genesis 1:31

(funny how darkness can lift.  we had a good conversation and our hearts feel a bit less burdened.)

we end rehearsal very early.  i spend time at a Barnes&Noble.  i want to peruse the sexuality shelves, find more information about what it's like to be a gay teen today so i can better help the young people i try to serve as an OUTreach volunteer.  when i turn toward the aisle, i see a group of teenage boys in trenchcoats, hair unkempt and faces half fuzzed.  they are joking with each other at some book they were reading:

"Look at those fags!  Can you believe that's what they do?"

i think i should feel brave.  i'm not.  i should enter the aisle and peruse the limited selection.  i don't.  i should take the incident and say something, teach these boys a lesson.  i won't.  feeling like a cowardly failure, i go to the poetry section instead.  i purchase a translation of Neruda's 100 Sonnets.  sometimes, when there are three teenage boys and  you haven't got your mace with you, poetry is the only way you can examine your truth:

y asi como no tuvo nacimientono tiene muertes, 

es como un largo no, 

solo cambia de tierras y de labios.

i meet my friend, Miss Chanel-Number-5 (not because she wears the perfume, but because her name is CoCo), for lunch at the Copper Onion.  her lovely son--a singular, Johnny Depp-ish junior high heartthrob--joins us.  we laugh and extoll the brilliance of the food while we catch up on the travel and events of the summer and this fall.

i buy a ticket to a screening of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and having an hour to spare, spend some time at the citycreek mall (somewhat affectionately dubbed "the temple of Mormon capitalism" by me).  as i enter the mall, i see two men holding hands, walking the way any "heteronormal" couple unflinchingly could, looking in storefront window displays.  i follow them, trying to find the nerve to say thank you.  thank you for quietly living out your lives, for holding your hands together in this place, this American/Mormon trade center.  it is inspiring.  it is finite and perfect, which makes it infinite.  i ask GOD to bless them.

i watch the film.  i get excited about the previews=new films to see.  i feel the weight of the pain of the world on my heart as i watch this story play itself out on the screen.  i think of the stories of the kids at OUTreach.  i think of my own story.

i feel drawn to Temple Square after watching the film.  i know i'll end up there, but i pretend to shop at a few stores at the mall to take up time.  this tactic does not work, and i find myself within the gates of the Salt Lake City temple sooner than i anticipate.

at first, i ridicule myself for being here.  soon enough, i accept the logic that this is a traditionally sacred site for me and my people.  i sit on an uncomfortable bench and ask GOD if i'm following the path i was meant to seek.

prayer.  it's a constant in my life, but it feels more urgent (for lack of a better word) as i sit and look up at this Holy House from my uncomfortable bench.

"Look up," that still Voice seems to say.  spires point like arrows and the Angel Moroni holds his trump to his lips, unaided.  i think of Moses, whose arms were so tired his brother, Aaron, had to assist.  there is no assistance for Moroni--he's held that trumpet on his own for the last 150 or so years.

i think of Jonah, who rathered a fish's maw than than a visionary call.  i am more like Jonah than Moses, or even Aaron.  sometimes, i don't want to heed this call to lift my voice, to share my story, to build these bridges I AM prompted to build.  i wonder where my Aaron is.  who lifts my arms when they grow weary?  sometimes, i feel so much doubt.

and then, bells from the Madeleine cathedral begin chanting the vigil for the hour and i feel the answer to my prayer:

ye are called to the work 

perfect love casteth out fear 

IT IS GOOD

go forth, my beloved son, in whom i am well pleased 

our lives are lifted up by moments of atonement.  i am full of them.

But for the Grace of GOD

ever wonder what God's grace looks like?  sometimes, it looks like this:

• Pretty Girl, Sweet Pea, and Handsome Boy.  #childrenareart
• pondering the last six years and talking with Mom and Dad about the intersection of "gay" and "mormon" #lifewasshaken #thechoosingwasnot
• realizing that love and family loyalty are more powerful than tradition or doctrine #thisisourfamily #justdontletitgo
• dinner with Mission Companion and his beautiful wife #thosegood&crazypeople #mymarriedfriends
• chatting with Kim and sensing we see many things with similar feelings.  #nooneisalone
• comparing the history of your one wild and precious life with that of another #makestheormeanmore

these pictures of grace remind me of where i'd've blindly and miserably gone had i been a weaker being.  thanks be to all things sacred and profane heaven's been holding my hand, lighting my eyes, leading my heart.

(also, sometimes his shows are my scriptures #lessonsfromSondheim)

We were getting ready to cut the dog's hair and Sammy, my parents' Yorkshire terrier, went into hiding amidst piles of sorted laundry as I looked in the mudroom cupboard for the clippers my mother uses to trim his coat.

Mom was standing near the kitchen table, her five-month-old iPhone in her hand. "Your brother taught me how to use the iTunes last night," she said. "I have to show you the first song I bought." She was excited to show me the song she had purchased, Bucky Covington's song, "A Father's Love." I'd never heard of the singer, let alone the song, as I'm not much interested in listening to a wide array of country music. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to coax the dog into out of the laundry pile when the son started playing; I was in tears, dog in hand, by the second stanza.

He checked the air in my tires,
The belts and all the spark plug wires;
Said "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?"
And as I pulled out the drive he said, "Be sure and call your mom sometime."
And I didn't hear it then, but I hear it now:
He was saying "I love you" the only way he knew how.

I was hit by these lyrics because they describe exactly what my dad does for me every time I come home. He checks the air in my tires, opens the hood and putters around, and--word for word--asks, "When the hell's the last time you had this oil changed?" The song finished playing, I held Sammy in my lap, and Mom proceeded to share with me how she'd played the song for Dad the night before( which inspired about the same reaction in him as it did me); he asked afterward if he'd said "I love you" to his sons frequently enough when we were growing up.

I looked at a hangnail on my finger and smiled, as this brought to mind a rigorous and flaying conversation I'd had with an acquaintance concerned about my life choices about a month earlier. I said, "Well, I made sure to tell Sister So-and-So that Dad has always been very conscious about letting us know he loves us, that we've heard those words from him many times."

"What are you talking about?"

I wrestled with the anxious dog in my lap. "Oh, about a month ago she waited for me after an afternoon performance the trio gave. Said I was 'just the young man she wanted to visit with.' Corralled me into an unoccupied, 'more private' room for a discussion she wanted to have. Where she told me why being gay is the same as being 'sexually broken.' And said she could offer me help with selecting a Church-affiliated counselor and a reformative program. So I could be healed."

I wasn't sure if my mom would try to change the subject of if she'd agree with the other woman's opinion; I wasn't really certain of anything, as any mention of the word "gay" draws up tension for my mom and for me. The clippers buzzed on and Sammy whimpered. "You're kidding! I can say stuff like that to you, but no one else can! Who in the world does she--?" I was comforted by my mother's defending, angry response. "What else did she say?"

I maneuvered the dog so Mom could shear those hard-to-reach places and explained how Sister So-and-So informed me that same-gender attraction is not caused by genetics or biological functions, but that it is the result for boys who grow up without an involved father; who lack positive masculine role-models in their early lives; who seek out positive male-to-male touch in adult relationships because they don't feel completely male because their daddies didn't hug them enough when they were little boys.

I explained how I let Sister So-and-So know that my dad had never been shy about giving my brothers and me hugs; that he'd never been slack in saying, "I love you;" that both he and my mom have always been supportive of the activities in which their children participate. "Mom, I was very clear in telling her how great a father Dad was--how great a father he is. That I don't think it's Dad's fault--or your fault--that I'm gay." I laughed, "It really blew the wind out of her sails."

"That just makes me so mad," Mom spat. "What nerve!"

"I know, Mom. I was really upset about it, too," I agreed. Sammy kicked, "Be careful -- don't nick your dog!"

"Sorry, Sammy."

We kept talking as she finished up Sammy's haircut. It felt good for both of us. It had been a long time since that had happened.

I learned some things:

My parents are processing this. They may not like it, but they love me and they will defend me as they always have.

Sister So-and-So was acting out of love, even if she was sneaky and horribly misguided in the way she offered her opinions; however, Sister So-and-So was also ashamed that we were having the conversation. She waited around for everyone to leave before she said she wanted to speak with me. She looked for a quiet room, out of the way, where no one could find or interrupt us. She cowered and looked over her shoulder at every sound. "Did someone just walk by? Did anybody see us in here?"

My response to that kind of sneaky, secretive, shadow-filled "assistance" is this: I'm Mormon. I'm gay. I'm unashamed. If you want to talk about those dualities, let's have the discussion out in the open. No secrets. No shame. No judgment from you. No judgment from me.

And lastly, my parents' parenting of me did not direct or lead me to be attracted to other men. There is nothing we can blame "the gay" on. It just is. It's something I've felt since I can remember feeling, and it's something I'll feel for the rest of my life. No one should ever have to justify their feelings, or try to blame what they feel on anyone else.

I've become a man, confident and content as any, but I forget to change the oil in my car. I don't often press a gauge against the valve to see how much air is in the tire. Dad reminds me to do those things. It's just another way he keeps saying, "I love you." I'm happy he still does.

Response to a Sunday School Discussion, on Genesis 18 and 19

I sat in Sunday School for the first time in many months. We were reading about Abraham and Lot. I sat with my mother. I tensed when Sodom and Gomorrah were mentioned. The biblical account states that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed because of their wickedness. The teacher asked (what I deem a stupid question), "What are some examples of their wickedness?" Of course, homosexuality was brought up; it was spoken of with intense disgust, almost as if it were a plague, implying that those who are LGBT are sick and in need of pity, a cure, or fiery annihilation. All I could think of were these lines from Shakespeare's "The Merchant of Venice", my own way of affirming "I AM NOT A PLAGUE! I am the same as you"--

He hath disgraced me, and
hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
resemble you in that.

Let's not use ancient, stolid Bible stories to demonize those who we feel are different from us and then justify our actions against them.

The Sunday School lesson we should remember most? Look and you will see that we are the same: all are christened children of God, made of the same materials, housing the same biological patterns, and full of the power with which God has gifted us.

The Guilty Question: A Response to "You're Beyond Feeling"

My bishop called me the day before my birthday in 2009 and made a pressing invitation for me to go to his office for a little visit.  I had just moved back into my parents' house from a couple of prodigal years on my own, I wasn't "actively engaged" in the good cause of The Church, and I was angry at what I felt was the shit life had thrown at me.  I didn't know exactly what he wanted to discuss with me, but I suspected the bishop wanted to explore the reasons I chose not to maintain a high level of activity in the ward.

So, I took a deep breath, rolled up my white-shirt-sleeves, buttoned my black slacks and, wearing a fabulous pink tie, I met him one evening at the church meeting house.  He welcomed me into his office, where he had conspicuously placed two chairs in front of his desk, one for him and one for me.  We sat across from each other, and (after the obligatory, everyday salutations) he suggested I offer a prayer.  I hadn't prayed aloud for quite some time, and the words "Dear Heavenly Father..." felt like an old, forgotten language in my mouth, while at the same time, I found a starchy, hard kind of comfort in talking to God again.  We said our amens and then the bishop gave me a tender, pained looked and quietly asked, "What's wrong, Nic?"

I didn't want to be there.  I remember asking myself why I was there in the first place.  Because he called you in and you don't know how to graciously say no to authority figures, I thought. I don't feel like I've done anything which would merit the help of a bishop in repenting.  I don't want to repent.  He thinks I need to change something.  I shouldn't ever have agreed to come here.  But he looked so sincerely concerned and -- with the pictures of Jesus were staring me down -- I decided I'd just be as honest with him as I felt I could trust him.

Over a series of visits, we discussed what, for years, I had called my "guilty question" : I told him I was gay.  I told him I didn't know how to make that work in The Only True and Living Church on the Face of the Earth Today.  I told him how I had tried to ignore it away, to pray it away, how I had tried to serve it away (as an LDS missionary), how I had tried to date and engage and marry it away.  I told him how it had never gone away.  I told him I was tired of hearing I was fighting a "tendency," a "weakness," that I needed to be fixed.  I don't need to be fixed, I gritted my teeth many times. I silently testified, Homosexuality is not an illness.  There isn't a cure, and we won't find one here.  Jesus loves me as I AM.

He was as empathetic as any married, Melchezidek Priesthood bearing, rural, straight man could be about it.  He cried over my heartaches when I wouldn't.  He offered me hugs and blessings I didn't accept.  I prickled every time he said he just wanted me to talk with him about what I felt.  I didn't believe him when he said he wouldn't judge me.  My emotions were becoming raw when all I wanted to be was callous.  I admit, I looked for reasons to quit meeting with him. 

I found that reason in our last meeting before I left for a midsummer music festival taking place in WI.  We had been making progress in understanding why I had felt the need to ignore all emotions except anger, and he blurted out, "Nic, I think you're beyond feeling.  When was the last time you really felt a prompting of the Spirit?"

I was so shocked I couldn't think or hear or speak.

(End  Part I)