Urn. 

Phillip had the coarsest voice of anyone I’ve ever known. The tone itself seemed to be made of gravel and heat so much that it caught me off guard the first time I heard him speak. But Philllip was something of a contradiction, and despite the harsh sound, the ways he spoke to me were most often smooth and kind. On rare occasion, something else came out, but somehow those moments remained the exception rather than the rule.

I first met Phillip at a park near the YMCA where our church met for worship at the time. We were hosting a community cookout, and hundreds of people had gathered, spread across the grass and under the pavilion. There was smoke in the air, the smell of burgers on the grill. Phillip approached me after learning that I was the church’s pastor, and explained that he too was a minister. He further shared that he’d heard good things about our church, and that he wanted to be involved in what we were doing in the community. Phillip looked to be in his fifties, and even though his appearance was a little rough, he carried himself with a kind of confidence that made me genuinely excited, however preliminarily, about what he might bring to our church.

Phillip introduced me to his brother, Wayne, who appeared to be a few years older. Whereas Phillip was outspoken and assertive, it was immediately apparent that Wayne was gentle and reserved. He had a chronic cough, the kind that resulted from decades of smoking, but he smiled through it. There was something sweet about Wayne. Despite his disheveled appearance, there was a softness that I found myself drawn to immediately. As neighbors stood in line waiting for their burgers and sodas, I talked briefly with the two men. Before grabbing their food, Phillip promised they would see us on Sunday, then they walked aways, burgers in hand, fading back into the crowd. I had no way of knowing if I’d see them again.

The following Sunday, while we were unloading equipment from our trailer and setting up for our service, Phillip and Wayne showed up nearly an hour early ready to help. This became characteristic of the two of them. Over time, we’d learn that they shared a small apartment, survived on little resources, and faced the kinds of hardships common to many in Baltimore. But they were never content simply to consume. There’s something inside all people that longs not only to receive, but also to give. This part, in Phillip and Wayne, refused to be smothered by circumstances, and they truly wanted to contribute. The church became the primary place where they were able to express this. For the next five years, Phillip and Wayne were a part of essentially every worship service and every community event we held, and the place where they were able to claim a bit of ownership involved coolers filled with sodas and waters, which they happily handed out to thirsty neighbors. 

As we came to know them more deeply, I learned that Phillip’s ministry credentials weren’t exactly what I’d first assumed. Phillip had paid something like 25 dollars to an online organization willing to issue a certificate of ordination to anyone willing to pay the nominal fee. Phillip was legally qualified to officiate weddings and funerals, but not necessarily biblically qualified to shepherd a church. Phillip had pursued ordination as a way to supplement the government benefits that barely sustained the two of them. Around the same time, I started having other questions about Phillip and Wayne, specifically concerning the nature of their relationship. So I asked Phillip directly, and he assured me they were brothers. But my concerns weren’t answered, and after the third or fourth conversation, Wayne looked quietly toward Phillip, and said, “I think we should tell him.” “I don’t think so, Wayne,” was Phillip’s reply. By then, I knew what wasn’t true. And I was pretty sure I knew what was. Finally, they agreed, and shared that they’d been legally married for more than 35 years. I didn’t say much then. I knew that, over time, the positions of our church would rise to the surface.

That opportunity came sooner than later. After only a few months with our church, Phillip and Wayne indicated on a connection card that they wanted to become formal members of our church. The process potential members to attend our Harbor Connect class, where we covered our church’s doctrinal convictions and walked through member covenant together, including our church’s understanding of biblical marriage and sexual ethics. The covenant included this language: We will practice complete chastity unless married, and, if married, complete fidelity within biblical marriage between one man and one woman.

Phillip nodded along through the entire class with no objections. When we finished the class, Phillip indicated confidently that he and Wayne were ready to move forward. Later, after the others had left, I asked Phillip if he could honestly, and in good conscience, sign the covenant. He immediately said yes. When I pointed again to the section regarding marriage, something in him changed. This was one of the times I experienced the words coming from his moutn aligning with the harshness of his voice. “You can’t do that. We have rights. If we can’t join, we’ll sue the church. We’ll take everything you own! We’ll shut this place down!” He went on for minutes, angry and defensive, as if he’d been backed into a corner and knew only to snarl and bare his teeth, a posture necessary for survival.

The next Sunday, Phillip and Wayne weren’t at church. The Sunday after that, they were back with us, helping to set up chairs, and acting as if nothing had happened. There was no apology, no acknowledgement of what had happened. Life simply continued. 

Over the coming years, Phillip and Wayne attended our membership class no fewer than five times. Each time, Phillip would insist that they were ready to join the church. And each time, I’d point again to the covenant language regarding marriage. Phillip would threaten legal action, they would disappear again, then return as if nothing had happened, slipping quietly back into their routines within the church, as if the conflict had once again dissolved on its own. 

All relationships exist between imperfect people, and healthy connection requires working through the tensions that will inevitably arise. For years, I’ve told my kids that relationships are built upon communication, and that it’s important to become comfortable with uncomfortable conversations. Phillip had learned something different. Throughout his life, Phillip had received the message that his differences were not something honored, but despised. And his uniqueness not something celebrated, but rejected. This reality came with crushing weight, and avoidance became instinctual. Whatever existed beneath Phillip’s anger, and I suspect much did, he kept coming back.

A couple Sundays each month, after church, I would take someone from our congregation out for lunch. Usually, it was someone newer to the church, or someone whose story I wanted to understand more fully. On a cool afternoon in the fall of 2019, I took Phillip and Wayne to Olive Garden. It was their first time there. I don’t remember what Phillip ordered, but Wayne got the Tour of Italy—he wanted to try everything. After the meal, I offered to buy dessert, and they each ordered a coffee and shared a piece of chocolate mousse cake. Looking back, this may have been the most extravagant meal either of them had ever experienced.

Over the previous years, I’d learned much of Phillip and Wayne’s story, but that day, they were both more open and vulnerable than they’d been before. They’d both suffered terrible abuse as children. When they should have been under the care and protection of their parents, they’d experienced the kinds of violations that can deform the shape of a life long before the opportunity to grow up arrives. Wayne’s story was especially horrifying. His mother, desperate to feed her addiction, prostituted him repeatedly when he was still a toddler. By then, I’d spent enough time in Baltiomre to know that people don’t emerge from these kinds of experiences unchanged. Past trauma does not excuse future sin. However, it does mold desires, and it further deforms the ways people relate to one another. Knowing a person’s story can help us understand what has shaped their life. 

At some point during the meal, I asked both men where they felt like they were in relation to God. “Do you feel like you’re close to Him, or maybe far away? How can I help you be in a place where you want to be?” Phillip answered first. He said he was right where he wanted to be. But Wayne hesitated. Then, quietly, he admitted that he wanted to do whatever was necessary to be right with God. “But that means our relationship changes,” Phillip said immediately. Wayne lowered his eyes. “I know. But if that’s what God wants…” Even now, years later, I believe Wayne was ready. But Phillip, always stronger and exerting his influence, persuaded him not to move forward.

Over the coming months, I revisited the conversation multiple times. Each time Wayne expressed readiness, Phillip somehow pulled him back from the threshold.

In January of 2020, while at a missions conference with one of our partner churches in Dallas, I received a call from Phillip. “Pastor Jeff, Wayne is in the hospital, and I don’t think he’s going to make it.” I’d received this kind of call before. Wayne’s years of smoking and other unhealthy lifestyle choices had taken a toll on his body, and year by year, breathing became more difficult for him. Each time before, he’d pulled through, and he still kept showing up to church, kept handing out cold sodas, and continued smiling. He really was gentle in a way that felt increasingly rare.

But something in Phillip’s voice that day made be believe this time might be different. I told Phillip I was out of town, and that thought I couldn’t make it, but that I’d send one of our pastors to the hospital right away. I hung up and made a phone call to one of our pastors. “Wayne is in the hospital,” I said. “He’s not doing well. Phillip wants a ride…do NOT pick him up. Hurry to the hospital, pray with Wayne, and share the gospel one more time. Let’s see how he responds.

Our pastor did exactly what I asked. Wayne, struggling to breathe, listened quietly. When he heard, once again, the call to repent and believe, he indicated he was ready. Roughly an hour later, when Phillip finally arrived at the hospital, Wayne had died. This time, Phillip had no opportunity to pull him back.

After Wayne’s death, Phillip fell into a place of desperate discouragement. Still, he kept showing up to church. He lost weight, and his grief became increasingly apparent. Then, in March, Covid came, and like so many others, Phillip disappeared into isolation. Though our church continued to hold small gatherings, Phillip didn’t attend. Phillip stopped responding to calls, or texts, or messages sent through social media. Weeks passed without a word from him. 

Then one afternoon in late April, I received a call from the coroner’s office. “Is this Mr. Belcher?” I told them it was. “We have the remains of a Mr. Phillip. We’ve attempted to contact next of kin, but no one is willing to assist us.” Phillip had been estranged from his family for years. Now, even in death, they wanted nothing to do with him. Over the next several days, I learned that, sitting alone in the apartment he’d once shared with Wayne, Phillip had taken his own life. Kelly and I personally covered the expenses associated with claiming Phillip’s body and honoring his life.

Phillip lived the kind of life most would largely ignore. For those who might pay attention, they’d likely see only the threats, the dishonesty, the conflict, or the homosexuality. But Phillip was much more than any single part of his story. He was resilient in ways I still struggle to understand. He kept returning, kept helping, kept sharing cold sodas and bottled waters with neighbors. Through my relationship with Phillip, I learned something about patience, and about the choice to honor the dignity and agency of another human being,  even when we fail to align in ways that are seemingly foundational.

On the bookshelf in my office, there is an urn that contains Phillip’s ashes. When no one else would claim him, we did. Every so often, I’ll glance at it, and I’ll remember Wayne’s gentle spirit, or Phillip’s confident brashness. Sometimes it moves me to consider the strange and painful complexity of human lives.