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What does it say that Christ is most accessible to the downtrodden? He said himself: I have come to save the sinner. Howard Thurman, doctor of the church and radical theologian, could not have captured the scene better, digging out the rotten marrow of civil disobedience in the age of ’60s racism. For there were two distinct groups that hallowed out a home for themselves in that America—a family of decided racists, whose own faith rested on the inferiority of blacks and the supremacy of whites, and those who fell victim to their racism. It was, indeed, the cruelty inflicted on African-Americans that characterized our free nation. And why? Because blacks inherited this lower place in the social strata of the modern world? There was no explanation, except for a preservation of identity—us vs. them. And so, as blacks had once been slaves and roughly abused, so they continued to be. And for these sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers with a dark complexion they could not help, it was Christ they turned to. It was Christ, because he had a message for the marginalized: You are the chosen ones of God.

In instances of marginalization, there are three ways we choose to react (for it is in us to choose). We can either, in an effort to retaliate, fight back against those who force us to the periphery of existence. We hurl invectives, we insult, we physically attack. But this, though perhaps offering a brief satisfaction by acting on our anger and shame, relegates us to a position not much greater than our oppressors. And, even more so, we reinforce the division between us. It is instinct, of course, to defend oneself when attacked, and there is hardly a better place to start building our salients than defining ourselves ever more distinctly as over and above the other.

The second way to react is to ignore. But this option is almost never employed in serious abuses. Could every African-American shrug and go about their way when family members and friends were lynched with impunity? When violent murders flashed briefly on late-night news and were casually swept under the legal rug? Such would assume that these men and women were not in fact human, that they possessed no semblance of emotion. Clearly, they are human as much as the rest of us; instincts and emotional cries are as normal to white people as they are to black.

There is a third option—giving over the fear and anger in one’s own diminution to God. Let me be very clear in this: I do not mean a God with a white beard sitting on a heavenly throne waiting to hear our pleas and concerns. God has no single human face; he, it, and they are manifold in creation. At the same time, however, there is a communion of being that exists in a realm we do not understand, but which understands us and is intimately involved in our lives. This is the God to whom I refer.

But “giving over the fear” is not quite as simple as mailing off a letter of confession to a celestial address. It requires emptying oneself of the need to control one’s own existence. It requires recognition of the higher authority which guides and orchestrates the unknown and mysterious. And, ultimately, it means trusting that this communion of being knows better than we what should and shouldn’t transpire in our lives. This, above all, pains us. For, as sentient, intelligent beings, we have decided that we must control ourselves. We are masters of our personhood. But that is not entirely true.

Yes, we may affect change. We may keep ourselves in good health to the best of our ability. We may foster and nourish healthy relationships. But there are still instances when our change is blotted out, our good health turned to terminal cancer, our healthy relationships ended in bitter and acrimonious argument. We do not, nor can we, know everything. Indeed, as long as we do not fully understand all people and things with which we interact, we will never be able to be in ultimate control of our lives. For we are affected as we affect, and in the mysteries that gird this life, we are subject to things beyond our explanation.

And so, we are afraid. We feel this fear precisely because these are things we do not understand or cannot control—or both. If we had a grasp on it, what would there be to fear? Our instinct, however, is to command our lives fully. And so, instead of admitting to our fear and acknowledging there is something that can affect us which we cannot alter, we exhaust ourselves trying to find a way to manipulate it.

But when we know, truly know, that there are these things that will be part of our lives but are beyond us completely, we begin to give over our fear. Isn’t fear dreaded simply because it is us, in our vulnerability, worrying that something BAD will happen to us? The great victory over fear is stepping back from our instinctive trepidation to see that the immutable mysteries may be for GOOD, even if that good is not manifest immediately or in visceral ways. It is recognizing that GOOD, as a product of a communion of being enveloping all of creation, must do what is for the benefit of that creation.

How do we know that this body of power, whatever it may be (and we often call it God), wishes to act to the greatest good of us in sum? It is simply this: that whatever he, or it, may be, it is a part of us. While it does not suffice to say that this God works to protect him or herself, it is a way of understanding it that way can grasp. God, being a greater entity than we, and encompassing us, acts for all because He is in all.

But this also means that when we give our fear over to God, accepting that He commands control over all for the GOOD, we admit that we are a part of GOOD. There is individuality only in the sense that we contribute to a greater good, that we foster life, and we work as a part of God, through God, and in God, to preserve ourselves as a community of being. And so, when the life acts in a way that dismantles our lives—even tears them apart—we are challenged to see the greater good in it. But our sight, our lives, our power are limited. And so, if the good should manifest in unrecognizable ways at a time far past our own, we think God has not worked in us for good. He has, in fact, abandoned or abused us.

But how can we say this, unless we see the good He envisions? So we have the choice to trust Him, or fight against Him. In either case, we will die a physical death. What happens beyond this death, who can say? But is there not something to be said for preserving a greater peace and goodness in life when it leads to peace in death? For death is only feared because it is an end we have not ourselves ordained. But that end is but a temporary pause in the greater scheme of human life; if we live in sum, we can recognize this.

Which is why the African-Americans of the oppressive ’50s and ’60s banded together. Some even reached out to white men and women—knowing that God lived in them, too, no matter their prejudices and persecutions. They were truly a people with their backs against the wall. Years ago, I found myself against the wall—my sexuality threatening to keep me from the ministry to which I felt called. But that was bigger than me, and the call had little to do with me specifically. Did it matter that I would struggle with my sexuality in the church? Did it matter that gays weren’t allowed to marry and hold onto committed relationships in the church which I loved? It mattered in the ministry I was committed to accepted, but very little for me personally. I will fight for these things because I once feared them; I have been able to give those fears over to God, and he has translated them into a passion. In that passion, I leave all trepidation behind. For energies, and gifts, and blessings from God are far better used to pursue the good for all, than what I think is the good for me.

Whatever I know, or think I know, I have painfully learned that God knows better.

The two were a veritable pair from “Failing at Marriage for Dummies,” without the slightest clue that they might do something to fix it. Lisa wore the pants, and Alfred did the laundry. That was the way of it.

It didn’t help matters that things were started off on the wrong foot. Their wedding vows even presaged doom. Lisa, thinking herself quite funny, decided to forego writing vows altogether and instead read aloud the entirety of the poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” which tickled her very much because Alfred’s name was, well, Alfred. It did not, however, leave anyone else with even a giggle. A few echoing coughs resounded in the nave, fading quickly into awkward silence. Alfred, in turn, bumbled about a few words, sweated on index cards, swallowed the lumps in his throat again and again, and finally fell onto an “I love you” before the whole wedding unraveled. It was somehow fate that led them both to slip on the few index cards Alfred had dropped during the procession into the chapel. Attempting to ignore the mishap, the rice-throwing contingent covered them with risotto (which was all they could find), and so began the bitter days in wedlock for Alfred and Lisa.

Others feel compelled to etch the landmarks of their young life in skin.

Tattoos have never been an interest of mine, but they can certainly be an artful, meaningful contribution to one’s body. I understand their purpose as reminders of where one has come and where one is going, but I have chosen to create those markers in different ways—making t-shirts, for example, or amassing a collection of wine bottles from college days. Mostly Carlo Rossi.

The one tattoo that makes me really think, however, is the cross tattoo. Rarely have I seen it so plain and simple as a cross—sufficient enough in its own symbolism that it doesn’t require embellishment.

Rather, I see it strung around with roses, sometimes with thorns, sometimes turned into altogether hideous things like cartoon creatures and Revelation-esque monsters. Though the most bizarre piece of the puzzle is, it’s often appropriated by those who have zero affiliation with Christianity. Sometimes, they even (vocally) abhor the Christian church.

In the case of the cross-turned-monster, I could begin to understand the symbolism for an atheist, even if I don’t know the history of emotion that fed its creation. But there are so many now who appropriate the cross as only an adornment—an accessory that is striking on the skin. It shows up even more often in jewelry; how many people who wear a cross, wear it because it has genuine meaning to them?

Why is it other religious symbols don’t seem to be used to the extent the cross is? If it is just for looks, wouldn’t the Star of David be as appealing? What about the Star and Crescent?

I have no claim to the Cross, that is certain. And many would argue that it is, at one and the same time, a symbol of faith for Christians and a secular image found in countless places. It need not imply Christianity, but it so often does. I am inclined to believe that it is used precisely because of its religious and cultural import; the Cross MEANS something to people. It’s not just a pretty image.

Ultimately, I guess I wonder: Do those who appropriate it really understand its significance? Or is it being used for shock value more than genuine meaning? Is its use intended to be counter-cultural?

And with my braided beard
And sharecropped scalp
I held the corrugated faith
Against barrage and bait,
Standing lithe:
“Why did you? When was it?
What kind of man?”
Because I was a figure,
Bound by cloth, and by
The papacy of coital
Ruin.

In darkness leaked the light
Of stained glass windows there,
Silted by the smoke.

With factories of fiction they peeled
Me down; my reddened lips
Hot with musty lust, far gone, far
Aging.
Until they, too, collapsed, and pity
Spared my life and instrument.
My sweat congealed in beads on
Brow; for my spirit, they cast
Lots.

“To work!” they crowed, those
Bishop-pricks, grinning ear to
Sun with whipping and the scar.

And when, that Sunday, I ambled
To the Sacristy to pray, and weep,
And wonder faith at all, I saw a miracle
That pierced my stomach wide:

There was a red van, halfway parked by
A steeple there, and on its tinted back
There sang a single note of ruin:
Christ the Crucified in lavish pride
Was plastered on the glass.

God save you, Nicodemus,
My spirit rang;
Do not come tonight.

Rosy reds have fainted since
And greens been curdled, but I
Wonder who shakes the buttress
After preaching, singing: live!

And should the whistled wind
Confess whereto they went and
Too where they have yet to go,
We would arouse, and follow them!

But windows cut the lips of God
To basting silence and the hiss
Of hymns; doors entomb the
Preacher and the preached.

‘Til at the font, our celebrations
Pass: crossing heart and mind
And passing on, as faithful due;
To fast, degraded live.

And if we stopped and hushed
To hear the wind, for sure it
Would have died; Christ does
Not wait evermore for us;

While saints have once and always
Tried.

Do you remember the great poem by William? He said, “red wheelbarrows are reliable.” I have a pail, and shall graduate from that through sand.

In the making of tea, use three packets instead of one. Sugar is absent, unless your sweet soul is from Georgia and your teeth are gritty with bitter.

When I was five, the cartwheels raced along the fields at school like poppies in the fields at Normandy. I was so good at numbers then.

If I pray with beads of sweat or landmarks on the rosary, is it not the same? I will be a far-flung, four-eyed priest someday.

Thursday was a band of rain and Friday is the sun, but if I spread the butter thickly on that doughnut, there is sunshine in my spirit.

Sips and sips and tips and drips and coffee until the swing of swigging stalls—Fridays ripe with adventure and insecurities. I’ve on my vomit shirt.

Trust me, I told the attendant riddled with an acne plague, I will only be parked for five minutes. And I will leave better than I came, in a car.

France started a war with itself and lost. They beat the rest of us to the punch, and wine.

Dreaming starts tomorrow because the taxes are too high and there’s a hole in the butt of my jeans. I will share it with the office, and my august angst.

One time, I gutted myself to speak like Jimmy Stewart reciting a limerick to dyspeptic children. He has no way with children, and neither do I. It is a shame that children are our future.

Pharaoh had the balls to erect things. Now erected, Egypt crumbles and I tease fantasies of Tutankhamun.

I’d rather be a goat than a llama, but if it is necessary, I will be human.

“To be” is a silly question. It’s a rub.

And when it just doesn’t understand, then you have to reconsider everything. Who’s a bitch, and who’s a BFF?

Humor me for a moment, while I get my theologian on…

Nothing is more uplifting, fulfilling, satisfying, enriching, powerful, humbling, and complete than imparting the living words of God to those riveted with enthusiasm and spiritual dedication. It is even more complete (if that’s possible), when doubters turn from other words to these—not because I am saying them, but because they are finally words they can understand.

I have tried too many times to make my way to school for ordination. The prescribed route for will-be priests and ministers is school, internship, ordination, vows, call, and roster. Who made all this up? When Jesus came down and walked among us, he studied the scriptures but he didn’t jump through bureaucratic hoops to become the Messiah. He jumped through human ones—suffering, conflict, desertion, insult, loneliness, and death.

Without sounding too much like a zealous sycophant, I would gladly take that on in spades. I’m old enough now to have seen and felt pieces of the ministry and I have a fair sense of how it drains the human capacity for patience and peace. I want that, don’t you see? And in the rigamarole of school applications, financial aid, recommendations, and blah blah blah I have been effectively denied the route prescribed for me to preach, teach, and share the good news.

Institutions of power: Who are you to deny me my call? Have you lost sight of what your role is, after all? No, you are not called to adhere to some bland treatise of power, nor to maintain your residence in the halls of academic pride. You are to serve those who would serve. And instead, I feel you are asking to be served. This you justify in saying that those who come to you are paving a life of service.

I am often disheartened by where I am, and where I seem to be going. I fault myself in part for that—my inability to recognize the ministry I can do sans collar, sans robe, sans sermon. But if it is to ordained ministry that I am called, who are you to deny me?

Sunday, I spent most of my afternoon at a retirement party for a Lutheran pastor who had spent more than 20 years serving the same congregation. The testimonies and witnesses to his faith, loyalty, devotion, and love were overwhelming—they really did bring tears to my eyes. And not only because of how many lives he had touched and nurtured, but how many lives I have not yet been able to touch and nurture. Not in that way.

Believe me when I say I am as much a product of society as the next man or woman. If the money were present, if I were in demand, then I would relish the scripted road to ordained ministry. But as it is, I feel the pulsing call and must learn a new language of expression, must dig out new pathways, and find untrodden avenues of service. This is not altogether bad, and yet it is a result of being somehow shunned from the institutions that foster service in faith. You have seen what I have done and what I can do, but you do not call me forth. You have heard me asking for admission to the ranks of the called, but you seem to pay no heed. What do I have to do to earn your favor?

As you can see, I’m still married to the world in which I grew up. I tell myself that I, in some ways like Jesus, have had to be my own minister and my own man—contrary to the voices of society. Perhaps that is too high an elevation, but it saves me from thinking that I am altogether lacking what it takes to be a minister—simply because I have not been called forth by the powers that be.

If a young man or woman’s passion is computer science, and they study and apply themselves, there will be a path for them. If they relish the beat of business and teach themselves its intricacies, there will be someone to take each one under their wing and be a support—financial, academic, and professional.

But our world, unlike what it once was, seldom upholds God’s foot soldiers. Poets have lost their power; literature is a shrunken word; the arts belong too often in a museum. I am somewhat hurt and often jaded—that is true. But tell me I have no right to feel as I do, and I will tell you how I have been pushed back from the door I seek to open.

Jesus said to us, without qualification: “Knock and the door shall be opened unto you.” I am knocking, Jesus. I have been pounding for years, but no ones answers. Do I have the wrong door?

Now, if Luther was onto something, then we have a problem. Salvation and grace are given. Love and mercy are given. We are not, of our own agency or ability, able to conjure redemption. Neither is heaven a place to which we are granted access according to our merits.

If you’ll forgive me for boiling down the brilliant German man’s theology into a succinct point: forget about earning a place with God and spend your time focusing on the world around you. A painful lesson for a once-was Catholic to swallow, but I think I have finally choked it down.

So then, what do I do with all of this talk about hell? For so many years now, I have come to understand hell as a manipulative creation of religion—that which draws us into fear and keeps us in line only because we dread punishment. And it serves a master of power.

Either the hell religion paints is real, or Luther is on the right track; it can’t be both. Why is it we agree in some instances to listen to Jesus’ words as metaphor and parable—along with prominent pericopes of the Old and New Testament—while we spin literalism out of control as soon as the Son of God talks about Gehenna? Is it not possible that “hell” as we have constructed is a little too much of a, well, construction?

Not to be extremist, but it’s worth considering: What would happen if Christianity did away with hell and we were left only with salvation and grace? Some would say, “Well what’s the motivation to believe?” If that’s all we come up with, there’s not much hope for us. But I think we would hear more of this: “I guess I don’t have to spend time worrying about it,” or something of the like.

Well now, says Luther, that’s the point. Stop worrying about ascending or descending—in this life or the hereafter! God did not put us here so that we would pine away for the very place from which we came. That seems not only unnecessarily cruel, but rather inane; what’s the point?

Rather, I think, there’s something to be said for the living of life in the face of joy and suffering, pain and humiliation, love and hope. Each one of us is both similar to each other and vastly different. If nothing else, this explains that our own journeys to discovery of full faith encompasses wildly different experiences. Or perhaps I should say, enjoys wildly different experiences.

Getting back to the question of hell, it seems an academic and theological problem (where do we find it in the Bible, after all?), but it also begs us to consider how much of “hell” we have created in our imaginations—and to our own ends. Some might turn around and ask the same thing of heaven. The dichotomy of heaven/hell is all too simple to have much spiritual underpinning, it seems to me. But if we’re insistant that there’s something of a heaven, let’s just call it God.

Faith, I believe, is coming to accept what we can understand and what we cannot understand—without making stuff up to fill in the in-between. It’s quite alright that we don’t have all the answers and, frankly, better that we concern ourselves with what we do know in the here and now. As Paul has said and we have recapitulated umpteen times, “Faith, hope, and love—these three. But the greatest of these is love.” This is what we should spend our day-to-day on, and it is what we should recognize as being the foundation of our being, whoever we are.

The human mind is uncomfortable confessing a heaven and shunning a hell. There must be a balance of things, we claim. Must there indeed? To wit—I heard two old women in the pews following service on Sunday:

“If there is a heaven, there must be a hell.”
“Oh really? How do you figure?”
“The evil ones must have somewhere to go!”

Evil ones, huh? God’s justice is not our justice. Just think what would have happened in the wake of the crucifixion if that were true.

You’ll excuse me if I don’t shake your hand. I’m deeply concerned about security. And I always carry a hand-buzzer with me. Humor is a diuretic.

—I mean, a diversion. I think that’s what I mean—it’s a diversion. Yes. Sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of patriotism; what’s that again? You dream in digital? How very 21st-century of you. And your tie is blue. And your coat is off. And (OMG!) your feet are on the desk! I didn’t know you could do that unless you were in the movies.

Yes, well, to the point of course. I’m here for one reason that’s actually two. The first of the one reason is this: I’m a bit un-American and I’d like to stay that way. I figured you were the best person to talk to about the problem. The second of the one: I think this country’s bed and breakfast scene is in wallpapery-shambles.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I love a good frilly wallpaper as much as the next gay man, except… well… I don’t. Can’t we mandate some sort of masculinity in these rooms? Deep colors, earthen colors, reds, blacks, woodies—woods! I mean woods. Cedar. And comfort, for God’s sake (in whom we trust, implicitly)! Beds that are beds, breakfast with tea. Biscuits and cream. None of this Jimmy Carter frilly-get-to-know-you non-com-sense.

Look, you’ve got a many good things to do (your tie’s crooked anyway), and I think you should think about changing the status quo and the coffee around here. B-and-Bs first, economy second, coffee third (the damn stuff is just SWILL!), and so on. You get my drifting.

Got to run, but love what you’ve done with the place! You might think about wall papering the oval (did I say that?). It would add a bit of Paula Deen to things.

Kthnksmuch / luvyabye.

Tim