Church

A young man, of around thirty, strolled through the intimidating arches of the village church. He took a seat next to an older woman, perhaps in her late 70s, though no one could be sure past the age of 60, and smiled at her. She returned the compliment with an unwelcoming glare of contempt. He was dressed in a cream blazer with a pink shirt, his hair streaked back, glistening in the unnecessary lights of the church, his glasses tucked into the gap at the top of his half unbuttoned shirt. His chest hair was visible. Guy attempted again to interact with the regulars, smiling at a middle-aged father on the row just behind him, as he had turned around to inspect the congregation. More discontempt ensued. He was patient, however, this was a day he had thought about for some time now. He smiled, and felt strong; it had taken a lot to come out – both literally and figuratively. Guy wasn’t perhaps what would be your stereotypical homosexual, he was a Christian for a kick off, and had been confirmed at the age of 16 by his parents, whom were very supportive of his decision to come out just six months earlier. He was a footballer at semi-pro level, playing for a team of supportive players and homophobic fans. That was a very long Saturday afternoon.

“Morning.” Guy was still searching for the slightest of approval from those around him.

“Hmph.” A muffled reply from the mother of three sat to his left; she was only 21 – Guy was the shameful one of course.

Guy fiddled with his sunglasses, and buttoned up his shirt one more level; perhaps a less revealing shirt might have been more appropriate for today; his return. As always, he ran his hands through his hair when he was nervous, as sweat started to drip down his forehead, forming a small pool on his left brow, as his head was titled slightly to one side, he had had to give up his seat now.

“God give thanks.” The whole crowd spoke in unison, as did Guy. This was returned with glances from all present. Guy chose not to sing any of the ensuing hymns.

“He wasn’t even singing.” One muttered.

“Disrespectful homo!” another murmured. Guy was well in earshot.

His parents had offered to come with him, though Guy wanted to brave this on his own, he had a right to be here and he didn’t care what people said about him; he would follow the religion he wanted to no matter what.

It was communion time. “If the back row and those standing at the back would like to come and accept God’s grace next?” The fat, old vicar with long grey hair thundered from the front of the stone cage in which Guy was an eagle that could not soar.

Guy shook visibly as he walked between the pews, the laces of his tan leather shoes coming undone with every step he took, the eyes of a hundred fixed permanently on him as he made his way towards God’s approval. This was the big moment, his first communion since he made his announcement. A glare was offered by his old Sunday school leader in the second row, another from his former best friend on the front. The music stopped and the hatred was literally audible. He dropped his sunglasses as he approached the vicar – he was next.

“Thanks be to God.” The teenage mother in front of him in the queue was accepted.

The vicar looked up from the golden chalice, and up from the red communion wine and the bread in his right hand. His eyes met with Guy’s. Guy looked at him desperately. The vicar looked back.

“Not in my church.” The congregation cheered.