There’s a Savior that I’ve never seen
I want to thank Him for all He’s done for me
Oh but sometimes, I just want to go home
It’s a nice message, Cassandra thought. And the song isn’t terrible. A little kitsch, she decided, in that particular, Christian soft-rock sort of way. And very different from what she was used to. Acoustic guitars weren’t so bad, but drum sets still seemed off. This drummer would have clashed horribly with the warbled, four-part harmonies she knew so well, as with the hulking, out-of-tune pipe organ at the evensong she’d been to a week ago. She tried to give the music a chance. After weeks of fruitless searching, her hopes for the meeting were high, but her expectations could not have been lower.
For the streets are pure as crystal
That my feet are longing to walk on
Oh but sometimes, I just want to go home
Cassandra’s gaze wandered across the fluorescent-lit room. A few people had their hands in the air. One older woman was smiling and weeping in the row behind. She had seen faces like that at church before. To be honest, she’d made that face a few times herself. Once at her brother’s wedding reception. Maybe at a baptism. Usually while listening to hymns. But today, in this strange little room with outsized speakers, surrounded by strangers rocking gently back and forth? She felt nothing. She wanted to. She knew that others around her felt it. But not her. Not here.
Home has never looked so good to me
Fear is gone, spirits there are free
When I find I’m almost falling, I see tomorrow
And it keeps me going; there’s no turning back
I just got to make it home
As the song ended, she noticed Helen discreetly scrutinizing her expression from the seat beside her. Cassandra forced a smile. She wanted Helen to feel she was giving the new church a fair shot. Her best, her oldest friend could never fully understand what she was going through, but Helen had made such an effort to be supportive, week after week. Cassandra dreaded letting her down again.
“Thank you for that beautiful song,” the pastor said, his dry, high-pitched voice booming over the speaker system. “And thank you for your devotion.” He was a tall, large man, late thirties, with curly red hair and a smile that seemed too big for his face, which was momentarily fortunate, as most of his head was buried by a massive headset microphone, like some Nineties pop star on tour. He wore dark-rimmed glasses on the end of his wide nose and a pale blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves. A worn Bible perched proudly in his left hand, an open water bottle in his right. As he cleared his throat, Cassandra sat forward in her chair resolutely, determined to give the sermon a fair shot to win her over.
“When God became a man in the form of our Lord Jesus,” he started, his bouncy, stop-and-go cadence typical of many of the sermons Cassandra had heard over the past six weeks, “he was alone so much of the time. As a matter of fact, some even think he was homeless.” Cassandra raised her eyebrows. Maybe, just maybe, there was something here.
The red-haired pastor continued, “He told his followers that Foxes have dens and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head. His hometown drove him away. His followers oftentimes abandoned him. His own family didn’t really understand who he was. And the people he came to save kept rejecting him and trying to murder him.”
Cassandra leaned forward, digging her elbows into her knees, wondering where this was going. Helen, meanwhile, had already extracted her study journal from her purse and was religiously taking notes.
“Now sometimes, Jesus took comfort in nature, something I think we all like to do as well,” the pastor went on. “And sometimes, Jesus got comfort from angels. And I do believe that there are angels watching over all of us.” A shout of AMEN went up from the crowd. “But one thing people forget about Jesus is how often he went to his friends for comfort. Yes, even Jesus had friends, little flock. In the book of John, 15th chapter, 14th verse, we read…”
Despite her best efforts, Cassandra didn’t catch most of what was said after that. It was something about trying to be friends with Jesus. Or being a good friend to others, like Jesus. It must have meant something to those around her, who supplied occasional, hearty AMENs, but this felt awkward. Too foreign. Another verse, unbidden, kept crossing her mind, though the pastor never said it: I will call you friends, for you are my friends, and ye shall have an inheritance with me. That last line stung. She wanted it to be true. Or at least she thought she did.
The pastor eventually finished, and the non-denominational crowd of forty or so prayed together and shared another song, during which the red-haired man’s eyes lingered on the two newcomers. Cassandra knew what that meant.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she whispered the moment the meeting ended, hastily standing, picking up her purse, and turning toward the exit.
“Of course!” Helen responded, getting to her feet. “What did you think?”
“Umm…” Cassandra started, but she didn’t have time to finish, as a newly familiar voice began calling out to them.
“Sisters,” it said. “Welcome to our little flock.”
Cassandra had hoped to avoid this. She and Helen turned to see the pastor shuffling up gregariously behind them. She could almost taste his barely restrained enthusiasm—and she could definitely smell his perspiration.
“Hi!” Helen responded brightly. “That talk was really good, Reverend.”
“Pastor, actually,” he responded at once, his smile unshaken. “But you can just call me Troy. And thank you. I’m glad it was helpful.”
“Oh, yeah,” Helen continued. “I especially liked the part about David and Jonathan. I love that story. It’s so important to have close friendships.”
Troy’s smile grew somehow wider. “Thank you for saying that. I’m always nervous about giving Old Testament-heavy sermons; it puts some people on edge.”
“But some of the best scriptures are in the Old Testament!” Helen protested. “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths. It’s my favorite scripture!”
She was showing off; all those hours of Scripture Mastery practice had not been wasted on her. But Cassandra didn’t mind. Helen was the best Mormon she knew. She had been ever since they were in Primary together. She had always done everything she was ever supposed to: dragged Cassandra to early-morning seminary, served a mission in Paris, majored in Family and Consumer Sciences at BYU, got engaged to a General Authority’s grandson at the age of 24, and still found time to serve as her ward’s Relief Society President. But she never judged anyone. Not for anything. She was always there with a hug and a pizza and a funny YouTube clip anytime you needed a friend. No questions asked. Exactly the sort of friend you could ask to try out new churches with. Cassandra was going to miss that once Helen got married. Then things would get weird.
Pastor Troy raised an eyebrow and scrutinized the women with increased interest, his eyes lingering on Helen’s left ring finger. “You know your Bible,” he said (was that admiration? or just a hint of jealousy?). “Maybe you should be giving sermons instead of me.” He laughed, then continued, “I hope you’re planning to meet with us more often.”
“Cassandra might,” Helen blurted out, before Cassandra could stop her. “She’s looking for a new place to go to church.”
Troy’s eyes passed over Cassandra a second time, sizing her up. “Hi, Cassandra. We’re pleased to have you here with us. What brings you on your spiritual journey?”
“Oh, you know,” Cassandra stalled. She never knew just how much to let on. She’d browsed Good Shepherd Church’s website, and it seemed decent enough, but you could never be too sure. Especially after that uninspiring sermon. “Just the usual. Want to feel closer to God. Want to do some good in the world. Want to have a faith community again.”
“Again?” Troy asked. “So you had one before? A community, I mean?”
“I thought I did.”
“What happened?”
“It’s a long story.”
The pastor stared. He sensed, Cassandra thought, what the problem had been, but he also seemed to realize that she wouldn’t disclose just yet. Instead, he said, “Well, I’m sure you’ll always find friends here. At least, if people listened to today’s sermon.” He laughed again. “Can I ask what church you attended before?”
Cassandra hesitated. “Recently, I’ve been a lot of places. Episcopalian. Pentecostal. Quaker. Methodist. St Agatha’s, down the street.” She took a breath. “But I was raised Mormon. We both were.”
“We were in the same home ward as kids,” Helen added. Cassandra doubted the pastor knew what a “home ward” was, but she was grateful Helen resisted the urge to correct her use of the word “Mormon”.
Troy betrayed the slightest flinch but recovered quickly. “And now you’re here. If you don’t mind me asking, what did you think about today’s meeting?”
Once again, Cassandra hesitated. What was she supposed to say? “It was nice,” she decided. “I liked the music.” That was true enough.
There was an awkward pause as Troy waited, Cassandra was sure, for her to compliment his sermon. After a few seconds, Helen broke through the silence. “How long have you been a pastor?”
They chatted a bit longer, but Cassandra started zoning out again. This place, it was all wrong. Wrong for her, at least. These sterile white walls, the scent of coffee wafting from the weird stand in the corner, and this awkward, sweaty man with a microphone strapped to his face—she’d felt more inspired on a basketball court with carpeted floors. Lots of times, in fact. That place had been almost perfect. Almost.
With trepidation, she decided to go ahead and ask the question that had brought her here, knowing that no answer would be enough to convince her to come back. Barely listening, she waited for Troy to finish a longwinded story about his last mission-trip to Turkey, then interjected “Can I ask a question?”
“Of course,” Pastor Troy answered.
Cassandra took a breath. “Are there any LGBTQ members of your congregation I could talk to?”
Pastor Troy stared at her, his expression, for once, unreadable. Finally he said, “Well, everyone’s welcome here at Good Shepherd Church. I’ll make some phone calls. If I find any, maybe I can introduce them to you next Sunday?”
“That’s fine. No need,” Cassandra said, horrified to feel tears beginning to well up in her eyes. “Thank you for the service.” She took off toward the exit, hoping Helen would have the sense to follow. Before she got to the car, the tears were freely flowing down her cheeks, and she could feel sobs forming in the back of her throat.
Diving into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut, Cassandra wept. Not the happy, soulful tears of the woman at church; these were wretched, desperate heaves of pain, pent up over a lifetime of secrecy, self-loathing, shame, and injustice. Cassandra never cried. She prided herself on that. She didn’t know exactly what it had been that set her off; it was hardly the most hostile encounter she’d had since she’d come out. But something in her had broken today, and no amount of composure would hold it in.
Fortunately, Helen had only been a few steps behind her, and Cassandra soon felt her best friend’s arms wrapping around her from the passenger seat, felt Helen’s own sympathetic tears fall off of her cheeks and into Cassandra’s hair.
They lost track of how long they cried together, but the parking lot around them had emptied before Helen finally broke the silence. “I wish I knew a way to make everything better.”
Cassandra sniffed, but could think of nothing to say. Eventually, Helen continued, “Maybe we should try something totally different? Like that Baháʼí meeting you mentioned?” When Cassandra didn’t respond, she continued, “Or what about that Episcopalian place we tried last Sunday? They seemed really inclusive.”
“They were really nice,” Cassandra admitted, her voice breaking shrilly. She took a few deep breaths to compose herself. “I don’t know, Helen. Nowhere feels right. Yet.” The last word hung in the air unconvincingly.
“Which place did you like best?” Helen asked. “Maybe we can find similar places?”
“Like?” Cassandra repeated. She closed her eyes and slumped in her chair. Helen still didn’t understand. “That’s the problem, Helen. I like the Book of Mormon. I like ‘Give Said the Little Stream’. I like green jello and genealogy and Family Home Evening. I just want to want to enjoy those things with my own forever family someday, with somebody I actually, completely love. I’d like to go home, to a place where all those parts of me fit. But I don’t fit. I never really did. And now that my home sees me for what I am, it doesn’t want me anymore.”
Helen’s lips started to tremble. Cassandra didn’t want her to start crying again, so she continued.
“You remember the rich young man? The one who asked What should I do to inherit eternal life? I think about that question a lot. What am I supposed to do? Be alone my whole life, drowning in others’ pity and judgment, and hope I’m magically straight if I get to heaven? Marry some poor Mormon guy so we can make each other miserable, knowing the whole thing is a sham, a mirage? Or just walk away, try to find a woman who loves me, and enjoy my life as best I can, knowing that a piece of me will always be missing and I might just get sent to Hell? What am I supposed to do, Helen?”
She didn’t feel sad anymore. She felt angry. Angry at her brother who suddenly wouldn’t let her see her nieces. Angry at her mom, who thought that she was broken. Angry at her old bishop, who felt she could get over this if she just had a bit more faith. Angry at all those ignorant comments in Sunday School about how people like her wanted to destroy the Church and the family, whatever that meant. And she was angry at the Jesus she loved so much but who didn’t seem to love her enough to show her how to escape.
There was another long silence, before Cassandra whispered aloud for the first time the idea that had haunted her for years: “Maybe it would just be better for me to die.”
Helen instinctively grabbed Cassandra’s hand. “God wants you to be alive. Alive and,” she licked her lips nervously, “and happy.” Her voice trembled, barely more than a whisper. “I know that. No matter what you do. And I don’t know what I’d do with myself if—if you—”
“It’s all right,” Cassandra interrupted, forcing what she hoped was a comforting smile. Resolutely, she fished her keys out from under the driver’s seat where they had fallen and started the car. Helen was so nice. But niceness could only do so much.
“I know He wants me to be happy,” she lied, straining to seem optimistic. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Helen stared at her dubiously, holding back tears.
“Don’t worry!” Cassandra went on. “I’ll be fine. Baháʼí next week? I think it starts at two, so I’ll just pick you up from your church, and we can go straight there.”
Helen gave her hand a little squeeze and managed a weak smile of her own. “Of course, Cassandra.”
“You’re sure Manny won’t mind?”
“He’ll be fine.”
Cassandra turned away and switched on the radio. She didn’t feel like talking anymore; she quite felt that she’d overshared already, and she assumed Helen had no idea what else to say. As distant songs from her childhood flowed around her, she wondered if it would be better to give up on this whole pointless search. Did she really need a church? Did she even want one? Plenty of people got on just fine without organized religion. Why not her?
Her mind everywhere but the road in front of her, she somehow wound her way toward Helen’s apartment, vaguely listening to the familiar melody pouring out of the radio as she went.
Come as you are
As you were
As I want you to be
As a friend
As a friend
As a known enemy
The song was interrupted as she pulled up next to her best friend’s door and stopped the car, feeling somehow both numb and exposed. Before leaving, Helen turned back and gave Cassandra one last, long hug.
“We’ll find a place for you,” Helen whispered. “I promise.”
Cassandra struggled to form a sad smile and watched as Helen turned and walked away toward her apartment, toward her fiancé, toward her simple, straightforward life. Once Helen was out of sight, Cassandra started the car again and paused to let the last cadences of memoria wash over her.
Nothing.
She felt as dry and empty as she had at Good Shepherd Church.
She’d try that Baháʼí meeting next week. And the Charismatic Catholic one the week after. But neither would be the right place. She knew where she wanted to go. She just didn’t know how to get there.
Riley Clay has studied education, history, and Spanish at University College London and Brigham Young University. His work has been featured by The Copperfield Review, The International Association for Visual Culture, and the Association for Mormon Letters Conference.
