Phillip Henry died yesterday at 29 years of age. That was the short, somber text message on my phone. No! Not Phillip! I thought. He was such a close friend. That last thought was only a half-truth. My friendship with Phillip had only just begun, and I'd had such hopes for it. Now, he was gone.
He's the guy who has clarified my boundaries with cuddling and physical touch more than any other. The guy from whom I've sought comfort in touch more than any other. The guy who has made me feel seen and warm and laugh and cry like no other. He's the first (and to this point, only) guy I've fallen in love with.
I still have that Link costume somewhere in my closet. Perhaps it's the wandering through the woods that I love, the isolation, the music; or, perhaps it's something deeper that has stuck with me after all these years. Perhaps it's that I feel like the protagonist: adrift in time, unsure whether I'm a child or a man. This is how I feel as I move back into my childhood bedroom – the place where my sexual trauma occurred.
You're probably reading this thinking, "Oh boy, Eugene is going to settle this debate once and for all on which label is the right one to use!" Nope, that's not the case at all. The simple fact is that both sexuality labels have their benefits, but both are simultaneously problematic. I want to look at both labels and weigh the pros and cons of each.
Would I be able to reconnect with brothers I hadn't spoken to in months? How would I manage all the people I'd be meeting for the first time? What about the guys I found attractive? Would I even have the energy for this weekend?
When we talk about masculinity, we usually talk like it is something we need to become, instead of something we already are. I think we need to introduce a new masculine narrative: a new narrative that is actually an old one, formed by Scripture.
It's only human nature to ask these questions of nature vs. nurture. The seeming injustice and sheer unfairness of our sexualities can feel torturous. It seems cruel that we're so different in a way that society considers taboo and the church considers downright sinful.
I am attracted to other men. At this point, you might be shocked, scared, angry, or confused. Please allow me to affirm a few truths before I continue. I love Jesus, I believe in a traditional/biblical sexual ethic, and I am pursuing holiness before the Lord in my sexuality. I love you and want to walk well with you. I want you to know this about me so you can see me, love me, and walk well with me, and so I am not holding back pieces of my life from you.
In both youth groups and camp ministry, I received the modesty talk on countless occasions. They all had the same basic outline. Our bodies are a temple; we need to keep the temple pure. Anything sexual outside of marriage will dirty the temple. Men are lustful and visual creatures. Women are not as visual and do not deal with lust. I accepted this teaching wholesale. I knew that I was visual, saw my sexuality as a dirty thing, and kept on trying to fight back lust. But I began to notice some problems with modesty talks.
We yearn for men. We yearn for specific men. We yearn for abstract, unspecified men. We yearn for men in general. We yearn for men to yearn for other men. Sometimes we yearn for men's bodies, sometimes for their hearts, sometimes for their souls. We yearn for brothers. We yearn for boyfriends or husbands. Some of us yearn for fathers, some of us yearn for sons. We yearn to encounter, to access, and to drink deeply of the raw, earthy-sweet, intoxicating, powerful substance of masculinity. To be welcomed into it, to be wanted into it.