However, I want to share a specific experience I had attending Stations of the Cross last Friday. To do so requires some background history. [This post is rather long, as I tend to be verbose. For the abridged story, just read the bold paragraphs below.]
Over ten years ago, at the beginning of August, a.D. 2002, I received a positive reaction to an HIV-antibody test. In layman's terms, I was diagnosed as HIV+, like so many sexually-active gay men before me. I had come of age in the era of what was first identified as "Gay-related immune deficiency (GRID)," later more accurately named HIV/AIDS (acquired immunodeficiency syndrome).
AIDS was still a relatively new and unknown disease when I learned that my father, who is also gay, would be moving in with E.S.Q. (initials used to protect privacy), whom I had met and thought was just a buddy of Dad's but now learned was instead his boyfriend / partner. Given my mother's, step-father's and grandparents' traditional, evangelical religious beliefs; Mom & step-dad wanted to warn me about the destructive and spiritually suicidal choices Dad was making.
Problem was that at the age of 9, I had very little awareness of what "gay" meant, other than I hated to be called that by the school bullies who were already plaguing me. I had, understandably, no real understanding of what sex was. Mom & step-dad, perhaps mistakenly, decided this was the time to begin explaining the proverbial "birds & the bees." Unfortunately, the way I would remember all this to Mom years later was: "Sweetie, here's what's normal. And then here's the perversion your father practices. He's going to hell for it by the way."
I was devastated. How could my father, a former [Methodist] pastor and son of a pastor, who was dedicated to the church, go to hell? I was also beginning to understand what it was that made me so different from other boys. Deep in my psyche, I knew: I was like Dad. However, I did not want to go to hell. Thus began years of denial, confused identity, severe depression, & eventually the beginnings of suicidal ideation.
When I finally accepted that both Dad and I could be gay Christians, at about age 21, I embraced my sexual orientation. And in truth, I rebelled against the religious strictures which had repeatedly sent me the message that I was an undesirable, a pervert, and God-forsaken. Although, I never doubted Christ's love for me, I avoided His Church, which seemed to want nothing to do with me.
It was in this time that I began smoking (something that 15 years later, I'm still struggling to give up), I began binge drinking, and even having anonymous sex. Usually I practiced safer sex techniques, but not always. So here I was, with the news that I was HIV+. At some deep level, I still believed that the messages I had received as a child and adolescent were true. In the deepest, darkest part of me, I accepted this diagnosis as God's wrathful punishment for rebellion and perversion. I brought it upon myself.
So for the next decade, despite the amazing advances in the treatment of HIV/AIDS, I repeatedly stopped taking my medications, leading to medication resistance and more and more complicated regimens. In 2003, at the age of 26, I suffered from an infection I had only ever heard of in relation to older adults: shingles (herpes zoster). Thankfully, medication quickly cleared it up.
Three years later, after an extended period of no medical care, my CD4 count (also known as T-cells) fell to 13/µl. Normal healthy CD4 counts range from 500/µl to 1200/µl. Anything below 200 designates an upgrade in diagnosis from HIV-infection to AIDS. I resumed anti-retroviral medications, which improved my CD4 count, but due to my irregular compliance, I never achieved an undetectable viral load, which is the complementary goal of ongoing treatment for HIV/AIDS.
Despite improved labs, because of my continuing belief that I somehow deserved to die of AIDS, I once again eventually stopped treatment.
And during the following year and a half, I grew so much spiritually. I became more and more involved in my local parish. After many years of unemployment, during which I survived on my inheritance, I began a part-time job as a retail vendor. I was elected to the Vestry, and chosen its clerk. I was once again in my spirit hearing God's call to ordained ministry.
And then my 35th birthday (19th February 2012) arrived. It happened to be the last Sunday after Epiphany. It started out as expected: I attended the 10am Mass at Christ Church Dallas, singing with the choir. I received my birthday blessing from Ernie+ after the Peace, went to lunch at La Calle Doce with the English choir, just like most Sundays. Then I headed home for a couple hours before my parish would be participating in the Mardi Gras Parade in Bishop Arts, just a few blocks from the church.
However, as I reached home, just a few minutes' drive from La Calle Doce, I experienced extreme fatigue. I thought maybe this was the effect of the two celebratory margaritas I'd had at lunch, but I soon learned otherwise, as fever and flu-like symptoms began. I never made it to the parade.
Having no health insurance or regular doctor, I waited to seek medical care, hoping and praying that I would recover on my own, like a normal person. Instead over the next month, I grew sicker and sicker, weaker and weaker, thinner and thinner. I finally went to the emergency room, only to be admitted to the hospital for the next 25 days, most of it spent in isolation. To visit me, family and friends, doctors and nurses had to wear face masks.
After 10 days or so of multiple tests and procedures, the doctors finally had a suspected diagnosis and began treating me for disseminated histoplasmosis. At this time my viral load was in the hundred-thousands, and I had 6 T-cells. After escaping death, by God's mercy, I have returned to regular medical care, and have had an undetectable viral load for over six months, and my CD4 count has risen to 130. Thanks be to God!
And then, at the end of this past January, my gallstones flared up. I had known since 2007 that I had them, but they had seldom if ever caused any pain or issues. This was something new.
The surgeon, ER doctor, and my own doctor all concurred that I would need to have my gallbladder removed, but without infection, there is no emergency. Still I endured a full week -- 7 whole days -- with the most abject pain in my side. At one point I said to Mom, if this is what St. Paul meant by thorn in his side, it was serious. Thankfully, a medicine for biliary colic, reduced the inflammation, and I've been pain-free for almost three weeks.
During Lent, Christ Church commemorates the Christ's walk down the Via Dolorosa each Friday evening with the service of "Stations of the Cross (Via Crucis)". I missed the first week, but attended the last Friday.
At about the fourth station, I teared up as I was overwhelmed with emotion, which stayed with me throughout the evening. Stations is a very moving and emotional service all on its own, to be sure. But what heightened my emotion was the realization, and very physical memory, of the last service of Stations I had attended.
Prior to last week, the last time I'd prayed the Via Crucis was about 5 days before my hospitalization. That night in March last year, I was so weak, I could hardly stand through the entire service, much genuflect at each station.
As we moved from station to station, I reflected on my own suffering and pain. I am convinced that what I endured was but the tip of the iceberg compared to what our Savior endured, having taken on the sin and suffering of all humanity. I have a new appreciation for Christ's suffering before and through His death on the Cross. And I believe had He not made that sacrifice, I would not be here to give Him thanks for it.
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