Spring break in Iceland: A hookup with a Nordic god

Augustana, Junior Year

Augustana was a small college, so there weren't many choices for Modern Language Majors: Spanish, French, German, Swedish, Latin, Greek, and occasionally Russian. We had to "become fluent" in two languages and "competent" in a third, so I chose Spanish and French, which I studied in high school, and German, because I spent the fall quarter of my sophomore year in Regensburg. 

We also had to participate in at least one language club, but the Spanish, French, and German clubs were kind of boring, with bake sales, foreign-language films, and field trips to the Goethe Institut or the Alliance Française in Chicago.

Everybody joined the Scandinavian Club -- they had an endowment from a wealthy alumnus, and paid most of the way for members to go on annual field trips to Scandinavia!  A different country every year, alternating between Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and Iceland.

In my junior year, it was Iceland.  I would have preferred Norway, but I wasn't about to turn down ten days in the land of the Old Norse sagas and Nordic hunks.

There were 12 of us, eight boys and four girls, plus two chaperones. We stayed in a youth hostel, four to a room, but everyone got a single bed, so there wasn't any late-night fondling, just a couple of less-than-spectacular sausage sightings.

No one came out willingly in the 1970s, so if any of the other guys were gay, they didn't let on.

Iceland was interesting, but not quite interesting enough for six days.  After you see the National Museum and the  Árbæjarsafn, an open-air museum of Icelandic history, there's nothing but glaciers, geysers, rocks, and scraggly mountains.  I've never found natural wonders as interesting as museums.

We never made it to Akureyri, famous for its annual strongman contest.

One day we took a bus to Hveragerði, about 45 minutes from Reykjavik, to visit Reykjadalur, "Steam Valley,"  an unearthly-looking region of volcanic boulders, spurts of steam, rocks, waterfalls, pools of water, and hot springs with wooden footpaths around.

Our guide told us that some intrepid souls jumped into the hot springs, but you had to be careful -- in some of them, the temperature got up to 80 degrees (175 fahrenheit), and would scald you.

None of us was brave enough.  Besides, it was cloudy and damp, with a cold wind blowing -- who wanted to strip?

When it came time to get back on the bus, we discovered that Erik was missing!

He was a junior Scandinavian Studies major, short, slim, sandy-haired, blue-eyed, with a round handsome face.  We had known each other since high school, but we didn't interact much: he was a fratboy, several levels above me on the social scale.

We went up and down the paths, calling his name.  No answer.

He couldn't have fallen into a crevice.  It was all open -- we would see him.

Could he have wandered off the path, into the wilderness of volcanic rocks?

We searched for 45 minutes.  Then, just as our chaperone suggested we drive back to town and stop at the police station, Erik appeared -- on a path we had just searched!

Seeing our anxious and angry faces, he said "What?  Chill out -- I was just looking at something.  We're only in Iceland once, right?"

He didn't believe that he had been gone over 45 minutes: "I guess I lost track of time.  Sorry."

More after the break

Ten Hawkeye hunks: Mason City muscles, Bettendorf bulges, and Davenport dicks

 

From 3rd grade through college, I lived in Rock Island, Illinois, across the Mississippi from Davenport, Iowa.  It was the big city, where we went for culture: museums, art galleries, bookstores.

And shirtless athletes from St. Ambrose College.

Bettendorf, to the east of Davenport, was the wealthy suburb, where the property values were double those of Rock Island and the high school offered Russian and Mandarin in addition to plain old Spanish and French.  We hated the Betten-dorks. 

At least the athletes had a state-of-the-art weight room.

Decorah, in the northeast corner of the state, is known for Vikings and Lutherans.  I had my first real sexual experience at a music camp at Luther College.

Luther has a state-of-the-art gym, too.

The Vikings in a team-building exercise

Mason City is known for gay artist Grant Wood, who painted that American Gothic thing that everyone in Iowa hates, and for the Spirit of Mercury, a muscular art deco lighting fixture.  You can buy souvenir versions.

More Hawkeye Hunks after the break. Warning: explicit

I go to the first gay rights march in the state of Iowa, with Thomas the Episcopal priest and Mickey the Muscle

 

June 1982, after my junior year at Augustana College.  Thomas, the former Episcopalian priest who I met with my ex-boyfriend Fred last year, calls to invite me to Des Moines for the first Gay Rights March in the state of Iowa.

I have never heard of such a thing.

"We march to protest police harassment, discrimination in jobs and housing, sodomy laws, that sort of thing.  They have them in big cities all over the country.  Always close to June 28th, the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots."

I have never heard of the Stonewall Riots, either.  But count me in.

June 27th, 8:00 pm: Thomas, his lover (in those days it was always "lover," not "partner"),  six other gay men, and two lesbians sit on folding chairs and on the floor in his rec room, making banners: "Stop Gay Police Harassment,"  "We Are Your Children," "Gay is Good," "Gay People are People Too."  

"Maybe not the catchiest slogans, Thomas tells me, "But idea is to get the word "gay" out there, to let the straights know that we are here, even in Iowa.".

I sit next to Mickey, the only other guy my age, a grad student in Russian at the University of Iowa: short, tan heavily muscled, very attractive, with dirty blond hair and a round boyish face.  We chat a bit, but don't exchange any personal information -- in those days you were circumspect, even among other gay people.

Thomas walks around the room, looking at each of the guys.  Finally he stops in front of me and Mickey. "I want you guys to take first place, with the banner that says Gay is Good.'  We want some muscle out front, to show the straights that we're not all weak little sissies."

Mickey grins.  "Up for being partners?"

Marching at the front, coming out to the whole state?  "Um...well, what if one of my professors sees me on the news?  I could get expelled."

Thomas laughs.  "Don't worry, there won't be any tv cameras, or newspaper reporters.  The media ignores us.  We might get a write-up in The Daily Planet."  Drake University's student-run alternative paper.

I am still nervous, but more gay guys than I've ever seen in one place are looking at me, so:  "Ok, I'm in."

We move to the living room for sodas and snacks, and go over the plan:  Tomorrow at 1:30, we meet at Western Gateway Park in downtown Des Moines.  Dress casually, but nothing flamboyant, no leather or drag.  At 2:00 pm we walk the 13 blocks east on Grand Avenue to City Hall.  Forty gay men and lesbians have signed up, so we will march with a banner followed by six people walking three abreast, then another banner, and so on.

We discuss what to do if someone tries to engage, if someone attacks, if we have to scatter  -- and if we are arrested.  We have a parade permit, so the police should be cooperative, but you never know.

Then Mickey and the other townies go home, and the out of town visitors bed down for the night.  It's  crowded: the two bedrooms are full, and four of us get sleeping bags on the living room floor (nothing erotic happens).

June 28th, 11:00 am:  Mickey and the other townies arrive for a brunch of pancakes, scrambled eggs,and sausages.  I'm slightly disappointed; I was expecting quiche and mimoses, the sort of gay cuisine I read about in The Advocate.

Mickey is wearing one of thse mesh half t-shirts popular at the time, with his pecs and shoulders visible behind the sheer mesh stuff, and your abs completely exposed.  They only work if you have a perfect body.  A centimeter less than perfection, and they look stupid.  He doesn't look stupid.

After some discussion, Thomas decides that, although the t-shirt is hot, it's too flamboyant, and asks him to change into an Iowa Hawkeyes t-shirt.  "It's a football team," he explains.  "Turning Mickey into a wholesome all-American jock, the kind of boy you want your son to date."  Everyone laughs.

More Mickey after the break

The Regensburg Choirboy: why go downtown if you can't kiss?

During my freshman year at Augustana College, I declared a major in English and Modern Languages and registered for advanced Spanish and French.  So when I had the opportunity to spend a quarter abroad during my sophomore year, you'd expect me to pick Spain or France, right?

No -- Germany.

It wasn't my fault.  I was taking first-year German, too, and the professor kept rhapsodizing over his trips to Germany: Munich, the Black Forest, the Rhine, Neuschwanstein Castle, Wittenberg, where Martin Luther nailed 95 Theses on the cathedral door.

So I started packing for Germany.  Six Augie students flew from Chicago to Frankfurt on August 19th, and then took the train south to the university town of Regensburg.

 We all took Intensive German and The Protestant Reformation, and for my elective I chose German Myths and Legends. Classes met in the morning, so we had the afternoons free for sightseeing, and there were weekend trips to Augsburg, Munich, and Salzburg.

I had just "figured it out" a year before,  and, I didn't know how to meet gay people.  I didn't realize that Regensburg had several gay bars, or that Munich, an hour away by train, had a gay neighborhood full of bars, restaurants, bath houses, and community organizations.  So it took me awhile to find a boyfriend, sort of

Regensburg was predominantly Catholic, so I overcome my early religious training about Catholics being evil! evil! evil! and toured all the churches.  I even went to Mass at St. Peter's Cathedral -- don't tell the preacher -- where I heard the famous boys' choir, the Domspatzen.

 There were about 80 members, mostly little kids, but in the back row I saw some teenagers and young adults.  

One caught my eye -- the tallest of the group, broad-shouldered, probably muscular, with a shock of unruly brown hair.  I thought he looked back, but I was probably imagining it.

The next day I went to the Musikgymnasium, the boarding school attached to the choir, said I was an American university student, and asked for a tour.  

They summoned a boy my own age to show me around -- 18 year old Wolfgang (not his real name) -- not the one who caught my eye yesterday, darn it! 

More after the break.  Warning -- explicit.

Rocky High: My job as an athletic trainer

When I was a kid, I hated sports -- who would willingly submit to having hard round projectiles hurled at them? -- but my parents wouldn't believe me.  "You're a boy!  Boys like sports!" they kept insisting as I unwrapped Christmas presents of basketballs and baseball bats.

Denkmann Elementary School didn't offer gym classes, so they insisted that I choose something from the Parks & Recreations Department "Kids' Sports" program.  So I took judo for three years, stopping only when the dojo moved across the river to Davenport.

Washington Junior High offered a full range of team sports, so they began pushing me toward baseball, basketball, or...shudder...football. I compromised with wrestling, but dropped out after an unfortunate penis incident during a match. 

When I was about to start tenth grade at Rocky High, home of the Rocks, the litany began again: play a sport, play a sport, play a sport.  With even more urgency, since a boy with an aversion to athletics might be a "swish."  My Dad even forced me to try out for junior varsity football!

Noticing my dismay, my gym teacher, who was also the football coach, came up with another idea.  He asked if I had my Red Cross First Aid certificate.  I did. Then he suggested that I might like a job as an athletic trainer.

What do they do?

Duties after the break

Nazarene Baptism: A liberal preacher, a swimming pool baptism, and a lot of sausage sightings

At the beginning of my senior year in high school, our long-time Nazarene preacher had to resign after his son got a girl pregnant.  Our new preacher,  Rev. Spearman from Northwest Nazarene College in Idaho, was tall, blond, stupid...and liberal: on the cutting edge of evangelical theology.

Most Nazarenes had no idea that LGBT people existed -- they weren't even mentioned until the last edition of the Manual -- but  Brother Spearman gleefully referenced homa-sekshuls in nearly every sermon, blaming nearly every catastrophe or social problem on them, or on Christians for not hating them enough.

Most Nazarenes preachers screamed about our need to go down to the altar to get saved (forgiven of our sins) and sanctified (being cleansed of the ability to sin), but Brother Spearman added a third step, technically in the theology but rarely mentioned: consecration, dedicating your life to God.

Thus he cannily increased the number of times you had to go to the altar.  I was sure he did it to push up the altar-call numbers, which would lead to a renewed contract.

More after the break

Portugal: Braga beefcake, Porto penises, a gay couple, and a duke

 

When I visited Switzerland for the Nazarene World Youth Conference in high school, I met two guys from Portugal.  We didn't stay in contact, but I've visited Portugal three times since, and met (or seen) more hot/hung Portuguese guys.

An actor in Porto

Selfie

Arab guy from Porto

Closeup

Braga castle

Hot workman with wheelbarrow outside the art museum.

More hunks after the break

Christmas on the Square: Be thankful that you haven't seen this movie. With some nude guys to make up for reading about it.

Brax Alexander is promoting his 2020 movie, Christmas on the Square.  Usually I stay away from Christmas romcoms that preach how wonderfully fulfilling small towns are, as opposed to those soulless, heartless monstrosities, big cities, because I grew up in a small town.  My parents rhapsodized, almost daily, about my destiny: find The Girl of My Dreams,  get married, go to work in the factory, buy a house, have kids, die.  There were no other options.  There was no escape. 

They, my other relatives, my teachers, my preacher, and my friends, everyone, without exception, eagerly awaited the moment when I would "discover girls," understand that the sole purpose of life was to gaze into Her eyes forever.  The interrogation began in junior high, and became louder and more demanding in high school: "What girl do you like?  What girl do you like?  What girl?  What girl?  What girl?"  

There was no such thing as same-sex desire or romance.  You spent time with boys in order to talk about girls or strategize on how to get girls.  When you found Her, you would abandon male loves, instantly and without hesitation.  They were trivial, steps on the road to the Girl of Your Dreams destiny.

I kept looking for a place where I could escape, where I could go through an entire day without the "What girl?  What girl? What girl?" interrogation.  Where people cared about beauty, wisdom, and love, not just reproduction.  Maybe even recognized the existence of men loving men. 

After college, I lived in West Hollywood, New York, Fort Lauderdale, and Minneapolis: Bookstores, art museums, cathedrals, Ethiopian restaurants, Thai restaurants, stores with rainbow flags in the windows, guys holding hands as they walked down the street: heaven.    

Oh, sorry, you wanted me to review the movie.  

Christmas on the Square was written by gay icon Dolly Parton, and stars gay icon Christine Baranski, plus Josh Segarra (left and below), who has played gay characters several time (he even played RuPaul's boyfriend). Furthermore, Dolly promotes the movie in an interview in Pink News, the gay magazine.  Surely this is a gay-positive Christmas romcom.  So here goes:

Scene 1:  A sound-stage town square in the town of Prairie View, with folks making merry.  Some very hot guys rush past, doing a high-step dance number -- but they ruin it by double-taking, en masse, at the hot girl who walks by.  At the end of their dance, they pair off, each boy with a girl.  Yuck!  This is the same brainwashing  I grew up with: "Every boy will fall in love with a girl!  There's no way out, no escape!  You are doomed!" 

A car drives past, with the evil, sunglasses-wearing Christine Baranski.  She sings: "Forget the past, be free at last, gotta get out of this town."  I like her -- she's the voice of thousands of LGBT people growing up in homophobic small towns, longing for a place where they can be free.  Of course, she's the villain. 

Amid the dancing, frolicking characters, the white-haired guy who runs the general store, no doubt Christine's Love Interest (played by Treat Williams, left) sings that "lovers walk in pairs." We only see male-female lovers.

 Focus character Felicity drives up and greets the stereotyped 1950s mailman.  She's the assistant of evil Christine Baranski, who continues to sing: "I know in time I'll lose my mind, if I don't get out of this town."  I had the same thought many times, back in Rock Island amid the "what girl do you like? what girl? what girl? what girl?" interrogation!

I'm getting angry.  They should have a trigger warning for all LGBT people who get trapped into viewing this thing.  I won't last much longer.

Left: Treat Williams' butt.

Christine passes out eviction notices.  She's going to tear down the whole town.  Good! 

 

In his Christmas shop, Josh Serrano and his wife talk about new fertility procedures, then sing about how much they want a baby. Good lord, it never ends..  

I'll just go through it on fast fast-forward, to check for any same-sex bonds.

Nope.  I couldn't keep track of all the boy-girl couples finding love, but the only reason guys interacted was to console each other over not having the Girl of Their Dreams, or to congratulate each other for finding Her. Where's the darn trigger warning?  I'm literally nauseous.  

Braxton Alexander's got a lot of explaining to do.  Come to think of it, he has never stated that he is gay-friendly.  I just assumed.

He's definitely going on the Naughty List.

Not enough nude guys to make up for this disaster, so I put a few more after the break:

A date with Kris (who may not be Jeremy Renner's boyfriend) leads to Christopher Atkins' dick

When I was living in West Hollywood in the mid-1990s, my friend Infinite Chazz began dating Kris, a 19-year old baby-faced ginger boy who had been in Los Angeles less than a year, but had already been in some movies and tv shows.

I'm not implying that he was Kristoffer Winters, who would go on to play Zilbor in Dude, Where's My Car (2000) and Clayton Gallagher in Shameless (2011-2012), and who is reputedly the boyfriend of  Jeremy Renner.

This Kris, whoever he was, soon broke up with Infinite Chazz, but we all stayed friends, as one does in gay communities. 

Kris had just landed his first starring role, in what turned out to be a very bad Smokey and the Bandits rip-off called Smoke n Lightnin, about two auto mechanics named, naturally, Smoke and Lightnin (no g), who get involved in a caper involving car chases and girls.

"It's not exactly King Lear," he admitted, "But it could lead to bigger things.  And you'll never guess who my costar is -- Christopher Atkins!  I had such a crush on him when I was a kid!"

We all had a crush on Christopher Atkins when he played a boy growing up on a desert island in The Blue Lagoon (1980) -- a thoroughly heterosexist movie famous for several nude frontal shots of the tanned young actor.

More movies with frontal nudity followed, notably A Night in Heaven (1983), about a male stripper, plus a story arc on Dallas (1983-84).

Christopher's star had waned a bit -- now he appeared mostly in sleazy, low-budget productions like Mortuary Academy and Bandit Goes Country. -- and Smoke and Lightnin.  But what actor wouldn't jump at the chance to work with such an iconic star?

And maybe get a glimpse of the most famous penis of the decade.

It was a low budget movie -- three weeks of shooting at a real auto repair shop in the San Fernando Valley and a house in Mission Viejo, and then off to Florida for two weeks of shooting the Miami locations and car-chase stunts.

One day Kris invited me out to lunch, and to meet Christopher.  I was sort of disappointed -- I didn't expect the lithe, tanned teenager of Blue Lagoon, but the cragginess, long hair, and moustache was a bit too redneck.  If I saw Christopher walking toward me on a dark street, I'd be worried about a gay-bashing.

But he turned out to be very friendly, very gay-positive.  He knew about Infinite Chazz -- even about the nickname "Infinite" -- and asked about the date of Christopher Street West, our Pride Festival, as if he intended to come.

More after the break

Bloomington's Adult Bookstore

Bloomington, Indiana, fall 1982

I "figured it out" during my senior year in high school, but my real "coming out" was at the beginning of my first year in grad school at Indiana University.

As an undergraduate at Augustana College, I had worked hard, very hard, to find gay people, and I found a few -- my ex boyfriend Fred; an Episcopal priest in Des Moines; Prfessor Burton, who held handcuff parties for campus hunks.  You had to go through word of mouth, through a friend of a friend of a friend.

Now I was at a vast university with 40,000 students, and as far as I could tell from conversations and signals and interests, every single one of them was heterosexual.

My friends, classmates, and coworkers all, without exception, maintained the "what girl do you like?" whine of my childhood.  I had to leave Playboy magazines in my room, and think of logical reasons why I didn't have a girl on my arm every second.

My classes were as empty of gay references as they had been at Augustana.  Every writer who had ever lived was heterosexual.  Every poem ever written was written from man to women.  The Eternal Feminine infused all our lives.

And, as far as I knew, this was the way life was everywhere and for everyone.  A vast emptiness, hiding, pretending, unyielding silence.

That Saturday night I had been watching Silver Spoons and Mama's Family in the 13th floor tv lounge of Eigenmann Hall.  At 9:00, my roommate Jon said "Let's go to the grad student mixer.  I'm hot to get laid tonight."

I had no interest in getting laid.  At least, not as Jon understood it.  But I walked with him across the vast, silent campus, past empty buildings, past towers of Indiana limestone erected by heterosexuals long ago, to the Memorial Union, where a party for heterosexual grad students was in session.

Then I said goodbye and went to the campus library.  There were uncountable millions of books in the vast stacks, rooms as long as a football field, but only two listed under "homosexuality" in the card catalog: the memoirs of Tennessee Williams, and Nothing Like the Sun, by Anthony Burgess, about Shakespeare's romance with the Dark Lady of the sonnets.

I walked alone down Kirkwood Avenue, past student bars and little Asian restaurants and hamburger stands.  Just before the Baskin Robbins closed at 10:00, I stopped in and bought an ice cream cone.  Two scoops, strawberry on the bottom and Rocky Road on the top.  30 years later, I still remember that ice cream cone.

There was a gay bar in Rock Island, a dark closet bar with a nondescript name and no windows, where you entered through the back so no one could see you.  But surely Bloomington was too small for such a place.

 I stopped into a weird eclectic bookstore called the White Rabbit. No gay books -- it was illegal to display them openly, as Fred told me when I found his secret bookshelf two years ago.  So I bought a novelization of the 1980 Popeye musical starring Robin Williams, set in the port town of Sweethaven:

Sweet Sweethaven!  God must love us.
Why else would He have stranded us here?

A church tower had a cross that lit up white at night, and I looked up it and prayed "Why did you strand me here?"

I wandered for a long time through quiet residential streets, houses where heterosexual husbands and wives were asleep, their children in the next room surrounded by "what girl do you like?" brainwashing toys and games.  I walked past a public park, but was afraid to go in.  After dark, monsters roamed through the dark swaying trees.

It occurred to me that I was one of the monsters.  After all, being gay was illegal in the United States.  I was a criminal.  (Actually, Indiana's sodomy law was repealed in 1976.)

Somehow I found myself at a small, nondescript building on College Avenue.  The sign on the marquee advertised "Adult Books."

They probably wouldn't stock any gay porn.  But it wouldn't hurt to check.  The most they could do is call me a "fag."

More after the break

The boy on the Prospect List

 

When I was growing up in Rock Island,  anyone who set foot inside the Nazarene Church for any reason, but didn't "get saved" and become a member, was placed on the Prospect List.

Even if they just came for Vacation Bible School, or to cheer for a friend at a Jump Quiz Tournament.

They stayed on that list forever, unless they asked to be removed or the Church Board decided to purge the list of names from many years ago.

(All models are over 18)

Every August, about a month before the fall revival, our Sunday school teacher gave each of us the contact information for 10 age- and -gender appropriate Prospects.  We were supposed to make it our business to "win them for the Lord," or at least invite them to church.

During the next month, we received 1 point for each Prospect that we prayed for, 2 points for each letter or post card, 5 points for each telephone call, and 10 points for each in-person visit, plus an extra 10 point if they actually came to church.

You might think that the Prospects would be buried in letters or harassed by constantly-ringing telephones, but in fact most people settled for prayer. It's a daunting prospect to cold-call someone you don't know, who has been to your church just once.

During the fall revival, the kid, teenager, and adult with the most points received awards, usually Bibles, while the whole congregation clapped and yelled "Amen!"

During the summer after 5th grade, the first year I was eligible, I wimped out with "prayer only."

In 6th grade,  I sent a few post cards.

In 7th grade, I tried phone calls, only to get two "wrong numbers" (which didn't count) and one "You made a mistake -- I never went to that church."

During the summer after 8th grade, I decided to go all the way with a personal visit.

I was fascinated by a name that appeared on the Prospect List every year: Francis DePew, who came to Vacation Bible School one summer, but never appeared again. He was in the same grade as me, and he lived on the Hill, but he didn't go to Washington Junior High.

That meant he went to Jordan Catholic School!

The Preacher told us all about Catholics!  When they weren't worshipping idols and being brainwashed by evil priests, they were laughing in the face of God, drinking, smoking, dancing, playing cards, going to movies.  But their favorite form of sin was the sex orgy, men cavorting with other men's wives, teenagers having sex without being married, all manner of abominations, as in the days before the Flood!

All manner of abominations?  I had to meet this Francis DePew!  Maybe I could get him to the altar, where he would cry and apologize to God, and I could wrap my arm around his waist and hug him.

Besides, Catholics were as difficult to win for Christ as Muslims!  He would be good practice for when Dan and I became missionaries to Saudi Arabia.

During the August before 9th grade, Dan and I rode our bikes past Francis DePew's house nearly every day.

He lived a few blocks from the church, nearly across the street from the Saukie Golf Course that the Preacher was always complaining about.

A nice house, big but nothing special.  I got  a little frisson of dread imagining the Satanic orgies going on inside every night.

Then one Saturday afternoon, we hit the jackpot: a cute, muscular teenage boy, washing a car, with his shirt off!

We stopped. "Hey, cool car," I said.

"Thanks.  It's my brother's. He pays me a dollar to wash it, and when I get my driver's license, I can have it."


"Are you Francis DePew?"

"Frank."  He eyed me suspiciously.  "Do you go to Jordan?"

"No way!"  I exclaimed, offended.  "We go to Washington. I..um...I'm on the wrestling team, and I thought I recognized you from a tournament."

"No, we we don't have wrestling.  I was on the football team last year, though."

"Oh, that's it! From a football game...I thought you had the build for wrestling."  Dan nudged me, signifiying that I had said too much.  Or maybe he wanted to be included in the conversation.  Why should I hog the cute guy?  "Um...I'm Boomer, and this is Dan."

"Hi."  Frank shook hands with us both.  "Do you play football?"


How was I going to get the conversation away from sports and onto church?  "Um...no, I'm too busy with Jump Quiz."

"What's that?"

"It's a great sport," Dan offered.  "You have to use your brain and your muscles.  Especially your legs.  We could teach you..."

And then invite him to come to a tournament, and get him saved!  I thought excitedly.  But the Jump Quiz was about the Bible.  The Preacher said that Catholics couldn't read or even touch Bibles -- the holiness zapped them like an electric shock.

"Do you...do you know anything about the Bible?" I asked tentatively.

"Oh, I know a little bit."

A few days later, Frank invited us to his house -- my first time ever in a Catholic house. It wasn't scary at all, except for the "evil" crucifix in the living room.

We set up folding chairs on the patio, and took turns reading the questions and competing one-on-one, with breaks to throw a frisbee to his dog. Frank knew about as much about the Bible as I did, and his muscular legs made him a jump quiz natural.

After an hour, we declared the game a tie, and Frank's mother invited us into the kitchen for sodas and ice cream sandwiches.

"That was fun," Frank said.  "And it really gives your legs a workout.  We should use it for football training."


"It's a big deal at my church.  We have the local eliminations in October, and then the district, and you can go all the way to the Internationals, and get a college scholarship. You should...."  But Frank was being so nice that I felt guilty about the mercenary goal of winning him for Christ.  "You should start a team at your church."

So I didn't win the Prospect. Instead, he won me.

I met a nice guy, and I realized that Catholics weren't as scary and evil as the Preacher kept saying.   In fact, the first person I spent the night with, two years later, was a Maronite Catholic boy from Lebanon.

The Nazarene Teen Idol

When I was growing up in the Nazarene Church, twice a year, in the fall and the spring, we had a "revival": a full week of screeching, foot-stomping, Bible-thumping sermons by an evangelist who made his living going from revival to revival, getting people saved and sanctified.

You were encouraged to bring your friends who went to other churches, and thus might not be amenable to visiting on a Sunday morning.  But on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday night, they were free, right?

We did get a few converts during every revival, but not nearly enough for the evangelist, who stomped and shouted with more and more urgency as the week wore on and nearly everyone who needed to get saved was already saved and only a few people went down. Or no one.

The only bright spot of the whole ordeal was the gospel group that accompanied the evangelist. During the fall revival in my junior year in high school, the evangelist was the young, muscular but bellowing Brother Jonathan, and the musical group was the Smith Family (not to be confused with the punk rock group the Smiths, which I have several times).

They sang fast, upbeat songs which I assumed they wrote -- there were records for sale in the lobby.  Church oldsters used to old Salvation Army-style ballads like "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" were scandalized by their country-inflected lyrics, not to mention their guitars, drums, and tambourines.  One of their songs goes through my head intermittently to this day:

I've got confidence, God is going to see me through
Whatever the case may be, I know He's gonna fix it for me.

(I just discovered that "I've Got Confidence" was not a Smith Family original: it was composed by Andre Crouch and popularized by Elvis Presley.)

I haven't been able to find any photos -- too much interference from other Smiths on the internet -- but they looked something like this: middle-aged husband and young-adult daughter as the lead singers (baritone and soprano), teenage son on the guitar, preteen son on the drums, and wife on the tambourine, piano, or organ.

 Scott, the teenage son, was a year younger than me, tall and buffed with big hands, a round face, short blond hair, and dreamy blue eyes.  The Nazarene equivalent of a teen idol, our own Shaun Cassidy!  I was desperate to become his friend, or at least feel a warm strong handshake, but I didn't have a chance.  He was mobbed.

Girls were swooning, batting their eyes at him, writing him love notes under the guise of prayer requests.  Old people (anyone over 30) were pushing to tell him what a "fine Christian boy" he was and getting him to autograph any piece of paper they could find, even the "notes" page of their study Bibles.  Boys were rushing to kneel at the altar in the hopes that Scott would come down from the podium and put his arm around them as they moaned and cried and "prayed through to victory."

Unfortunately, I couldn't join them at the altar, because I had made a major tactical error.  You could go down only to get saved (forgiven of the sins you had committed), sanctified (made holy, so you would be incapable of future sins), or to help someone else pray through.   And, not knowing that Scott would be there, I got sanctified just a few weeks ago!

Going down again so soon would be admitting that I had never been sanctified at all -- that I had been deceived by Satan into rising from the altar without praying through. Or that I was lying to get the praise and prestige.  A major faux pas. a major humiliation!

Every night I sat in my pew during Brother Jonathan's altar call, counting the teenage boys who went down, calculating whether the chance of Scott choosing me to pray with was worth a public humiliation. Every night I decided against it.

More after the break

On my knees in a cute boy's bedroom

 

This is an autobiographical story about growing up in an Evangelical church:

Every year the family spends a week camping somewhere in the northwoods, fishing, swimming, hiking -- and, on Sunday, finding the nearest Nazarene Church.

This summer, when I am 14 years old, it is in Brainerd, Minnesota, an hour's drive from our campsite

"An hour there and an hour back!" I protest.  "It will be 3:00 by the time we get home-- the whole afternoon wasted."

"Church is never a waste of time," Mom points out.  "Besides, there might be some cute girls there."

I sigh.  Ever since I started junior high, my parents and brother have been pointing out girls, asking if there are any cute girls in my class, high-fiving each other whenenever I casually mention a girl.  So have my friends.  Even the preacher, as he stands at the church door to shake everyone's hand as they leave, gives me a wink and says "A lot of cute girls here today!"

"And what about the soulwinners?: I continue. "We'll be mobbed!"

"Oh, stop complaining.  We'll just call ahead and tell them we're coming."

The most prestigious thing a Nazarene can do is soulwinning, talking sinners (which basically means all non-Nazarenes) into accepting Jesus as their Personal Savior, thereby winning their souls for our team.

We take classes in soulwinning, hear sermons about it, read stories about it, evaluate scenarios.  Our Sunday School teacher often asks "How many souls did you win this week?"

Usually none at all.  It's not easy.  When you were 14 years old, would you have been able to walk up to this guy and say "Hi, do you have a moment to hear the Good News of Jesus Christ?"

If you aren't "spiritually mature" enough for soulwinning, you can witness instead: tell the sinner that you are ecstatically happy every moment of every day because you're saved, or just demonstrate with a broad smile.  The sinner, immersed in the unrelenting agony of the unsaved life, will eventually want to know more.

Soulwinning is so prized that casual visitors to a Nazarene church can easily be mobbed by people grinning at them and trying to start soulwinning conversations.  Unless they come with a member, signifying that they are "taken," or call ahead.

When we walk through the foyer of the Brainerd Church of the Nazarene, looking for all the world like a family of sinners who stumbled in by accident, we are nearly mobbed, but the Sunday School superintendent, the one we called earlier, comes to the rescue.

"We have Nazarenes from Illinois visiting us today," he announces, and the wannabe soulwinners back off.

But in my Sunday School class, they haven't gotten the word.

Ten or so high schoolers are sitting on folding chairs or chatting before the class begins, and every one of them looks up and flashes me a toothy witnessing grin.  Two girls and a boy approach, intent on starting soulwinning conversations.

"I'm from....." I begin.  Then a tall, black haired boy with a strong physique, obviously church royalty, leaves his cluster of admirers and exerts control.  The others back off.

"Welcome!  I'm Roald," he say, offering a warm, tight handshake and a more subtle witnessing smile.  He's done this before!  "Is this your first time?"



This could work to my advantage!

"My parents made me come," I say, which is true.

"Well, sit down over here by me.  I'll tell you how everything works.  If you have any questions, just ask."

So I sit thigh to thigh with a cute boy, who helps me hold the hymnal and shows me how to find Bible verses.

The lesson is about how God has a husband or wife planned out for us, so we should keep ourselves pure and not kiss before marriage.  Standard Sunday school stuff, but I'm already annoyed by Mom's "there may be cute girls there" crack, so I must look rather grumpy.

Roald thinks I'm "under conviction" and puts his arm around me.

Then we have to hold hands for the closing prayer.

This could definitely work to my advantage! 

More after the break