A Collar and Eyeliner

"The Lord be with you," Father O'Leary mumbled from the pulpit. He knew the automatic response and only need wait for its monotone reply. He didn't want it to come. He wanted his sheep not to be led, but ritual breeds complacency, and Catholics love their ritual. He finally was questioning its purpose. Standing in front of his congregation wasn't the ideal place for chaos, doubt, or skepticism, so he wiggled his shoulders trying to shake it from his body hoping no one would notice as they blindly kept their faith. Notice they did, but they just thought it was Father O'Leary trying to keep himself awake. He had been known to fall asleep at mass on occasion.

Barry sat at the back of church. Black ringed his eyes, a left over from the night before, and cast shadows of hope. He wanted to believe. He wanted to be among the parishioners; he wanted communion. He wanted the warmth of nostalgia and childhood memories. He longed for the black and white simplicity of sin. His life, complicated by disease and an undying belief in compassion, waxed gray. He needed a little separation.

The mass continued its dull progression. Father O'Leary droned dispassionately. His homily was a meditation on boredom that bored the congregation to the verge of dreams and disillusionment. His lack of conviction almost produced his hope: there was a young man with black around his eyes that continually dropped the song book creating a reverberation of dissonance that echoed throughout the chapel; its loud thud caught on subconscious thoughts of conformity and habituation. It became like a metronome metering the monotony of Father's monologue. It sunk deep to the point of omnipresence: everywhere and nowhere at the same time. But then the weight of ritual and prayer overwhelmed, and everyone, including Father O'Leary and Barry moved on to the Apostle's Creed.

Professing devotion to a singular being wasn't something that Barry could do. He'd seen too much to believe in one truth above all else, yet that was precisely what brought him to church. He so wanted to believe in something other than his senses and reason. He liked the concept of blind faith, the ultimate release of one's self to something otherworldly. He just couldn't accept its reality or disconnect from true responsibility. If one could repent to be forgiven, why ever bother with doing the right thing at all? He placed the song book back in its wooden placeholder and stood to leave. This wan't what he really needed. It's what he thought he needed. As he began to leave, an itchiness grew.

Everyone rose in unison with Barry. His metered book dropping wove a web between him and the rest of the congregation. It spun deep into the nether regions of free will and critical thought. He held them captive beyond the grasp of Father O'Leary's doctrine and liturgy. Being sheep, they didn't notice it wasn't time to stand. Rather it was time to kneel, to press knees on hard planks of stained wood, to be uncomfortable, to remember suffering as a component of faith. It was modern self-flagellation.

Father O'Leary watched his parishioners stand. He was momentarily baffled and scared. Had they heard his dark thoughts of doubt? Did they know how bored he was of ritual? Were they rejecting their faith? And he had a moment of clarity made manifest by the man with the black eyeliner making his way towards the exit: he loved his power; he needed his parishioners. A crack in composure brought a point of panic and a scream let loose snapped the invisible strings connecting his congregation to Barry.

It sounded more like a whistle or a soprano's high note. It was more melodic than a scream, but underneath the melody was untethered emotion: a feeling of despair, disjointedness, disbelief. It was eerily intimate. It was that which Barry was searching for, and when it tickled the tiny hairs in his ears he abruptly stopped, turned, and stared at Father O'Leary.

The congregation stood between these two men locked in limbo. They buzzed like fireflies trapped in a jar aimlessly wandering, searching for an exit, unaware of what kept them trapped. Without their guide, their leader, their father they were left directionless and hopeless. They were waiting, like those trapped fireflies, for their last breath of air until their light was extinguished.

Father O'Leary stood motionless in front of the pulpit. He watched his fireflies like the child who trapped them: detached and slightly titillated at the decreasing oxygen and increasing lethargy. He now knew the true power he yielded, and he hoped it would respark his faith.

"My dear congregation," Father O'Leary lulled in his best imitation of his best Sunday voice. "You are my children. You are the reason I am here. You must not leave."

Barry turned again to leave. This wasn't his place any longer. He had left it behind when he put on his mascara at nineteen, and it still wasn't his place. It was a mistake coming back. He should have known this, but his body ached for relief and simplicity. His body wanted a final healing before its final release. The disease was growing. He could feel it multiplying underneath his skin causing incredible pain and discomfort and sensitivity to touch. Father O'Leary's message meant nothing to him. He wasn't a child and didn't want to be treated as one. At least not in these final moments. He wanted peace.

The congregation, conflicted, didn't know which way to face. Half stared blankly at Father O'Leary. Half faced Barry's back. They were still trapped somewhere between devotion and disbelief.

"Stop!" Father O'Leary demanded, and something broke inside of him. "Stop!" He yelled again as tears streamed down his face. "Sto..." and he couldn't even finish the word because he found himself falling to the wooden floor.

Barry heard the pain. It was more real than the aches in joints or burning red rash that covered his body. He wanted, no needed, to comfort that pain. Something told him this was his healing. He rushed to Father O'Leary's side.

"My dear child," Father O'Leary began.

"I am no child," replied Barry.

"Forgive me. Please forgive me. I have failed you."

"I can offer no forgiveness, Father. Only solace."

The disease quickened its deadly progression. The red itchy rash bubbled and blistered. Joints popped. A fever burned and boiled blood.

Father O'Leary just cried. Cried and cried.

The entire congregation witnessed Barry clutch Father O'Leary in his arms and kiss his forehead. They watched as Barry's body turned fire red and blood flowed from his eyes. They beheld Father O'Leary's body go limp. They bore witness to the passage of life and the relinquishment of power, doubt, and belief.

They were free.

A Yielding Start

 
Just start and the rest will come. I know this now. It is not something I have always known. I used to be distrustful. I used to wander aimlessly with arms flinging and flailing hoping for a life vest or boat to rescue me; something other than myself to rescue me. It comes, but only sometimes, so I have learned to let go, trust, open up, lend a hand, show up. It doesn't mean I have stopped flinging or flailing. It just means I have found comfort there. The same comfort I find in solid ground and a firm direction. Or the same comfort I find sleeping next to my husband.

Again, I am at a crossroads, a point leading in multiple directions with varied outcomes. I have recently been here. I have actually been here many times in the last few years. each time I feel out trying to find a way. Then, a step or two. I may circle back, feel again, and take a new step. I may stay where I am at too. It all depends on circumstance and intuition. Rarely, it relies on fact. Those are messy and always changing.

I have never found a dead end. Finding one would require me to believe in death, and I am still too catholic to believe end equals death. It is more of a cul-de-sac or a holding patter, something that can be perceived as final or terminus but isn't I guess the Catholics would call it Purgatory, but there is too much negative connotation to that word. Calling it that implies a hellish type of atonement upon arrival. I prefer my atonement while in transit. It allows for a certain amount of course correction.

This crossroads is slightly different. All the others included a certain frame or reference point, some guide post that at least marked space or time or location or some other defining feature. I have ripped out, torn down, and destroyed the guide post that once was here. I mutilated it to the point of unrecognizable, undefinable, unreadable. It happened so slowly that I only realized it was destroyed once I looked for it. Then, it was too late to hope for it to be there. So, instead, I stand firmly waiting for my foot to lead itself or another passerby or just resting in this moment. I don't yet need to move. And if I am not compelled, then why move?

I am excited to see how the next few days, weeks, months, years, decades spread outward, contract inward, spiral. I have a feeling, somewhere between the back of my eyes and in the depths of my belly, that I will be here for a while. I will become momentarily an observer yielding to the tides and currents rather than shaping them. I will travel with the least resistance possible making my self obscure and hopefully obsolete. I shall shrink and expand.

All I have to do is start. Again and again start. The rest will find its way.

On Fire with the holy spirit

  
The Holy Spirit entered my body as they laid hands on me and screamed in tongues. We were in a hotel in Pensacola, Florida, here for a youth ministry retreat on Catholic evangelism. It was a growing movement, and they needed an army of Catholic soldiers ready to take to the streets preaching the word of God. Ours were souls most at risk for we were at that tender age, puberty, where the devil, or hormones, tempt at every corner. They were going to save us, and in return we'd save others.

We were a rag tag crew of mostly kids with which no one else played. We had a common identifier: outcast, nerd, geek, queer. The adults didn't fair much better. One leader was a large woman with short black hair. Looking at her, you knew she had gone through exactly what you had, the teasing and harassment, but she met the world with sparkly eyes and a smile. She was nice, and I wanted to be nice too. If she was here, obviously I was meant to be here. Looking back at the pictures, you'd think we were actually going to a queer camp. Only large steel crosses hung from our necks.

The bus made its journey southward stopping at Grotto of the Redemption in West Bend, Iowa, and then Memphis to see Graceland. We prayed a lot, but I had yet to speak in tongues. Something kept blocking the release. They called it Satan; I called it sanity.

Along the way, I developed a deep affection for and connection to this community. It was easy to count myself among them because they understood the feeling of being queer. Sure it might not have referred to sexuality, but it did pertain to that unique experience of revelation that something about you truly is different. That moment is so profound. It moves you to another place from which you can never go back. Each and every one of us felt different in our homes and lives. Here, we were "normal". Or as normal a group of evangelical Catholic teens can be.

Our travels ended in Pensacola, and I still hadn't spoken in tongues. I was one of the rare ones, even among this motley crew. I was beginning to feel like an outsider, and so my mania set in. Jokes started spewing and obnoxiousness ensued. It actually fit right in. Evangelicals are nothing if not manic. In fact, speaking in tongues requires hysteria and frenzy in equal amounts. I was finally on my way towards revelation. All I needed to do was let go of rationality. My body chemistry would do the rest.

If you have never spoken in tongues or done drugs, it is hard to truly imagine what the experience is like. If you have done either, you've experienced the same thing. It is just that you got there a different way. I was in my early teenage years, and, thanks to my own conservatism, hadn't tried drugs yet, so I had nothing to compare it to. In the moment, it was blissfully divine.

I stood in the center of a small group of youth and adults. Each person placed one hand on me and raised the other towards heaven. Prayer started in English with one of the adults.

"Dearest God in heaven, our Lord and Savior. We are here today beseeching your blessing for your disciple Jason. He is your vessel, dear Jesus. He is open to your love and kindness. He is in awe of your might. He is here to serve, almighty Lord. Please bless him with the gift of the Holy Spirit. So he may experience all of Your greatness, power and might!"

As he prayed, the other surrounding me whispered their prayers with closed eyes and faces turned upwards. Their whispers were inaudible and intelligible, spoken in the language of the Holy Spirit. Each hand on my shoulder, head, arm, waist, back, or neck conducted heat and electricity. My body tingled and sparked. Something was coursing through me. I felt it in the tips of my toes and in that place behind the eyes. The place that opens your third eye.

The leader of this laying of hands burst out loudly in tongues and ignited the volume of the others. I was swimming amidst a whirlwind of indecipherable sounds and overwhelming emotion. All of our difference, otherness, and awkwardness made manifest. I was the eye of this hysterical storm, the walls of which were shrinking. More hands were laid on me. More electricity coursed through my body. More prayers were offered.

The tickle behind the eyes intensified to full-grade migraine complete with flashing white light. I was surrounded by clouds lost among the fog trying to find the sky and Son. The tongues were transformed into the song of the heavens, and I listened quietly. Peaking over the horizon was God. I found Him. I was saved. Tongues spilled from my mouth.

My body convulsed. I was caught. They laid me on the hotel room's bed. My face was flush red, and I was sweating profusely. Someone grabbed a wet towel from the bathroom and dabbed my forehead. I kept muttering unaware of what I said still staring at my Lord as He bestowed blessings, revelations, warnings. I awoke with a profound need to proselytize.

The next bit is a haze, but I ended up in the streets of Pensacola, Florida, preaching the word of God at the top of my lungs for all to hear. It was summer and dark, so it was late. I had no fear. God released that. It made me reckless. Luckily, there were few people on the street and most ignored me. Those that didn't thought I was a loon and made their feelings known. I didn't care. I was doing God's work.

I wandered the streets for an hour or two and snaked my way back to the hotel. I was on fire - the Holy Spirit in all corners of my body. I jumped in the pool wearing all of my clothes hoping to cool myself while screaming in tongues. Everyone greeted me with compassion and love and curiosity. I was no longer someone who wanted to be among them. I was someone in communion with them. We now all had a common experience to share. The seal broken, I spoke in tongues during every prayer and laying of hands.

I haven't spoken in tongues since that trip, but I've felt the fire of the holy spirit and communed with god. Something was unlocked during that trip: a desire to be myself including all the mania, frenzy, and hysteria that accompanies living a true existence. My truth may not be Catholic evangelism, but it does hold a deep reverence for existential experiences rooted in emotion. For it was that exact same feeling I had when I finally came out: a complete release of self.

It is why I am still coming out today.

One Semester Seminary

   
I was raised Catholic. Very Catholic. In fact, I went to seminary to be a priest when I was 18. I only lasted one semester. It was the most insightful and informative four and a half months of my entire life. I would never change that experience. I would also never relive it.

Lovers Become Friends

  
We met at a Catholic retreat designed to manipulate emotions and destroy your ego in an effort to find Christ. I remember seeing her for the first time so clearly: her hair curly, a brownish-blonde, and cut below the shoulders; her beauty marks on her distinguished face; her lighting of candles. I loved her instantaneously.

Gone are the curly locks, now replaced by short straight hair. More prominent are the distinguished beauty marks. Instead of wax candles and Christ, she lights the fire of spirituality in anyone she comes into contact with.

We are no longer lover. We are dear, dear friends. I still love her.

Bible School at Pine Ridge

 
I've been to Pine Ridge Indian Reservation on the edge of the Badlands in South Dakota twice. They were mission trips organized by a national Christian organization. The first time I was Catholic. The second time I was not. Both trips consisted of painting homes, cultural exchanges, and bible studies. I was fine with two out of the three purposes.

My second year there I almost got sent home. I wasn't just not Catholic. I was anti-Catholic. The memory of seminary was close and couldn't be ignored. Nor could the Christian's role in the genocide of native peoples. I wouldn't teach bible school. It was disingenuous to require bible school for paint.

The leader pulled me aside.

"You have to do what we're here to do or you will go home."

"Then send me home."

My dad was there too. he talked me down. I complied begrudgingly.

Later, I had the opportunity to speak to an elder of the community.

"How do you put up with us? I barely can."'

"You accept what help you can."

"But...I mean Christianity has done so much harm. How do you reconcile harm against the good?"

"Listening is not the same as accepting or condoning. There are good lessons Jesus taught. They are in line with our history and story. Pay attention to those lessons."

I am still grappling with that wisdom today.

The Scratched Cornea

 
I scratched my cornea dancing one night when my flailing arms ended up poking me in the eye. It was painful and sent me home immediately. It was the night before my brother's confirmation.

I awoke the next morning barely able to keep my eye open, tears dripping rhythmically down my cheek. It was going to be a long day. I thought about not going, but wanted to be there for my brother. I got dressed, and my parents picked my up.

"What happened," asked my mom.

I told her.

Suddenly, my accident was purposeful and meant to ruin the day. I argued back.

"Uh...no it'd not. It was a total accident!"

"You're going out wasn't an accident."

I didn't disagree.

We arrived at the Cathedral in St. Paul. Everyone piled in to the church. My family took a seat near the front. I didn't want to be that close. Still my eye kept dripping and madly blinking.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"That looks like it hurts."

"I'm fine...It was an accident...Yes, it hurts, but I'll be fine."

Mass started. The stand, sit, kneel, stand again commenced. I sat the entire time. My parents grew more agitated with my actions. They were deliberate.

Then came Communion. The entire row rose and proceeded to empty into the aisle. I still sat there. A tap and nudge ont he shoulder from my mom or dad, I can't recall, urged me to stand. A shake of my head responded.

"Come on. It's Communion."

"I'm not going. I'm not Catholic anymore."

"Don't ruin this for your brother."

"It would be disrespectful for me to take Communion."

They looked at me disdainfully and got in line. I was the only person still sitting in the first seven rows.

Gossip ensued.

I scratched my cornea again in a similar fashion many years later. The next day, however, all I did was stay home. I probably should have done that the first time.

The Apology

 
He pulled me in to his office.

"Jason," he started, "you can't volunteer here or be a part of this church any more because you're gay. It isn't the message we want to send the youth."

"But I've been raised in this church. I went to school here. I teach Sunday School."

"I'm sorry. You can't do that any more. That's all I have to say."

Years later, he emailed an apology.

I still don't visit that church.

A Day of Rejuvenation and Self Care: Questions from Victoria

Youth Worker: Collective (then the YDPN) worked with Sangita Kumar, Margaret Schulze, and Victoria Welle to create a workshop called A Day of Rejuvenation and Self-Care for the Afterschool for All Technical Assistance Collaborative on April 2, 2009. In the planning process, we brought together these three fabulous people because they come from a diverse faith perspective and embrace pluralism in all of its forms. What resulted was a curriculum and workshop that used arts education and pluralism practices to empower participants to explore how they take care of themselves. To view the curriculum, click here.
Victoria Welle is currently studying issues of health, healing, and justice as a student at the Graduate Theologica Union's Jesuit School of Theology at Berkeley. She wrote a paper about her experiences with the workshop. She asked facilitators to answer a couple of basic questions about their experiences with faith to inform the paper. (Link to come soon, hopefully!)

Below are my responses to her questions. They didn't make it in to the paper because I was tardy in getting her my answers. I am sharing them here because I believe they shed light into how I show up in this world and the reason faith, regardless of format or formalization, is important to me.
****
Questions from Victoria (since this is for a theology class!):

• What is the religion of your family of origin/did you grow up practicing a particular faith?
• What, if any, faith or faiths do you practice now?
• If asked the question "what religion are you?" what would you say?
• (optional: how much did your current faith practices play a role in helping design the workshop)

My Responses:

I was raised Catholic and practiced Catholicism religiously until seminary. I was in seminary for one semester at which I came out as gay. After coming out and due to much harassment by seminarians and priests (including the church I grew up in), I decided I could no longer remain Catholic or support the church.

I currently describe myself as someone who believes in wonder, imagination, dreams, and creativity. I believe in living a values-grounded life. I am not an atheist because I still believe there is something cosmic. I don't perscribe to any one way of thinking.

The Tao Te Ching guides my way of being in the world. When in times of stress or feeling lost or overwhelmed, I read its passages and find hope and comfort. I read science and math books to keep me thinking larger and beyond the obviously observable. I create and view art of all kinds as a means to hear, perceive, and experience voice, passion, history, and possibilities. I go into churches and places of worship to physically be transported to another place and time - an experience that helps me become in awe of the artistry of faith and devotion.

My current value base, the ones that guide my life and keep me focused and connected, are deeply rooted in my catholic (notice small c) upbringing. I know I have a social justice view of the world as a direct result of all of the volunteering I did because of my church. I remember working with the homeless, the destitute, the ill, those rejected by society. And in those experiences I saw compassion, composure, and grace. Those formative experiences are an anchor that firmly plants me in creating a more just and compassionate world.

While I am no longer Catholic, I am catholic. I believe in the universality in all of us. I see the connections, hear the stories, and continually discover that there is more in common than not. I weave these beliefs and values and philosophies into all of my practices and actions. I do my best to live a values-grounded life. And I hope that that shows up in everything I do.

Prayer and Mediation

I have always had a deep sense of exploration and wonder. I have always felt that there is something greater than me. In the past, I called that something God. God was the Catholic God, the God of the Trinity. God was equal parts loving and fearful. God was infallible and infinite. He was the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega. In order to go to heaven, you needed to accept Jesus into your heart and confess your sins.

As I grew up, the nature of God changed. I began to question the essence and nature of God. It seemed to me that the Catholic God was confusing and contradictory. I wondered how God could tell his followers to love and be compassionate of all and also condemn nonbelievers to hell and eternal suffering.

This confusion made me feel lost. I wanted to know who and what to believe in. Catholicism gave me guideposts in my faith. I knew I was holy because I went to church on Sunday, I prayed before I ate, I read the Bible, I tithed, I taught Sunday school. If I didn’t believe in the Catholic God, what were my actions but hollow? Who was I but a shell?

So I searched. I searched in the Tarot, in science, in Nietzsche, in myself, in leaders I admired, in friends, in nature, in the spaces and places between things. I tried to find the spirituality and faith I once had.

I found many things – beauty, love, respect, humility, vastness, absence, presence, joy, explanations – but I did not find my spirituality. What I once had was eluding me. It was if with every corner I turned my spirit turned the one right ahead of me. I kept getting glimpses of it and yet I never saw it. I was chasing my shadow.

I had to change course. Instead of searching for something outside of myself, something greater than me, I needed to find me. I needed to go deeper inside and see what made, and makes, me tick – how I move about in this world.

I remember my fourth grade teacher Mrs. Bishop. She was an amazing woman with a great sense of wonder. One spring day she told our class about astronomy, but in order to fully grasp it it needed to be dark outside. She told us to meet her in the schoolyard at 8pm that night.

I showed up eager to learn. Mrs. Bishop brought telescopes and a night sky map. It was my first memory of seeing the stars through a telescope, and somehow they didn’t seem so far away. I learned how to find Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, and the Seven Sisters. Mrs. Bishop made astronomy seem so simple. In order to understand it, you simply needed to pause, observe, and reflect.

It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized the depth of Mrs. Bishop’s teachings. She wasn’t really teaching about astronomy. Astronomy was just a tool she used to teach us how to learn, explore, and deepen understanding. If we could pause, observe, and reflect on something as vast as the heavens, as space, then we should be able to do it with anything.

My good friend Margaret recently asked me to attend prayer/mediation workshops at her church. Margaret has always welcomed me into her faith. She is a model of letting her spirit speak through her actions. She is a mentor of mine for spiritual growth.

Over the last seven years, Margaret has invited me to various church functions and services, and I have politely turned down most of them. This time, however, something resonated within me. Partly, it was because I wanted/want to walk more intentionally in this world and this opportunity seemed like an excellent way to increase my intentionality. Partly, it was because I was/am no longer angry at the church (Catholic or otherwise). Partly, it was because my fondness for Margaret has grown tremendously and this seemed an excellent way to connect with her on a deeper level. All of these reasons converged and I committed to attending the workshops.

Previously, I would have attended the workshops in search of something outside of myself. This time, I attended the workshops with the focus solely on me – understanding what role prayer and mediation played in my life, in my journey towards leadership. I found myself pausing, observing, and reflecting. I took the lessons I learned – that prayer and meditation are simply a method to focus quietly on intention – and applied it to me. And I found a glimmer of myself. My shadow paused momentarily before running around the next corner.

The prayer/meditation workshops lasted only four sessions, so I needed to find something else that would enable me to pause, observe, and reflect. Another mentor of mine, Kica, co-teaches mediation classes for the San Francisco Buddhist Center. Coincidentally, their next six-week Introduction to Meditation class started the Tuesday after my last prayer/meditation workshop. I signed up.

I had my first class last Tuesday. I went with no expectations. I had written my first blog entry the same day, so I was really focused on nothingness. And nothingness is what happened. There is no way to describe the realization of being outside of your self by going deeply inside of your self through concentrating only on breathing. It is like realizing that the shadow I thought to be my spirit is really just my shadow and that my shadow is really who I am – space with little form that eludes everything and everyone and disappears in great light and great darkness.

My spiritual journey is my path towards leadership. Prayer and mediation are vehicles/tools I draw upon to pause, observe, and reflect. They help me step into nothingness.

Which Shoes to Step into

I was asked to ponder what shoes I need to step into in order to become who I want to be in five years. This is a very interesting and hard to ponder question – one that evokes a fear inside me; one that begs commitment to a way of life.

I grew up Catholic, and it is through this upbringing that I feel a very deep commitment to fostering and enabling an equitable, compassionate world. It is not so much of the churches dogma that birthed this deep commitment. Rather, it was the people that shaped my ethics and the situations I found myself in within the church that formed my deep sense of equity.

I remember starting to volunteer at a very young age. I volunteer at nursing homes, hospitals for the mentally ill, runaway teen programs, homeless shelters, and a dearth of other socially conscious organizations. These volunteer jobs exposed me to the suffering, joy, and beauty of the world.

The runaway teen shelter was one of my most amazing experiences as a youth. I met people who were abandoned or felt abandoned by their families. Some ran away to escape abuse, some ran away because their drug addiction forced them to leave, some ran away because their families could no longer deal with their mental illness. My volunteer commitment was very minimal—mostly doing arts and crafts, playing games, and talking to my peers. Through these activities and conversations, I learned some of my peers had more hope than I. I realized that life holds joy and suffering in equal measure regardless of where you are.

My work at the hospital for the mentally ill taught me that art and creativity exist everywhere and that art is beautiful. I had been exposed to museums, classic artists, and other youth-produced work at that time. I had not been exposed to the true impact art and creativity had within people. I saw people that had very little ability to communicate verbally express themselves in a language I could understand. And what they spoke was beauty, love, and tenacity.

These experiences showed me that the world is like and unlike my upbringing. I also realized that in order to understand my place within the world I needed and continue to need to intentionally place myself within contexts, settings, and situations that are outside of my experience and the bubble of my upbringing. Paradoxically, it is through this search for understanding that I know that the more I seek, the less I understand.

I also remember specific examples when the teachings of the church conflicted with actions. I volunteered for a mission trip to Pine Ridge Reservation. While on the mission trip, I got into conflict with the trip leaders because I couldn’t understand why the Native Americans we were there to serve had to attend Christian service if they wanted our help. Through conversations with leaders and elders of Pine Ridge, I saw a deep spirituality on the reservation rooted in traditions that reached back indefinitely into history. I observed that even amid the poverty imposed on the reservation by centuries of government policies, practices, and conflict the people valued what they had. Who were we to insist on a specific “way” in order to get something as basic as a meal or a freshly painted home? Where was the equity?

Another example of conflict between preachings and actions happened to me while I was in the seminary. Seminary prompted me to come out. All the seminarians had to attend a retreat on the exploration of sexuality and abstinence. One night, a group of us were talking about our experiences with sex and sexuality when the topic of homosexuality came up. I was not out yet, but I knew, had known for a very long time, that I was most likely gay. Some of the seminarians started saying disparaging and hateful things about the queer community. I leapt to the defense of the queer community asking how could seminarians, people longing to be spiritual leaders, be so intolerant, hateful, and contradictory. How could a potential religious leader that preached loving others the way he wanted to be treated say that queers were less than? Where was the equity?

A final example of the contradictory nature of the church happened after I came out. Upon my coming out, I was told by the priest at the church in which I was raised—the church in which I volunteered much of my time; the church in which I belonged—that I could no longer work with children and youth at the church. For many years, I had taught Sunday school, led vacation bible school, and attended Wednesday night youth groups, and been a leader within the larger church. All of that was taken away because I came out, not because I was gay. This reinforced my lack of belief in the church. Why was I all of a sudden an outcast? Where was the equity? (Side note: The priest later sent me an apology for his misjudgment. Dear Father: If you are reading this now, thank you.)

But what do these experiences have to do with stepping into shoes now almost fifteen to twenty years later? Everything. If I want to know where I will be in five years, I need to know who I am now, who I was back then, and have a vision of who I will become. All of these experiences happened by accident and without intention. I am privileged to have them all happen to me for they shaped me, and I want to make sure that the experiences in the years to come continue to foster my understanding, or in reality my lack of understanding, of love, beauty, suffering, joy, and equity. I want to be intentional.

In the Tao Te Ching it states “The Master, by residing in the Tao, sets an example for all things. Because [she] doesn’t display [herself], people can see [her] light. Because he has nothing to prove, people can trust his words. Because [she] doesn’t know who [she] is, people recognize themselves in [her]. Because he has no goal in mind, everything he does succeeds.”[1] This is the leader I wish to become. And committing to this path is scary for it means letting go, surrendering, accepting. It means being. And there is nothing scarier and more liberating than going nowhere intentionally.

So..what shoes do I need to step into? Nothing.

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[1] Stephen Mitchell, Tao Te Ching (New York: Harper Collins, 1988), 22