The Closeted Clerical Collar

He called me out of the blue yesterday afternoon.

“Father Tom” (not his real name), an 86-year-old retired priest who once served in my Episcopal Diocese of Oklahoma, has been in California for almost forty years. In a newsletter for retired clergy, he had seen an obituary for an old friend, a retired priest whose funeral had been held at my church a couple of months ago. Father Tom had lost track over the years, and he wanted a phone number so he could call the widow and express his condolences.

It was, I suppose, a lazy afternoon for both of us. We talked for an hour or so. He asked after a number of older clergy he had known back in the day. I knew a bit about the area of California where he lived, having numerous in-laws who live within a few miles of San Francisco Bay. I asked him if it had been a culture shock for him, moving from Oklahoma in the 1970s.

“One thing was very different for me,” Father Tom told me. Since I’ve been here in California, I’ve been out.”

Out? For a moment, I wasn’t following him. “People here are a lot more comfortable with gay and lesbian folk. Even clergy. It was a lot different when I was in Oklahoma, back in the day.”

Father Tom said that he had been aware of being gay back to his childhood. In his time, it was something to be hidden, to be ashamed of. He had no one to talk to about who he was, about his feelings. There were no positive role models. All he knew were jokes and dismissive remarks about “queers,” whispers about Hollywood celebrities, government officials exposed, shamed, and fired.

His vocation to the priesthood came to him at the age of 16. As was common and necessary for his time, he did his best to conceal his true self if he wanted to be a priest. After college, he went to seminary, an all-male experience in his day in 1949. He was aware of other seminarians who were partnered, and others who discretely visited gay bars. Because of his passion for his calling to be a priest, he lived a celibate life, and did his best to overcome his own nature.

He dreaded the canonically required psychological evaluation. A sympathetic psychiatrist, himself gay, certified Tom as fully heterosexual, and opened the way to his ordination. Father Tom believes that the Episcopal bishop of Oklahoma in the early 1950s, a gentle and kindly man, knew or suspected his orientation. Nothing was ever said. In his years in ministry in Oklahoma, he served faithfully and well. Over the years, he heard many jokes and remarks about “fags” and “fairies” from many people, including, sometimes, his fellow clergy.

Slowly, he found a support system of other closeted clergy. Eventually, he found a partner, and had to live a life of caution and deception, always being careful of revealing too much of who he was to the wrong person.

Father Tom is long since retired from full-time ministry. Today, he is vigorous and active in his priesthood, celebrating the sacraments regularly at retirement communities and supplying in parishes.

We talked about how the Church and the world had changed in his 62 years as a priest. He had kind things to say about my modest efforts to welcome LGBTQ people to my congregation, including being able to offer the blessing of same-sex unions in compliance with the policies of my diocese, and joining with other local clergy to offer a series of discussion forums on the Church and the gay-bi-trans communities.

I was blessed by this conversation. The flame of priesthood still burns brightly in this old man, who speaks openly, even cheerfully, about his long and sometimes difficult journey. God love you, Father Tom, for your courage and strength in being who you are. I am honored to share the calling of priest with you.

My Holy Moment with Pete Seeger

I was a freshman at Yale University in the spring of 1970. Bobby Seale, the founder of the Black Panther Party, was scheduled to go on trial for murder in New Haven, Connecticut, where Yale is located. (The charges were eventually dropped.) A large demonstration supporting Bobby was planned for May Day, bringing college students from all over the East Coast. On April 30, President Nixon announced the invasion of Cambodia, which led to nationwide demonstrations and student strikes across the country.

Yale was swept with rage. Police were called in from all over the state. The National Guard patrolled streets with jeeps mounting machine guns. Clouds of tear gas blanketed the campus.

Pete Seeger appeared for a long-scheduled concert in Yale's Woolsey Hall auditorium. As the audience gathered, pamphlets and buttons were passed out. Many wore t-shirts with a clenched fist and the word STRIKE! Activists--some peaceful, some advocating a violent confrontation--gathered in groups around the auditorium. Anger hung in the room like a thick fog.

And Pete came on stage. He was wearing his trademark fisherman's cap, carrying a banjo and a twelve-string. In the middle of the stage was a stool and stands for his instruments. He greeted us in his gentle voice, and began singing. "Good Night, Irene." "Guantanamera." His labor songs, his children's songs. He calmed us, sharing the peace that flowed from his soul.

After about an hour and half, he said, "Now I'm going to do a song that Woody and I loved. You know it--sing it with me." He picked up his banjo and began: "This land is your land, this land is my land . . ."

We all began singing with him. He lined out the words to the less familiar verses: "In the shadow of the steeple I saw my people, By the relief office I seen my people; As they stood there hungry, I stood there asking: Is this land made for you and me?"

We sang it through, many times. We stood and clapped and stomped our feet. Tears were running down our faces.

This kindly man, this man with the face of a saint on an icon, called up hope in us. This land could be a place where wars might end. This land could be a country where justice is done. This land could be a community where we cared for each other and lifted up the poor and the marginalized. This land was made for you and me.

We called him out for an encore: "If I Had a Hammer." Love between my brothers and my sisters, all over this land.

Good night, Pete. Thank you for leaving your music to us. Thank you for leaving a measure of your good spirit in the best parts of our souls.

The Stigmata of Mother Earth

After the 1986 meltdown and explosion at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in the Soviet Union, a massive effort was made to evacuate the area which was receiving the heaviest doses of radiation. A hundred thousand people were hastily removed, and whole cities were abandoned. The 2600-square-kilometer Chernobyl Exclusion Zone was established, and today access to this region is heavily restricted. Parts of it remain highly radioactive.

Images from the zone are eerie. Children's toys are abandoned in an evacuated kindergarten. The reactor control room is filled with corroded consoles full of shattered instrument dials. Bumper cars rust in an amusement park. A lonely statue of Lenin presides over an overgrown park. It is like those "Life after People" television documentaries.

There are signs, though, of reinvigorated nature. Forests are flourishing, and many wild animals now roam the abandoned cities. Maybe, we might think, there is hope that this area, so damaged by human activity, might eventually return to a natural state. Maybe this region will heal itself in the long run. Maybe it will be OK.

There are scars that will not heal easily. Plants and animals show odd mutations. Pine trees have a peculiar red color to their bark caused by radiation. Birds grow assymetric wing feathers and are unable to fly. Some insects have become extinct. Grass and forest fires spread new blasts of fallout into the atmosphere. The harm done by humankind is still present, and will be for many generations to come. We can see and touch the scars left by human carelessness.

Still, there is hope for the future in the plants and animals that live in this ruined landscape. Wolves, bears, wild horses are found for the first time in generations. Plants find ways to flourish and grow.

The Gospel according to John describes the Risen Christ in strange terms--he seems mysteriously unknown to his closest friends. His body still bears the marks of the murderous torture that killed him, yet he speaks, eats, drinks. He is the same, he is a "normal" human, yet he lives with the signs of what killed him.

I'd like to suggest that the Earth herself bears the scars of what we humans have done to her, yet lives on, not unlike the Johannine image of the resurrected Jesus. Just as the living Christ can show his friends the wounds he has suffered, yet is alive among them. so we can see the scars of what humanity has inflicted on the Earth.

It is not only Chernobyl, of course. We can also look at the wounds of rising sea levels, pollution of air and water, habitat destruction around the globe.

And yet Mother Earth lives, and offers us her promise for the future, despite her signs of our careless selfishness. Just as we of the Body of Christ cherish the One Who Lives among us, just as we see hope in him, just as we rejoice in his transcendent love and presence, so may we care for our Mother the Earth, and do what we can to aid her rebirth, even as we look on the wounds we have inflicted on her.

Who Does God Trust?

Once a month, I offer an alternative service in my church parish hall aimed at our young children. Last Sunday, we focused on Jesus' parable of the Lost Coin. I had ten quarters. Nine of them were at the "altar" (a parish hall table in this service) and one was hidden in the room. It didn't take long for my young detectives to find it. When they did, I underlined the point--if you do bad things, God loves you enough to be happy when God has you back.

Brandon, a ten-year-old theologian, posed an interesting point: "If you do bad things too much, God won't trust you anymore."

Does God trust us? The anthropomorphized God of the Bible has good reason NOT to.

"OK, you two: I'm giving you every single thing you need to be completely happy. Just don't touch this one tree I'm putting here in the middle of the garden. Remember, I'm trusting you!"

"David, I'm raising you up as king over Israel, and I expect you to be wise and just. So don't do anything stupid, like killing somebody so you can steal his wife. I'm trusting you here!"

"I'm sending my beloved Son to live as one you. I expect you to listen to him, follow him, and honor him as the Messiah. I hope I can trust you."

"I'm boiling down all those commandments into just two: love me, love other people like you love yourself. That's pretty simple, isn't it? I'll trust you to do those two simple things."

I don't know about you, but I think God would be crazy to trust us humans. But can God love us, even if we aren't very trustworthy? I hope so.

We human beings seem to find ways of putting ourselves and our wants and desires first. We can always rationalize doing what WE want to do. With the possible exception of a few great saints (and I kind of wonder about them, to be honest), we haven't done a very good job of earning God's trust.

So, my friend Brandon, you're right. God has good reason not to trust us, because we do bad things. It's a good thing God loves us. We don't have to earn that.

Light and Smoke

What if there was a holy place where people of all ages came and went as they pleased? What if they offered prayers entirely on their own, in whatever words (or non-words) they chose? What if there were no clergy or religious leaders to give people permission to pray, or to make sure they were doing it right?

I am fortunate enough to have been to such a place. It has the lovely name of “The Palace of Peace and Harmony Lama Temple.” It was once a residence of the Qing Dynasty prince Yinzhen. After he took the throne as the Yongzheng Emperor in 1722, he gave this property to the colony of Tibetan monks who lived in Beijing. I spent a morning among the clouds of incense—and prayer—during a recent trip to China.

I came to China with a preconception. I assumed that modern, post-Mao China was non-religious, if not anti-religious. I was aware that several faiths were practiced under the watchful eye of the government in a nation that is officially atheist. I was expecting the Lama Temple to be more museum than active place of worship.

My first surprise: as I walked from a nearby subway station to the gate of the Temple, the sidewalk was crowded with energetic salespeople hawking incense sticks. After having the long, cellophane-wrapped packages shoved in my face by importunate sellers a few times, I decided to buy a package, if only to show that I was not, thank you very much, interested in buying more.

The gate of the Temple gives into a peaceful avenue lined with willow trees. There are five main halls, each with one or more statues of the Buddha. Before each building stands an oil lamp used to light the incense sticks. A kneeling bench that would not look out of place in an Episcopal church faces the hall. Most people would light three sticks of incense and kneel with the smoking sticks held up to their foreheads. After a few minutes, they would rise and bow to the four cardinal directions. The incense would be left in a bronze brazier, where it would continue to smolder along with the sticks left by other worshipers.

So, what was I, a Christian, going to do in this place? I did not want to simply imitate the practices of a faith that was not my own. As I looked upon the serene face of the Buddha, those first couple of commandments were in the back of my mind also. (You know—the ones about “no other gods before me” and “graven images.”) Since one of my many heresies is panentheism, the belief that God is present in all things, I decided that I could add my own devotions to those of the many who were with me.

My ritual created on the spot: I lit my three sticks of incense and prayed for enlightenment, a proper sentiment, I thought, which would be approved both by the former Indian prince and the carpenter-rabbi of Nazareth. I made a discreet sign of the Cross with my incense, and then added it to the other sticks smoldering in the bronze urn. My prayers, along with those of many others, would continue to rise in the fragrant smoke.

Is there a holy place like this in culturally-Christian America? When did you last see working people, teenagers, and elderly folk praying on their own, without someone supervising their practices, or instructing them from on high? There were a few monks among the crowds, but they seemed to be offering the same devotions as the “civilians.”

I’d like to think that I brought home a little of the Palace of Peace and Harmony Lama Temple. I will strive for times of mindfulness and enlightenment as I go about my daily life. I hope my prayers continue to rise, even when I go about my life.

Repairing the Shattered World

The sixteenth-century Jewish mystic Isaac Luria offered an interesting explanation of the mess the world is in. God, said Luria, created the world by placing his own divine light into vessels. These containers could not hold the powerful essence of God, and shattered into shards. The calling and duty of religious folk is tikkun ha-olam, the "repair of the world." By ritual acts and by living day to day according to God's commandments, the broken is brought together, the shattered is made whole. In this way, the world is made into a place that is worthy of the Messiah who is to come.

Although Christians and Jews might disagree about whether the Messiah is coming for the first or second time, I as a Christian find the call to tikkun ha-olam a much more compelling notion than the idea of waiting passively for the Lord to arrive, cause the rapture, initiate the war of Armageddon, etc., etc. For centuries, Christians have scanned the news of the day and searched for events that seem to be congruent with the fierce and cryptic poetry of the Book of Revelation. By this reading, the End Times never quite seem to get here, and it's back to the drawing board to interpret the signs of the times.

While others dissect apocalyptic literature, I am going to do what I can to practice tikkun ha-olam. I see the hungry every day, and I do my best to feed them. I serve in an organization in my community that provides shelter to children in state custody, counseling to the addicted, and care for the victims of domestic violence. I know my local political leaders and leaders of city government, and I don't hesitate to discuss my concerns about  how to make a better community with them.

In classical theological terms, this makes me a "post-millennialist." I'm not waiting around for the Messiah to show up to fix the world. I'm doing my small part to assemble the shards that come before me.

Can you find opportunities to practice tikkun ha-olam in your patch of the world? What can you and I do to make the world more just, more decent? How can we be better stewards of the gifts of nature? How can we put the pieces together and make better vessels where we live and work?

The picture that heads this post is an example of the Japanese art of kintsugi, or "golden joinery." When a precious vessel is broken, it is repaired using a lacquer made with powdered gold. The cracks gleam with the beauty of the artist's hand, and show that care and love have gone into the repair. Let's use the same love and care in repairing the broken world.

The Mystery Box

Every Sunday, I am challenged during our worship service by. . . the Mystery Box!

Each Sunday, one of the kids in our church family  takes home a box, grandly spray-painted in gold and covered with “precious jewels.” That child is invited to put anything he or she likes, with the exception of living organisms, into the box and bring it back to church the following Sunday.  During the service, I open the box to see what’s in it.  And then I have to say something useful and memorable about the box’s contents, and connect it in some way to the Bible, Christian faith and practice, or generally to the things of God.  This game is also sometimes called “Stump the Preacher.”

Quick!  Say something biblically relevant about this Transformer toy, bag of Gummi Bears, stuffed hippopotamus, naked Barbie doll.  It’s a closed book test—no time to consult the Bible, the works of St. Augustine, or even call the bishop for guidance.

Of course, this happens to all of us, all the time, doesn’t it?  Every day, we are faced with unexpected challenges that call on us to reach down to the roots of our faith.  We make the decisions that are set before us by daily life, using the best judgment we have, and the light that God gives us for guidance.

What should I do?  The doctor tells me I have a serious heart condition.  My son was just arrested.  I just had a terrible argument with my spouse.  We could all add a million examples to the sudden, unexpected turns that our lives might take.  Over and over, we are handed a Mystery Box, and we have to figure out how to react.

We may not always have the Bible or authoritative sources to consult, or someone to advise us.  What each of us do have is a lifetime of experience to draw on, and the moral and ethical instincts within us.  There is, to be sure, a human tendency in all of us to put our own will and desire before the will of God. 

But there is also within us, even if we don’t always listen to it, a sense of what is right and what isn’t.  This is also molded from what we have been taught, the example of parents and others, and our religious traditions.  Christians call this the Holy Spirit within us, that guides and rules our actions.  It is this Holy Spirit that teaches us what to do with the Mystery Boxes that life sets before us.

With God’s loving presence in our lives, we should never be afraid to open the Mystery Box.