CHAPTER 7
Rehab with a twist
Back in Sydney I had to decide what to do next and, considering I’d had such an incredible experience of divine guidance, I was convinced God was going to call me into the ministry very soon. The Bible says that after Jesus was baptised He was sent into the wilderness to fast for forty days, and that during that time was tested by the devil. Overcoming all the temptations put to Him, He came out of the wilderness in the power of the Spirit and commenced His ministry of preaching, healing the sick, performing miracles, and casting out demons. We’d been taught about the importance of fasting at college. Why don’t I fast for forty days like Jesus did, I thought, and find out exactly what God wants me to do? I’d learnt that fasting was one way of getting a greater anointing of God’s power on your life. I thought the power I would get from this time would also deal with the homosexual thoughts that were beginning to creep back again. I wasn’t going to quit fighting this thing.
Kihila was a Christian retreat in the Blue Mountains, which had become a meeting place in the late 1960s and early 1970s for the new Charismatic movement happening in Sydney churches. I knew the owners well as I’d attended most of the conventions there and had spoken at a few youth camps. I thought this would be an ideal place for me to hide away and fast. So within a week of getting out of the army, much to my parents’ dismay, I packed my bags and took the train to the Blue Mountains.
I ate my last meal when I arrived at Kihila and was committed to only having water and fruit juices for the next forty days. Most days I spent in a bare room with only a bed and lounge chair and devoted myself to prayer, reading the Bible and books about finding God’s guidance. Spending so much time alone made me very reflective—I thought about my motives and what might be the real reason I wanted to serve God. Why did I want to do great things for God? Why did I want to be a famous preacher? Was it to gain God’s favour and score brownie points? Was it just my selfish ego? After much soul searching all I could see was a life of sacrifice and service ahead of me. God had produced many wonderful changes in my life and I wanted to show my gratitude to Him.
After the second week, my mind occasionally began slipping away from the spiritual issues and that all too familiar restlessness came over me. On about the twentieth day, when night fell, I went for a walk down to the main road. The desire to be with someone was rising again but from where? Was it the devil tempting me or maybe a demonic spirit seeking control again? Or, as I’d just been reading about, a work of the flesh? Whatever it was I knew it had to be overcome. Arriving at the main road, instinctively I began hitchhiking along the highway towards Katoomba. It was a still, eerie night with few cars on the highway so late. Winter always left the mountains later than it did in Sydney; the clouds hung so low over the mountains the reflection of the orange streetlights mixed with the dark grey of the clouds created a mauve ceiling. My eyes followed the cars as they passed, hoping a man would stop and pick me up. After walking half a kilometre, a car pulled up ahead of me so I ran and opened the door.
‘Where you off to, mate?’ he questioned. The gruffness in his voice indicated he was straight—he was probably a local coal miner or something—but I already knew by experience that the masculine voice occasionally disguised a man who enjoyed sex with men. There was a desperation driving me as I tried all the usual tricks to indicate I wanted sex—sitting with my legs apart, scratching my crotch when he looked over, moving my leg over towards the gear stick so that when he changed gear he touched my knee—but nothing worked. In fact, I was beginning to sense the man was becoming suspicious, so I decided to retreat for safety’s sake. The conversation ceased and he dropped me off at Katoomba. What will I do now? I walked up and down the main street of Katoomba for half an hour, hoping that maybe another homosexual man was out on the prowl. It was a fruitless exercise.
Now that I was thirty kilometres from Kihila I walked back to the highway and began hitchhiking again. By this time it was about midnight, traffic was even lighter and drivers were fearful of picking up strangers alone on the road, so I walked for what seemed like forever before a nurse on her way home from night duty picked me up. It soon became clear she had another motive behind her act of kindness when she began hinting that I might like to go home with her. Why was this kind of temptation easy to resist? It was 3am when I finally fell into bed exhausted. Isn’t that just like the devil? I thought, tempting you to the point where you finally give in but in the end not delivering the final product. Even though the Bible warned me ‘beware of the tricks of the devil’, it had happened too many times. The next few days were spent repenting, crying, asking God to forgive me and pleading for Him to take these terrible cravings away from me. I’d been fighting this now for two years already; it had to go soon.
After forty days of fasting I was skinnier but I still had no clear indication of what God wanted me to do. My Christian friends in Sydney were impressed that I’d completed the forty-day fast; so few did. I could not tell them about the real struggles I was experiencing as we rarely spoke honestly about our failures, only our victories, a little like compulsive gamblers who always tell you how much they’ve won but never how much they lost. Being an ex-bible college student, and therefore supposedly more spiritual than the average Christian, made me retreat further into my secretive life of conflict.
All my original feelings of fear, rejection and alienation as a homosexual had been reinforced since becoming a Christian. Believing the Bible to be the inspired Word of God, I’d become a devoted reader and had already read from Genesis to Revelation five times. Memorising individual verses and passages was always encouraged as a sign of spiritual maturity so I was able to quote numerous verses from the Old and New Testaments. There were only six verses in the Bible that mentioned homosexuality, as far as I knew. Leviticus 18:22, ‘You shall not lie with a male as those who lie with a female; it is an abomination,’ was one. Leviticus 20:13, ‘If a man lies with a male as those who lie with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination and they shall surely be put to death,’ another. Then there were the New Testament verses in 1 Corinthians 6:9–10: ‘Do you not know that the wicked will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Do not be deceived: Neither the fornicators nor idolaters, nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the Kingdom of God’. Having no knowledge of the original languages, historical context or cultural meaning of these passages, I assumed they were all talking about me. I certainly didn’t want to be an abomination to God or be ousted from the Kingdom of God—hell was a frightening prospect. Words like ‘transgression’, ‘unrighteousness’, ‘ungodliness’, ‘wickedness’, ‘fornication’ and ‘sin’ reminded me that God had his standards and if I was going to serve him I had to do it from a pure and holy life.
Over the next six months I lived off the money I’d saved while in the army and only took casual jobs such as cleaning. This meant I had the freedom to answer the call as soon as it came. This also meant I could accept invitations to speak at high school Christian lunchtime meetings and also at youth groups and camps. During January 1972, John, my friend from school, and another friend David, organised a gospel tour into the central west of New South Wales and we travelled for a month singing and preaching in Charismatic and Pentecostal churches.
In March 1972, my parents wanted to organise a twenty-first birthday party for me but as I didn’t drink alcohol or dance, it turned out to be a very low-key affair. Family members were surprised at how subdued all my friends were and how they mostly talked about God. My most treasured gift was a combined gift from my friends; a big, black, leather-bound Dakes Bible. It was the most expensive on the market—almost every verse was cross-referenced and at the back included a huge concordance so that I could always find those elusive verses. A great preacher’s Bible, I thought.
It wasn’t long after my birthday that the old habit of walking the streets at night began again to take control—I knew I had to do something. The stress of constant temptation, failure, guilt and condemnation made me feel like I was heading for a nervous breakdown so I rang the pastor at Christian Faith Centre and told him I needed some counselling. I said I was willing to see him immediately. It was a big thing for me to admit I needed help.
‘How long have you had this problem?’ he said.
‘Since I became a Christian,’ I admitted with a defeated tone in my voice.
‘Well, another night’s not going to make any difference then, is it?’ he quickly replied, in a way that made me think he’d used that line before. He told me to go to the boys’ home for the night and he’d talk with me tomorrow. (The church had organised boys’ and girls’ homes for young people in the church who needed accommodation.) Poor Mum and Dad were at their wits end seeing me in such a distressed state and tried to find out what was wrong. I couldn’t tell them because I knew they wouldn’t understand, and besides, I was a Christian and if I told them honestly what was going on then they might believe God had failed me. I didn’t want that. ‘I’ll be away for a few days,’ I announced as I walked out the door with a few belongings in my bag.
The journey from Hunter’s Hill to the beach suburb of Narrabeen meant I had to go via Town Hall Station. Sydney was like cities all over the world at that time where a homosexual act between two consenting adults was illegal. Fear of discovery forced most into a life of secrecy and the only place that some men could occasionally connect with other men was at certain well-known public toilets. In order to keep homosexuality in check, plain-clothes policemen often baited gay men by pretending they wanted sex with them, sometimes arresting them after they’d had sex with the accomplice. It was always useless accusing the officer of being a willing partner—we were the criminals, they were upholding the law and cleaning the scourge from society. The underground male toilets at Town Hall station were a notorious beat and the thrill of an encounter could become a prison sentence within seconds with the revealing of a badge or the words ‘you’re under arrest’. Because of the danger I rarely visited the beat, but somehow that night the threat dissipated once the desire to connect with another male rose to the fore. Alighting from the bus, I was drawn immediately down the steps to the station toilets. I looked in disbelief at the person I recognised walking up the steps towards me.
‘Ben, what are you doing here?’ I asked, trying to think what excuse I’d use for being there. Ben was my age with beautiful, blond, curly hair and piercing blue eyes; just gorgeous. I’d worked with him at Macquarie University. Even though I thought he was incredibly attractive, I never even entertained the thought of anything happening between us as, firstly, I thought he was straight and, secondly, I wanted him to become a Christian. Every time I’d talk to him about Jesus, Ben argued to frustrating infinitum just for the sake of argument, and often tried to make me lose my temper by annoying me while I concentrated on my work. He delighted in this game because he knew when I finally lost my temper, he could say I was a bad Christian. ‘Christians aren’t supposed to get angry,’ he’d say with a devilish, tormenting tone. He loved winning arguments and showing up my imperfections and now, face to face in my weakened state, with no other Christian back-up, I was completely vulnerable. He seemed to know why I was there and I thought it useless to try and explain that I was only passing through.
‘Come with me,’ he said, and I followed without question, allowing myself for the first time to really admit to myself how attractive he was. All over my body, cells were now being activated at a feverish pace. So often I’d prayed that God would use me to lead Ben to Christ but now he was leading me, without protest or resistance, to sin. He took me down a narrow lane, about a block away from the station. As we walked down the alley into the darkness, he occasionally looked behind to ensure no-one saw or followed us. Reaching the end, Ben made a quick turn to the right; he’d obviously been here before. Now out of public view, Ben grabbed me and pushed his lips against mine and slowly I felt his warm tongue slide through my lips. Every time a man had tried to kiss me before I had turned my head away, never wanting to do the thing I’d been taught was for a woman; that would be like giving in to homosexuality. With Ben—I surrendered completely. It was so sensual and delightful to have him do these things to me.
All thoughts of guilt and consequences were lost in the overwhelming moment of passion with this stunning man. I wanted the moment to last as long as possible. We quickly fumbled with each other’s flies, wanting desperately to touch each other as intimately as possible. Ben seemed delighted that I screamed with relief when I came, and kissed me again. He smiled knowing he’d taken me to a place I’d never experienced before, or was it that he had just had complete power over me? Without speaking we moved back into the street. What could I say anyway? ‘That was fantastic,’ was an admission I didn’t want to make. Saying, ‘I’m sorry Ben, that shouldn’t have happened,’ would have sounded very empty. At a nearby coffee shop I explained the situation I was in and Ben seemed sympathetic.
‘It’s too late to go to Narrabeen now. Why don’t you come and sleep the night at my place?’ he suggested. I didn’t need much coaxing, despite knowing that tomorrow I would have to face the consequences of my actions. The saying ‘May as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb’, crossed my mind. Tonight I wanted to be with Ben. I wanted him to kiss and touch me again—I wanted to experience that beautiful passion just one more time.
Ben’s father was the mayor of a wealthy North Shore suburb. The family lived in a beautiful two-storey federation mansion, and even at night I could see the meticulously manicured lawns and well kept gardens. We crept in, quietly went upstairs to his bedroom, stripped down to our underwear and slipped into bed. Ben was very comfortable with this but it was actually the first time I’d spent the night in bed with someone. I was expecting the same experience I’d had in the alley but Ben kissed me gently and whispered, ‘Go to sleep, we don’t want to wake my parents.’ Sleeping with Ben felt wonderful—it was so good just being next to him, with the warmth of his body pressing against mine and his caring arms wrapped securely around me. He held me in a reassuring way as if he knew the turmoil I’d been experiencing. Ben’s tenderness and affection was like water on a thirsty land. Inwardly, I knew this was what I was looking for and stayed awake as long as possible to savour every moment and sensation. Even though I’d had sex with various men before, something far deeper had happened that night. I’d made the mistake of letting down my guard emotionally; and yet what I craved was perverted and forbidden. It seemed unfair that the events of the last hour were so natural for Ben but for me, as a good Christian witness of Jesus Christ, I’d failed miserably.
By the morning the glow of allowing a man to touch my emotions and soul was diminishing and the all-too-familiar insidious guilt took over. I said goodbye to Ben knowing I could never face him again and rang the pastor to confess my failure. If only Pastor Paul had seen me last night this terrible thing would never have happened. He told me to come immediately to the church. Within an hour I was in his office telling him the details of how much I’d struggled with homosexuality and my numerous attempts at breaking free. I’d never spoken so openly with Pastor Paul before but I guess this wasn’t any great new revelation to him. Like most people, no matter how hard I tried to hide it, I’m sure he’d always thought I was a homosexual.
‘You know you can’t keep going back into sin like this, don’t you?’ he said in a sobering and threatening manner. ‘Eventually God will give up on you. The Bible teaches that God turns his back on those who consistently sin because they grieve the Holy Spirit. This is probably your last and best chance to overcome this.’ I knew the scripture well and as Pastor Paul spoke, the fear of God struck my heart. How could I keep on falling into sin, repent, and expect God to forgive me? Surely his patience was not endless.
‘The only way for you to really beat this, Tony, is to go into rehabilitation. Are you prepared to do that?’ he said, in a challenging voice. With my head in my hands and too ashamed to look up and speak, I replied, ‘Yes, I’m sick of this defeat. Whatever it takes.’ There had been times I’d considered this drastic step but always felt that somehow God and I could overcome it together. But the two years of unsuccessful struggle and repeated cycles told me this was the only way. Maybe my last hope.
Paradise was an independent Pentecostal church in the southern suburbs of Sydney that had gained some fame for its success in rehabilitation. It was pastored by two women, Joyce and Edna, which was highly unusual as most Pentecostal churches banned women preachers because of the teachings of St Paul who said in 1 Timothy 2:11-12: ‘A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or have authority over a man, she must be silent.’ The fact that Joyce was also divorced was another mark against her in Bible-believing circles. In Matthew 19:5-6 Jesus said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.’ To be divorced was against God’s will as far as we knew. No wonder she had to have her own church, no other denomination would have her. Males being given token positions of authority in the church had tempered the strong matriarchal structure somewhat. But in many ways Paradise was a forerunner of what would later be known as a ‘lesbian collective’. There was certainly plenty of them among its members.
Paradise was well-known not just as a church but as a rehabilitation centre for drug addicts, prostitutes and homosexuals. One of Joyce and Edna’s great trophies was Marion, Queen of the
Underworld, who had been a hooker and also heavily involved in crime. Edna had rescued her from the streets of Kings Cross, Sydney’s red light area, and after rehabilitation Marion spoke in churches about what she’d done before becoming a Christian. Most congregations found this incredibly exciting because they were so far removed from that type of existence. Even though Jesus was consistently accused of being a friend of prostitutes and sinners, the average church person would never allow themselves to be in an evil red light area, let alone befriend a prostitute.
Paradise had also been successful with a few drug addicts. (I think they were more drug users than addicts but the term drug addicts sounded more dramatic.) It appeared that they had also been able to rehabilitate homosexuals—a couple of guys living at Paradise were almost ‘free’ and one who had been ‘cured’ was now engaged to a girl in the church. When I met Nigel he still seemed to have feminine traits and rarely showed any affection towards his fiancée Lynn, but who was I to judge or doubt his miracle? Pastor Paul rang and arranged with Pastor Joyce for me to go down the next day and discuss the possibility of going into the rehabilitation program. Now I had to go home and face Mum and Dad. What would I say? I really felt sorry for them and all the stress I’d been putting them through. I told Mum what was happening but again it was decided it would be best to keep the full details from Dad. When Dad discovered where I was going, he became very concerned. He didn’t want me to go because the controversial tactics used by Paradise had been publicised in the Sydney press and it had been branded a cult. I reassured him I would be safe and if there were any difficulties, I promised I’d come home.
Whist in New Zealand I’d met Joyce, the leading pastor, when she came and spoke at the bible college. At the time, I was still in a euphoric state just after my exorcism but in a private meeting whilst sharing my excitement of my new deliverance, she’d implied that the only way a person can really be delivered of homosexuality was through a rehabilitation program. Casting the demons out was just the beginning, she had told me; I also needed to change my way of thinking and that would take time. It was confusing to be getting different counsel from different leaders. It was certainly easier for me to believe that I was over my struggle at that time. According to Joyce, Paradise’s system was the only successful program available in Australia, possibly the world. I hadn’t wanted to believe her then, but now I felt like she was taking delight in being right and having me just where she wanted me. Once in the program, I remember her warning me more than once that I should have limited contact with my previous Christian friends saying, ‘Not all Christians are like Paradise Christians,’ insinuating that somehow Paradise Christians were superior. She was very open in her condemnation and considered most Christians shallow. This elitist, arrogant attitude made her unpopular and added to her independence, as you can imagine.
Dad and I drove down the steep, narrow, windy road towards the water and arrived at Paradise. The tyres crunched on the pebbles in the large parking lot, built to accommodate the cars for services held at the mansion. It was a stately two-storey sandstone building that had been converted for the dual purpose of live-in rehabilitation and weekly services. Dad drove off as Joyce greeted me at the door, and led me into her large, tastefully appointed office. When she sat at her desk I could see the idyllic view through the windows behind her of the boats on Port Hacking Bay, artistically framed by over-hanging gum trees. The décor spelt class, with fine furnishings and antiques that matched the historic building. Noting that I was impressed by the surroundings Joyce quickly stated that Australia’s celebrated opera soprano Dame Nellie Melba, also famous for Peach Melba, and Melba toast, had sung from the balcony off her bedroom upstairs.
Joyce wore the uniform she had established as the dress code for the women in Paradise. Clones of Joyce and Edna were everywhere, modestly attired in twin-sets in the most insipid pastels, set off by a small string of pearls, and tartan skirts with the hem no less than three inches below the knee.
I heard the door open behind me and turned around to see a tall, 180 centimetre, ruggedly handsome man. ‘This is Patrick,’ Joyce said and I rose to feel the strong masculine grip of his handshake engulfing my much smaller hand. I tried not to show that handshake hurt. Patrick wore the Paradise male uniform, which consisted of brown riding boots, bone-coloured moleskins and a plain, light blue country-style shirt. His simple manliness made him very attractive. I wondered if Patrick was an example of a successfully rehabilitated homosexual man, but Joyce assured me, ‘Patrick’s straight and married to Rachael but he understands what you will be going through.’ I wondered how, but becoming a man like Patrick was very appealing. Apparently he was to be my ‘minder’ and, more importantly, the strong male role model/mentor I’d lacked all my life.
Unknowingly, Paradise had become Australia’s first ‘ex-gay’ program. Ex-gays are Christians who believe God has ‘cured’ them and that they are no longer homosexual but heterosexual. The program was based on what later became known as ‘reparative’ or ‘conversion therapy’, with Christian ministries such as Exodus Global Alliance and Love in Action being two well-known promoters of this type of ‘therapy’. Love in Action made the news in May 2005 when an American boy, sixteen-year-old Zach, told his Christian parents that he was gay. Horrified by the news, against his will they planned on sending him to an ‘ex-gay’ camp called Refuge in Tennessee. In the meantime, he’d shared his concerns about his parents’ intentions, and the consequences of being locked up, on his internet blog, suddenly involving a global audience. The cost for Zach’s treatment was thousands of dollars, but back in 1972 all I had to do was sign over my unemployment benefit to Paradise and they would take care of the rest.
Like all ex-gay programs, Paradise believed that homosexuality was not innate but caused by a father who was distant and a dominant mother (early sexual abuse was also touted as a cause), and for three decades these ministries have tried to hold back a more educated understanding of sexual orientation. As a distant father and strong mother was directly in conflict with the Bible’s ideal of the family where the male is the head of the home and the wife is submissive, apparently my upbringing had caused me to be defective in my sexual development. If that was the case then there must be an entire generation of latent homosexuals, as that was very much the culture of my day. Fathers fulfilled the role of provider and most didn’t show affection or love beyond a practical way. Just as authority figures such as headmasters and managers believed, distance not closeness was the way to rule. Based on what Paradise believed, I wondered for a moment how useful my relationship with Patrick would be considering we were being dominated by two very strong-willed ladies. Maybe Paradise was a breeding ground for homosexuals.
Joyce interrupted my thoughts, ‘To be rehabilitated permanently from homosexuality will take at least twelve months, possibly two years.’ My heart sank. Joyce walked me through the rules I was to live by for the coming months of full-time rehab.
‘We’ve found,’ Joyce added, ‘that homosexual men like bikini underwear.’ Any bikini underwear I had would be taken from me and destroyed as it was too sexual. Y-fronts only. (It’s strange that today fashion labels such as Calvin Klein have built a market among gay men selling Y-fronts.) In addition, I was not to be alone at any time—if Patrick wasn’t with me, someone else would be assigned to look after me. I was to be up promptly at 6 o’clock in the morning, so I didn’t lie in bed and masturbate, another downfall of the homosexual. While in the shower Patrick or one of the other counsellors would be standing by to make sure I didn’t masturbate. I would work hard all day so that when I went to bed at night, I’d fall asleep immediately. And, finally, ensure that I urinated directly before going to bed so that the pressure on my bladder didn’t arouse me and—I was beginning to get the picture—cause me to masturbate. Joyce’s bluntness was embarrassing. I later discovered that she delighted in learning if any of the inmates had a bent penis and made sure she brought this up in a counselling session. Patrick took me to the bunkroom I was to share with four other guys and went through my luggage to remove every piece of offensive homosexual clothing, including my new trendy pink shirt and matching socks. Real men don’t wear pink. Even in a gaol all your belongings are returned when you’re released but I never saw those items of my wardrobe again.
I quickly learnt that Paradise was incredibly creative with minced meat—it was unbelievable, they must have bought it by the truckload. One day it was meat loaf, the next savoury mince, then Bolognaise, and then shepherd’s pie. The only deviation from mince was a stew made with the cheapest beef or old boiling fowls. Obviously Paradise was on a tight budget.
I spent the first week adapting to the structure of the daily program. After breakfast I began the day by listening to tapes of the Bible, which I listened to while I read the same verses from the Bible in front of me. This double reinforcement—the aural and the visual—was to reprogram and renew my mind. The rest of the day was occupied with chores including gardening and maintenance work around the properties, manual labour or working with tools—always male chores that would help me become a ‘normal’ man. Never cooking—I was told that homosexuals love to cook.
The entire church consisted of about one hundred and fifty people. Approximately twenty ‘lived-in’ at Paradise while another thirty lived at the other property another fifty or so kilometres away at the secluded beach of Bundeena. Being a Bible training centre, Bundeena would be the next stop for me in my rehabilitation program. The remainder of the congregation consisted of locals. All church meetings were compulsory: Sunday morning service was at Bundeena then back to Paradise for the evening service; Monday night was prayer meeting; Wednesday night was family dinner at Paradise; Thursday night was worship night down at Bundeena again; and the Saturday night youth group was also held at Paradise. Not much time left! The basic philosophy was that by living in a totally protected environment, you were able to gain more control and overcome your sin. Once you learnt not to sin then you would be given more freedom, eventually being strong enough to live victoriously in the outside world. I was angry that I’d allowed myself to get to a point where I had to give total control of my life over to other people.
Paradise leaders had developed a warped theology that was based on the Greek word for love, agape, which is the highest form of love, the unconditional love of God; different from eros (physical) or phileo (brotherly) love. According to Paradise theology, loving someone with the agape love of God meant you could do anything as long as your intention was for their highest good. Desiring a person’s highest good was used to justify humiliation, deprivation, manipulation and sometimes even physical abuse. Seeing one of the girls with a black eye one day, I questioned her on what had happened. She had a rough counselling session apparently—of course it was for her highest good as she had some sense knocked into her. She didn’t leave the program. The leaders’ authoritative methods and motives were never questioned.
An example of the way they showed their agape love involved Sharon, who had come to Paradise just before me. She’d been sexually abused by her stepfather and other family members and was finally thrown out of home by her mother. Her mother saw Sharon as a threat to her marriage and accused her of leading the abusive men on. Sharon had come to Paradise seeking help and a way out of her life of drugs and prostitution. It had taken her at least a week to feel comfortable in the new household, as this was the first time in her life she had been with people who seemed genuinely concerned for her welfare. Fifteen of us sat around the large kitchen table—for Sharon and I it was our first compulsory Wednesday family dinner. At the conclusion of the meal it was time to give a special greeting to the newcomers.
‘I’d like to introduce you to Sharon,’ Joyce commenced, ‘But you really wouldn’t like to know Sharon.’ What did she mean? I thought. Knowing she now had everyone’s undivided attention Joyce continued, ‘You see, Sharon is selfish and not a very nice person. She’s proud, conceited and a slut. After some time here, if she lets God work in her life, she will change.’ Sitting opposite Sharon, I watched her face change from smiling, to shock, to tears and finally to hanging her head, sobbing. She was devastated and so was I, and I wondered why I’d been spared a similar ordeal. That was to come later.
After a few weeks of compliant behaviour, I was allowed to venture out into the real world and get a job that would help pay for my rehabilitation and the next step, training college at Bundeena. Paradise had an arrangement with the human resources manager of the Brownbuilt factory a couple of suburbs away, and selected inmates could get work on the production line making office furniture without being asked too many questions. I was given the stimulating job of putting handles onto steel lockers. But it was a relief to get away from the oppressive environment for eight hours. Another reward for my compliance was a trip to the south coast for a Saturday outing with three other people from the church, to see the sights and spend time being normal. Most of all, though, it was a test of trust. We stopped for lunch at a little town where the main street was called Queen Street and, being the clown I usually was, I ran over to the street sign, leant against the post, and assumed the position of a hooker. One of my companions took a photo, unaware that this bit of frivolity was going to be my downfall.
The next Sunday night a carload of my friends came to see me— the select few who really knew what was going on. We hadn’t had any contact for six weeks and I knew they were concerned about me so it was great to see them again. We were standing together casually chatting in the lounge room after the service, surrounded by about sixty other people, when Joyce suddenly stormed into the room. Her dramatic entry ensured that all conversations subsided and heads turned in her direction. I somehow knew I was in trouble as she marched towards me.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she screamed, having no regard for the friends around me. In fact, I think she had particularly chosen this time to ensure my humiliation had maximum impact. She knew how guarded and embarrassed I was about letting people know about the real me. I felt ill when I caught a glimpse of the photo in her hand. ‘I suppose you think this is funny?’ she yelled, waving the photo in the air for all to see and pausing for a moment to ensure that everyone in the room was focused on what was to come. She continued her barrage as she tore the photo to shreds in front of us all. ‘So you’re a queen, are you? Well, if you want to be queer we can certainly arrange that for you. If I ever catch you doing something like this again I’ll get that photo and put it on the noticeboard so the whole church can see. Un—der—stand?’ She poked me in the chest with her finger with each syllable for added emphasis.
I tried to speak and defend myself but nothing came out, I was numb. My friends stood in shock, wondering what horribly evil deed I’d done to deserve such a tirade. Explanations were useless. ‘You’d better go,’ I said quickly, trying to hold back tears. Quickly escaping to the kitchen, I cried like a little child. I remember thinking how infantile my response was, but I couldn’t stop sobbing for the next three hours. I knew some people at Paradise felt sorry for me but no-one dared console me or challenge Joyce’s tactics. Greg, my roommate, came into the kitchen on the pretext of getting a glass of water and quickly looked around to make sure no-one would see or hear. A simple, ‘You’ll be okay, mate,’ and he’d disappeared again back into the lounge room for safety. As long as I was in the kitchen it was the enemy’s camp and siding with me would mean rejection from the others. The Bible says that ‘rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft’ and to rebel against the God-given authority of the pastor was considered the same as rebelling against God. And anyway, Joyce was showing me agape love because she was dealing with my homosexuality.
I was still shaken from the weekend humiliation when Mum phoned to see how I was going and when I was coming home. I was very noncommittal, as I knew it might be years. The frustration at my lack of disclosure prompted her to exclaim, ‘Sometimes, Tony, I wish I never had you!’ I understood her frustration, but at this point this was not what I needed to hear and I hung up. I’d never done anything like that to my mother before. As a rebellious teenager there were times when I’d hated my parents, but since becoming a Christian I did really love them. I knew that we frequently didn’t understand one another but we were doing the best we could.
The next day was pay-day at the Brownbuilt factory and, feeling fragile and frustrated, I was ready to break out—I’d had enough. A new privilege I’d been given was to catch public transport to and from work so as soon as I picked up my pay envelope, instead of taking it to Paradise and handing it over, I boarded the train to the city. Arriving at Town Hall Station I had five-minute sex with a stranger and then just had to get a drink. I knew there was a homosexual underground somewhere in the city, probably at Kings Cross, but having never been involved in the scene I had no idea how to find it. I went to a hotel and drank until I could hardly stand, then put myself back on the train to go home to Paradise, the only place I believed I could get help.
I was still very drunk when I arrived by taxi at 10.30pm with my reduced pay packet. Patrick greeted me at the door with a predictably displeased look and took me to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. We were both sitting in silence when Joyce appeared with Patrick’s wife Rachael.
Patrick rose to his feet and the three stood over me.
‘What have you been doing?’ Joyce asked gruffly. I started to cry again and apologised for what I’d done.
‘Did you have sex with anyone?’ Joyce continued.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Was it good?’ she asked, knowing that the guilt I felt ensured I never really enjoyed what I did.
‘No.’ I knew I was being painted into a corner.
‘Well, that was a waste of time and money, wasn’t it?’ she said gleefully.
‘Please let me stay, I’ve nowhere else to get help,’ I pleaded. ‘I’ve got to keep trying.’
‘Go to bed, we’ll talk in the morning,’ was all that was said. I was expecting much more.
The next day I had a shocking hangover and Patrick and Joyce thought it amusing that I couldn’t keep breakfast down. Summoned to the office, I was given my schedule for the day. First of all, no work; I was pleased about that. An appointment had been made for me with a doctor at Cronulla at 11am so that I could have a VD (venereal disease) test. This was necessary as there were children at Paradise, I was told, though I wasn’t quite sure what that meant. Did it mean that they subscribed to a belief, prevalent at that time, that homosexuals were not really attracted to the same sex but were actually paedophile predators who wanted to molest little boys? I didn’t question their reasoning, but as uneducated as I was about sexual things, I really didn’t think I could get an STD from masturbating with someone. Although I had heard you could pick one up from a toilet seat. Maybe it was just another way of humiliating me and reminding me of how disgusting and dirty I was. The doctor was more reassuring and after questioning me about what actually happened, obviously felt this was an unnecessary degradation. Of course, I was eventually pronounced clean.
After another three months of ‘treatment’, I lost all desire to fight my homosexuality. I was tired and just wanted to get out. But how? I’d already run away once and my money was kept in trust. I asked to see Joyce and Edna and was granted an audience.
‘I’m finding it hard to fight my homosexuality,’ I began. ‘I’ve never really known what it is like to be a true homosexual. Maybe if I go out and find out what it’s like, I’ll learn to really hate my sin and then when I come back I’ll have more motivation.’ This was only half true. I had lost motivation but I still wanted to be free from homosexuality and was hoping there would be another way other than Paradise. If God was ever going to set me free it wasn’t going to be through bullying. Joyce and Edna knew it was impossible to work with someone who’d lost their
motivation so agreed I should leave. They reminded me of my future as a homosexual, which included never having a lasting relationship and never finding happiness. ‘It’s a shallow world of bitchy, dysfunctional, nasty, lonely people,’ they said.
I was allowed to make a call and arranged for my sister and brother-in-law to pick me up the next Sunday (they weren’t allowed to come immediately— the hope was that I would change my mind) and as with every call I’d made previously, Patrick sat next to me to make sure I said the right things. From that point, people treated me as if I was unclean, except for a couple of friends I’d made. According to 1 Corinthians 5:5, because of my willingness to be a fornicator I was to be ‘handed over to Satan, so that the sinful nature might be destroyed and my spirit saved in the day of the Lord.’ As someone who had now consciously rejected the grace of God, I was to be treated as an outsider.
When Sunday arrived, I purposely sat at the back of the congregation so I could see when the family arrived in the car park. The service was almost over when I saw Sue, already showing signs of her first pregnancy, and Ian on the veranda and moved quickly to make a fast getaway. Joyce caught the movement out of the corner of her eye and was hot on my heels. Just before I’d reached my sister, Joyce grabbed my arm and held me back; even though she was skinny she had a surprising strength.
‘Do you know your brother is one of Sydney’s worst homosexuals?’ she began. ‘He is filthy and disgusting and does …’ She told them everything I’d done but exaggerated wildly making every detail sound as sordid as possible. I remember thinking that she made it sound like I did drag and had sex with several men on Saturday night then went to church the next morning, still wiping the make-up from my face. It was incomprehensible to think that she could lie so blatantly in front of me. She knew that I had never even been inside a gay club or bar. Sue and Ian were having trouble hearing such things; so was I. It was important not to cry this time as I was determined to show Joyce she couldn’t break me any more. My sister Sue straightened herself up and with the strength and integrity that my older sister possesses, said, ‘Well, there’s a lot of love in our family, I’m sure we’ll work it out.’ I was so proud of her. Good on you, Sue, I thought. Joyce persisted in assassinating my character but Sue refused to be intimidated. ‘Well, there’s a lot of love in our family,’ she kept repeating. Ian, a quiet natured man, feeling a little embarrassed at the openness and confrontational nature of the conversation, picked up my bags, indicating it was time to move on. We walked to the car in silence but when I sat in the back seat I breathed a sigh of relief and broke down. Even though it was so good to at last be free of the oppressive environment, I wondered how this might affect my salvation. What if I should die while I’m away from God? I knew I was taking a huge risk.
Travelling home, we didn’t talk about what had happened, but instead focused on good things, catching up on developments in the family during my absence of nearly six months. In fact, we never really talked about it until twenty-eight years later! Families such as ours find it difficult to talk about awkward and painful moments, but there came a time when I realised I needed to acknowledge the power of those words ‘there’s a lot of love in our family’ and thank Sue and Ian for rescuing me.
Over the years I’ve connected with a number of people who were in Paradise at the same time as me or soon after. I was shocked to hear their stories of affairs with fellow inmates and church members. I was obviously a saint in comparison. How could all this have been going on under the surface? Obviously many were only presenting an image of holiness and, fearing rejection or reprisals, never spoke to each other about what was genuinely happening in their lives. Joyce and Edna had a falling out, Paradise finally imploded and, surprisingly, most of the gay men and lesbians went on to live fulfilling lives completely at peace with the sexual orientation that once caused them so much angst. There are a few who still suffer psychologically and as with most of these programs, there are those who suicided; but we will never really be able to count the toll. In that time we put these experiences down to life lessons but had we been living in this litigious era, Paradise would have been sued many times, for neglecting its ‘duty of care’ if not for emotional and psychological abuse. The greatest surprise of all was to hear that Joyce had been living with another woman for over sixteen years and, although never acknowledged publicly, many people see Beryl as her partner. All that time pastoring the church, could Joyce have been venting her internalised homophobia on us, or hoping that through helping others she might indeed resolve the struggle inside herself? Only years with a highly trained therapist could possibly sort that one out.
The saddest thing of all is to know that, more than three decades later, under the banner of Exodus, Focus on the Family, the National Association of Research and Therapy of Homosexuality (NARTH), and Love in Action’s Refuge, ex-gay programs continue to use the same methodologies; based on old, discredited philosophies and producing the same destructive results. Young teenagers are sent into these programs by their misguided Christian parents who, believing that they have contributed to their children being gay and that they can be ‘cured’,
are spending thousands of dollars on ‘treatment’.
