I have a deep-rooted fear of cornfields.
I hold the master of the macabre, Stephen King, responsible for causing the hairs on my neck to bristle like endless rows of ear-filled stalks every early fall.
My older cousin has a hand in my navarrofobia diagnosis, too. Even now, when I pass a plot of land littered with Zea Mays grains, I think of her. She was my companion and enabler.
Video Movie Land was a mom-and-pop rental joint in a strip mall near the outskirts of our hometown. It offered a two-dollar special on Tuesdays. Every week, we would stare at a wall of movie boxes.
Bombarded with images of the abnormal and malevolent, we would finally pick our nightmare fuel and creep to the counter. This ritual led to a few summer marathons of “Friday the 13th,” “Nightmare on Elm Street,” and too many B-rated demon-possession movie franchises to count.
Between rounds of Super Mario Bros. and Zelda, we would fill a bowl with popcorn, potato chips and Wise onion rings and gorge ourselves on lurid cinematic escapades.
Where were our parents, you ask? It was the 1980s—we proudly earned our crowns as royal latchkey kids.
Of all the horror flicks I saw during those years and since, none caused more longing for a night light than “Children of the Corn.”
Rabid dogs? Crazy killer clowns lurking around sewers? Revenge-filled prom queens? I delightfully dealt with each with that good sort of fear and trembling.
Something about the film adaptation of King’s short story made me want to close my closet door at night. It is a terror I didn’t know how to name as a child, but I do now.
Was it the desolate fictional town of Gatlin? Nah.
The dream sequence jumpscare involving Linda Hamilton in the car? Nah.
How about the unseen antagonist, an evil entity hungry for human sacrifice to produce next year’s harvest? Nope.
It was the children.
Bible-thumping, scripture-slashing, mass-murdering missionaries of adults, turn-of-the-century dressed Christian fundamentalist adolescents.
Aside from breaking out in a cold sweat around gingers named Malachai, I’ve been uneasy around fundamentalist folks ever since especially when I discovered that corn fields aren’t the only place where they roam.
They can be found protesting Justin Bieber’s concerts, picketing the funerals of soldiers, school shooting victims and those who have died from AIDS, and celebrating such national tragedies as the Boston Marathon Bombing and Pulse Night Club shooting.
I don’t know what’s more scary: King’s fictional monster aptly named “He Who Walks Behind the Rows” or the nonfiction “Those Who Walk Among Us.”
In the case of the latter, they’re not invisible.
Last month, my family and I attended an event in a neighboring community. It had been postponed, rescheduled, and moved to a different venue because of threats from those who opposed such a gathering.
We were required to make reservations for the event months in advance. On the day we arrived, several police cars greeted us at the entrance of the local community college. Given the escalating tension and threats, organizers thought it best to notify law enforcement.
Police escorted us to the registration table, where we gave our names, received our official badges, and were directed to where we should go.
We found ourselves in a space filled with colorful stickers, glue, pipe cleaners, yarn, crayons, markers, and just about anything else that might be considered craft materials.
My children pulled chairs and started coloring and gluing this or that while my spouse, Lauren, and I watched around 25 other families doing the same. Kids laughed while parents politely chatted and shared stories. All seemed merry and bright. Not long after, we were notified that the main portion of the event was about to begin in the adjacent library room.
The library director welcomed us and expressed gratitude to everyone who came. She told us what to expect before introducing the Rev. Dr. Greg Gray. He gave those of us in attendance a particular word, “rainbow,” and instructed us to clap as loudly as we could when we heard it. Kids and adults alike jumped all over this.
Finally, the speaker, or should I say “reader,” was announced. She sashayed in and sat down in front of the kids. She introduced herself. Captivated little faces followed her every move, taking in her tall hair, taller shoes, and bright dinosaur-spotted aqua dress.
She told them about the books she planned to share. One included the difference in people’s hair, the other described how a unicorn found community in an ocean full of narwhals, and the last was a reimaging of the famous children’s song, “The Wheels on the Bus.”
Afterward, the reader thanked the kids for being such good listeners; their attention span had reached total capacity, and she hoped they’d invite her back again. Reasurruing “yeses” came from all directions.
As Lauren and I gathered our things, event organizers notified us that a protest group had formed outside the library’s doors beside the parking lot. Making our way to the exit, an officer stopped us and suggested that either Lauren or I get the car, drive around back, and load the family up.
His words to us were, “It’s been a good day. Your kids don’t need to see or hear what’s happening out there.” Lauren stayed with the girls while I walked to grab the car.
I could see what the organizers and police were talking about. A handful of people, standing in front of a large sign, were shouting at those like me and counter-protesters, how we were sinning and were guaranteeing our children a ticket to hell. The sign’s message, “Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God?” followed by clobbering scripture verses supporting their ideology.
Out of the cornfields, Christian fundamentalists were doing what they’ve always done– presenting interpretation as certainty and damning anyone different than them.
I got in my car, a shiver of anger, remorse and confusion rolling over my body. I drove around to pick up my family.
In the following days, Lauren and I talked about the fantastic time we had and how unfortunate it was that others couldn’t see the love, compassion and acceptance within those holy library walls.
So much hate, judgment, and lack of understanding, all because the person reading the stories was a man dressed as a woman.
I have many privileges in my life, including the ability to ignore that which does not personally affect me. But I don’t feel I have the luxury to exclude those different from me as a pastor and, more importantly, as a follower of a liberating God.
The slight discomfort I felt that day walking to my car pales in comparison to what the Drag Story Hour reader and others in the LGBTQ+ community experience every day. And just because I am not part of that community doesn’t mean I get to treat them as others or regulate them to outsider status.
My call as minister of the Gospel is to say, “You are worthy and beautifully made. Your very presence makes the world better, and you’re helping me see the face of God in new life-giving ways.”
Maybe I feel this way because we are entering the season after Pentecost, and the notion of holy advocacy is burning within my bones like holy words did in the prophet Jeremiah. My innards will roast if I don’t let them out.
Or perhaps I am desperately trying to demonstrate to a world too tired to care that not everyone who calls Jesus Lord is actively trying to condemn it.
Or maybe, just maybe, I’m trying in the smallest of ways to show my two little girls that the God who loves them really does love everybody.
Them.
Me.
You.
Drag Queens.
Even the scary fundamentalists.
Bootleg preacher Will D. Campbell said, “If you going to love one, you got to love them all.” I’ll try to remember that at the next Drag Story Hour we attend. Or the next time I pass a cornfield filled with bogeymen, real or otherwise.
received his theological education from Campbell University and Wake Forest University School of Divinity. He is an ordained minister affiliated with the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and enrolled in the doctor of ministry program at McAfee School of Theology. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. He currently resides in New England with his family. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
