THE TWO KINDS - The last poem for the two boys, and what they saw when they stopped looking at the labels

THE TWO KINDS

The last poem for the two boys, and what they saw when they stopped looking at the labels

I. WHAT THEY WERE TOLD THEY WERE

They were told they were an abomination before they knew the word.

They were told they were a sickness before they knew what health was.

They were told they were a test, a trial, a cross to carry, a thorn in the flesh,

a warning, a problem, a pastoral concern, a family burden,

a reason to pray harder.

They grew up knowing hate.

Not the loud hate—the quiet hate.

The hate that came in a casserole dish.

The hate that came with a bless your heart.

The hate that came from the ones who said we love you

and then put the lock on the inside of the door.

And they learned the labels.

They learned all of them.

They learned them the way you learn a language you were born into:

fluently, and without ever being asked if you wanted to speak it.

II. THE PULLING APART

And they were pulled apart.

Pulled apart by the family that chose the institution.

Pulled apart by the church that chose the doctrine.

Pulled apart by the county that chose the form.

Pulled apart by the room with the number on the door.

Pulled apart by the two beds in the two wings of the building

where the staff wore the same expression

and the expression was we are only trying to help.

And they were pulled apart by the ones who said they loved them

and who meant it

and who thought that pulling them apart was the loving thing to do.

That is the cruelty that has no author.

That is the cruelty that comes from the kitchen table.

That is the cruelty that is served with the bread.

III. THE LABELS

And they learned the labels of everyone else too.

The labels of the factions.

The labels of the tribes.

The Mormon and the ex-Mormon.

The Christian and the anti-Christian.

The left and the right.

The gay and the straight.

The pagan and the atheist.

The one who left and the one who stayed.

The one who deconstructed and the one who did not.

The one who is healing and the one who is still in the fog.

The one who is safe and the one who is not safe.

And the labels were all different and the labels were all the same.

Because every label was a way of deciding who was inside

and who was outside

and who got the bread

and who got the file.

IV. WHAT THEY SAW

And one night, in a kitchen, with the radio low and the dogs asleep,

the two boys stopped looking at the labels.

And this is what they saw:

There are only two kinds of people.

Not the Mormon and the ex-Mormon.

Not the Christian and the pagan.

Not the gay and the straight.

Not the one who left and the one who stayed.

Not the one who believes and the one who does not.

There are the ones who love because hate is wrong.

And there are the ones who hate because they call it love.

V. THE ONES WHO LOVE BECAUSE HATE IS WRONG

The ones who love because hate is wrong

do not always have the right words.

They do not always have the right politics.

They do not always have the right faith or the right doubt or the right grief.

They are not always safe and they are not always healed and they are not always on the podcast.

But they know one thing:

that the fire was never in the building

and the animals were never wrong

and the boy in the room with the number on the door was a person

and the person was not the problem.

And they will stand next to you in the parking lot

when the men in the banquet hall are passing the bread.

And they will say I was there, and this is what happened.

And they will say it even when it costs them.

And they will say it because hate is wrong

and because love is not a reward for being good

and because love is the thing you do when the reward is gone.

VI. THE ONES WHO HATE BECAUSE THEY CALL IT LOVE

And the ones who hate because they call it love

are not always the ones with the collar and the boot.

They are not always the ones with the form and the file.

They are not always the ones with the recipe book and the lamb on the platter.

Sometimes they are the ones with the casserole.

Sometimes they are the ones with the sourdough.

Sometimes they are the ones with the podcast.

Sometimes they are the ones with the very good taste.

And they all have the same creed

and the creed is this:

I love you, which is why I must correct you.

I love you, which is why I must shun you.

I love you, which is why I must file the form.

I love you, which is why I must put you in the room with the number on the door.

I love you, which is why I must save you from yourself.

I love you, which is why I must make you into the shape I need.

And the creed is fear.

And the fear has been dressed in the robe of love.

And the robe is very convincing.

And the robe has been convincing for a very long time.

VII. THE TURN

And here is the turn, and it is the whole of the poem:

The ones who hate because they call it love

are not the enemy.

That is the hardest thing the two boys ever learned.

That is the thing that took them the longest.

That is the thing that almost broke them.

Because an enemy can be fought.

An enemy can be hated.

An enemy can be put in a room with a number on the door.

But the ones who hate because they call it love

are the ones who raised them.

Are the ones who fed them.

Are the ones who knelt beside them at night and prayed for them.

Are the ones who cried when they left.

Are the ones who are still, somewhere, waiting for them to come home.

And you cannot fight them.

And you cannot hate them.

And you cannot put them in a room.

You can only stand next to them

and tell the truth

and let the fire burn

and hope that one day the robe falls off.

VIII. THE PAGAN EYES

And the two boys had Pagan eyes.

Not because they worshipped a goat.

Not because they had a chalk circle.

Not because they had a grimoire.

Because they looked at the world the way the old ones looked at the world:

and they saw that the fire was alive

and the animals were kin

and the body was not a sin

and the love between two people was not a sickness

and the world was not a test

and the gods were not a list of rules

and the earth was not a waiting room.

And because they had Pagan eyes,

they could see what the ones with the robe could not:

that the robe was fear,

and the fear was not love,

and the ones who wore the robe were not monsters,

and the monsters were not the point,

and the point was the fire,

and the fire was still burning,

and the fire had never once asked for a signature.

IX. THE TWO KINDS

So this is what the two boys see now,

in the kitchen, with the radio low and the dogs asleep:

There are only two kinds of people.

Not the ones who believe the right things.

Not the ones who left the right way.

Not the ones who have the right politics or the right pronouns or the right podcast.

Not the ones who are saved or the ones who are not.

Not the ones who are clean or the ones who are not.

The ones who love because hate is wrong.

And the ones who hate because they call it love.

And the two boys know which one they are.

And they know it was never about being good.

And they know it was never about being clean.

And they know it was never about being right.

It was about the fire.

And the fire was always burning.

And the fire did not care about the labels.

And the fire did not care about the buildings.

And the fire did not care about the robe.

The fire only cared about one thing:

whether you were standing close enough to feel it

and whether you were willing to let it burn

even when the ones you loved were standing in the cold

and calling the cold a kind of warmth.

"Let the facts be submitted to a candid world."

And we mutually pledge—

to each other—

our lives, our fortunes,

and our sacred honor.

And to the two boys, and to the ones who love them:

You were not the sickness.

You were not the test.

You were not the burden.

You were the fire.

And you are still burning.

Hieros Rev. Dustin Irish-Webb