my sweetie’s gift to me

This poem:

Three Years: the “leather” anniversary

To my one and only beloved, my anam cara, my best friend and sweet sweet butter brickle:

Today marks three years of minutes, moments, seconds and star struck nights that we have been in this thing we call marriage. Its funny really, its been 3 years and yet its been like a whole series of “week ones” one right after another, still new, still giddy with doe eyes and flittery longing looks across rooms or grocery shopping isles. 3 years time, strung together, its hard to believe how many beads we have strung on this life long rosary already. Time, it does fly. It flies when you are in love. And I am. It feels like just yesterday we were donning our kilts, nervously pinning broaches and trying to remember to take mental snapshots all day long.

They say (OH they) that after 3 years of marriage, the gift that says I love you all over again, is leather. It seems like a strange gift, killing another life to say I love you. But I have tried to move further out than that, to wonder what it is about skin—all worn and pounded, tough and pliable—that could say something about love. Here’s what I got.

After three years, you my dear, are thoroughly under my skin. I have lived a thousand lives before you even met me, I have had a lot of hurt and heartache, many tears, laughter, failures and foibles. Loss and grief are no strangers to this body of mine. I have some tough skin—leathery—around my body, around my heart. And then there is you–tending to it, to me, working it, loving it, loving me. There is not a single day where I do not have your heart against mine. You and I now share DNA, life, at the micro and macro level—your love has permeated my skin.

Its funny, and its been said a thousand other times before, so I almost hesitate in offering it. But I will, adding my voice to the billions before us, like a profession in G-d. I here profess, each day I love you more, desire you more, my heart grows bigger, the smile I wear looks more like yours. You are my light, my best friend. I never thought that actually really and truly each day I could love you more, but I do. Your jokes are always funny to me. Your smile, your kindness, your willingness to love all of me—its astonishing, whack-a-doo indeed.

You call me out on my shit, and turn around and call my shit pretty, beautiful even. Who can do something like that? You. And G-d.

You know, I know that G-d exists, because I hear her small soft voice all tangled up in your whispers and strokes across my forehead after a hard day. So, today, before G-d and all these people, I reaffirm my vow to you.

In the name of God and before this congregation, I, Rachel, take you Karen, as my beloved, my partner, my own; to honor and cherish you; to share with you in life’s joys and triumphs, and to stand with you in times of grief and misfortune. I will be truthful in all things and strive with you to create a home filled with reverence and hospitality. I will love you all the days of my life. This is my solemn vow.

On Justifying My Existence (in 140 characters or less)

The other day, a person I follow who also follows me on twitter asked me a question. It read:

How do you justify your existence? Some find this question insulting & others feel they do not have to.

Wow. You should have seen the look on my face. It was like she dug deep and pushed that one button, you know the one, of anger, hurt, frustration, invisibility, proud to be all the labels I have attached to myself but how DARE you attack and toss them back at me. You know that button, I know you do. I flared up and shot back some thing like “I do NOT have to justify my existence to you or anyone else for that matter! WTF.”

In my depression work right now, I have been struck with this one story. It is about a woman, Elena, she’s depressed too. She grew up in another country and does not speak english well. She has had a difficult time making friends since she has moved. One day Elena went for a walk with her husband. On their walk, they happened to stop past a friends home, a friend who she knew from the old country, and that friend had invited another friend over for tea. Immediately (instead of being happy to see her friend) Elena felt left out and hurt. To make matters worse, she confronted her friend about feeling left out, and on the way home got angry with her husband for not understanding why she was so upset.

Eeeerrrttt. (car braking sound goes here) Wait a minute. Hold up. Do you see what happened?

She sadly, is a lot like me, or at least the me I am trying to shake off. When I hear a question like the one above, I could not hear the goodness in it. I only heard the accusations, suspicion and attack of who I am in it. I only heard the underbelly of this persons question–something like “who do you think you are QUEER, and how will you account for yourself (as you stand before the Lord Almighty on that judgement day, yada yada yada…)?” You know what she said in reply to my harsh tone? It was so kind really. She said “Sorry you feel insulted. I do hope your day is fabulous!” and “I find reasons to justify my continuation through inspiring and motivating others.” and “My apologies for tapping you on the shoulder standing in my positive skin.” and “Its amazing to hear others thoughts and how they view life.”

I want to stand in my positive skin. I long for it really. But you know what I think might keep dragging me down, back, under the gigantic undertow of this whole process? Two things really.

I know you are but what am I?

One: Haters. Shit I wish I didn’t see them, hear them, or (sometimes at least try and) listen to them. But I do. Its like a tempting war on words, and I have a silver tongue and quick wit and smart mind that knows exactly what scripture texts people are going to lob across the divide at me, and I am ready for the return fire. Ick. War? I am a person who deeply believes in peace. And love. And justice. And here I am, caught in the trenches of the “I am Christian and queer, and yes this is not an oxymoron” war. I want to call a truce, but these people, the more they call me sin, the louder and stronger I want to shout back “HEY you! I know you are but what am I, (expletive)?” And also, “I love you cause Jesus makes me.”

Two: Me. I am standing in my own way. Its time to shift. Downshift perhaps a gear or two.

My beloved stands next to me, and she reminds me its hard to be your own speed bump. Ride with me friends, I could use a backseat driver right about now.

A year later, the day after

A year ago, I wrote about how I felt the day after Vote Day. A year later, we as a LGBT community have much to celebrate, and much to still be raising our fists, shaking wildly, for.

I woke up and checked the Maine race first. Heartbreak before even rolling out of bed—a practice I most certainly do not recommend. News trickled in here and there, Washington, then a wonderful piece of news from my friends in Kalamazoo, MI—with a very cool ad to go along with it. And as the day rolled on, so did the comments, the rhetoric, the ups and downs. I engaged in some conversation, and should have damn well stayed out of others. I should know better—too close to the heart, to my LIFE, to my love–to be impartial or kind perhaps.

Friends I ask you: why are we putting civil rights, human rights, to a vote? Why can’t the state issue civil licenses for domestic partnerships, and churches bless unions—call them marriages or whatever you will—for whomever they choose? This is not about morality. This is about basic rights of people—all people. My relationship, my love, will not adversely affect your tax life, your sex life, your family.

There was much to capture out on the interwebs today–much posted over on facebook, but I wanted to capture some of it here. So here are some noteable quotes:

From my beautiful friend Naomi:

“Can you imagine where we would be if we had let people vote on civil rights and women’s rights? These are human rights, right, Right?”

A new friend Susanne, as an idea on how to move forward:

In order to achieve equality, some clergy refuse to act as agents of the state – something I am definitely in favor of – keeping the legal agreement at the courthouse where it belongs and the blessing in the church….where it belongs.

My friend Rex offers this while considering Maine, homophobia, and misogony.

“If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor.” Archbishop Desmond Tutu

The very wise and always gracious Wendy says:

Take heart from Dante, “the hottest places in hell are reserved for those who in times of great moral crisis maintain their neutrality”

The amazing poet and friend, Mark Fleury reminds me of some beautiful words:

As John Lennon said: “The world is just a little town. Everybody’s trying to put us down.”

And just a quick and very special thank you to Makeesha and Chris for engaging the conversation and being so damn smart.

Twitterverse:

“These are not issues, these are our LIVES we’re fighting for.” Harvey Milk

and From @jaybakker

“In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

And from Makeesha’s blog: timely thought from Wendell Berry via David Hayward

it is unfortunate for gays and the rest of us that the government has been invited to make a judgment on people’s private sexual behavior. It isn’t the government’s business, so long as the behavior is not abusive to others. The government should support “domestic partnerships” which gives the same legal protections to bachelor brothers or widowed sisters or friends or partners living together as if married. Justice for all is the government’s business (Berry, The Way of Ignorance, p. 145)

And perhaps a wee harsh but what else can I expect from my dear friend MJT? I dig it.

What about you–what did you hear today that gave you hope, rocked your world, needs preserving for posterity sake?

Christianity 21 RoundUp: a few thoughts from backstage

Last week in an unlikely place of beauty—Edina, MN, known for its wealth and whiteness—a whole bunch of people gathered to listen, contribute and participate in Christianity 21. This is my reflection on that time. A word/warning–I was a volunteer. I missed out on sessions I really longed to hear like Debbie Blue, Makeesha Fisher, and Lisa Domke. I bounced in and out. I spent time seeing and participating in stuff around, and not necessarily IN Christianity 21.

So, like so many others from the event, it has taken me quite a few days to process what this feeling is that I am sitting in, left with, hanging on to, watching unfold. What I can say unequivocally is that I feel deeply grateful to have had the opportunity to participate. It was a bit like watching history get made. Here are my standouts:

1. Mike Croghan and Amy Moffitt. Mike has been a bloggy friend for a long time, and asked if my beloved and I would be able to host him and his really awesome friend. I had been holding the space in our home open for just such an ask (could insert a stewardship lesson here, but I will save that for another time). For 5 days my home was filled with laughter, tears, kindness, intelligence, and goodness. I got some serious hang time with people who have forever helped me be a better person. Christianity 21, like the Great Emergence event last December, has first and foremost been about new, deeper, unexpected relationships. I met a lot of people at #c21, and am left with this reminder of the gifts that lie ahead when we open our selves, our homes, our lives to one another.
2. I was a concierge, which means I was assigned to a few presenters to help them get from place to place, and made sure that their needs were being met (like, do you have enough food, water? Do you need anything that I can get for you? Etc.). I was assigned to my friends Seth Donovan and Nadia Bolz-Weber, as well as offering rides and other duties as needed to 11 other folks. I can’t imagine a time where I will be someone up there, presenting on something, sounding all smart and innovative. And I am ok with that. But what a joy to be out here, doing what I DO do best: hospitality and helping. I love that I got to be a part of something that for me flattened the hierarchy and said that what each of us brought was important–vital even–to the conversation. No, I wasn’t able to be in each session, but I was invited to take part, and I did that, and it feels like a little glimpse into what Kingdom work can be about. In listening to others, it seems like everyone felt like they got to do this, in their own way. And isn’t that a beautiful thing? participation in deep, true, authentic, transforming ways.
3. I don’t want to gush and gush about JoPa, but in order to really get at the heart of this thing and I have to gush a little bit. Seth Donovan said “i watched two straight, white men spend (and disrupt) their privilege.  they had access to venues, connections to people, support from sponsors, budgets to watch, and reputations to maintain, and they organized an event that supported the leadership and voices of folks who have been asked to take the backseat in the church.  and asked other folks who have similar privilege to show up for it.  and we were transformed.” So right on. They dreamed up an event that may not have made economic sense, but for sure made Kingdom sense. They could have done the same old same old and given the “big names” top billing, more time, more _____. But they didn’t, they held to this crazy ass economy of G-d, that there was an abundance in “unlikely” places, we sat at the feet of each other, all of us. In the Kingdom sometimes the last are first and the first ARE last, right? And the thing is, the rewards of this may not even be realized anytime soon. Brave. Humbitious. Beautiful. Well done, JoPa.
4. Queermergent. I had the privilege of spending time with a new and good friend, @mojojules aka The Wonderer. After Jenell Paris‘ presentation, in which she posed the question “Is homosexuality a sin?” there was some chitter chatter on the tweets, some butts (like mine) shifting in the pews and a real desire to continue the conversation about being queer and Christian. So–again, like at the Great Emergence in Memphis–we made it happen. Jules offered us a place and time to meet. So, late on Saturday, about 15 (??) of us gathered in the lobby of the hotel and spent time. We asked questions and came out about where we were in our own journeys of the faith and queer wondering. The conversation was honest, rich, and challenging at times. I was reminded again why having a queer voice and presence in the 21st century church is so vital. We are a gift, we are a part of the Body of Christ, we are an other to some, a friend and family member to so many.
5. I am torn; I want to name names, gush and go on about people. I want to give props to people, not for what they said but for who they are. You each warm my heart and spoke to me, whether we met and spoke, or in many cases, not. I connected with some, others I just observed awkwardly. I don’t want to name names, so as to not forget anyone. So if you were there, whether we connected or not, you are on my list. Thank you, all of you. And a special wink and smile for you who I call friend. You shaped me most of all. I look forward to next time.

I will be purchasing the C21 Multi-Media Pack. I look forward not only to hearing more, listening more closely, but to looking for (like JoPa did) those voices that are shaping the 21st Century church. Perhaps one of those voices, people, ideas, things is right here in my possession and its dying to be shared. I feel invited. I feel connected. I am so grateful.

Check out the #C21 hashtag on twitter for other blog posts, links to resources, and some killer quotes and people. So very grateful. Thank you (you know who you are, yes you. Thank you. And you, and you and you.)

Guest Posting

So here it is, the guest post I mentioned. Please do make time to go visit my friend Becky at her wonderful virtual office at http://www.livingsexuality.com. She is doing a whole series on periods, on being and becoming a woman. A number of really beautiful stories are told, and I have loved participating and reading.

Tuesday’s Underpants

I was one of the lucky ones. My mom sat me down before the big red day of surprise came, intent to give me the big talk about my body and how it was going to be changing soon. 

It was a summer day, not much earlier than my 9th birthday. I don’t know if she sent away to Good Housekeeping or if it was from the dollar store, or what, but she brought home this now-you-are-becoming-a-woman-kit, filled with: a 1974 booklet complete with drawings of women and their bodies (that looked nothing like mine), stories about what an amazing and scary time this is, a belted and belt-less maxi-pad, a tampon, instructions on how to use these items, and some really smelly bubble gum lip goo from Bonnie Bell (not sure what the inclusion of this last item was about).

She sat me down, looked at me in a sort of I-am-SO-sorry mashed up with oh-how-precious-is-my-little-girl-woman, and told me about how my body was going to change. She said that it was going to grow things like hair in funny places, breasts, and I would smell funny. She told me not to worry, that all women go through it, I was not alone. She would teach me how to shave (which is a whole other horror story) and be there to answer my questions. Then she sent me to my room to with my new menses kit, to read and “play” with my new womanly stuff.

Now something you should know about me is that I am not an instructions reading kind of gal, never have been. I am a very kinetic and visual learner, tell me a story or show me the movie and I am all good. So there I was, in my room, unwrapping each item, sniffing them, plunging the tampon in and out of its little rocket like contraption, and well, exploring what this whole new world was supposed to be like. I tried on the belted maxi pad and thought it was just a glorified diaper that made me look like I had pooped in my day of the week underpants. Next up, (duh duh duh) the beltless maxi.

I pulled the paper strip back, exposing the gluey adhesive and, again not reading the fine print, just stuck it on the place that made the most sense–my little barely old enough patch of fuzz, down there. Well, let me tell you, it did not feel good, or right. As a matter of fact it sort of pinched a bit. “Ow. Ow ow ow,” I thought. I tried to pull it back, slowly like a tenderly placed fat band-aid. That was not working. Tears, streaming down my face I started to feel panic setting in. The pouty lip quiver, the mom question through the door “Is everything alright?” and “ahhhhhhhh, sob sob sob, no mom, it isn’t!” I ran out into the living room, with guests, and my sister who loves to retell this story, and my mom–roaring in laughter. This was my first memory of the journey with Aunt Flo. Pain, a total lack of natural ability to understand what goes where and how, and worst of all–humiliation, big time.

So it stands to reason that my little red friend has been more like my gigantic crimson nemesis, nearly my whole life. Until last week.

About a month ago, visiting with my doctor after having endured the cold wand of the vaginal ultrasound, she gave me the big news. What I had experienced: the pain, the cramps, the moods, the whole icky smelly, G-d I really don’t understand why I have to endure this each and every month thing, was because my uterus had grown 5 sizable fibroids–one the size of a large orange. She said I needed surgery to either remove these fibroids or remove the whole kit and kaboodle–the uterus–in short the H word: hysterectomy. I feel like I had been waiting to hear this word since the first time the red stuff had shown up on my cute clean underpants.

Two things happened to me that day. One, I was given permission to not feel like I was crazy, and to know, and not doubt anymore, that there was indeed something wrong down there and I wasn’t just another whiney woman who just needs to up her advil intake, suck it up, and move on. No. Something was and has been wrong, seemingly for quite a while. And two, I could let it go. Get it removed. But for me this is much more than letting my uterus go. This is letting go of a lifetime of pain, sexual abuse, memories and relationships gone awry.

Of course I am also letting go of ever being a biological mother. There is somewhere maybe, some place that will grieve this, but as far back as I can remember I have never felt this pull. There are plenty of ways to be a mother in this world. Not having the equipment to get the job done myself, is ok by me. I am letting go of the stories people told me, I am letting go of the stories I let myself believe that were not true. I am letting go of a good deal of what has been a part of me my whole life. Just because I never loved it or appreciated it, doesn’t mean I am not grieving it. I am, with glee in my heart, letting go.

I don’t know what the next phase of life looks like, but I think I’ma go and get me a new set of day-of-the-week underpants, not bleed through them ever again, and see what comes.

Long Overdue

Overdue!

So, its been a while. Check out The Swandive (if you haven’t already looked there) and you’ll see why. A whole host of reasons have popped up as to why I have been a little more quiet than usual. However, that will change. It will. I know, you read it on nearly every blog when its in a slump. But, I tell you it is true. Two reasons:

One: Today is Celebrate Bisexuality Day–a hallmark holiday of sorts, made up by the good folks at GLAAD for bi-activists, bi-people and their friends and allies. So far the posts from the GLAAD Blog have been really amazing. Some I totally disagree with, and some are just really smart and amazing. I think they are worth a read and have sparked my imagination and helping me to believe that I do have something to say and add to the Bi conversation. Check them out at http://glaadblog.org/category/news/

The Best Blog Series Ever: Periods.

Two: Someone asked me to be a guest blogger on their blog! I am humbled and honored and am writing like a fool to participate in Becky Knight’s awesome blog series “The Best Blog Series Ever: Periods.” I’m writing and will let you know, of course, when it is posted. The whole series looks to be really great and I am honored to be a part of the group.

So a big “HI!” and welcome back friends. Feels good to be here again.

Who you callin’ homo?

I really thought that this post would be about my reflections on attending (this past weekend) my 20 year (gasp) high school reunion. In a way, I sort of am writing about it, but not exactly. So before I get all cryptic and nonspecific on your arses, let me explain.

There was, in fact, a class reunion and I did go. I had a good time and do have some reflections about the grand affair, but what is most pressing on my mind today is a comment made on facebook in the aftermath of the reunion.

Ahhhh, facebook. The lurky, voyeuristic haven of delight. Really, some days I could spend hours looking at peoples notes and articles posted, baby shower and wedding pictures, reading the bios and info people write about themselves, and on and on. So entirely time sucking, but oh so strangely interesting. Like many I suppose, I have the status update page sort of ever lurking in the background of my day, not really paying attention to it, but it sort of sits there, notifying me that someone commented on something I also commented on, or maybe hugged my virtual pet–Cheese, or wants me to take some inane quiz about some shit I know nothing about. But sometimes, a comment just catches my eye, and I am hard-pressed not to say something. Take today for example.

Its no secret that there were some really beautiful people in my high school, AND they are as beautiful today as they have ever been (the whole getting fat and ugly reunion myth is just that, a myth–some of us (…ahem..cough cough…) have gained some pounds, but whatever, so not my point). Anyway, due to the nature of facebook, there has been some photo sharing and tagging and commenting going on since first thing Sunday morning–the day after.

So, one person commented on another persons page, and then another person, commented on that comment, and then that is when I had to find some words–as thoughtfully chosen as possible–and comment. The original note was about excitement and waiting to see so-and-so’s pictures. “Those will be fun!” Well, sibling of so-and-so saw the post, commented on how great they were and said this:

Sticks and Stones

“If I was a homo, I think I would try to make out with you guys!”

What? Wait a minute, really? Is that really what you just said/wrote? Really? So in full disclosure, here was my response: “Yeah, and this homo–thinks ya’ll are beautiful. Not in *that* way, but because you are kind, lovely, sweet people.”

All day this has been eating at me. Why would I even justify not in “that” way. What way is it? Why in 2009 do we still live in a world that uses derogatory inflammatory language as humor? Actually, why is it still acceptable to say homo, or dyke, faggot or “that’s so gay” but somehow we all understand that it is most certainly not OK to call someone who is Jewish all those slurs. And someone who is black, all of those hateful words. But the LGBTQI community somehow–its still funny? Its still socially acceptable?

I wish I could say that today was the first time I have chimed in and up about this on facebook–but its not. I wish that I could tell you that I called the commenter personally, and explain to her that her words are hurtful. I wish I could be “That One” who rights the wrongs, bravely speaks out, who will be the loving voice and face of normalizing what it means to be a homosexual in a heterosexual society. But I am not.

I am just me, thinking about how sticks and stones do break bones AND words do sometimes hurt me.

Tonight I take comfort in the prayer and words of St. Francis of Assisi (*with some minor updates and additions in parentheses):

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace, (on facebook)
Where there is hatred, let me sow love; (through pokes and gifts)
where there is injury, pardon; (and comments)
where there is doubt, faith; (or at least a good quiz)
where there is despair, hope; (maybe update your profile info a bit)
where there is darkness, light; (I can totally facebook in the dark!)
where there is sadness, joy; (the essence of facebook, no?)

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love
(on Facebooooooooooooooook!)

For it is in giving that we receive; (karma, but not lil’ green patch for G-d’s sake!)
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; (pass a drink or something)
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. (update those privacy settings or you WILL have eternal life on the interwebs!)

(And where the word “homo” is used frivolously,
Let me call love by its real name.)

Amen.

Raspberries and G-d

Last week the raspberries started to pop in my backyard. It might just be my most favorite thing about our home—the abundant crop of raspberries that comes each and every late June, lasting typically only a few glorious weeks. The first ones burst into their deep red color last Saturday—I remember because my sister was still in town. I think she gets as crazy for them as I do.

So this past Thursday I was in the backyard—picking away—when  suddenly it felt like I got an inside glimpse about G-d that I hadn’t had before.

When first coming upon the bushes, the red ripe berries, sort of smattered here and there, might catch your eye. I mean standing back you figure maybe you’ve got a half-pint or so, a big berry score for sure. But then you get in there. I mean really ‘down and in’ there (to borrow a phrase from Doug Pagitt), and suddenly the bush seems unending in its fruit. The closer look reveals what you can hardly imagine—easily a quart, maybe even two.

So you pick, and you pick, (and snitch a berry or three along the way) and you are sure that you have gotten all the berries there are and then a leaf moves, revealing another untouched bunch, just waiting, ripe. An hour passes and feels like 10 minutes, but the gnat bites tell you differently, the sun is setting and you have to walk away. You do, and head inside for a bowl of berries and fresh cream.

These are the best berries, ever. No market—farmers or grocery—can touch these babies. And I have done mostly nothing to make them so good. So as I was endlessly searching, seemingly turning every leaf over and getting scratched and bitten, that this was a small glimpse of who and how G-d is.

Our G-d is a down and in G-d, digging in and actually creating in dark unseen, unpicked places. Our G-d is One who gets behind the leaves, into the cob-webby, thorny, hard to reach spaces, into the spots we almost never look. This G-d produces amazing, mind blowing fruit; real and spiritual. Our G-d has given us goodness, beyond all imagination and measure–we have done virtually nothing to deserve this.

I love my raspberry bushes, and the G-d who continues to show up, in all the right, ripe, dark and thorny places in my life.

Yes, we can.

Welcome! For those of you who are stopping by for the first time, feel free to check out my about pages here and here. And just so you know, today’s post is brought to you by the letter Q and the word respect. OK? Good. Truly, welcome.

A few weeks ago, I received an email asking if I would consider taking part in a synchroblog with the topic being “How can we embody mutual honour and respect in our conversations and relationships with those with whom we may disagree on the topic of homosexuality?” Its being organized by http://btgproject.blogspot.com and an organization called New Direction, apparently an organization that used to be known as “one of those Christian organizations that gay, lesbian and transgendered people loved to hate.” (their words, not mine)

Now, I did not do much digging trying to find who this group was, or what they were about, I just said yes. And the reason why I said yes, is in part the same ethos that I bring to the question that is before me, before you, now. I said yes, because that is who I am. And to get at the heart of who I am, I guess you would have to look at a few of my Makers: my dad and my G-d.

My father is a hippy, through and though. His outlook on life in general could be summed up in the mantra of his hippy generation–peace, love and happiness. He is a seeker of meaning, and believes that all life has value. For me this meant I grew up knowing that I was pure possibility. He used to tell me over and over and over how much he believed in me, even and especially when I did not believe in myself. He thought that his girls–my sister and me–were unlimited potential bursting with opportunity and hope for the generation to come. Do you know what that does for a little girl? Well, I will tell you. It saves her life. Literally and metaphorically.

When I was 11, my neighbor invited me to church. I had not ever been to one, and well, I loved my neighbor (can you say Gospel foreshadowing anyone)–she and I always had fun together, so “of course I will go to church with you” friend. “Yes, I will.” That was the beginning of my walk with G-d.

One of the first things I learned, was the same thing that most kids learn in Sunday school–G-d loves me. Yes–Jesus loves me, yeeessss Jesus loves me. (No one told me about the Holy Ghost right away, and I suppose rightfully; that Holy Ghost is a frightening character if you are not ready.) So it goes then that the first impression, like most first impressions, was a lasting one when it came to my understanding of G-d. LOVE.

So, how can we embody mutual honour and respect in our conversations and relationships with those with whom we may disagree on the topic of homosexuality? Here is how I go about it. (And I do go about it. The preface to the bulletpoints below would be that you have to be willing, to want to engage, to have a posture and mind that believes that Jesus, the Gospel truly CALLS us to be in relationship with the other. We are mandated engage the stranger (the one who is strange, the one whom you do not yet know, one from who you are astranged), and to love and not judge them. I look to these destabilizing words from Jesus (from Luke 6) when I want to shy away.)

1. I am loved: I actually buy that whole “I am loved” thing, to use a fishing metaphor (Jesus was a fan of fishing you know) hook, line and sinker. And there are a lot of reasons that I could build a good solid arguement against why I should not be loved. I am sinful, I am jealous, I have been known to gossip, I have coveted, and I have taken the Lord’s name in vain. I have worn mixed fabrics (I am wearing them right now), I have most likely broken all of the commandments and then some in my short life so far. I am not proud. I know that I am Sinful with a capitol S. And–I know that I am loved. Wildly, gracouisly, when it doesn’t make any earthly or heavenly sense–I am wholly loved by G-d. And if I am/can be loved, for all of my sh#$!@, then it only makes sense that those that are not like me, those who do not think like me, vote like me, smell like me, are loved also. I need to do my best to see, hear, and engage them as G-d might. The prayer from Psalm 19:14 comes to mind “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.” Amen?
2. I say yes: My first instinct is saying yes–to most things–before I say no. Yes, this has gotten me in trouble sometimes. Yes, it has hurt me, deeply. Yes, it has taken me down some roads I would never have chosen for myself or would not choose again. But, for me, I have found when I open myself, allow myself to be afraid, it is in those places that G-d smashes though my expectations and imagination. I DO believe that G-d is at work, in me, in you, in all. And for the record, ALL really does mean ALL. So I say yes.
3. Engaging the Other: I believe that the heart of the Gospel is calling us all to engage, walk with, be in relationship with the other. And I believe that today our lepers, whores and tax collectors–are queer people. For me, my post from this past Ash Wednesday perhaps gets at it the most clearly as it relates to GLBTQI folks. Please, read it. We are to feed and be fed. We are called to be about bringing the Kingdom of G-d on earth, as it is in heaven. I believe by doing these things–the FIRST things, the Great Commandment things–the rest will work itself out.

Is this stuff hard. Yes. Is it worth it. Yes. Can we do it? Yes, we can.

G-d of our whole lives, protector of our hearts, wild lover of this–your broken people–thank you. For the fruits of the Spirit that are so clearly shown to us when You are at work, and for your most precious gift, love. Help us to not totally blow it, as we are so ding dang dong good at doing. For your love sake, Amen.