. (He sits down, thinking
deeply for a few moments.) My dad died six months ago. We were
reminded of the eternal nature of our family at his funeral. It was
supposed to be comforting.
We move abruptly back to Bishop Farnes and Colby talking about Isaac.
Bishop Farnes. Well, Colby, he hasn’t been to church in three
months and someone has still got to home teach him.
Ethan puts his head in his hands in despair. Then the lights come up
on the scene, and we see Isaac. They are on footsteps of the Salt Lake
Temple. This is meant to imply that Ethan has just finished telling Isaac
the story about the conversation he overheard between Bishop Farnes and
Colby. During this whole first beat, Ethan is struggling—feeling a little
hopeless.
Isaac. (To Ethan.) It’s such a beautiful temple, isn’t
it? My great-great grandfather helped build it. He even did some of
the interior design. (He chuckles.) And they wonder why I’m
gay. (A pause. Looking down at him.) You okay Ethan?
Ethan. Yeah. I’m okay. Your great-great grandfather,
eh?
Isaac. Yep. Jacob Broden. His grandfather served with
President Snow, and his father came out west with Brigham Young, part of the
Martin handcart company.
Ethan. It goes way back, doesn’t it?
Isaac. It’s in my blood. And my mothers’ side is from the
Ricks line. Like Ricks College, now BYU-Idaho?
Ethan. I know BYU-Idaho.
Isaac. (He sits beside Ethan.) Guess how many come from his
line? (A pause.) Go on, guess.
Ethan. Six-hundred?
Isaac. Ten thousand.
Ethan. Ten thousand?
Isaac. There are ten-thousand descendants of ol’ grandpa Ricks:
the blessings of polygamy!
Ethan. If you want to jump-start a church.
Isaac. Most of them are serving as bishops, branch presidents,
stake presidents—all over the world. I mean, a few lost sheep here and
there, but all apart of this glorious dynasty!
Ethan. (With intent.) So, is it true? (A
pause.) Have you decided to go with it, then? (Isaac looks
at him, not entirely sure what he’s talking about.) With boys?
Isaac. With boys what?
Ethan. To be gay.
Isaac. (A pause—he’s a little unsure how to respond.
Then, he chuckles, as he tries to make light of it.) Well, you’ve
seen him playing rugby haven’t you? (Ethan is not laughing.)
Ethan. Why? (A pause.) Do you have a boyfriend?
Isaac. No.
Ethan. Are you having sex?
Isaac. Not really. (Ethan gives him a “not buying it”
look.) Last summer for a few weeks when I was in California.
His name was Spencer.
Ethan. Oh, I knew it! (He gets up, then faces him.)
I remember you were being so mysterious about it, and I thought—no, he wouldn’t
do that, not that. He’d at least tell me!
Isaac. (Gently.) Ethan, that’s just the beginning.
Ethan. I thought we were friends.
Isaac. I figured you didn’t want to know. And, I’m right,
aren’t I?
Ethan. (Another pause.) So, have you talked to your
Bishop?
Isaac. No.
Ethan. Are you going to?
Isaac. Talking to my dad was hard enough. (A pause.)
Have you read the interview he gave for the Salt Lake Tribune?
Ethan. No.
Isaac. I wanted to kill myself. (He looks at him.)
I wanted to put a gun to my head and blow it off.
Ethan. Are you being serious?
Isaac. I’ve got the interview right here. (He goes into
his bag and pulls it out.) I keep it with me, lest I forget. (He
hands it to him.) It’s on page five. Highlighted. (Ethan
is reading. He stands up and continues, facing the audience.) “The
interviewer asked him what advice he’d give to parents who have gay children
who want to bring home a partner for a weekend or a holiday.” “Elder
Broden asked parents with gay children to discourage them from putting their
families in this awkward position.” (Ethan puts the paper down.
Isaac sits beside him.) So, what’s the message, here? (A
pause.) He’s started a campaign against gay marriage. He’s
encouraging Mormon lobbyists to push the votes against it. He’s even
trying to get it on Utah’s books that gay and lesbian couples will never be
able to adopt children.
Ethan. I didn’t know they could.
Isaac. (Looking back at him.) The law says that no
unmarried couples are allowed to adopt. And since gay couples can’t get
married, they can’t adopt, by default. My dad is trying to push it so
that it says specifically “no gay couples”—that sort of thing.
Ethan. You can’t let that get to you.
Isaac. (He chuckles.) Ethan, look. The Church
doesn’t want people like me in it—I mean, not really. Not even if we’re
celibate. We’re an anomaly.
Ethan. That’s not true, Isaac. You can be gay in the Church,
you just have to keep the commandments.
Isaac. Do you know any men who are serving in the Church who aren’t
married—like anyone in authority? (A pause.) Exactly.
There aren’t any. So, what’s the point? (A pause.) I
could never really serve in the Church. And even if I did—like, teach
Sunday School or something, sooner or later they’d figure out why I’m not
married. The only place I’d have on Sundays is to come to church and
smile a lot at everyone. And watch everyone with their families, and see
all the women tickling the backs of their husbands during sacrament meeting or
watch the men play with their kids in the hallways during Sunday school.
I mean, I can’t even go into this temple!
Ethan. You could go if you were celibate.
Isaac. (He sits down and gestures with his hands.) I
had a gun in my hands. (He hesitates, but continues with force.)
I had it in my hands, I put it in my mouth, and I pulled the trigger.
Ethan. Isaac, I can’t take you seriously if you’re going to joke
around like this.
Isaac. (Scooting so as to sit right beside him.) I
had a gun in my mouth, and I pulled the trigger.
Ethan. (Looks at him intently, then realizes he’s telling the
truth. He slumps over in surrendered despair, placing his head in his
hands.) Oh, Isaac.
Isaac. The safety was on.
Ethan. Why didn’t you tell me?!
Isaac. I’m sorry. (A pause.) After the gun didn’t
go off, I realized how stupid and absurd this whole thing was. I started
laughing. I got on the internet, downloaded a copy of my dad’s interview,
and started studying it. I went into his library and looked through some
of the books and journals he has on Church history, and began to read all about
our little dubious moments in the Church: polygamy, statements about women, the
Adam-god prophecy, the priesthood ban, excommunications for feminists—you name
it. When you read about some of the things the brethren said about black
people—trying to understand this absurd ban—it’s ludicrous. It’s
silly. It’s human. (A pause.) The Church, Ethan—it’s
human. It’s just trying to figure things out like everyone else, even my
dad. (A pause.) So, as I sat there in my cabin, reading all
of this—this hits me.
Ethan. What?
Isaac. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace—close to God for the
first time in a very long time. A very, very long time. Ethan, I
felt warm, supported. Everything made sense—the whole, grand
picture. (A pause.) So, that’s why I keep this with me, to
remember that.
Ethan. (After a pause.) So, what do you mean when you
say it made sense? I mean, I think I know that you mean, but—
Isaac. Everything I’ve just been saying. It all fit. I
could breathe. No more mental gymnastics to try and force it to be
perfect. I felt like I could accept the Church for the first time on its
own terms, and appreciate it for what it is, without pretending.
Ethan. Yeah.
Isaac. I really don’t think, Ethan, that a man can be gay—truly
gay—and be a member of the Church at the same time, without doing a lot of
something that’s very unhealthy for the soul, you know?
Lights off on Isaac. Ethan comes forward. We see Colby again,
speaking to each other, but inaudibly.
Ethan. (Referring to the two of them.) Colby said
something else that I didn’t tell Isaac.
Back to Colby and Bishop Farnes.
Colby. Every time I go over there, he always wants to hug me.
Bishop Farnes. Didn’t you ever hug your companions?
Colby. Yeah, but there’s something different about him, too.
He really freaks me out.
Back to Ethan.
Ethan. He wasn’t referring to Isaac here, he was referring to me.
(A pause. Then, as regards the obvious quandary this puts him in,)
So, where am I supposed to go, then? The alternative to this is an
eternity separated from the presence of a God I had come to love more dearly
than anything else. (A beat.) At the time, it seemed to me
there was no other choice.
SCENE VI
The Contrast.
We begin to hear rhythmic club music. The scene quickly changes and
Ethan is in a gay bar. He is noticed by a Bartender, who nods to him as
if to ask him what he’d like to drink.
Ethan. Just a coke, please.
While he’s drinking his coke, he meets someone and leaves with him.
The music stops, it’s quiet and dark.
The lights come up halfway, and Ethan is seen exiting the house of the guy he
left with, closing the door behind him. He puts his jacket on and zips it
up tightly and walks away quickly. The lights go out again.
We hear the sounds of a shower running, followed by the sounds of tough and
adamant cleaning. The shower turns off. We hear him brushing his
teeth rather violently, then drying himself off and putting his clothes
on. It’s dark for a few more moments, and then we hear him crying.
Ethan. (Very quietly.) Heavenly Father! (A
pause.) I am so sorry.
It is still dark. We continue to hear him, sobbing now.
Ethan. Heavenly Father!
Lights come on again, half-way. Mike enters, only this time, he’s in
full, white Navy uniform. Ethan dries his face and stares at him for a
moment. Mike begins to leave, but Ethan stops him.
Ethan. Wait. (Mike stops and we enter into “real time.”)
Mike. What’s up?
Ethan. (Carefully.) Can I hold you for a minute?
Mike. Are you okay?
Ethan. (Seriously thinking.) I just need it, you
know?
They hug in a full embrace. We hear the sound of a floor heater in the
background. There’s a long pause. It is important that they do not
break precipitously, by any means. They must hold each other for an
extended period of time, and it should make the audience uncomfortable (when it
feels like it’s been long enough—it hasn’t; the actors should double it).
The lights go on and off to suggest time is passing, each time catching them
having shifted a bit. During the hug, all sorts of things may happen—Mike
places his head on Ethan’s shoulder. Ethan holds him tighter—maybe even
kisses his cheek or his neck in such a way that we, as the audience, are unable
to determine whether it should be pegged sexual or not.
Mike. (Pulling slightly back.) I’m sweating.
Ethan
pulls back a little, while they remain in the embrace. He wipes the sweat
off of Mike’s cheek. They go back into a full embrace. Then, after
a few moments, and with sincerity,
Ethan. Let’s just stay here for a few more minutes, okay? I
want to take this in.
Mike. (Almost immediately.) Yeah, me too. (He
loses his balance for a moment, and they shift a bit, Ethan holding him up.)
I love you, Ethan.
The lights go out, and there is silence for a few moments. Then, we
see Ethan center stage, facing the audience.
Ethan. When I was growing up in young men’s and women’s programs
of the Church, they taught us about the purpose of sex: that God meant it for
married couples almost as an act of service. (A pause.) My
whole body came alive when I was there. Right there, at that
moment. Everything. My heart started beating faster, my hands got
sweaty. (A beat. He sits down.) When I held him, I
felt like I was holding God.
SCENE VII
To: My Huckleberry Friend.
Lights up on Bishop Farnes. He is seen at his usual place, teaching
his Sunday school class.
Bishop Farnes. I don’t think there’s anything more important in
this world than the love of God. We understand the notion of love because
of His very proactive example. Sometimes, it takes an enormous amount of
energy to convince someone that you love them—you practically have to force it
into their experience, because they don’t believe you at first. I believe
Jesus’ success with the people was his ability to get inside their hearts by
convincing them of their worth before God.
Lights back on Ethan.
Ethan. But, I didn’t feel the need to take care of it—so to speak:
no masturbating or anything. I just felt really happy. And there
was nothing wrong with it. It was exactly what it’s supposed to be.
(A beat.) As wonderful as it was, however, I was left in a
bind. Within those twenty little minutes, my world had changed. I
knew what I was capable of, and it made me happy. (A beat.)
So, I put on my best Sunday clothes. I emptied my savings account, and
hurried over to see Ashley. In a way, it was an answer to a prayer.
Ashley appears, sitting on the same table as before. Ethan enters the
scene with her, and sits down.
Ashley. I have to be at stage call in a few minutes.
Ethan. I just need to ask you something.
Ashley. Okay.
Ethan. And there’s no easy way to do this, so I’m just going to
plunge in. (He pauses for a moment. Then, very decidedly, he
empties his pocket and places a black ring box on the table.) Open
it.
Ashley. What is it?
Ethan. Just open it. (She opens it. Inside is a
beautiful, sparkly diamond ring.) It’s the safe kind; it’s not a
blood diamond or anything. I thought you’d like that.
Ashley. Wow, Ethan. It’s beautiful. What’s it for?
Ethan. It’s an engagement ring.
Ashley. (She laughs.) Are you serious?
Ethan. Yeah. I’m totally serious. It’s an engagement
ring. But, it’s not a blood diamond.
Ashley. Yeah, so you said. So, are you asking me to marry
you?
Ethan. You’re my best friend and I love you very much. I can’t
imagine spending my life with anyone else.
Ashley. Uh huh.
Ethan. And I’ve never enjoyed the company of another woman
more. (He takes her hand.) Ashley, say ‘yes.’ It’s
really an easy word.
Ashley. (She looks at him for a moment, then,) I don’t
think it’s an easy word, Ethan.
Ethan. When you were in that one-act play last year, there was
this line where the guy playing your husband says something like: ‘And when I
saw her for the first time, I felt like time had stopped. And I knew I
had met the love of my life.’
Ashley. Okay?
Ethan. I could identify with what he said. I was moved by
it—I think by the Spirit. I think you are the one, Ashley. (A
pause.) And, ever since then I’ve been trying to figure out how to
own up to it.
Ashley. Yeah, but, Ethan, you’ve grown into something that you
haven’t given me any time to grow in to with you. You haven’t brought me
there with you. (A pause.) How can you expect me to say ‘yes’?
Ethan. Well, take the weekend if you want.
Ashley. Ethan—
Ethan. When I was serving tables at the Garden freshman year,
there was this couple there—they had just been married. The bride and her
parents were with the groom and his brother or something, maybe his
parents. The point is: the look on his face. He was glowing.
It was right for both of them. (A pause.) Ashley, I want
that. It comes from living a good life—from keeping God’s
commandments—from service and charity. There’s no question that they were
blessed by God.
Ashley. Okay.
Ethan. Their choices. That’s my point, sweetheart. Let’s
just do it and make good choices.
Ashley. (Silence.) Ethan, I really appreciate
that. (She takes the ring back and looks at it—it’s on fire.)
I don’t want to tell you “no.” I don’t— I think that if I say “no,” you
will lose faith and change your lifestyle.
Ethan gets up. Lights on out everyone but him.
Ethan. (To the audience.) I think she was on to me
more than I realized. She’s really a very beautiful person; I regret
having put her in that position. (A beat. We see images again
behind him—same silly music.) This happens all the time. Gay
men marry good Christian girls, hoping that something will change in the
process. And good Christian girls marry outstanding gay men, because
everyone reasons, somewhere, perhaps even in the subconscious, that if anything,
hell would be worse. Especially Mormons. We marry each other as a
means to an end far too often. (The images quickly cease for dramatic
effect.) The only good part—at least as I see it—is they get to have
kids. (It hits him.) And I’ll admit: I was hoping that
something would click in the process too. I even prayed for it. And
my nose started bleeding. (A beat. Count to “five.”) Time
passed, and I needed answers.
SCENE VIII
The Authorities
The lights come up on Bishop Farnes, who is sitting in his office, Ethan
across from him.
Ethan. I need to confess something.
Bishop Farnes. Okay. Shoot.
Ethan. A few weeks ago I kinda fooled around with someone.
(A pause.) With another man.
Bishop Farnes. Who? Anyone in this ward?
Ethan. No. (Farnes is relieved.)
Bishop Farnes. Okay.
Ethan. (Looking down.) We didn’t have sex or
anything. We just touched each other a little, and kissed a little.
Bishop Farnes. Did you have oral sex?
Ethan. No. Yes. Sort of.
Bishop Farnes. What do you mean?
Ethan. We started to. I couldn’t do it. I left.
Bishop Farnes. How did you meet him?
Ethan. We met at a gay club.
Bishop Farnes. Why did you do it?
Ethan. I wanted to see if I was gay, Bishop.
Bishop Farnes. Are you gay?
Ethan. (He is quiet for a moment. Then,) I think I
am.
Bishop Farnes. Do you masturbate?
Ethan. Sometimes.
Bishop Farnes. When was the last time?
Ethan. A few weeks ago.
Bishop Farnes. Do you think that has something to do with it?
Ethan. I don’t know. Maybe.
Bishop Farnes. What about pornography?
Ethan. No.
Bishop Farnes. Have you been taking the sacrament?
Ethan. No. I stopped after this encounter with this guy.
Bishop Farnes. Do you want to start taking the sacrament again?
Ethan. Yes.
Bishop Farnes. Well, then let’s work on it. Let’s get you
back there.
Ethan. I thought to myself what might happen in this
interview—will I get excommunicated? What kind of trouble am I in?
And, to be honest Bishop, when I thought that it was possible, I was relieved.
(A beat.) I have to tell you more. I fell in love with my best
friend. I mean, in every way that we understand what it means for one
person to be in love with another person—that’s how I felt for him. That’s
how we feel for each other. And he’s married. (A pause.)
I might have hurt him and his family—especially his marriage. You see,
she’s not very—she doesn’t forgive.
Bishop Farnes. Did you do anything with him?
Ethan. No. We never compromised his marriage. (Recalling with fondness.) We started to go to the temple every week
with each other. If you knew what kind of a situation it is, Bishop—it’s
not a bad thing. We grew to love each other very much because we were
going every week.
Bishop Farnes. Well why hasn’t he been going with his wife?
Ethan. She had just had a baby, and it kept her at home for a few
months.
Bishop Farnes. Well, there’s your problem. The kind of love
you’re talking about is not intended to be between two men, especially if we’re
dealing with a marriage here. It is intended for men and women who are
committed to each other.
Ethan. Is there any chance that the Church will overturn its policy
on homosexuality?
Bishop Farnes. (With sympathy, but authority.) I
doubt it.
Ethan. Then, really Bishop—where am I supposed to go?
Bishop Farnes. What do you mean? You stay faithful.
Ethan. Look, I can’t have—(An intense pause. Ethan is very
frustrated right now, but he’s trying to make it clear with patience, because
he knows that Farnes does not understand the real implications of the Church’s
insistence.) I really don’t think, Bishop—and you have to hear me
here—I really don’t think that I can have what you’re talking about—that love
that’s only intended to be between a man and woman. I can’t have that
with a woman.
Bishop Farnes. There are these attractions, Ethan. We
all have them. And we all have the same responsibility to control
them. Keep the commandments. Do what God has asked us to do.
We don’t have the authority to change what God tells us to do or not to do.
Ethan. But why, Bishop, does the Church keep insisting that the
kind of love that I have for him is wrong? Nothing about it feels
wrong. And it’s presented here to me in such a way that it gives me hope
and makes me happy—makes me feel alive.
Bishop Farnes. Ethan, I want to be sensitive to your
situation. I’ll admit, I don’t understand it—and that it’s a very difficult
problem to reconcile. (A beat.) How is it different than
someone like me, who has to turn my head every time I see a woman that I’m
attracted to?
Ethan. Well, because, you still have the option.
Bishop Farnes. Because, I’m married?
Ethan. And there’s nothing categorically wrong with you: you’re in
a privileged situation. I’ve never been attracted to another woman before,
Bishop. Not like other guys are. And even when I’ve felt a
spiritual connection with another girl, it takes an enormous amount of energy
to call up a fraction of what I’d expect one would need to pursue it with
confidence. At least, in the way I imagine you feel, when you say that
about your attractions. I’ve always been interested in boys. I can’t
ever remember a time when it was otherwise. And I’m tired of waiting for
it to change.
Bishop Farnes. The Church isn’t asking homosexuals to pretend they’re
straight. But, it is asking you to struggle: to fight the good fight for
the sake of the Lord and your covenants with him.
Ethan. And there are thoughts of suicide. (A pause.)
Often.
Bishop Farnes. You’re thinking of killing yourself? Why
would you want to do that?
Ethan. (Tired.) I can’t explain it to you.
Maybe you could imagine being told that if you didn’t find a man sexually
appealing and emotionally satisfying, you know, and that your salvation depends
on it being so—perhaps, you’d understand.
Bishop Farnes. (Very delicately.) What can I do,
Ethan? Should we set you up with a counselor?
Ethan. I’ve already done that. (A pause.) Look,
Bishop—I’ve gone to Church counselors before—ad nauseum. They tell me to
do things—and I do them. Nothing changes.
Bishop Farnes. You have to have faith, Ethan. People who
suffer from homosexuality in this life won’t suffer from it in the next—it’s
not forever. And everyone who desires it will have the full blessings of
the gospel and salvation.
Ethan. (He puts his head in his hands—a pause, while he thinks
it through.) Do you remember when my dad died?
Bishop Farnes. Yes.
Ethan. I came into your office to talk to you.
Bishop Farnes. I remember.
Ethan. You told me that I could find comfort in the doctrine of
eternal family.
Bishop Farnes. Yes, of course—you’re sealed to your parents
forever.
Ethan. Unless I break my covenants. (A pause.) Haven’t
I—?
Bishop Farnes. We can fix it, Ethan.
Ethan. But, there’s more to it than that. I have to be
completely honest with you, Bishop.
Bishop Farnes. What is it?
Ethan. You have to believe me when I say that I want to do the
right thing. You’ve seen me express how much I—how often I feel love for
God. I’ve learned that because of my membership in the Church. (A
pause. He starts to cry.) There’s nothing like the comfort I
feel when I’m here.
Bishop Farnes. I know, me too.
Ethan. But, with Mike—I’ve never been so happy! I’d give
anything in the world to be with him—for it to be right to be with him.
You have to believe me when I say that—I’d give anything. Just hearing
someone talk about the concept of a “soulmate,” cuts my heart in half, and I
want to blow my head off. Do you understand what I’m saying?
Bishop Farnes. (Not really.) I think so.
Ethan. Don’t you think I’d be foolish if I didn’t seek after
something like it with someone that I could have it with? The alternative
is torture!
Bishop Farnes. (With sensitivity, even still.) Ethan,
this is exactly how I would imagine the pioneers felt when they trekked across
the plains. When their fingers and toes were falling off from frostbite,
or when their infants were dying from exposure. Some even said that they
wouldn’t have traded it in for anything in the world, because it was the price
that they paid to come to know God.
Ethan. (A moment.) But this fight, I don’t think it is
real. It doesn’t have the same nobility attached to it. I mean, if
I could see it going somewhere—arriving at something productive, then I think I
could do it. But it’s not. There aren’t any mountains ahead—no real
ones anyway.
Bishop Farnes. (He sits up in his chair.) You know I can’t
change the way things are. Unless the Brethren told us in a new
revelation that homosexuality is okay, I have to follow the standards of the
Church. There’s no question it is a very serious matter of faith. I
don’t think that anyone could say otherwise. (A pause.) But,
I want you to know, Ethan, that I have faith in you. I’ve never met
anyone with such a bright, loving countenance—and with the testimony that you
share with us so often. And I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, and
how glad I am to know you. Please don’t ever take the Lord out of your
choices, and don’t throw away what you do know to be true, for what you don’t.
Ethan gets up and faces the audience.
Ethan. So, there it is. (A beat.) In the
article that Isaac gave me, where his father spoke on homosexuality for the
Salt Lake Tribune, he justifies the Church’s position with the reminder that
all people in the world have something to struggle against. It’s all for
the sake of soul-making and spiritual growth. (He thinks for a
moment. He sits down.) He points out how Isaac’s sister was
born with cerebral palsy. She’s incapacitated in many ways. But,
she can see the brides on temple square, especially in the spring, when
literally several dozens of them are married on any given Saturday
morning. He says that she watches them longingly, because she wants to be
a bride, but that she also knows it will never happen—because of her
condition—something she’s born with. Mind you, he’s making a point here
about gay people. (He puts his head in his hands for a moment—then
looks back up.) I often wonder if I leave the Church, will I be
walking away from the chance to work with God—to work out my salvation with Him
in “fear and trembling”? (A beat.) There are too many
dubious moments in the history of our Church for me to trust that this present
stand isn’t like the others it has taken in the past, which have a similar tone,
but have been overturned. And, even if I was wrong—I wonder: can God not
work with my choices? (A beat.) I don’t have cerebral palsy,
and there’s no one in my family who has it either. But, why does he think
that she will never find love? I believe that if you can imagine
something, especially something that fills your soul with joy and longing, then
God will help you to find it. (A beat. He stands up.)
To be honest, I just keep remembering how when we held each other, I could feel
his heart pressing against my own, and we’d catch each other’s breathing so
that he would stop when I’d begin. It all came together in an experience
that represents the most important time of my life. I have tried to
present it for you, but even then it doesn’t seem like I’ve given it
justice. But, when I’m sitting in the Bishop’s office or watching recent
developments unfold in this very political, very earthly battle over gay
marriage or whatever—its something I hold on to with tremendous force; it’s a “pearl
of great price” in a time where everything seems so absurd, and where the
battles we are fighting in the name of something so viciously absolute, are
merely battles for the battle’s sake alone, while the most genuine—most
significant aspects of our lives are hidden between them in entirely
unquantifiable realms. But I think that is what makes all the difference.
END OF ACT I