The Nerve

Trigger Warning: The following passage discusses sexual discrimination, political views, and religious topics, which may be controversial to some. Discretion is advised. Thank you. --Laura

“Yeh, it’s sad, believe me, Missy,

When you’re born to be a sissy

Without the vim and verve.

But I could show my prowess, be a lion not a mou-ess

If I only had the nerve.”

Whenever one speaks of courage in any capacity, I can’t help but think of the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz. That frantic, fidgeting feline with comical vibrato looked too cute for his own good with those little blue bows in his hair!

Accessories aside, I find courage, overall, to be subjective. A brave act by some may be seen as foolish by others. For example, in June of 2016, I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane (with a parachute, of course). While skydiving was, hands-down, the most fearless thing I’ve ever done, I see courage personified through people like my friend, Jessie, who has served for over a decade in the US Army. Generally speaking, that’s courage. I know I don’t have the physical stamina or mental capacity to endure boot camp, much less serve heroically on the front lines. But apparently heroes are made, not born. So, that begs the question: Are heroic, courageous acts chosen, or (as with the Cowardly Lion) does this quality exist in us all?

In my opinion, courage isn't something one should boast about anyway, so it’s difficult for me to think of a time when I’ve personally been courageous. Those who perform these gallant efforts have grit, face challenges, and often endure some great sacrifice. I wonder: If you haven’t lost something significant, were you courageous at all? What about the times that call for no action? We don’t consider ourselves valiant when choosing a passive response over violence, do we? And what about those occasions where we think we’re being brave but end up with a mouthful of the heartiest of humble pie?

Let that marinate for a minute.

Circling back to The Wizard of Oz, if you watch the scene closely, just before the Wizard presents the Cowardly Lion with a medal, he says, “You’re a victim of disorganized thinking.”

I understand disorganized thinking all too well, being raised in a very religious, very RED household during the TBN, Jim & Tammy Faye Bakker, evangelist movement of the 1980s-90s. My family was in church every time the doors were open, there was no alcohol in our house, and we definitely did not associate ourselves with non-believers. My circle of friends consisted of those I saw almost every day and twice on Sunday. We believed the same; we worshipped the same, and, to my shame, we judged the same.

I never considered that I had been sheltered or closed-minded until my early twenties--in college--when I began to live on my own for the first time. I’m a rule-follower by nature, so there aren’t many stories about reckless behavior or great passion from my youth. On the rare Saturday nights when I would go out, I’d leave a restaurant or movie theatre downtown with my sister-in-law and be shocked at seeing young men from church disheveled, three sheets to the wind, holding a girl on each arm. But were their butts in the pews on Sunday morning? You’d better believe it. They’d often wear the same clothes as the night before, with the after-stench of booze ruminating in an accusatory cloud around them.

(Again, no judgement here. This is a story of who I was, not who I am.)

I've never liked confrontation and am, admittedly, a recovering people-pleaser (Is that okay?). But when my circle of friends chose to shun one of their own for his lifestyle choices, my perception of sacred ground shifted. The first vote to remove this individual from the church band occurred without my knowledge, though I'm certain I’d have been outvoted.

Jake*, an incredibly talented vocalist and a section leader on our musical Praise Team, was dismissed from his leadership position due to “struggling” with homosexuality. (I use that word because it’s what he used.) Jake and I were best friends, spending countless hours together. I could walk into his family home unannounced. His mother would regularly set a place for me at the dinner table. I was practically family. The Praise Team—consisting of early college/career students and young married couples—claimed to be just as close. If ever a clique existed, it was there.

Jake’s absence was noticeable from a vocal standpoint (which I can say as a music major), yet none would address the “taboo” topic. Though it also bothered me on a spiritual level, I said nothing. I continued to see Jake outside church services and even let him crash on my couch several times because his parents kicked him out. Other than the occasional blonde joke, I had never witnessed the aftermath of discrimination before. (Yes, I recognize my privilege.) He carried the pain of prejudice well enough to conceal it from others, but I could see the heartache behind his cheerless chestnut eyes, tightly stitched within a million-dollar smile. I always believed prejudiced individuals were foolish and hateful, the opposite of those called to be emblematic of God’s love in their words and actions. But what I saw didn't look like love, not even close.

When Jake requested to meet with the Praise Team one night after rehearsal, I knew he was walking into the proverbial lion’s den. There we were: four vocalists and three instrumentalists on the platform, listening to Jake pour his heart out to us, petitioning for acceptance—for our forgiveness—and requesting a second vote for his reinstatement.

They tore him apart.

Whoever said “words could never hurt you” must not have been in a church youth group. I can’t recall what prompted my eventual outburst, and I only remember telling the entire Praise Team that they were all hypocrites.

“It’s not our job to judge people; it’s our job to love people the way God loves us!” I exclaimed, taking a mental inventory of all the secret Saturday night shenanigans I’d seen in years past. “You guys are acting like a bunch of Pharisees and Sadducees!”

For those who may not know their New Testament, Pharisees and Sadducees were mainly middle-class businessmen and leaders of the synagogues back in Jesus’s time. Although they accepted interpretations of the gospel, this powerful group of holy men practiced their beliefs under smug, self-righteous pretenses, and Jesus called them out for it, too.

Practice what you preach.

Have you ever heard this expression? That’s where it comes from.

The brawny drummer looked at me and responded very matter-of-factly, “Well, I think you are a hypocrite for saying you’re a Christian and supporting Jake’s sin.”

Humble pie would be better with a topping or a glass of milk!

I quit the Praise Team that night.

After discovering one crack in the foundation of my faith—or at least the fellowship of that faith—I couldn’t help but notice them more frequently. As fate would have it, I took a World Religion course the next semester. How marvelous to open one’s mind to new ideas!

Honestly, standing up for any marginalized group of individuals has little to do with me. It’s about their recognition, acceptance, and peace of mind. Telling off a group of religious zealots does not require great skill, but that particular association was all I’d ever known, so…it felt like a big deal. Was this courageous? I couldn’t say, for bravery wasn’t even considered at that moment. I championed Jake because I love him. It’s that simple.

Faith is still present in my life, for I find it essential, yet my devotion is nobody’s business but mine. I remain open and receptive to even fierce conversations, yet I no longer view organized religion as the end-all, be-all of divine authority. And listen, I'm not saying my views are right for everyone. My views are right for me. I stand firm in my belief that God’s message centers around love and live my life by it. Show love, give love, be love, and love often. That’s my motto.

Yet, love requires a certain amount of courage, wouldn’t you agree?

The outspoken loves of country and justice tend to take precedence, and rightfully so. These colors don’t run! But perhaps the most authentic acts of courage are enacted freely through love, maybe even quietly at times, and without premeditation. It’s sitting by the social pariah in the cafeteria or helping to clean a mess you didn’t make, whether literal or metaphorical. It’s pushing aside your sensibilities or convictions and saying, “Tell me more.”

However you choose to be brave, I hope you do so not because you've been promised future medals or ruby slippers but because you trust the love within you and possess enough hope to nourish it.

*Not his real name.