Every once in a while, I check my sitemeter to see which posts of mine continue to attract readers long after I originally published them. A fairly popular one appears to be my dream post of March 26, 2009, The Gay Whore of Babylon. Recently, an anonymous commenter, after explaining to me that my relationship with my husband is essentially an unnatural, "deadly... addiction," advised me, "Heed those warnings in your dreams." I assume this person was referring to my Whore of Babylon dream.
From the moment I clicked "publish" on that post, I suspected it would be susceptible to certain kinds of misinterpretation, and might encourage a certain type of panicky response. But I published it anyway for two reasons. First of all, because I am a believer in "letting the chips fall where they may." In my spiritual journey of recent years, when I have let go of outcomes and focussed more on process, when I have followed spiritual promptings and listened to my heart, without worrying where they would lead, I have been blessed. I have learned things I never would have learned otherwise, and my life has been enriched immeasurably. My Gay Whore of Babylon dream was one of those very significant dreams, and it contained multiple, very powerful messages about sexuality and integrity and community. Even though some of the symbolism was troubling, I needed to wrestle with it, and I felt it was worth wrestling with it in a communal way (thus posting it on my blog), let the chips fall where they may.
The second reason I published it -- despite some of my reservations -- was because, having wrestled with it and discerned some of the meanings embedded in it, I felt it posed questions worth discussing on my blog about the nature of fornication.
If fornication is a sin -- and I believe it is -- then why is it a sin? One way to look at this is to consider how we generally respond to fornication as sin. If a couple is fornicating, we generally expect rectification in one of two ways. Either we expect the physical relationship to end. Stop the sex. Or we expect the couple to formalize their relationship by getting married. Keep the sex coming, but add something to it, namely the spiritual and social commitments entailed by marriage.
Why? Because human beings are more than just a jumble of random urges. We are souls striving for integrity and harmony. We are spiritual beings with physical bodies. Apostle Jeffrey R. Holland once discussed sexuality within the bonds of marriage as a kind of sacrament. A sacrament is typically defined as "an outward and visible sign of inward and spiritual divine grace." Thus, when the act of physical love is a sign of spiritual, divine love, it is in fact a sacrament. Fornication is an act that denies and violates the spiritual dimensions of the act of physical love.
I once heard a speaker mock Elder Holland's equation of marital sex and sacrament in crude and graphic terms, and I wept. I felt violated by the mockery. It was an assault on my sense of integrity, on my sense of the unity of every sacred aspect of myself, physical, spiritual, and relational. Fornication is wrong for the same reasons that the mockery was wrong. Because it tears asunder the integrity between between body and spirit without which the fullest and finest expressions of our humanity are not possible.
My Gay Whore of Babylon dream spoke to a particular, historically contingent problem related to how the gay community in America has evolved. It also spoke to a way in which the gay community participates the fallen condition of American culture generally. For historical reasons I could discuss in considerably more depth, in the 1960s the gay community and the gay rights movement by and large hitched their fortunes to the philosophy of "sexual liberation." Sexual liberation explicitly disconnects sexuality and sexual expression from any affective, relational or spiritual context. It ultimately denies the reality of the non-physical, and denies the validity of any meaning connected to sex apart from simple physical gratification. Sex is a powerful thing. Having experimented with the idea of sexual liberation, I can attest that because of the power of sex, sexual liberation can feel liberating -- at first. But ultimately it's not any sort of liberation at all. It eventually becomes a form of slavery, condemning us to an impoverished existence, and stripping our lives of humanity and meaning.
I believe that the growth in recent decades of gay community organizations devoted to religion and spirituality attests at least in part to lessons learned the hard way. But I believe the single most significant historical development in terms of the gay community's self-understanding, and its communal approach to the problem of how the spiritual and the physical are related is to be found in the movement for full marriage equality. Many conservatives have acted as if the gay community's agenda was to impoverish marriage. But from the gay community's perspective, this has always been about enrichment not impoverishment, about humanity and integrity and love. Marriage, for us, is and always has been about joining together what no man (or woman) should put asunder. It is about creating that very human union of body and spirit, and of two into one.
We are told that it is impossible for two men or two women to create that kind of union. But gay men and lesbians who have taken the risk to invest in relationships know differently. Our humanity and the integrity of our spirits and bodies, and the kinds of fulfillment we can and do find in intimate relationships are testimony that two men and two women can and do create that kind of union, whether our heterosexual family and friends are willing to believe in it or not. And we are equally hurt by the failure to respect that integrity, whether the failure comes in the form of our own sexual infidelity toward each other, or whether it comes in the form of the broader society's faithlessness toward us.
The scriptures frequently use fornication as a metaphor for humanity's unfaithfulness to God. That unfaithfulness, to read and understand the scriptural testimony, has come primarily in the form of the idolatry of wealth and materialism; in the form of the exploitation of the poor, disregard for widows and orphans, and violent oppression of the stranger. To deny the humanity of our fellow human beings is an estrangement from our own humanity and from God. Thus, fornication is an apt metaphor for the great social "sins of the ages": pride and hate.
My Gay Whore of Babylon dream gave me a metaphorical handle on this nature of the human predicament -- both in terms of our individual, familial relationships, and in terms of the larger social contract in which all of us are called to participate. The dream sharpened my sense that the gay community is urgently in need of seeking out and developing the spiritual aspects of life. We must reject the soulless materialism that is endemic in American culture. If we would be saved, we must reject Babylon and all its ways.
Despite the fact that the Gay Whore of Babylon post still routinely garners readers nine months after I posted it, I have yet to receive a single substantive comment on either the imagery or the message of the dream. (One friend simply responded by commenting that I had "vivid" dreams!) Perhaps this is because the imagery of the dream -- on the surface at least -- lends itself to extreme homophobic interpretations (thus the recent "warning" from an anonymous, homophobic commenter on my blog to "heed" the dream). But perhaps it is also because, despite the fact that our culture constantly exploits sex in order to attract spectators and sell merchandise, we generally can't muster the ability to talk rationally, to reason about sex. And if we can't do that, we can't fully integrate ourselves as sexual, physical, rational, emotional, spiritual beings. We will continue to respond to sex in ways that are merely primal -- with raw hunger or superstitious anxiety.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Friday, December 11, 2009
Of More Value Than Many Sparrows
And Jesus answering spake unto the lawyers and Pharisees, saying, Is it lawful to heal on the sabbath day? And they held their peace. And he took him, and healed him, and let him go; And answered them, saying, Which of you shall have an ass or an ox fallen into a pit, and will not straightway pull him out on the sabbath day? And they could not answer him again to these things. (Luke 14: 3-6)
I always found it astounding that one of the objections to Jesus' ministry could ever possibly have been that he healed on the Sabbath. It seemed incomprehensible to me.
Of course, just to play Pharisees' advocate for a moment here... It might be pointed out that a man who has been blind or deaf or lame from birth could surely wait one more day to be healed. Surely Jesus had six out of seven days of the week to heal. Did he have to do it on the Sabbath? It would have been so easy for Jesus to avoid offending the sensibilities of his critics, one wonders if he didn't deliberately provoke them in order to teach a particularly important principle.
Jesus once asked his opponents, "Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath days, or to do evil? to save life, or to kill?" (Mark 3: 4).
I always used to stop thinking about that scripture verse past the first half of it: "Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath..?" Of course, put that way, the answer seems self-evident. But Jesus takes it a step further. The complete text of Jesus' question to the Pharisees seems to point us to a larger understanding of the Sabbath. In emphasizing good and evil, life and death, Jesus reminded the Pharisees that a legalistic approach to the Sabbath completely misses its larger purpose. The letter "kills." The spirit saves.
Jesus' query was in line with Isaiah's classic teaching on the Sabbath, which insisted that true Sabbath-keeping is to "keep judgment," to "do justice"! (Isaiah 56: 1) In other words, if the poor are oppressed and the cause of the downtrodden and the stranger is abandoned, the Sabbath is broken. It doesn't matter how piously we attend Sacrament meeting or how scrupulously we avoid worldly amusements!
And it came to pass, that he went through the corn fields on the sabbath day; and his disciples began, as they went, to pluck the ears of corn. And the Pharisees said unto him, Behold, why do they on the sabbath day that which is not lawful? And he said unto them, Have ye never read what David did, when he had need, and was an hungred, he, and they that were with him? How he went into the house of God in the days of Abiathar the high priest, and did eat the shewbread, which is not lawful to eat but for the priests, and gave also to them which were with him? And he said unto them, The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath: Therefore the Son of man is Lord also of the sabbath. (Mark 2: 23-28)
When Jesus was criticized for allowing his disciples to gather food on the Sabbath, he defended their actions by analogy to the time of King David. David and his men violated ritual boundaries by eating the shewbread in the Temple. And David did so because his men were hungry. "The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath"! Basic human need outweighs legalistic considerations. Always. "Therefore the Son of man is Lord also of the sabbath."
Gay people in our culture are the oxen in the pit. We are stuck, and we are literally dying. And the nature of the metaphorical pit we're caught in is precisely the one Jesus spoke of when he demanded, "Which of you... will not straightway pull him out?" Because essentially we are told that no consideration for our humanity can be allowed to outweigh the demands of the law. It does not matter what isolation we might overcome, what anguish we might heal, nor even what lives we might save. The law is the law is the law.
Such an approach to law, Jesus insisted, amounts to Satanic dominion over God's children, and he rejected it out of hand. At every opportunity, Jesus demonstrated the superiority of human considerations over law, even when to do so enraged the religious establishment, leading eventually to his execution by that establishment.
Ironically, the denial of our humanity is rationalized in the name of the cross of Christ. It is true, Jesus said, "Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me" (Mark 8: 34). But he also said "My yoke is easy, and my burden is light" (Matthew 30: 11). To deny oneself is to enter into service, not to pretend to be something we are not. The cross of Christ is the opprobrium that disciples of love must necessarily face in confronting a world built around wealth and privilege of the few and the dehumanization of the many. The cross is the price of truth and love. It is never an artificial burden placed upon a select few in the form of the denial of their humanity. The burden placed by our culture on gay people is like the burden Jesus spoke of when he denounced the aficionados of the law: "Woe unto you also, ye lawyers! for ye lade men with burdens grievous to be borne, and ye yourselves touch not the burdens with one of your fingers" (Luke 11: 46).
Jesus' response to unreasonable legalistic demands was simply to ignore them. He healed. He fed the multitudes. He lifted up the fallen. In the face of human anguish, he responded, whether his response stayed within the legal strictures of the establishment or not.
Jesus spoke to his disciples about human need, and the worry that accompanies need when he promised:
Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing? and one of them shall not fall on the ground without your Father. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear ye not therefore, ye are of more value than many sparrows. (Matthew 10: 29-31)We are of more value too than the ox or the ass fallen in a pit, that ought to be pulled straightway out.
There came a point in my life where I found myself on my knees pleading with God, believing that I was unacceptable because I was gay. And a most incredible, most warm and comforting reassurance from the Spirit came over me. Not only is every hair of my head numbered, but God knew me from my inmost parts. He knew me when I was knit in my mother's womb; how I am both "fearfully and wonderfully made" (Psalm 139: 14). God knew that I was gay, the Spirit reassured me, and there was nothing wrong with me. I need have no fear on that or any other account.
God knows my needs too. God knows my destiny. He has guided me this far, and he will continue to guide me. This I have been promised, and so far God has been good to his word.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Miserable Like Unto Himself
When we take Christ's name upon us -- when we really take not just the name but everything that comes with the name -- we become more like Christ. We begin to resemble him in our capacity for love and compassion, in our ability to reach out and heal, in our hunger to find and bring in and hold on to the lost, to leave the ninety-and-nine to go after the one.
But Christ is not the only one who desires for us to become like him. The scriptures describe Satan as one who "seeketh that all... might be miserable like unto himself" (2 Nephi 2: 27). If Christ is the embodiment of love, showing us how to walk in the way of compassion like he did, Satan is the embodiment of misery, seeking to make us "twofold more the child of hell."
I occasionally encounter the disciples of misery in real life, though they seem to show their true colors far more freely in the anonymity of the Internet. They claim to be true believers in Jesus Christ, but what strikes me more than the name that they claim is the reality that they are profoundly unhappy people, and that what makes them most unhappy of all is my apparent happiness. Their interactions with others are invariably toxic, always bristling with condemnation, impatience and anger. They alone have the truth, and all others are lost. Their preferred methods are shame and fear, and they don't mind a little coercion either. They love to brandish God's sword of judgment (or a cheap imitation thereof) as if it were their own to wave about and threaten whom they will with it.
If love is contagious, so is fear and hate. And so, although we ought to immediately recognize Satan and all his works for what they are, giving them not the least bit of heed, all too often we let ourselves get sucked into the hate- and fear-fest that the disciples of misery and contention delight in spreading all around them -- on the Internet and wherever else they can. Though the Internet seems to be an especially effective forum. The immediacy and anonymity/publicity of the Internet make it far too easy to put forever into print spiteful words that would have benefited humanity most by being forgotten.
I've occasionally gotten caught in these orgies of contention. Sometimes I thought it was for a good reason -- in defense of others that I love, or to uphold some cherished truth. But it never comes out the way I'd hoped. There's never any positive resolution. No truth upheld. Just resentment and rotten feelings and a pit at the bottom of my stomach.
There's a reason Christ warned:
It's such an easy trap to fall into. We rationalize our own judgments by clinging tightly to our certitude, and telling ourselves that all we really want to do is "help" others understand the error of their ways. We like to see ourselves as shining knights of truth, but the truth is that in relation to one another and in relation to God we are beggars and debtors. The sin in the eye of the other is always a mote in comparison with our beam; our debt is always ten thousand talents in comparison with the with the hundred pence our debtor owes us. Why is our sin always greater? Because it is our failure to let go of others' faults, our failure to forgive and let live that keeps us blind, that lands us in prison, that bars us from the wedding feast, no matter what the size of our sin. Their sin can't damn us. Only ours can.
When someone comes at us with fear, shame, and accusations, they come as missionaries of misery, eager for us to partake of what they have. What we often fail to realize is that they seal the deal the moment we prefer contention with them. If we resist the temptation to engage in their fear/anger/shame cycle, we have a chance not only of elevating ourselves, but them too.
It's not that individuals can't differ or disagree. In fact, disagreement is a good and healthy and helpful thing. When someone sees something differently than I do, it is a sure sign that they have a different perspective from me. Multiple perspectives are a good thing, to those who are interested in actually seeing. So I welcome difference. I want dialog, not monologue, not echo chambers. Some of the most profound, transformative experiences I've had in life have been those difficult and sacred conversations, where two people come at each other from completely different angles, and wrestle for understanding of each other. I long for that.
But I can smell a mile away the ones that don't really have anything to say, because they're simply threatened and angry, and too deafened by the voices in their heads to hear anything you really say to them.
We are often vulnerable to those types, because we have our own weaknesses, our own issues, our own struggles. So one of the profoundest, most valuable spiritual practices we can learn is how to steady our own hearts with patience and hope and love. When we center ourselves in Christ, we won't get distracted by the shouting. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
But sometimes that's the most difficult thing we can do, especially when we are most hurting and most vulnerable. The waves and the storm seem more real than the Christ standing serenely before us. Fortunately, when our faith is not enough to keep us from sinking, he's still there with his hand outstretched, to lift us back up and help us walk the waves again by his side.
But Christ is not the only one who desires for us to become like him. The scriptures describe Satan as one who "seeketh that all... might be miserable like unto himself" (2 Nephi 2: 27). If Christ is the embodiment of love, showing us how to walk in the way of compassion like he did, Satan is the embodiment of misery, seeking to make us "twofold more the child of hell."
I occasionally encounter the disciples of misery in real life, though they seem to show their true colors far more freely in the anonymity of the Internet. They claim to be true believers in Jesus Christ, but what strikes me more than the name that they claim is the reality that they are profoundly unhappy people, and that what makes them most unhappy of all is my apparent happiness. Their interactions with others are invariably toxic, always bristling with condemnation, impatience and anger. They alone have the truth, and all others are lost. Their preferred methods are shame and fear, and they don't mind a little coercion either. They love to brandish God's sword of judgment (or a cheap imitation thereof) as if it were their own to wave about and threaten whom they will with it.
If love is contagious, so is fear and hate. And so, although we ought to immediately recognize Satan and all his works for what they are, giving them not the least bit of heed, all too often we let ourselves get sucked into the hate- and fear-fest that the disciples of misery and contention delight in spreading all around them -- on the Internet and wherever else they can. Though the Internet seems to be an especially effective forum. The immediacy and anonymity/publicity of the Internet make it far too easy to put forever into print spiteful words that would have benefited humanity most by being forgotten.
I've occasionally gotten caught in these orgies of contention. Sometimes I thought it was for a good reason -- in defense of others that I love, or to uphold some cherished truth. But it never comes out the way I'd hoped. There's never any positive resolution. No truth upheld. Just resentment and rotten feelings and a pit at the bottom of my stomach.
There's a reason Christ warned:
Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged: and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. (Matthew 7: 1-2)Judgment has a tendency to multiply itself. When people judgmentally attack, there's a visceral reaction. We feel judged, we want to defend. We defend by counter-judging. We polish our own shield of righteousness; we sharpen our own sword of truth and then we go on the attack.
But I say unto you, That whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause shall be in danger of the judgment: and whosoever shall say to his brother, Raca, shall be in danger of the council: but whosoever shall say, Thou fool, shall be in danger of hell fire. (Matthew 5: 22)
For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another. (3 Nephi 11: 29)
It's such an easy trap to fall into. We rationalize our own judgments by clinging tightly to our certitude, and telling ourselves that all we really want to do is "help" others understand the error of their ways. We like to see ourselves as shining knights of truth, but the truth is that in relation to one another and in relation to God we are beggars and debtors. The sin in the eye of the other is always a mote in comparison with our beam; our debt is always ten thousand talents in comparison with the with the hundred pence our debtor owes us. Why is our sin always greater? Because it is our failure to let go of others' faults, our failure to forgive and let live that keeps us blind, that lands us in prison, that bars us from the wedding feast, no matter what the size of our sin. Their sin can't damn us. Only ours can.
When someone comes at us with fear, shame, and accusations, they come as missionaries of misery, eager for us to partake of what they have. What we often fail to realize is that they seal the deal the moment we prefer contention with them. If we resist the temptation to engage in their fear/anger/shame cycle, we have a chance not only of elevating ourselves, but them too.
It's not that individuals can't differ or disagree. In fact, disagreement is a good and healthy and helpful thing. When someone sees something differently than I do, it is a sure sign that they have a different perspective from me. Multiple perspectives are a good thing, to those who are interested in actually seeing. So I welcome difference. I want dialog, not monologue, not echo chambers. Some of the most profound, transformative experiences I've had in life have been those difficult and sacred conversations, where two people come at each other from completely different angles, and wrestle for understanding of each other. I long for that.
But I can smell a mile away the ones that don't really have anything to say, because they're simply threatened and angry, and too deafened by the voices in their heads to hear anything you really say to them.
We are often vulnerable to those types, because we have our own weaknesses, our own issues, our own struggles. So one of the profoundest, most valuable spiritual practices we can learn is how to steady our own hearts with patience and hope and love. When we center ourselves in Christ, we won't get distracted by the shouting. "Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
But sometimes that's the most difficult thing we can do, especially when we are most hurting and most vulnerable. The waves and the storm seem more real than the Christ standing serenely before us. Fortunately, when our faith is not enough to keep us from sinking, he's still there with his hand outstretched, to lift us back up and help us walk the waves again by his side.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Mormon Wimmin
I'm not the first to observe that in the various on-line and off-line configurations of Mormon/homosexual community, women seem to be fewer and farther between than the men. Often, conversations about homosexuality in the Mormon context proceed as if this were exclusively a gay male problem.
Of course, when gay Mormon men talk about those aspects of the gay Mormon experience that are most painful, silence, invisibility, and the anguish of the closet rank highly. So if you're a woman and Mormon and gay, how much more painful must it be to be invisible even among those who claim to want to explore issues related to sexual orientation openly?
I've often quietly wondered (and sometimes wondered out loud) why I encounter Mormon lesbians so infrequently in gay Mormon circles:
* Is it that Mormon women are so oppressed already that to deal with an added layer of oppression (being a lesbian) makes it that much more difficult to come out? Well, that was Minnesota lesbian Andrea Dworkin's thesis in Right Wing Women. Maybe Mormon lesbians feel they have less of a stake in Mormonism -- even a Mormonism cured of its homophobia. So they just drop out of groups or on-line conversations where Mormonism stays a central focus.
* Is it that gay men are so sexist that lesbians just end up feeling they have no place in organizations that are dominated by gay men? Well, I've certainly observed examples of gay male sexism, and don't know of any reason why gay men would automatically be immune to one of the most pervasive tendencies in our culture. Could be...
* Is it that lesbians just prefer the company of other lesbians? Is there, like, some hidden commune out there, where all the Mormon lesbians are sneaking off to, to build a paradise without men? (If I were a Mormon lesbian, that might be my idea of the Celestial Kingdom.)
* Is it that there are just fewer lesbians than gay men? Some of what I've seen regarding the biological factors contributing to homosexuality suggest that those factors are different for men than for women, and it's possible that female homosexuality is just rarer than male homosexuality. But then, not nearly as much attention has been focussed on scientifically studying homosexuality among women as among men, and we just don't have enough statistically significant data to know for sure about the statistics or causes of female homosexuality. So that might just bring us back to the problem of sexism -- in science as in everything else.
In any event, it seems apparent that the prophet Joseph had a vision of gender equality and gender complementarity that was more radical than what eventually emerged in the Mormonism that evolved after his death. Some historical research suggests that he was beginning to extend the priesthood as well as high-ranking leadership to women just before his martyrdom -- a decade earlier than the first Protestant sects began to openly ordain women. His vision of Godhood finding its highest expression in marriage, and a plan of exaltation in which women as well as men achieve divinity together also points us toward powerful -- and radical -- understandings of the Divine Feminine in Mormonism.
Even without being ordained to the priesthood, the average Mormon woman is more actively involved in leadership roles and service, in publicly praying, teaching and preaching (Mormons call it "giving talks") than the average Protestant or Catholic woman. To me this points to a vision and understanding of salvation in which women have power, even if they aren't granted authority. Certainly I've experienced that power in my own life, in the teaching, example, and influence that many wise, wonderful and powerful Mormon women have had on my life.
So... Do women -- including lesbian women -- have a stake in Mormonism? In the Empire of God of which I've caught a vision, without question. If the world is built on a foundation of corrupt power; of violence, lies, and inequality; of haves lording it over the have-nots; if we live in a world where sexism, racism, homophobia and class privilege are woven into the rules of societal and governmental power; then women everywhere have much to teach us about the rules of engagement between powerlessness and power, between love and hate. And certainly no Empire of God is worth having where women of all sexual orientations are not active participants in the divine drama.
However, the kind of theological reflection I do proceeds from my experience. And I'm not a lesbian, so I can't speak to being a Mormon and a lesbian. That is why I want to see more lesbians in our conversations about the new world order we should all be building and preparing for. So I'm grateful to those Mormon wimmin brave enough and compassionate enough to show up and tell their stories too... Danetter, Lis n' Jay, Slp, and most recently EvolvingLesbian.
I'd love to be able to participate (mostly, to begin with at least, as a listener and a reader) in an on-line Mormon lesbian forum where issues related to faith and sexuality are tackled from women's perspectives... If someone knows of one that exists, please point me to it! But in the meantime, I'll have to content myself with links and the Blogger "follower" feature...
Of course, when gay Mormon men talk about those aspects of the gay Mormon experience that are most painful, silence, invisibility, and the anguish of the closet rank highly. So if you're a woman and Mormon and gay, how much more painful must it be to be invisible even among those who claim to want to explore issues related to sexual orientation openly?
I've often quietly wondered (and sometimes wondered out loud) why I encounter Mormon lesbians so infrequently in gay Mormon circles:
* Is it that Mormon women are so oppressed already that to deal with an added layer of oppression (being a lesbian) makes it that much more difficult to come out? Well, that was Minnesota lesbian Andrea Dworkin's thesis in Right Wing Women. Maybe Mormon lesbians feel they have less of a stake in Mormonism -- even a Mormonism cured of its homophobia. So they just drop out of groups or on-line conversations where Mormonism stays a central focus.
* Is it that gay men are so sexist that lesbians just end up feeling they have no place in organizations that are dominated by gay men? Well, I've certainly observed examples of gay male sexism, and don't know of any reason why gay men would automatically be immune to one of the most pervasive tendencies in our culture. Could be...
* Is it that lesbians just prefer the company of other lesbians? Is there, like, some hidden commune out there, where all the Mormon lesbians are sneaking off to, to build a paradise without men? (If I were a Mormon lesbian, that might be my idea of the Celestial Kingdom.)
* Is it that there are just fewer lesbians than gay men? Some of what I've seen regarding the biological factors contributing to homosexuality suggest that those factors are different for men than for women, and it's possible that female homosexuality is just rarer than male homosexuality. But then, not nearly as much attention has been focussed on scientifically studying homosexuality among women as among men, and we just don't have enough statistically significant data to know for sure about the statistics or causes of female homosexuality. So that might just bring us back to the problem of sexism -- in science as in everything else.
In any event, it seems apparent that the prophet Joseph had a vision of gender equality and gender complementarity that was more radical than what eventually emerged in the Mormonism that evolved after his death. Some historical research suggests that he was beginning to extend the priesthood as well as high-ranking leadership to women just before his martyrdom -- a decade earlier than the first Protestant sects began to openly ordain women. His vision of Godhood finding its highest expression in marriage, and a plan of exaltation in which women as well as men achieve divinity together also points us toward powerful -- and radical -- understandings of the Divine Feminine in Mormonism.
Even without being ordained to the priesthood, the average Mormon woman is more actively involved in leadership roles and service, in publicly praying, teaching and preaching (Mormons call it "giving talks") than the average Protestant or Catholic woman. To me this points to a vision and understanding of salvation in which women have power, even if they aren't granted authority. Certainly I've experienced that power in my own life, in the teaching, example, and influence that many wise, wonderful and powerful Mormon women have had on my life.
So... Do women -- including lesbian women -- have a stake in Mormonism? In the Empire of God of which I've caught a vision, without question. If the world is built on a foundation of corrupt power; of violence, lies, and inequality; of haves lording it over the have-nots; if we live in a world where sexism, racism, homophobia and class privilege are woven into the rules of societal and governmental power; then women everywhere have much to teach us about the rules of engagement between powerlessness and power, between love and hate. And certainly no Empire of God is worth having where women of all sexual orientations are not active participants in the divine drama.
However, the kind of theological reflection I do proceeds from my experience. And I'm not a lesbian, so I can't speak to being a Mormon and a lesbian. That is why I want to see more lesbians in our conversations about the new world order we should all be building and preparing for. So I'm grateful to those Mormon wimmin brave enough and compassionate enough to show up and tell their stories too... Danetter, Lis n' Jay, Slp, and most recently EvolvingLesbian.
I'd love to be able to participate (mostly, to begin with at least, as a listener and a reader) in an on-line Mormon lesbian forum where issues related to faith and sexuality are tackled from women's perspectives... If someone knows of one that exists, please point me to it! But in the meantime, I'll have to content myself with links and the Blogger "follower" feature...
Thursday, December 3, 2009
The One That Got Away
Every once in a while, I wonder about Jouni.
During the summer of 1986, I was on a summer internship in Helsinki, Finland that had been arranged through BYU. This was the summer I almost committed suicide. It was my last summer as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
By the time I met Jouni I was past my suicide crisis. I had received a revelation from God. Revelations, actually. God knew that I was gay, and it was OK. God did not condemn me. His love for me was greater than my fear and shame and self-hate. I was to leave the LDS Church for a time. I did not need to worry about what that would mean for me or for my eternal family. God would take care of everything, of all of us. We would all be all right, and everything would eventually work out. (As, in fact, it did.)
My chosen path out of the LDS Church was to request membership in the Evangelical Lutheran Church. When Pastor Swanson of the International Evangelical Church in Helsinki, Finland asked me how I would like to be baptized, I told him that I believed in baptism by immersion. So (perhaps to punish me for making him get wet too!) he proposed baptizing me in the chilly Baltic Sea, during the course of a congregational retreat at a seaside retreat center owned by the Lutheran Church.
It was at the retreat that I met Jouni.
Jouni and I were both in our early twenties at the time. He was absolutely gorgeous, the perfect Scandinavian blond, ruddy cheeked, with a somewhat delicate build. Without fully understanding my own feelings at the time, I fell completely in love with him. We spent every available minute of the retreat together.
The evening after my baptism, this being Finland, there was a communal sauna. As is traditional in Finland, sauna is taken in the nude. (Finns are actually a bit taken aback if you wear a swimsuit!) Jouni and I remained alone in the sauna together long after all the other participants had left. We skinny dipped in the Baltic Sea (also a Finnish sauna tradition to cool off by dipping in the nearest body of water). It remained quite innocent, though I was aware of how attracted I was to him, and nervous about how my body might betray me under the circumstances.
It was during the sauna that Jouni asked me to come visit him at his home in the country. So later that summer -- just before I returned to the U.S. -- I rode a bus to the tiny village where Jouni was living with his parents.
Jouni's English was about as good as my Finnish (and neither of us had quite mastered the other's language), so our communication was an interesting mixture of both English and Finnish. Not the smoothest conversations! But it didn't matter! Somehow we managed to fill the hours in his farmhouse and walking around in the woods together with talk about family and friends and school and -- of course -- religion.
At one point, we were alone together in his bedroom talking. He told me he had something he wanted to read to me. Jouni was in music school, and he wanted to read me a letter he had received from a fellow music student. The letter was written in English -- by a non-Finnish, male foreign exchange student. Jouni had not been reading the letter for long before I realized it was a love letter.
He read it to me quite matter-of-factly, without a hint of disgust or condemnation. The letter spoke very frankly about longing to hold him, missing the sweet times they had had together, and so on. When he had finished reading, Jouni looked up at me as if to say, "See? There. I've told you. What do you think?" I realized he was coming out to me.
I was actually sort of paralyzed by the realization. So he was gay. I was too. But I had only just barely come to accept this fact about myself. Was Jouni coming on to me? Here we were, alone together in his bedroom, sitting on his bed, him staring wordlessly into my eyes, waiting for me to respond to this revelation. But then I also thought, perhaps by reading me this letter, he meant to show me that he was taken; he already had a lover, longing to see him again, aching to hold him. So was this his way of telling me I was out of the picture? And even if I had wanted to act on this revelation, this was a line I couldn't imagine crossing. I still had to figure out what it meant to be gay before I could think about acting on it.
So I just sat there, doubtless with a kind of deer-in-headlights look. I sighed, and fidgeted. I may have muttered some innocuous phrase like, "That's nice you have a friend like that" or something else painfully awkward. The subject changed, and then we decided to go for a walk.
When it was time for my bus to leave back for Helsinki, Jouni and his father accompanied me to the bus station. As I was getting ready to board the bus, Jouni asked his dad to take a picture of us together, which he did, while Jouni wrapped his arm tightly around me, pulling me into his side and interlocking my leg with his. Then, before saying goodbye, he practically knocked me over throwing himself at me in a full-bodied hug. We held for a very long time, and it was only then, just as I was leaving, I realized he felt something for me far more than just casual friendship, and I wished I were staying longer.
That was the last time I saw Jouni. We continued to correspond for a time after I returned to the U.S. I sometimes dreamed of going back there to see him again. But I never did. And eventually the correspondence stopped. All I have left to remember him by are a few letters and the picture of us his father had taken, which Jouni later sent me.
I look back at myself 23 years later and I think, How Dense Could I Have Been?
I've also wondered, what might have happened had we ever become more than just friends? Would I have claimed Finnish citizenship? (Finnish law would have made that relatively easy because of my mother.) Would I have lived happily ever after in the Finnish countryside with my blond musician with the delicate smile and the ruddy cheeks? What would I have missed here?
I don't regret my cluelessness (too much). And the messy, joyful, crazy, blessing-filled life I have now is so much greater a gift than fantasies about the love that once escaped me long, long ago in a land far, far away. The grass is always greener on the other side (of the Atlantic).
Still, I can't help but wonder what's become of Jouni. I hope he's happy.
During the summer of 1986, I was on a summer internship in Helsinki, Finland that had been arranged through BYU. This was the summer I almost committed suicide. It was my last summer as a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
By the time I met Jouni I was past my suicide crisis. I had received a revelation from God. Revelations, actually. God knew that I was gay, and it was OK. God did not condemn me. His love for me was greater than my fear and shame and self-hate. I was to leave the LDS Church for a time. I did not need to worry about what that would mean for me or for my eternal family. God would take care of everything, of all of us. We would all be all right, and everything would eventually work out. (As, in fact, it did.)
My chosen path out of the LDS Church was to request membership in the Evangelical Lutheran Church. When Pastor Swanson of the International Evangelical Church in Helsinki, Finland asked me how I would like to be baptized, I told him that I believed in baptism by immersion. So (perhaps to punish me for making him get wet too!) he proposed baptizing me in the chilly Baltic Sea, during the course of a congregational retreat at a seaside retreat center owned by the Lutheran Church.
It was at the retreat that I met Jouni.
Jouni and I were both in our early twenties at the time. He was absolutely gorgeous, the perfect Scandinavian blond, ruddy cheeked, with a somewhat delicate build. Without fully understanding my own feelings at the time, I fell completely in love with him. We spent every available minute of the retreat together.
The evening after my baptism, this being Finland, there was a communal sauna. As is traditional in Finland, sauna is taken in the nude. (Finns are actually a bit taken aback if you wear a swimsuit!) Jouni and I remained alone in the sauna together long after all the other participants had left. We skinny dipped in the Baltic Sea (also a Finnish sauna tradition to cool off by dipping in the nearest body of water). It remained quite innocent, though I was aware of how attracted I was to him, and nervous about how my body might betray me under the circumstances.
It was during the sauna that Jouni asked me to come visit him at his home in the country. So later that summer -- just before I returned to the U.S. -- I rode a bus to the tiny village where Jouni was living with his parents.
Jouni's English was about as good as my Finnish (and neither of us had quite mastered the other's language), so our communication was an interesting mixture of both English and Finnish. Not the smoothest conversations! But it didn't matter! Somehow we managed to fill the hours in his farmhouse and walking around in the woods together with talk about family and friends and school and -- of course -- religion.
At one point, we were alone together in his bedroom talking. He told me he had something he wanted to read to me. Jouni was in music school, and he wanted to read me a letter he had received from a fellow music student. The letter was written in English -- by a non-Finnish, male foreign exchange student. Jouni had not been reading the letter for long before I realized it was a love letter.
He read it to me quite matter-of-factly, without a hint of disgust or condemnation. The letter spoke very frankly about longing to hold him, missing the sweet times they had had together, and so on. When he had finished reading, Jouni looked up at me as if to say, "See? There. I've told you. What do you think?" I realized he was coming out to me.
I was actually sort of paralyzed by the realization. So he was gay. I was too. But I had only just barely come to accept this fact about myself. Was Jouni coming on to me? Here we were, alone together in his bedroom, sitting on his bed, him staring wordlessly into my eyes, waiting for me to respond to this revelation. But then I also thought, perhaps by reading me this letter, he meant to show me that he was taken; he already had a lover, longing to see him again, aching to hold him. So was this his way of telling me I was out of the picture? And even if I had wanted to act on this revelation, this was a line I couldn't imagine crossing. I still had to figure out what it meant to be gay before I could think about acting on it.
So I just sat there, doubtless with a kind of deer-in-headlights look. I sighed, and fidgeted. I may have muttered some innocuous phrase like, "That's nice you have a friend like that" or something else painfully awkward. The subject changed, and then we decided to go for a walk.
When it was time for my bus to leave back for Helsinki, Jouni and his father accompanied me to the bus station. As I was getting ready to board the bus, Jouni asked his dad to take a picture of us together, which he did, while Jouni wrapped his arm tightly around me, pulling me into his side and interlocking my leg with his. Then, before saying goodbye, he practically knocked me over throwing himself at me in a full-bodied hug. We held for a very long time, and it was only then, just as I was leaving, I realized he felt something for me far more than just casual friendship, and I wished I were staying longer.
That was the last time I saw Jouni. We continued to correspond for a time after I returned to the U.S. I sometimes dreamed of going back there to see him again. But I never did. And eventually the correspondence stopped. All I have left to remember him by are a few letters and the picture of us his father had taken, which Jouni later sent me.
I look back at myself 23 years later and I think, How Dense Could I Have Been?
I've also wondered, what might have happened had we ever become more than just friends? Would I have claimed Finnish citizenship? (Finnish law would have made that relatively easy because of my mother.) Would I have lived happily ever after in the Finnish countryside with my blond musician with the delicate smile and the ruddy cheeks? What would I have missed here?
I don't regret my cluelessness (too much). And the messy, joyful, crazy, blessing-filled life I have now is so much greater a gift than fantasies about the love that once escaped me long, long ago in a land far, far away. The grass is always greener on the other side (of the Atlantic).
Still, I can't help but wonder what's become of Jouni. I hope he's happy.
Monday, November 30, 2009
The Righteousness of Job
When the ear heard me, then it blessed me; and when the eye saw me, it gave witness to me: Because I delivered the poor that cried, and the fatherless, and him that had none to help him. The blessing of him that was ready to perish came upon me: and I caused the widow’s heart to sing for joy. I put on righteousness, and it clothed me: my judgment was as a robe and a diadem. I was eyes to the blind, and feet was I to the lame. I was a father to the poor: and the cause which I knew not I searched out. (Job 29: 11-16)
Job's friends accused him of "great" wickedness, of "infinite" iniquity, charging him with neglect of the poor, the widows and the fatherless. Job's testimony on his own behalf was somewhat different.
Job was beloved and blessed by the poor. He was a "father" to them. The widow's heart "sang for joy" at the thought of him. He was "eyes to the blind" and "feet to the lame." These poetic turns of phrase leave it to us to imagine what kinds of provisions Job made for the disabled in a society that generally left the blind and the lame little recourse other than to beg in the streets. But the general image is of a wealthy and powerful man who channeled his considerable resources into caring for others who were far less fortunate. Job saw himself as a steward of the society he lived in, his wealth not his for personal pleasure, but a charge given to him by God for the purpose of providing for others.
I was particularly intrigued by the phrase, "and the cause which I knew not I searched out." It reminds me of Christ's parable of the good shepherd, who left the ninety and nine to go seek out the one. Job did not satisfy himself to wait for a problem to come to his attention. He actively sought out those who were in distress so that he might make their cause his own.
This is why God called Job a "a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil" (Job 1: 8).
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Of Our Humanity
God forbid that I should justify you: till I die I will not remove mine integrity from me. (Job 27: 5)
Job's friends, Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar, argue with Job along two different lines. Along one line, they accuse Job of very specific sins, namely oppressing the poor and ignoring the pleas of the widow and the orphan:
Is not thy wickedness great? and thine iniquities infinite? For thou hast taken a pledge from thy brother for nought, and stripped the naked of their clothing. Thou hast not given water to the weary to drink, and thou hast withholden bread from the hungry.... Thou hast sent widows away empty, and the arms of the fatherless have been broken. (Job 22: 5-9)
Their accusations are, of course, utterly false. The Lord's own testimony of Job is that he is "a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil" (Job 1: 8). When Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar find Job unwilling to accept their first line of argument, they seek to undermine Job's confidence in himself with a second line of argument, namely that all men are inherently weak and sinful:
Shall mortal man be more just than God? shall a man be more pure than his maker? Behold, he put no trust in his servants; and his angels he charged with folly: How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth? (Job 4: 17-19)If Job is not guilty of the specific sins of which they accuse him, his friends insist, he must be guilty of some sin worthy of God's punishment. Furthermore, in failing to acknowledge his sinful nature, they argue, Job is at least guilty of the sin of pride. If he will acknowledge his sinful nature, and thus relinquish his pride, they promise him, God will cease to punish him.
This second line of reasoning is impossible to argue against. To take issue with his friends, Job would have to argue that he is perfect and without sin, when all other men are not. Furthermore, since Job's friends are now accusing him of sins of the heart (such as pride), there is no proof that Job could offer them that could possibly convince them. Whatever he says in his defense will only convince them further that he is guilty.
Job is stung by what feels to him like betrayal. His friends simply won't believe him. Their would-be comfort is no comfort to him at all. "Ye are forgers of lies, ye are all physicians of no value. O that ye would altogether hold your peace!" (Job 13: 4-5). In this exchange between him and his friends, Job realizes he is completely alone. His children are dead, his wife has abandoned him, and now he discovers that even with these companions there is an unbridgeable chasm of accusation and mistrust. There is no human connection or consolation for him at all.
It might have been easier for Job to succumb at least to this second line of reasoning. After all, could he really be sure that he was not guilty of some sin that had brought these trials upon him? To acknowledge this would at least have allowed them to comfort him (even if on their terms rather than his). Why not admit that in fact all humanity is sinful, and therefore he must -- in his humanity -- indeed be guilty of some sin? Why not humble himself before God in this way?
But ultimately Job cannot do this. He cannot accept the sort of abstract theorizing about his situation that his friends insist on. And thus his cry: "Till I die I will not remove mine integrity from me."
Job's integrity is found in the specificity of his life, not in some theoretical discussion of sin that is abstracted from the details of a lived human life. But Job's integrity is also found in his capacity to perceive, understand, and relate directly to God. Job does not need anybody else to tell him whether he is sinful or not. There is no reason why Job is not capable of discerning the nature of his dilemma at least as well as -- if not better than -- his friends can. To his friends, Job insists (slightly mockingly) "No doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom shall die with you. But I have understanding as well as you; I am not inferior to you" (Job 12: 2-3). He feels obliged to underline it repeatedly, because his friends just don't seem to listen: "Lo, mine eye hath seen all this, mine ear hath heard and understood it. What ye know, the same do I know also: I am not inferior unto you" (Job 13: 1-2).
In his aloneness, Job realizes, if his friends will not believe him, he has only one recourse left. "I would speak with the Almighty; and I desire to reason with God" (Job 13:3). And perhaps, if I who am outside of Job's suffering, who am outside of his unique, specific relationship with God, can discern any purpose in God's putting Job through this kind of trial, it is in this. Perhaps it was to teach Job about his utter, existential dependence on God and God alone that Job was permitted to suffer the way he did. "For God maketh my heart soft," he says toward the end of his exchange with his friends, "When he hath tried me, I shall come forth as pure gold" (Job 23: 10, 16).
Integrity is a hallmark of Job in another sense too, a sense I alluded to in my earlier essay. It was in his insistence on the integrity of body and spirit, his sense that without physical existence, without his connection to wife and children, without a healthy physical body free of disease and pain, there is no existence worth having. We cannot transcend physical existence; there's no spiritual truth that has meaning apart from real physical bodies and real relationships in this life. This is why Job insisted that when he gets his explanation from God, it will be face to face, in the flesh (Job 19: 25-27).
I believe this is why gay Mormon suicide continues to be a problem. I believe gay Mormon suicide will continue to plague us so long as our community cannot recognize the fundamental nature of the bond between body and spirit, a bond that is the same for homosexuals as for heterosexuals. There is something fundamental within us that yearns for the wholeness and integrity that comes from intimate relationship. To be told that we are unworthy of that is to be told that we are fundamentally inferior. It is to shatter the fundamental unity that makes us both human and divine.
I have searched, I have wrestled, I have pleaded. I've wished for my life to end, and came close to ending it. I have argued with friends (and with people I wouldn't really call friends). I have studied, I've fasted, I've prayed. I've offered my heart and my relationship and everything I have and am on the altar of God. I have suffered, physically and spiritually. I have been in the dark, alone. And one day I came through the other side with a profound, unshakable sense that there is nothing wrong with me as regards my sexual orientation. There are things wrong with me; I have physical imperfections/handicaps/disabilities (the most obvious one is my asthma) that I anticipate being fixed in the life to come. But in my love for my husband, I experience only wholeness and goodness that continues to grow in perfection and beauty. If there were something wrong with me in the loving relationship I have with my husband, God should separate us in order to perfect us.
My sense of this is mine alone. I cannot give it to anybody else. No one can know -- either professed friend or professed enemy -- what I have experienced or the nature of my relationship with God. Like Job's friends, my friends can only speculate about what is in my heart. And then, if they choose to do so, condemn me on the basis of their speculation. On the other hand, to others in my situation, there's no assurance I can give that will offer peace. You cannot go by somebody else's life or example. There is only your life, your struggle, your dark night of the soul in which you wrestle with God alone and find your own answers. Only after you have asked yourself the hard questions and answered them honestly will you know how you stand and where you need to go.
But I can bear witness for myself, of my humanity and my integrity. I can say that a world that would divide me from my husband, penalize us for making our lives together, make us inferior under the law, punish and coerce and harass us into being straight, is not a world that recognizes humanity or integrity.
We are not inferior.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
A New Conversation
I really don't have anything to add to or subtract from the sentiments expressed in this editorial by Ty Mansfield in the latest NorthStar newsletter.
When can the conversation begin?
When can the conversation begin?
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Things Too Wonderful For Me, Which I Knew Not
My daily scripture reading has brought me to what is quite possibly my favorite book of the Old Testament, the Book of Job. Job is particularly appreciated by Latter-day Saints because of its references both to a pre-mortal existence and to the resurrection. But what is typically seen as Job's greatest contribution is its subversive answer to the troubling question "Why do bad things happen to good people?" The book's relevance has not diminished, and probably never will diminish no matter how theologically sophisticated we become, thanks to the all-too-human tendency to want to believe that good things happen to us because we are good, and bad things happen only when we are bad. This is an understandable way to distance ourselves from the misery of others, a way to comfort ourselves with the false reassurance that "that could never happen to me."
But Job also has a special relevance to me personally as a gay man. I re-discovered the Book of Job shortly after I came out of the closet publicly, and began to experience rejection and judgment from the church community I belonged to at the time. So much of Job resonated so very deeply with me, it felt to me as if it had been written specifically with my situation in mind. At the time, it was perhaps my single greatest source of comfort and reassurance. Since then meditations on Job have continued to help me find peace in my darkest hours.
Suicide
Job 3 speaks powerfully to the despair that so many gay men and lesbians feel, upon coming to terms with the reality that their sexual orientation is simply not going to change, despite their greatest efforts and struggles. "For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me" (3: 25). Job, having lost everyone he loved, everyone who was of significance in his life, yearned for death. But more significantly, Job wished he had never been born. "Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?" (3: 11). His agony goes right to the very root and reason for his existence. Why would God have even allowed him to be created, if this was going to be his end?
That existential anguish is precisely what I experienced as I came to terms with my sexual orientation. What was my purpose, if I had no hope of the kind of family and life for which I had always been taught to believe I was created? Not to mention that I had heard those same words from the lips of Church leaders and teachers talking about homosexuality: Better I had never been born. Better for me to return home in a casket. I did yearn to die; and many do die.
"Comfort" and Blame
The Book of Job would be short indeed, if it weren't for the many long chapters comprising the dialogs between Job and his three friends, Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar. Most people find these chapters boring, preferring to skip over them to the very end of the Job story. But in a very real sense, the book of Job is not as much about Job as it is about these so-called friends. The whole book of Job was intended as a refutation of the view of life that they espouse and advocate.
Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar are presented as well-meaning, upright, pious, and completely clueless when it comes to their understanding of the nature of Job's particular predicament. Nothing they have experienced in their lives has prepared them to absorb the full meaning of the events that have befallen Job. More importantly, their evaluation of Job's circumstances amounts to simple denial. They begin with the premise that God rewards the righteous with a good life and punishes the guilty with suffering. Job is suffering, therefore he is guilty. Their premises are inconveniently contradicted by the facts of Job's life and Job's own testimony, so they simply choose to ignore the facts.
Job's friends accuse him of lying; they accuse him of secret sin; they accuse him of cursing God in his heart. God, argues Bildad, cannot be unjust. Therefore, for Job to assert that he is not guilty of any sin worthy of this suffering is to call God unjust. Job must be a liar, or the honor of God cannot be maintained. This is so reminiscent to me of those who respond with outrage when I express my profound sense that God created me gay. To even suggest such a thing, God's would-be defenders indignantly assert, is to make a mockery of God. What can I respond to that? Nothing that will convince them, since my very existence is an offense to their notion of creation, and denying my understanding and accusing me of lying is all that's left. In fact, the reason the central section of Job is so long, is because Job's attempts to reason with his friends bring on ever more vehement arguments. Argument under such circumstances is impossible. And to those gay men and lesbians who have found themselves arguing their own case until they were blue in the face, Job's demonstration of the futility of argument is instructive.
Job's friends assert that affliction is always the result of sin, and Job readily agrees, but points out that in his case, this principle does not apply. Job, in other words, finds himself in the extremely inconvenient position of asserting that he is a special case. It's not something that Job himself is comfortable with. And at the root of Job's spiritual malaise is the fundamental confusion he feels about the situation in which he finds himself. His own circumstances simply make no sense to him. He longs for greater understanding, but that understanding is not forthcoming.
When the Sons of God Shouted for Joy
Job's inability to solve the conundrum of his creation leads to his testimony -- perhaps one of the most moving passages in all of scripture:
Job's only hope for redemption from this plight is in the life to come, when he can stand before his Maker, and petition him for a full accounting of the mysteries of this mortal life.
In the Book of Job, this accounting takes place not in a future life, but in the present one. The encounter between God and Job, as described in the Book of Job, has been the subject of much theological discussion. To many who read this "resolution," God seems to give Job an answer that is not an answer at all. God does not seem to resolve the philosophical problem around which the whole Book of Job seems to be built -- why bad things happen to good people. Indeed, as the arguments of Job and his friends demonstrate, the philosophical problem runs deeper than that. For as Bildad asserts, God being all powerful, the suggestion that unjust suffering exists in God's world is a challenge to our sense of God's righteousness. This is the classic theodicy problem that has exercised theologians for centuries. But God answers none of these questions.
Yet Job comes away from the encounter with God satisfied... In a way that many readers often are not when they read the Book of Job. This is a key point in the book. The book itself points us beyond the explanations, beyond the words offered in the book. We will not find the answer to Job's problem in the Book of Job. We can find it only in the way that Job himself found it... In an encounter with God. The Book of Job points us toward that encounter, but it cannot substitute for it.
But there are hints in the book's description of the encounter between God and Job about what we may expect when we ourselves come face to face with God for our own accounting. God speaks to Job about the foundations of the world, the very beginning "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy" (38: 7). Job's anguish is existential -- it is about the very nature and meaning of his being, about the reasons for his creation. And it is to the Creation -- in the broadest sense of all created being, but also in the very intimate, specific, personal sense of Job's individual creation -- that God points Job in his answer.
When we come face to face with God, in other words, the Book of Job promises we will not be disappointed. The most important questions in our individual lives will find their deepest and truest answers in that encounter.
Patience
But in the meantime, we must wait.
The English language has a turn of phrase, "the patience of Job." I always wondered about that upon reading the Book of Job, because Job does not seem very patient to me. He complains a lot.
But Job's experience of living in a situation that seems unbearably unfair is to some extent the lot of all humanity, living in this world in this time between the Fall of Adam and the Coming of Christ. To those of us who are gay or lesbian, there are a number of particularly bitter lumps we must swallow, not the least of which is the gross misunderstanding we have to contend with among those whose understanding we yearn for most -- our Church's and our family's.
We have no choice but to wait. And we might even complain. But patience, I think, is the not-so-passive virtue of cultivating good in our lives even in the face of gross injustice, while we wait.
We might as well. We have nothing better to do.
But Job also has a special relevance to me personally as a gay man. I re-discovered the Book of Job shortly after I came out of the closet publicly, and began to experience rejection and judgment from the church community I belonged to at the time. So much of Job resonated so very deeply with me, it felt to me as if it had been written specifically with my situation in mind. At the time, it was perhaps my single greatest source of comfort and reassurance. Since then meditations on Job have continued to help me find peace in my darkest hours.
Suicide
Job 3 speaks powerfully to the despair that so many gay men and lesbians feel, upon coming to terms with the reality that their sexual orientation is simply not going to change, despite their greatest efforts and struggles. "For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me" (3: 25). Job, having lost everyone he loved, everyone who was of significance in his life, yearned for death. But more significantly, Job wished he had never been born. "Why died I not from the womb? why did I not give up the ghost when I came out of the belly?" (3: 11). His agony goes right to the very root and reason for his existence. Why would God have even allowed him to be created, if this was going to be his end?
That existential anguish is precisely what I experienced as I came to terms with my sexual orientation. What was my purpose, if I had no hope of the kind of family and life for which I had always been taught to believe I was created? Not to mention that I had heard those same words from the lips of Church leaders and teachers talking about homosexuality: Better I had never been born. Better for me to return home in a casket. I did yearn to die; and many do die.
"Comfort" and Blame
The Book of Job would be short indeed, if it weren't for the many long chapters comprising the dialogs between Job and his three friends, Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar. Most people find these chapters boring, preferring to skip over them to the very end of the Job story. But in a very real sense, the book of Job is not as much about Job as it is about these so-called friends. The whole book of Job was intended as a refutation of the view of life that they espouse and advocate.
Eliphaz, Bildad and Zophar are presented as well-meaning, upright, pious, and completely clueless when it comes to their understanding of the nature of Job's particular predicament. Nothing they have experienced in their lives has prepared them to absorb the full meaning of the events that have befallen Job. More importantly, their evaluation of Job's circumstances amounts to simple denial. They begin with the premise that God rewards the righteous with a good life and punishes the guilty with suffering. Job is suffering, therefore he is guilty. Their premises are inconveniently contradicted by the facts of Job's life and Job's own testimony, so they simply choose to ignore the facts.
Job's friends accuse him of lying; they accuse him of secret sin; they accuse him of cursing God in his heart. God, argues Bildad, cannot be unjust. Therefore, for Job to assert that he is not guilty of any sin worthy of this suffering is to call God unjust. Job must be a liar, or the honor of God cannot be maintained. This is so reminiscent to me of those who respond with outrage when I express my profound sense that God created me gay. To even suggest such a thing, God's would-be defenders indignantly assert, is to make a mockery of God. What can I respond to that? Nothing that will convince them, since my very existence is an offense to their notion of creation, and denying my understanding and accusing me of lying is all that's left. In fact, the reason the central section of Job is so long, is because Job's attempts to reason with his friends bring on ever more vehement arguments. Argument under such circumstances is impossible. And to those gay men and lesbians who have found themselves arguing their own case until they were blue in the face, Job's demonstration of the futility of argument is instructive.
Job's friends assert that affliction is always the result of sin, and Job readily agrees, but points out that in his case, this principle does not apply. Job, in other words, finds himself in the extremely inconvenient position of asserting that he is a special case. It's not something that Job himself is comfortable with. And at the root of Job's spiritual malaise is the fundamental confusion he feels about the situation in which he finds himself. His own circumstances simply make no sense to him. He longs for greater understanding, but that understanding is not forthcoming.
When the Sons of God Shouted for Joy
Job's inability to solve the conundrum of his creation leads to his testimony -- perhaps one of the most moving passages in all of scripture:
For I know that my redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the earth: And though after my skin worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I see God: Whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold, and not another. (19: 25-27)
Job's only hope for redemption from this plight is in the life to come, when he can stand before his Maker, and petition him for a full accounting of the mysteries of this mortal life.
In the Book of Job, this accounting takes place not in a future life, but in the present one. The encounter between God and Job, as described in the Book of Job, has been the subject of much theological discussion. To many who read this "resolution," God seems to give Job an answer that is not an answer at all. God does not seem to resolve the philosophical problem around which the whole Book of Job seems to be built -- why bad things happen to good people. Indeed, as the arguments of Job and his friends demonstrate, the philosophical problem runs deeper than that. For as Bildad asserts, God being all powerful, the suggestion that unjust suffering exists in God's world is a challenge to our sense of God's righteousness. This is the classic theodicy problem that has exercised theologians for centuries. But God answers none of these questions.
Yet Job comes away from the encounter with God satisfied... In a way that many readers often are not when they read the Book of Job. This is a key point in the book. The book itself points us beyond the explanations, beyond the words offered in the book. We will not find the answer to Job's problem in the Book of Job. We can find it only in the way that Job himself found it... In an encounter with God. The Book of Job points us toward that encounter, but it cannot substitute for it.
But there are hints in the book's description of the encounter between God and Job about what we may expect when we ourselves come face to face with God for our own accounting. God speaks to Job about the foundations of the world, the very beginning "when the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy" (38: 7). Job's anguish is existential -- it is about the very nature and meaning of his being, about the reasons for his creation. And it is to the Creation -- in the broadest sense of all created being, but also in the very intimate, specific, personal sense of Job's individual creation -- that God points Job in his answer.
When we come face to face with God, in other words, the Book of Job promises we will not be disappointed. The most important questions in our individual lives will find their deepest and truest answers in that encounter.
Patience
But in the meantime, we must wait.
The English language has a turn of phrase, "the patience of Job." I always wondered about that upon reading the Book of Job, because Job does not seem very patient to me. He complains a lot.
But Job's experience of living in a situation that seems unbearably unfair is to some extent the lot of all humanity, living in this world in this time between the Fall of Adam and the Coming of Christ. To those of us who are gay or lesbian, there are a number of particularly bitter lumps we must swallow, not the least of which is the gross misunderstanding we have to contend with among those whose understanding we yearn for most -- our Church's and our family's.
We have no choice but to wait. And we might even complain. But patience, I think, is the not-so-passive virtue of cultivating good in our lives even in the face of gross injustice, while we wait.
We might as well. We have nothing better to do.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Cloud of Words
I saw this on Mohohawaii's web site, and thought it was really cool... This image was created from my blog, produced by an algorithm that converts text into a graphic representation of the most important words in the text. This does kinda capture my blog -- certainly the last seven posts anyway.
Here's the wordle.net link for others of you who want to try it. Warning, though! I had some technical difficulties, and was only ultimately able to present this to you with Mohohawaii's kind assistance.
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