The Good Homosexual - Part Four

CUATRO

He was close, to be sure, but not yet dead. At that moment a man named Samuel Cummings opened his front door and stretched, fists balled and scrunched eyes to the sky as he inhaled the early morning air. It was going to be another beautiful day, and a gentle breeze had begun to stir the feathered fingers of the palms that lined the high walls surrounding his villa and the immaculate gardens of his three-acre property. Samuel opened his eyes to the golden beauty of the morning but he did not smile, for he was overwhelmed on this day by a deep, abiding sense of sadness.

This night had been the death of his dearest, deepest friend and companion, a young man named Jonathan. Samuel was a painter – not of houses, but of canvases, and the two had met twelve years before at one of his openings. Jonathan had immediately captivated him with his ready laugh and classic profile. Samuel invited him home and Jonathan quickly became his greatest muse, subject and confidant. The paintings of this man created a buzz that grew from L.A. to New York and then to Europe, making Samuel Cummings a name and a fortune.

Then came a day when they could no longer laugh off the interminable little colds and coughs. Samuel bought this walled property, stuffed the house with medical equipment, and began to help ease his friend and lover towards death. Long hours they would sit silently together on the porch facing the sea. They never went out, because here in the natural beauty and each other’s company they found everything they wanted. Besides, Samuel knew the sort of people who lived in his neighborhood, and what they thought of him. It was better for him to stay home and tend to his friend and his garden.

The long struggle had nearly bankrupted him (he’d stopped working) but none of this mattered today. After a night of pain the struggle had ended, and the doctor and nurse on hand were inside, filling out the death certificate and preparing the body for transport. He stretched again, and sighed.

Then, through the iron latticed gateway at the end of the flagstone walkway that meandered from his door to the street, Samuel saw what appeared to be an arm, lying palm-up on the sidewalk. Samuel did not hesitate. He turned, entered his house, and re-emerged moments later with stretcher, doctor and nurse in tow. Miguel was saved.

EPILOGUE:

This is an old story, yes, told by Jesus long ago. But the question it raises is as new as ever. Which of these four men really understood what Love is about? Was it the TV producer? The Texan broker? The pastor of the megachurch? The answer is obviously no. Only the gay painter acted in the knowledge and awareness of the Truth towards which Jesus was pointing with his actions and life.

While you may think I’ve cheated, creating a fictional world in which people behave in ways they never would in real life, whom among us is not metaphorically driving by the suffering people of the world every day on the way to a better life? Maybe the broken, oppressed, hungry and thirsty are not lying on our sidewalks moaning for help, but should that matter? We sit here in our comfortable little coffee shops and kitchens, making distinctions and delineating worldviews and having opinions, all the while ignoring the weak and underprivileged whom it is in our power to save. To such people belong the kingdom. Helping them will be our salvation. For now, though, they remain our shame.