Holy Kiss

Editor's note: this is an excerpt from Tony's recent book Neighbors and Wise Men (Thomas Nelson, 2012).

Ani took two quick strides and he was standing nearly against me. This was not the first time I would be startled by the scant size of the Albanian spatial bubble. He took my hand in his. He face shone in the early evening light with a huge smile and sparkling eyes. His head bobbled slightly as he talked. He spun several sentences of what sounded only of gibberish to my unseasoned American ears.

Then it happened.

Startling, to say the least.

If you had asked, I would have said that it was impossible for Ani and me to stand any closer.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

Gripping my hand and forearm, Ani pulled me closer. Then he pulled me closer still. He was not a large man, but I could not deny his strength. Then, with celebrative force, he kissed me square on the cheek. Remembering it now, my memories move in slow motion. He slowly released, pulling away only so slightly. I can imagine the look on my face. In shock, I watched his face pass in front of mine, only millimeters separating our noses, mouths, and chins. His face was all smile and bobble. Then he kissed my other cheek, just as hospitably as he did the first.

Only then did he step away. There was still moisture on the soft center of each of my cheeks.

That night, as I lay in the dark on my divan-style bed, staring at the ceiling, I could still feel the shape of his lips on each cheek.

This was one of my first experiences with one of my favorite men I have ever known.

Stolen

Touch was stolen from me.

It was stolen from me by the American story. It was stolen from me by our puritanical religious roots, and by an entertainment culture that turns affections into sensuality. It was stolen from me by a thousand church scandals that have left pastors afraid to even talk to a parishioner behind closed doors. And it has been stolen from me by a generation that calls all same-gender affection into question.

Society and religion have bedded together to relegate touch to either the sexual or the inappropriate, with little in between.

Two close friends

I had only been in country for a few months when I met Ilir and Genci. They had been best friends since childhood, and I imagine they will be for decades to come. That is the Albanian way.

They were a rugged duo from a small, outlying city. When I say rugged, I really mean rough, even a bit scary. When I first saw them in the dim corridor of their dormitory, I must admit I was instinctually on my guard. They both had dark eyes and black hair with weathered skin. Ilir was the slighter of the two, thin, with sunken cheeks and narrow eyes. Genci was broad. He had crazy hair and thick beard growth. Both wore leather coats covered with creases and cracks.

My first impression, judging them as hoodlums, was not without some merit. A few weeks after meeting them, I saw Ilir on Albanian national television. One of the charming practices of the Albanian police at the time was to place people suspected of crime in publicly displayed lineups. My guess is that the shame was used as a crime deterrent.

Ilir was never convicted; I don't know if he was even charged.

That first day, the day we became friends, I was just wandering through their dormitory. It was an average sort of day for me during those first months. My time was spent mostly with students. I was a young missionary, simply trying to make friends and searching for anyone who might want to talk about Jesus.

As soon as Ilir and Genci saw me, they erupted in hospitality. They dragged me from the hallway through their door. It was a typical room on the Tirana campus. It was small, no larger than a prison cell. There was one missing pane in their window, crudely replaced by a piece of cardboard. A few other panes were cracked. Floor and walls were simple concrete. A single bare bulb suspended from a serpentine wire rocked in the middle of the room. A few pictures, pilfered from Western magazines, clung to the walls above their beds on either side. I guessed these pages had been taken from an airline magazine.

As was typical, the beds were the only things to sit on. A thin mattress lay across a metal hammock pulled taut across an iron frame. I dropped into the middle of the hammock with my shoulder blades and head against the chalky wall.

Ilir offered me a drink of Fanta from a plastic bottle. I said thank you but that I was fine.

He and Genci plopped onto the bed. They took a place on either side of me, dipping the metal hammock even lower. The other bed was only a meter away and lay empty, but they seemed more content to sit all together, the droop of the bed ensuring that we would remain bosom close.

I was still not sure what to make of these scruffy men. I wasn't sure I wanted them this close, their pungent aroma mixing with mine. By all indications, they could not have been more comfortable. Clearly they wanted to talk. I am not saying that there was any reason for concern, but I also knew that I was not going to do anything to upset them. I smiled to either side and tried to fully receive their physical offer of friendship.

After a while I asked if I could read them something about Jesus. They seemed unconcerned about the historical rift between their faith and mine. They seemed happy to just be together. So, I pulled out a small book.

I opened the pages.

Then, the most surprising thing happened.

Instinctively, Genci, sitting on my left, wrapped his arms around my arm, like a child, and laid his head upon my shoulder. His crazy hair brushed my chin and ear. He was ready to listen to whatever I might want to share.

At first Ilir scooted away a bit. I thought for a second that he might be the more reserved of the two.

I was wrong.

After judging the distance, Ilir leaned over, sliding his torso under my right arm and placing his head square in the middle of my chest. He placed his right hand carefully on my belly. He had secured the best view possible of my little book. As I read, he could feel the vibration of my voice through my chest. He could feel my lungs rise and contract.

And there we sat for the better part of the afternoon. We talked about Jesus. We talked about family. They shared with me their story. They told me about their dreams.

A gospel of touch

That year I started to read my Bible in a new way. I started to see touch everywhere, particularly in the Gospels: fathers embracing sons, secretive contact by a peasant woman, a disciple leaning on Jesus' bosom, hands washing and drying feet, heads anointed with oil, "Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side."

Could it be that touch has more to do with the way of Jesus than what I had been taught?

When Jesus touched the leper, it transmitted the gospel of healing; I had known that since I was a boy.

But was the touch itself also a part of the gospel?

I began to see the leper story differently. The very act of touching was as much a miracle as the cleansing of his disease. Touch connected Jesus to the leper. Touch transmitted and affirmed humanity. Touch said, "You are not alone." Touch declared the leper's co-equality with all God-image beings. Ultimately, the touch of the Messiah erased a lifetime of isolation and rejection and a sentence to society's margins. Touch validated. Touch is love.

A family meal

It has been so many years since I left that corner of the Muslim world, but I carry still the gift of my Albanian father, those scruffy friends, and my Middle Eastern messiah, who tactilely transmitted love.

These days, our faith family gathers for dinner every Sunday evening. As many as 15 of us cram around our dining room table to share the meal called Agape. The food is always seasonal and delicious. Candles provide the light. The conversation lingers for hours.

Inevitably, if you look over, you will see Bobbin, all pierced and opinionated, sitting to my left. More often than not, he will have his arm around me or mine around him.

As I sit and enjoy Bobbin and our faith family all around, my mind starts to drift. There is a fear that rises up within me. I fear that touch, redeeming and healing touch, has just simply been lost.

Touch is love

Ironically, churches today seem to be driving themselves mad to compete with television, movies, and the Internet: supercharged sound systems, better bands, more charismatic characters. However, there are some things that the Web has not even come close to duplicating: a comforting touch on the shoulder, a sympathetic squeeze of the hand, a reassuring hug.

The very act of touching is a miracle. Touch connects us to the other. Touch transmits and affirms humanity. Touch welcomes. Touch says, "You are not alone." Touch declares the other's co-equality with all God-image beings. Ultimately, the holy touch of godly people can erase a lifetime of isolation, rejection, and daily sentencing to society's margins. Touch validates. Touch is love.

Tony "The Beat Poet" Kriz is a teacher and speaker on faith and culture. His most recent book is Neighbors and Wise Men: Sacred Encounters in a Portland Pub and Other Unexpected Places (Thomas Nelson, 2012).