Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

Next Chapter, New Blog

2010-06-30T16:06:00.007-04:00

The adventure continues . . .

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play Too!

http://chadagurley.tumblr.com/

Rainy Days and Mondays

2010-06-07T15:21:00.002-04:00

Snapture

2010-05-19T16:04:00.004-04:00

I'll admit it, I am addicted to taking photographs with my iPhone, and I adore that some of them actually look quite nice! A great way to document my last days living in the Big Apple.

I Shot New York

2010-05-04T11:36:00.002-04:00

Daily walks

2010-04-29T08:11:00.007-04:00

stop at the full moon

working man walking

office view

office view II

central park

rainy blue monday

between cars

2010-04-23T17:25:00.002-04:00

As I prepare to leave New York City for Nashville, Tennessee, I am finding myself snapping photos with my iPhone in order to capture memories of the good, bad, and the ugly. Ironically, it happens to be at a time when contests abound for discovering the best mobile photos. I like to think of it as doing a lot with very little. Who needs a $700 camera, when you've got a phone in your pocket. ;-)

"between cars" has won 2nd place of the week in the iPhone art photography contest. Oddly enough, it's not one of my own favorites, but I'm pleased it is inspired. =)

http://designyoutrust.com/2010/04/23/best-of-the-week-iphone-art-photography-open-contest-by-llot/

The Language of God

2010-04-16T13:49:00.003-04:00

Over the past several weeks, I have been hearing about this new ad to come out from the United Church of Christ, and the internet has been a buzz in anticipation of its release. While it is a great ad, I'm afraid I don't think it really lives up to the hype. I guess I was expecting something a little more provocative and profound. What do you think?

The Language of God from United Church of Christ on Vimeo.

The Ministerial Challenge of Spiritual Abuse

2010-04-16T13:34:00.003-04:00

Full of regret, my father tells a story of spanking me so hard one Sunday morning for giggling and talking during worship that dark bruises were left on my four-year-old body. Although I don’t remember this happening, I do have some vague, childhood memories of his pulling me up from the pew and taking me out the back of the chapel to be scolded for being irreverent during service. Usually under the guise of my being “silly” or “dramatic”, I was often punished for being a sissy, my effeminate behaviors and mannerisms not at all normal for a country boy in rural Arkansas. Reprimanded frequently, I was made aware that these seeming instinctual traits were wrong, and I grew to believe that not only was there something defective about me but also that I was innately bad. While I know that my parents were doing the best they knew how and that much of their discipline came from a place of love and not just a desire for my conformity, their actions hurt me deeply and caused me to believe their love was conditional. For most of my youth, I attempted to please them and achieve goodness in their eyes. Now, at thirty-six years old, I like to believe that I have worked through these issues and put them behind me. Occasionally, though, when I visit my hometown in Arkansas and am riding down Main Street with my father, he will say something to me, convey a tone in his voice, or just look at me in a certain way, and in an instant, I find myself feeling like a very bad, limp-wristed four-year-old acting silly, and I find it very difficult intercept the automatic, habitual self-loathing of my past.

For some of us, our religious guardians may have used religion to change or control our spiritual lives or scare us into submission, perhaps even with good intentions. Spiritual abuse occurs in many forms, primarily when religious leaders use the name of God to manipulate, shame, damn, punish, persecute or terrorize others. Unfortunately, Christianity has been fraught with abusive uses of power, and a great many of us walk away from our early religious encounters with lasting injuries of hurt, anger, fear, betrayal, resentment, and mistrust. If and when we return to church, those of us who have been spiritually abused come hesitantly with bruises and scars, and confronting familiar dogma or practicing discarded rituals can reopen old wounds and send us back into a painful, damaged state. Merely hearing words echoed from the time of the abuse, like “abomination” or “damnation”, can hinder or halt our openness to new religious experiences. The challenge for ministry today is in how to provide a hospital of faith and hope to heal those of us who have been victims while being sensitive to the abuse that we have endured. Ministry must also find a way to reclaim the words and beliefs used as whips in our past and transform them into healing balm for our present.

During a meeting of Lay Leaders at The Riverside Church, I stated that I considered myself to be a “progressive evangelical” to which I received frowns of disapproval. It was merely the word, “evangelical” in our Progressive Christian church home and its assumed meaning with respect to the political religious right that garnered such negative responses and closed the door for continued dialogue. From diverse backgrounds and traditions, many of the liberal intellectuals in the meeting reacted to “evangelical” emotionally due to their passionate stances against the political oppression of conservative Evangelical Christians and not because of evangelical’s actual meaning. Similarly, countless gays and lesbians with whom I am acquainted have reacted so adversely to their being alienated by their religious communities and persecuted in the name of God that they have discarded their faith and spirituality altogether and refuse to join even the most welcoming and affirming congregations. During Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) civil rights debates, when I assert a gay Christian perspective I believe helps our cause, I find that I am often challenged by my own Queer community to keep my religion out of their politics. With empathy, I understand that the root of this anger is a profound hurt which must be attended gingerly and with much respect and understanding. In the Riverside LGBT ministry, Maranatha, we make a very concerted, careful attempt to draw ostracized people back into our inclusive Christian family; however, no matter how precisely and sensitively we make our appeals, it seems guaranteed that at least one person’s memories of spiritual abuse will be triggered. So how is the challenge met?

Presently, The Riverside Church is experiencing a time of conflict, transition and confusion regarding our identity partly due to congregants emotionally reacting to personal spiritual abuse. As a means of healing, we have employed the Alban Institute, a conflict resolution institute for congregations, to help us examine our issues and fragmentation and to repair our broken relationships. At a meeting of the Church Council and Commissions, Alban’s representative offered Margaret Wheatley’s quote which says that it is not our differences that divide us but our judgments and assumptions that do. In my opinion, meeting the aforementioned challenge of ministering to those who have been spiritually abused lies in congregational education so as to alleviate these misunderstandings which lead to destructive judgments. So many within our churches are thirsting for knowledge and understanding, willing to do the work involved to heal old hurts. An education that allows for conversations about our pasts while clarifying what is meant by some of the things to which we react emotionally might be good therapy for all of our souls. Today, many are interested in being a part of a dialogue about their beliefs and having some ownership of their faith. Through this ownership and more in-depth understanding, spiritually abused people can begin the first step of acknowledging their pain and what caused it. Then through the church’s loving community and God’s guidance and presence, we all can begin healing together. Riverside is beginning such education and conversations, and I am praying for success.

I never stopped loving my parents. Though I cannot forget the pain of my childhood, through time, conversations, personal work and soul-searching, I have been able to understand better the place from which my parents acted when I was a child and have forgiven them. This has rewarded me with a deeper, more loving relationship with which I would not be blessed if I simply ran away, refused to confront my feelings or ignored them. Through the loving, protective guidance of our churches, if those of us who are spiritually abused invest in the same time, conversations, personal work and soul-searching in regards to our religion, we will also reap many rewards in a new religious beginning and deeper, spiritual connection with our God.

~ Excerpt, Divinity School Application, 2010

my eyes spy

2010-04-14T12:18:00.005-04:00

Spring finally!

waiting for the A train

my block

The Dilemma of the Inclusive Christian Identity

2010-04-14T11:35:00.005-04:00

When asked what I love most about living in New York City, my first response is always its diversity. And while New York is diverse in many ways, racially, economically, culturally, just to name a few, the most inspiring to me is the religious diversity found in this city. The very fact that I can pass a Buddhist center offering free yoga sessions, greet a Muslim woman smiling with her eyes, and watch a Hindu boy pull at his mother’s sari, all on my way to work, fills me with a great sense of harmony and well being. During the winter holiday season near Columbia University where Harlem and the Upper West Side meet, as I walk under trees leafed in tiny, white lights, I might find a street vendor selling a wooden kinara of Kwanza candles next to an electric Hanukkah menorah with frosted blue blubs while smelling fresh Christmas evergreens for sale just steps away. I will receive invitations to both a Winter Solstice party from Radical Faeire friends and a simple holiday meal with friends who are agnostic and atheist. While I am confidently, unapologetically Christian, my city and personal life abounds with strangers, friends and acquaintances from a potpourri of beliefs, religions, faiths, and spiritualities.

Like the city itself, my church home, The Riverside Church, is also quite diverse, which is one of the main reasons I became a member in 2002. Its mission states, “The Church commits itself to welcoming all persons, celebrating the diversity found in a Congregation broadly inclusive of persons from different backgrounds of characteristics, including race, economic class, religion, culture, ethnicity, gender, age, sexual orientation, family status and physical and mental abilities.” Riverside proclaims that we are three “I”s – International, Interracial, and Interdenominational. This was especially important to me after September 11, 2001 when fear evoked the vast prejudices in our country and further segregated groups of people. Hearing Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes, Jr. preach about the heavenly banquet where ALL are loved and blessed spoke directly to my heart and profoundly moved my spirit. Interestingly though, because Riverside professes such inclusivity, it seems some congregants have added the “I” of interfaith, which makes for a great challenge and theological dilemma for a Christian congregation. How does a Progressive Christian church maintain its Christian identity while also being broadly inclusive of persons from other religions?

Progressive Christianity, thought generally to be the living of the principles of Jesus Christ through social justice action and the questioning of fundamentalist absolutes, seemed forced to become more liberal during the presidency of George W. Bush and the rise of religious conservatism in power. Doors were opened wide for any and all to come in and worship during a time of growing intolerance and religious prejudice. However, it seems that in the process, by being “inclusive” of all faiths, some Riverside members began to lean closely to a kind of Unitarian Universalist religion and away from traditional Christian faith. Truly, to become a member of Riverside one must profess publically that “Jesus is Lord.” When I made this public proclamation of faith, I meant that I believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, the embodiment of God’s unconditional love for humanity which redeems me. Once I became a member, however, I discovered that among the members there are variances on what “Jesus is Lord” actually means to each. As this is something not clarified in membership classes and perhaps only discussed in elective educational courses offered, the differences among members intensifies confusion as to our collective identity, breeds misunderstanding, and ultimately leads to conflict.

While there are many reasons it was made virtually impossible for our sixth senior minister, Rev. Dr. Brad Braxton, to continue his tenure at Riverside, including racial disharmony, compensation concerns, and stylistic differences, to me this conflict over Riverside’s Christian and fully inclusive identity seemed to be at the root. Following a rather conservative, “old-time religion” sermon preached by a visiting minister a short time after Dr. Braxton was installed, Riverside tensions exploded. The sermon, given with the best and most caring intentions, flavored with a literalist translation of Biblical texts, reopened old wounds of spiritual abuse, and the Riverside congregation erupted with varying emotions, myself included. However, the ultimate catalyst for the polarization of the church was the visiting minister’s assertion that Jesus Christ was the only way to God. Some members absolutely affirmed this position, fully vested in their salvation solely through Christ, while others thought it to be too narrow and totalitarian, especially for Progressive Christian theology. Beliefs and opinions therein were every shade of gray. Suddenly, with everyone expecting personal confirmation of their own, Dr. Braxton was placed in a very precarious position. How was he to affirm that we, as a Christian church, do believe that for us Jesus Christ is our way to God while also being inclusive of those to whom Jesus Christ is not their way to God in our “broadly inclusive” church? At the time, I wrestled with the issue myself and attempted to find my own solution. The verse in which Christ says that we should not be ashamed of Him (Mark 8:38 & Luke 9:26) kept resurfacing in my mind while my belief that because God so loves the whole world, no one can be rejected by God’s love did also. In a church as progressive and liberal as Riverside, it was a great challenge and an almost impossible tight rope on which to balance. Dr. Braxton answered from his heart’s conviction. He disapproved of the manner in which the visiting minister relayed his message; however, he unabashedly proclaimed Riverside’s Christian identity as a church of Jesus Christ, the Son of God. Unfortunately, to Riverside, a congregation of deep-seeded conflicts and lingering scuffles, no solution would satisfy, and Riverside was thereby forced into some real soul-searching about our religious identity. Prayerfully, through open discussions and private conversations, we at Riverside are working through some healthy but very uncomfortable growing pains, learning what it means to be a unified and diverse community while God determines our future.

The dilemma of identity is not one solely of The Riverside Church in New York City. All across America religious or spiritual identities of persons are becoming vague and greatly individualized. In a recent report from the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, today Americans are mixing and matching their religions like never before. During a forum on “The Varieties of Nonbelief” at the Graduate Center of City University of New York, one of the panelists, Susan Jacoby, noted that the largest growth in such surveys is in the category of “Unaffiliated” where moderate and progressive Christians seem to be identifying themselves. It seems that Americans, like Riversiders, are affirming their religious differences AND are looking for a place where they can maintain these differences within a unified community. As I prepare for Christian ministry and begin my theological education, this movement fills me with so many questions for which I am hopeful I will find answers and solutions. Do there exist Christian “non-negotiables” in order to be a member of the Christian community, and if so, what are these? In what ways does the Christian community include all religions according to the inclusive love of God through Jesus Christ? How do we as Christians validate every faith journey? And if Jesus Christ’s love is not the central message of our Christian faith, then what is?

For me, personally, my spiritual voyage is a Christian one with Jesus Christ at the helm of my ark. I understand and experience God’s unconditional love and saving Grace through Him, and when I help or offer hope to someone through ministry, it comes from my Christian foundation. Nevertheless, I have found wisdom and guidance through other faith traditions which have enhanced my Christian faith and caused bountiful spiritual growth. Therefore, I do not sit in judgment of voyages different from mine or the ways in which God leads others Home. I do fully accept and affirm that there are other seas and currents by which to travel. I hope that theological education can help me better translate this. In the meantime, I can only suggest that perhaps the answer to the inclusive Christian identity dilemma lies in a very subtle difference between being inclusive and being non-exclusive: Anyone and everyone is welcome to board my ark and join me on my voyage Home to God; however, the only nourishment I can offer is what I have aboard my ark, and that is Christ. Something other might also be nourishing, but in order to receive it, you will have to travel a few oceans over.

~ Excerpt, Divinity School Application Statement, 2010

Next Chapter: New Beginning

2010-04-12T11:46:00.001-04:00

Happy Spring! I am hopeful that yours is off to a splendid start full of new beginnings.

I am writing to provide you all with an update on what is going on with me. Many of you have been aware of my passion for and interest in theology and ministry, and some of you have also known that I have been planning to attend seminary/divinity school for some time now.

Well, after applying to and being accepted by some very good seminaries and divinity schools, I have decided to attend Vanderbilt Divinity School in Nashville, Tennessee beginning this Fall 2010. I will be working towards a Masters of Divinity degree in hopes of either entering into some type of ministry or non-profit (specifically those that embrace the ostracized and alienated) or continuing on to pursue a doctorate in my personal theological interests. The Masters degree with take three years to complete.

Of course, this is a HUGE life change for me (I have lived in New York since graduating college over 14 years ago), and I'll admit that I am quite nervous; however, I am also extremely excited about this next chapter in my life, a new beginning. God is ever faithful, and I utterly and completely trust God's love and care. Christ has never failed me and has seen me through some violent storms. One huge blessing is that by studying at Vanderbilt in Nashville, I will be much, much closer to Dad and my family, which I believe is heaven-sent in so many ways.

In as far as logistics, I will be moving from NYC to Blytheville, Arkansas at the beginning of July (Tara, my sister, is coming to help me and join me on the road-trip) and will stay with Dad for a few weeks while I try to find an apartment in Nashville. If all goes according to plan, I will move to Nashville at the end of July and begin classes mid-August. I already have an awesome support system in Nashville and the surrounding area, so I am hopeful that the transition will be somewhat painless.

Thank you for your love, support, thoughts and prayers. Please do keep me in your prayers as I embark upon this journey. It's a new dawn and a new day, and I am very hopeful.

Spring in New York City 2010

2010-04-12T11:41:00.002-04:00

I will miss my church home, The Riverside Church.

But I will not miss crowded buses.

Wedding Queer Visions and Same-Sex Marriage

2010-04-12T10:37:00.007-04:00

Mistakenly, it might be assumed that the entire Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender (LGBT) community is advocating for same-sex marriage in the United States. Mainstream LGBT advocacy groups like the Human Rights Campaign and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force have built the illusion of consensus by publicly making this one of the top priorities of their advocacy work and by allocating vast resources to the same-sex marriage movement nationally and in individual states.^1,2,3 Unquestionably, when the federal government provides 1,138 benefits, rights, and protections because of marital status, a status which excludes homosexual couples, there is irrefutable inequality.⁴ Though most queers do agree that this is unjust, there is a contingent refraining from joining the marriage equality effort because of its assimilationist nature and its resemblance to the marginalization of the "other" queers that took place when white, gay men commandeered the Queer movement following the Stonewall Riots.⁵ With conflicts and divisions within the LGBT community itself, the marriage equality debate is more complex than it appears. This is especially challenging for Queer ministers and faith leaders who are asked to support same-sex marriage when believing the spiritual gift the Queer community offers society is in valuing and dignifying those outside heterosexist normality.

Marriage equality literature describes the desire for same-sex marriage by gay and lesbian people as more meaningful than just wanting rights. Although marriage equality advocates stress that they are fighting for the benefits, rights, and protections from which they are excluded, the main reason for wanting marriage derives from a desire for full acceptance into society.⁶ It is only human to want and need belonging, and in our culture, marriage is a rite of passage and a sign of achievement and social inclusion in the larger community.⁷ Same-sex couples want their friends and families to validate their love for one another, witness and affirm their commitment, and honor their family unit. They long for their faith leaders to bless them and deem their relationships worthy. They need respect, dignity, and acknowledgment, which is not unusual for anyone of a marginalized group. However, in a situation of inequality, societal value can be achieved only when granted by those in power, and unfortunately, gay and lesbian marriage advocates have found that the most successful way for this to be accomplished in a heterosexist world is by arguing that they are "normal" or identical to heterosexual couples.⁸ Posters found at marriage equality rallies will tout love is love, family is family, and commitment is commitment – no matter the sexes of the two persons involved.

Contrarily, Queer activists find the marriage equality movement assimilation to the heteronormative culture for the sake of acceptance. This sacrifice is in direct conflict with the very principles on which the Queer movement was founded. "Queer" itself has been reclaimed and defined by queer people to represent those who perceive themselves outside the constraints of prevailing social norms.⁹ The movement was founded on principles calling attention to marriage as idealized "mythology," recognizing the "diversity of sexual and intimate relations," all "worthy of respect and protection."¹⁰ It specifically resisted any attempt to "make the norms of straight culture into the standards by which queer life should be measured."¹¹ Instead of fighting to fit within heterosexist borders, Queer activists challenge LGBT advocacy groups to push the boundaries of acceptance as far as possible by demanding recognition for those in the queer extremities instead of hoping for "trickle-down acceptance"¹² which would be ineffectual.¹³ When thinking of the homeless gay teenager, the gender-confused child, the transsexual prostitute, the single butch lesbian, or the polyamorous bisexual man, this reasoning for their dissent from the marriage equality movement is valid, justified, and necessary.

The two bodies of thought (of same-sex marriage advocates and Queer activists) are certain to leave Queer ministers and faith leaders in precarious positions. Certainly there exists an inequality between committed heterosexual couples who can marry and committed homosexual couples who cannot; however, by advocating normalcy, the marriage equality movement negates the spiritual gift the Queer community offers in valuing and dignifying the excluded. Truly, spiritual leaders are called by God to oppose discrimination, but when gay and lesbian people are granted legal marriage, the very action will marginalize many queers who do not fit into this restrictive dynamic, forcing those queers outside this amended definition of "normal" to lower rungs on the ladder of respectability.¹⁴ Does the Queer minister fight the injustice of instated inequality or advocate for those who would be marginalized? Does a choice have to be made?

One way in which the Queer Christian can analyze the issue is through a lens viewing religious and sociological exclusion. Through reflection on the religious ethics which arise in scripture regarding this, perhaps a resolution can be found. This lens is especially important as exclusion acts throughout the marriage equality debate. Since same-sex marriage advocates want to be included in the institution of marriage, the exclusion operates in their assimilation, while Queer activists, not seeking inclusion through normalcy, fight against the exclusion from society because of being viewed as destructive or disposable, depraved persons.¹⁵

Both Old and New Testament scripture have shown exclusion to be a means of persecuting and oppressing others and define it as an evil way to treat any human being.¹⁶ Jesus Christ scandalously included anyone at His table of fellowship, committed to helping the outcast and the sinner.¹⁷ In an essay in Faith Beyond Resentment, gay theologian, James Alison, studies exclusion in the story of the man born blind whom Jesus heals and the Pharisees debate, found in John 9. To summarize, a man born blind was excluded by society because it was believed that he was made this way because of sin, and association with him would contaminate others' righteousness. When Jesus healed the blind man and he regained his sight, he was brought to the Pharisees who had excluded him who then asked him to agree with them that Jesus was not of God in order to exclude Jesus. Ironically, the formerly blind man would not agree with their condemnation of Jesus and positioned himself equal to and included with the Pharisees in asserting his point of view. Initially, the substance of the story seems to be that Jesus obligated the inclusion of the excluded. This might provide a sense of vindication since all have been excluded in life at one time or another; however, Alison finds there to be a more powerful lesson. He argues that what Jesus ultimately showed is that the real sin was not in the defect causing the blindness which was the reason for exclusion, but rather the sin was in the participation in the mechanism which forced the defected one to be excluded.¹⁸ When "goodness" or "normality" is established and maintained by a unified body at the expense of an "other," the transgression is in the exclusion and reasoning for excluding, which does not recognize God's working in the other. "Sin is resistance, in the name of God, to the creative work of God which seeks to include us all."¹⁹

Therefore, if related to the issue of same-sex marriage and queer marginalization by such, and if accepted as an appropriate comparison, the aforementioned understanding of the sin of exclusion encourages Queer Christian ministers and faith leaders to shift the same-sex marriage conversation entirely. They should not stand for or against marriage equality but instead advocate for change in the antiquated institution of marriage in society, an institution that excludes in which all intentionally or unintentionally participate. Marriage, whether between heterosexual or homosexual couples, benefits certain people over others, institutionalizes inequality, and excludes people psychologically, culturally, and materially. Prophetically, Queer Christian liberators would work to dismantle structures like marriage which create powerlessness thereby giving voice to all people.²⁰ In this way, queers do not advocate just for themselves but for anyone excluded and oppressed by marriage, including singles, divorcees, widows and widowers, and loners of any gender and sexual orientation. All families in whatever form they may take (couples, friendships, shared dwellers) and also those lacking families who might prefer isolation would be valued. For in a world of perfect justice, which is a world of love, all differences are loved and respected in their own appropriate way.²¹

Referencing scripture related to exclusion, Queer Christian faith leaders can speak on behalf of all those marginalized by human systems of favoritism and prejudice. In the marriage equality debate, they can work to revolutionize the institution of inequality rather than bless conformity to a corrupt, antediluvian ideal. This emulates the radical, progressive Christ we revere whose subversive actions made women apostles and gave blind beggars equality, impossibilities in His culture. Conclusively, the Queer community has a uniquely significant opportunity to share its gift of radical inclusiveness when it chooses to value and dignify even the "least of these"²² and accepts God's call to liberate all from systematic oppression.

Notes

1. Human Rights Campaign Issues, "Marriage & Relationship Recognition," Human Rights Campaign, http://www.hrc.org/issues/marriage.asp (accessed November 20, 2009).
2. National Gay and Lesbian Task Force Issues, "Marriage/Partner Recognition," National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, http://www.thetaskforce.org/issues/marriage_and_partnership_recognition (accessed November 20, 2009).
3. Jeremy W. Peters, "New York State Senate Votes Down Gay Marriage Bill," The New York Times, December 3, 2009, A1.
4. Human Rights Campaign Articles, "Overview of Federal Rights and Protections Granted to Married Couples," Human Rights Campaign, http://www.hrc.org/issues/5585.htm (accessed November 20, 2009).
5. Mary Nardini Gang, "Toward the Queerest Insurrection," Zine, http://zinelibrary.info/files/Queerest%20Final_0.pdf (accessed November 20, 2009).
6. Human Rights Campaign Issues, "Questions about Same-Sex Marriage," Human Rights Campaign, http://www.hrc.org/issues/5517.htm (accessed November 20, 2009).
7. Jodi O'Brien, "Seeking Normal? Considering Same Sex Marriage," Center for Writing and the Interdisciplinary Graduate Minor in Literacy and Rhetorical Studies, Speaker Series No. 24, University of Minnesota (2004), reprinted with permission from the Seattle Journal of Social Justice, Spring 2004, pg. 7. http://writing.umn.edu/docs/speakerseries_pub/obrien.pdf
8. O'Brien, "Seeking Normal," pg. 2.
9. Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays Support, "A Definition of Queer," PFLAG, http://community.pflag.org/Page.aspx?pid=952 (accessed November 26, 2009).
10. Michael Warner, The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999), pg. 88-89.
11. Warner, Trouble with Normal, pg. 88.
12. Warner, Trouble with Normal, pg. 66.
13. O'Brien, "Seeking Normal," pg. 3.
14. Warner, Trouble with Normal, pg. 60.
15. Mirosalv Volf, Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation (Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996), pg. 67.
16. Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, pg. 68.
17. Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, pg. 72.
18. James Alison, "The Man Blind from Birth and the Creator's Subversion of Sin," Faith Beyond Resentment: Fragments Catholic and Gay (London: Darton, Longman, and Todd Ltd., 2001), pg. 15-20.
19. Alison, Faith Beyond Resentment, pg. 17.
20. Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, pg. 82.
21. Volf, Exclusion and Embrace, pg. 223.
22. Matthew 25.40 (New Revised Standard Version).

Bibliography

Alison, James. Faith Beyond Resentment: Fragments Catholic and Gay. London: Darton, Longman, and Todd Ltd., 2001.

Human Rights Campaign, Articles. "Overview of Federal Rights and Protections Granted to Married Couples." Human Rights Campaign. http://www.hrc.org/issues/5585. Accessed November 20, 2009.

Human Rights Campaign, Issues. "Marriage & Relationship Recognition." Human Rights Campaign. http://www.hrc.org/issues/marriage.asp. Accessed November 20, 2009.

Human Rights Campaign, Issues. "Questions about Same-Sex Marriage." Human Rights Campaign. http://www.hrc.org/issues/5517. Accessed November 20, 2009.

Mary Nardini Gang. "Toward the Queerest Insurrection." Zine. http://zinelibrary.info/files/Queerest%20Final_0.pdf. Accessed November 20, 2009.

National Gay and Lesbian Task Force, Issues. "Marriage/Partner Recognition." National Gay and Lesbian Task Force. http://www.thetaskforce.org/issues/marriage_and_partnership_recognition. Accessed November 20, 2009.

O'Brien, Jodi. "Seeking Normal? Considering Same Sex Marriage." Center for Writing and the Interdisciplinary Graduate Minor in Literacy and Rhetorical Studies, Speakers Series No. 24. University of Minnesota, 2004. Reprinted with permission from the Seattle Journal of Social Justice, Spring 2004. http://writing.umn.edu/docs/speakerseries_pubs/obrien.pdf.

Peters, Jeremy W. "New York State Senate Votes Down Gay Marriage Bill." The New York Times, December 3, 2009, A1.

Parents, Families and Friends of Lesbians and Gays, Support. "A Definition of Queer." PFLAG. http://community.pflag.org/Page.aspx?pid=952. Accessed November 26, 2009.

Volf, Mirosalv. Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation. Nashville: Abingdon Press, 1996.

Warner, Michael. The Trouble with Normal: Sex, Politics, and the Ethics of Queer Life. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1999.

The Promise of Hope

2010-04-09T11:06:00.006-04:00

From under the veil of shadows, I stepped into a moon-white spotlight shining onto the stage as piano keys began to drop notes lightly like little splashes against the make-shift Noah’s Ark. At only five years old, looking out towards that sea of faces assembled in the dimly lit chapel of the rural Clearlake Baptist Church during our children’s musical seemed like gazing out at the vast, dark ocean itself, and nervously I began sweating through my turban, a towel Mom had lovingly tied around my head. At this point in the program, songs had already been sung about building the ark, animals climbing inside two by two, the pouring rain and the rising flood. Noah, who was probably thirteen, had even sung a prayer. Yet after many songs and “one hundred and fifty days,” we were still aboard this ark lost atop infinitely stretching water. Tired, the children were beginning to fidget while the restless audience began to whisper and cough. What was needed now on this long voyage was a song of hope, and I had been chosen to sing it. I began my solo meekly, the microphone carrying my little voice out and up towards the rafters: “We’re floating beneath the stars, not knowing where we are, but this one thing we know, the Lord will lead us home.” What captivates me about this memory is that I truly believed the words of hope I was singing, and they became the foundation of my faith. On this voyage of life, I have experienced calm, peacefully still waters and harsh, angrily crashing waves, giggling ripples and despairing tempests. I have been lost in torrential rain, seduced by beautiful sirens, and guided by heavenly stars. But no matter where the tides pull and push me, my faith that God is bringing me home again is my most luminous pearl of hope. It is of this hope I must sing aloud again. This is my calling and mission, the genesis of my vocation, the motive for furthering my education, and the purpose and promise of my talents and abilities.

The underlying current of my life has always been pulling me towards ministry and theological study. Born in Memphis on the banks of the great Mississippi and raised in the small, Arkansan farming community of Promised Land by very devout Southern Baptist parents, I was inundated with religious imagery from the beginning, which probably explains why I played “church” instead of t-ball and trained like a warrior for “Bible Drills.” Even my sixth grade teacher believed I would someday become a preacher. However, any inclination I had for such pursuits dissolved during my undergraduate studies at the ultra-conservative Church of Christ College, Harding University, where even my narrow-minded, Southern Baptist sensibilities were shocked. Debates with Bible professors over the necessity of baptism for salvation, the inferiority of women in church, the exclusiveness of the body of Christ, and other literalist beliefs liberated me from fundamentalist teachings and my Southern Baptist anchor. I decided then that I would take my God and go rogue, so I left the South for New York City determined to rebel, explore, find myself, be experiential, express my repressed homosexuality, and row as far away from organized religion as I could.

The ebb and flow of God in my life never diminished, however, so when I witnessed smoke billow and sensed spirits take flight on September 11, 2001, I was reignited by the promise God has for my life in ministry. In stark contrast to my vengeful, American nation, my heart burst into flames of unconditional love for all humanity, and impassioned to emulate Jesus Christ’s compassion and empathy, I launched myself into gay and lesbian Christian groups, peace activism, political letter writing, and the arts. Knowing I longed for church community but remained fearful of organized religion especially as an out gay man, God ironically led me to The Riverside Church by my homophobic parents who, visiting just after 9/11, insisted that we attend service at “the famous church Rockefeller built.” Emotional, holding one another’s hands, we had no idea that during that very service, Rev. Dr. James A. Forbes, Jr. would condemn homophobia, extend Christ’s unconditional love, and open Riverside’s arms to me, their gay son. A few months later, I became a member of Riverside where I learned to love myself and reconcile my sexuality and Christian faith, and I dove head first into the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) ministry of Maranatha, where I learned, matured, and eventually led, becoming the Convener of the ministry. Impressed by my passion and talents, the Riverside congregation elected me to serve as a Lay Leader in the Mission and Social Justice Commission, and I was appointed to Riverside’s Communication Committee.

Suddenly, from a few isolated thunderstorms, a devastating hurricane hit my life and completely stopped my world. Two days after Mother’s Day, my mother committed suicide. Just ten months prior to this, my best friend, Leonardo, had taken his own life. Both ravaged by deep depressions and irrational fears, the two people for whom I cared most left life and left me. My heart broke. Withdrawing from life, I wept, mourned, and for some time remained unmoved in a slack tide. A year or so later, when I was still sinking into sorrow and grief, drowning now in my own dark depression, and only able to hope for hope, God faithfully, intimately drew me close, wiped my tears, embraced my utter brokenness, and tenderly, sweetly said, “Chad, if you want, you may choose to die. Or, you may choose to live. Just remember, I long for you to live.” With the love, care and support of my church, family and friends, hope took root and flourished. Finally light broke through my heavy curtains, and I rejoined the living.

A few years later, a moment of clarity regarding my future arose as I sat in worship service at Riverside listening to a visiting preacher deliver a message. Within the progressive Christian cathedral, I was outraged to hear a sermon “from God” laced with fear and judgment, singed with the fires of hell, and empty of mercy and grace. As my mother and Leonardo are never far from my thoughts, I imagined them sitting beside me in the pew. Mom lived sixty years in constant fear of not meeting God’s expectations, while Leonardo, although agonistic but spiritual, was terribly afraid of not being good enough, and it was Mom’s fundamentalist convictions and Leonardo’s Catholic upbringing that had helped perpetuate their mania. Remembering the spiritual abuse I, myself, suffered at the mouths of ordained fear-mongers, I knew that if Mom and Leonardo were living, their hearing this fear-based theology of “tough love” would not only offer them no comfort or healing but would intensify their anxieties leading to deeper depressions. At that moment, I declared that if fear still has such a prominent voice in religion, then I must raise my voice of God’s love and hope, and I must give this mission my entire life.

While I will never have the answers to dispel all fears, nor am I personally able to save anyone as I have learned and experienced, I do believe that through Christ I can effect beneficial change in lives spiritually. For this reason, I feel called to the vocation of being a knowledgeable advocate of God’s love, sharing hope through my talents, skills, and abilities of oratory, written, and new media communication, especially with seniors and LGBT/gender variant youth. Unfortunately, in a world continuing its fascination with youthfulness, my mother is now a statistic in the growing number of late-life fatalities due to the plague of depression and fear. Struggling to keep hope, my father will soon turn sixty-seven and confides in me that like many seniors he is afraid to retire because he isn’t sure what he will do or if he will have the funds to afford it. Meanwhile, LGBT/gender variant youth are more likely to attempt or seriously consider suicide than heterosexual teens, for while society might seem more tolerant or accepting, these youth still live in fear of not being supported by their families or communities and of violence against them because of their identity. One young person I know was brutally beaten because of his sexuality, while countless other attacks are reported throughout the U.S. Furthermore, with the marriage equality movement making the claim that the LGBT community is “normal” instead of celebrating our differences, some members of my Queer community now live in fear of being marginalized by their very own. Vocationally, I must share with both seniors and the Queer community God’s hope to push through the fears I have witnessed suffocate life and shoot down even the glimpse of new dawns on an invisible horizon.

Boldly, my childhood solo continued, “At last we see trees of green, and the mountaintop can be seen. A little dove tells us of land by placing an olive leaf in my hand.” As the children joined me on stage, we looked off into the distance pointing with excitement and expectancy. Our hope was realized; God had brought us home again. Then God sent a huge promise in a brightly colored, cardboard rainbow that ascended into the air as bright lights rose. The audience broke into ovations for the gleefully proud children, and my mom and dad grabbed me up in secure hugs. The imagery of the Noah’s Ark story resonates throughout my spiritual voyage. The dove represents the ever-present Holy Spirit and the peace God has given me about the deaths of my mom and Leonardo. God’s promise of life in the rainbow now symbolizes the gift of unity in diversity that the LGBT community offers humanity. For me, the story of Noah’s Ark means something even more significant: No matter what waters our arks travel on this voyage of life, God always has hope for us, desires for us to live, and promises to see us Home. This hope is faith just too meaningful not to share. I hope that you will help me share it.

~ Divinity School Application Personal Statement 2010

Beautiful Easter Saturday

2010-04-03T17:20:00.001-04:00

It's very hard to believe that I only have three more months in New York City before I move to Nashville for divinity school. I keep looking around thinking that this is the last Spring I'll spend here (unless I find myself returning, of course). Oddly enough, after 14 years here, I quite honestly okay with that, even though there's a hint of melancholy.

-- Post From My iPhone

Oh for WARM quiet nights of quiet stars!

2010-02-17T21:45:00.001-05:00

met my breath

2009-11-07T21:38:00.000-05:00

between the sobs, i met my breath

held captive within my chest

and forced inside the empty hole

left when grief came in and stole

all the meaning kept full inside

and exhaled when the moment died

Two Pieces

2009-11-07T21:34:00.003-05:00

Walking up streets

of the dirty, littered

city, I cast my eye

to a black plastic bag

stuck to the thorns

of a bush of yellow

roses, like that piece

of spinach glued

to his nicotine

stained perfect teeth;

He's always chewing

two sticks of pink

bubblemint gum,

tossing words around

from side to side,

over and under,

smacking me upside

the head with some

simile or other.

It's a crying shame

that I care or even

give it lip-service,

forgotten as I am

thrown aside roughage

left for scavengers

to find almost spoiled.

Pulled perfumed petals

used to be sweet pink

lemonade until I stopped

understanding or he stopped

wanting to explain

it to me, just flakey

and tasteless.

I never bothered

to ask why he's always

popping two pieces.

the "straight" voice

2009-09-26T01:09:00.001-04:00

It always surprises me the moment I hear it come out of my mouth to hover there like some macho, bowlegged alien with glittery, green scales descending in the air between me and that person whose mere presence has unsuspectingly beckoned it forth from some deep space inside my mind, a outer homophobic dimension within a sanctimonious universe I really thought I had destroyed or left way far behind.

Like the other day when a big, burly repair man in official facilities' coveralls came to our offices to look at a problem with the ventilation unit, and just when I rose from my seat to greet him, inadvertently out popped the sound not quite a bass down from a treble clef but still much lower in octave than my regular voice. In a slower tempo almost "pesante" in a full, deep tone came through my lips the foreign "Hello."

Then when the conversation begins between us, words begin to flow, and sentences start to pick up some speed, my speech fills with words and phrases I never use and becomes saturated in a uniquely odd accent adding the missing flavor needed to succeed in speaking in this heterosexual safety mode. So now the low, deep "Dude, come on into this other office where there's the problem. The vent's right over there, man," is not only peppered with unwarranted masculine addresses but also spiked with a blend of surfer dude, dude rancher and country bumpkin who have gotten together to chew on some fat and plan something manly like replacing the transmission, rotating the tires and changing the oil of either a huge Ford Bronco or muscled up Camero. You can only imagine how utterly embarrassed and humiliated I am if people are around who I personally know hear and recognize this artificial substitute.

Unfortunately, once this strange extraterrestrial voice has made an appearance and been sighted by my dialogue partner, I have no choice but to surrender to its forced abduction, for no matter how focused I concentrate my linguistical power to consciously change this foreign behavior, I find myself simply unable to neutralize the habitual phenomena. In other words, once it's turned on, it's on auto-pilot with no manual overdrive until the final good ole boy, "Bye."

I've heard time after time again, that the first step towards recovery and change is recognizing that this pseudo-macho speak happens and that I have a problem with it. (Check, ten-four, good buddy.) Then with my real voice, boldly yet brightly, seriously yet sprightly, declare my disapproval of this strange established ritual of going on a seeming pro-hetero-conformity mission because I am insecure in my being, falsely thinking the person with whom I am in contact emanates a need for me to exaggerate my male gender role and abolish any effeminate traces or sissy slang in order to maintain peace with the patriarchal majority. Finally, take the last step and commit to increasing self-confidence, work through personal vulnerabilities, and then ending that kind of talk once and for all.

So Mister "straight voice", today I'm sweetly yet firmly giving you notice. Although I am certain I learned you as a child and attempted to perfect you in order to survive in the world, and even though it's really been a lot of performance, impressionistic fun, now is the time to for you to go phone home because your body-snatching days of my true voice are over and done.

All the cool boys

2009-09-24T22:55:00.005-04:00

Tonight, the cool three convene

in a dark corner of the scene,

all exclusive, handsome, and husky,

their smarmy velvet voices shaded

with hints of bitter freeze,

cold just so, that all the meek

stay away from their pride,

far off the party line,

over here under the Exit sign,

standing right beside me,

an adult suddenly transformed

into a gawky, awkward teen

wearing ginormous, shiny metal braces

covering anxiously crowding inadequacies.

With wordless, waning wallweeds,

I stand watching inconspicuously

this ever so captivating trilogy

wearing tight, toned skin

and through sexy, slanted grins

whisper somethings among the guys

below sly, snickering eyes

before pointing their unified

mirrorball glare condescendingly

over at – oh please, I pray not at me,

who even if in a bright green, silk-screened T

and side-cocked, black, tall trucker cap

could never hope to look as cool as that,

so the self-esteem of my internal teen empties

only to refill to the brim with envy.

Yes, I realize that I should come to my senses

knowing we're all self-conscious adult adolescents

when utterly stripped of all our pretenses

under last-call's harsh bright fluorescents,

but sometimes like tonight I just can't help it

that the insecure me feels like a big misfit

and becomes a dejected killjoy

annoyed by all the cool boys.

Couples Counseling

2009-09-16T16:45:00.000-04:00

June 2, 2009

A week or so ago during the day while at work, I got up from my desk suddenly, walked into the 11th floor men's bathroom, went into a stall, shut and latched the door, pulled tissue from the roll, and then quietly began crying. There were only two prayers that came to mind that I offered up as I wept in that tiny, green-tiled closet: Please don't let anyone come in the bathroom right now, and what in the world is wrong with me, God?

When I returned to my desk and the waiting, glowing blue computer screen, I saw on Facebook that someone had just updated her status to something like, JANE "is so happy and joyful that God is SOOOO GOOD ALL the time!!! Thanks and Praise!" I read, I frowned, I wanted to throw up. I found myself completely nauseated by her brightness and bitter with skepticism. With a mumbled, irritated "whatever", I shut down the web browser annoyed and simultaneously depressed by how awful it must be of me to even have such thoughts about happy people and God. (Lord knows I, myself, am guilty of very similar status updates from time to time!) My eyes filled again, and I sat staring blankly at the flower filled plain on my computer's desktop become a churning kaleidoscope of colors through my tears. I felt so alone, displaced, sad, and doubtful, and I was frustrated with myself for feeling so alone, displaced, sad and doubtful. What in the world is wrong with me, God?

My therapist, who is truly one of God's blessings in my life, said that it was completely understandable that I might feel this way. For although these are bright and sunshiny days (for the most part), I am finding this period between Mother's Day and June 7th to be emotionally dark and stormy days for me. These days represent the time between the anniversary of my mother's suicide two years ago and the anniversary of my best friend's suicide three years ago. It is as intense as struggling with a stuck storm shelter door while the wind whips and the locomotive sound of a tornado thunders ever closer. It is at this place that all those promises God has made are suddenly difficult to believe; God's Love seems out of reach; sadness, mourning and grief cloud my eyes with doubt, and I blindly begin to question everything.

After explaining what was happening to my therapist, Barry, one recent session, he asked, "Chad, who are you angry with? Your mother? Your best friend? What would you like to say to them?" In silence, I thought about this, churned it, knowing how difficult it is for me to deal with anger as that emotion was taught to me as a destructive one (rather than one that could potentially be used constructively) I wondered if I could even manage to manifest it and towards whom. After a few moments, I said, "You know, I really think I'm angry at God." Barry pulled an empty chair out from the wall and pushed it in front of me. "Then why don't you tell God about it?"

I'm always a little hesitant when Barry wants to start one of these chair exercises, but I conceded and attempted to look through the empty chair towards God. "Do you see God?" Barry asked. Not really knowing what God looks like, I said, "No, but I can sense that God is there." "Good, then why don't you just tell God how you are feeling," he said, leaning back in his seat, giving God and me room to be with one another.

The words came hesitantly, "I'm angry with You because..." I stopped, paused. Was I really going to tell God this? Who did I think I was to say such a thing - to God? Something inside me said that it didn't matter. What did matter was that it is true what I felt, and God should hear it. "God, I'm angry that you let Mom die. I'm angry that I prayed to you over and over again to help her, and You didn't. I'm angry that I am trying so hard to keep on keeping on, and You don't seem to even be around or care. I'm angry because not only did Mom and my best friend abandon me, but You seem to abandon me too!" After a shallow breath, feeling like I had gone too far (I mean, this was God after all) I thought I should take it all back, but Barry asked me to just simply sit and be with the words I had spoken. So I let them linger there, let the truth of my feelings resonate, and without any judgment, allowed my mind to calm.

Something happened then that caught me completely off guard and surprised me. Instead of "hearing" what I thought would be God's explanation or perhaps God's defense or maybe even God' frustration at my feeling abandoned when that couldn't be further from the truth, all things I would likely say for God, I felt something else so real and simple and concise directed towards me: Just Love. I wish I could put into words the weight of the moment as that little therapy room filled with God's Love, the moment God listened, heard me, and Loved me.

"What is happening?" Barry asked, "What is this I'm sensing?" and I told him that it was Love, pure and genuine Love and that's all, shocked to find my therapist experiencing something extraordinary within those four walls alongside me.

As the appointment was ending, he asked what I thought about the session that day, and I looked over at the empty chair and said, "You know, I think God and I need to do this more often. Couple's counseling seems really good for us."

did Jesus shower on the third day

2009-09-13T20:24:00.002-04:00

did Jesus shower
on the third day,
or did He smell
the dirty, musty,
sweet stale
of dead, damply
crushed, fallen
leafy sheets
like I do now
finally rising
from that bedroom
tomb draped
in two dusks
and sunless
clouds?

downtowntrain

2009-09-03T11:53:00.003-04:00

local sliding doors
lips clinched tightly
beside asphalt linoleum
images are watched
in the white specks
floating in black tar
under lights vega blue
absent green leaves
as broken dead skin
falls into powdery
dust eaten by bunnies
scurrying underfoot
beautiful broad boys
oblivious blackjacks
dozing on orange plastic
seats anchored fastly
nearing the destination
between scratched tags
downtown

vinyl maxim

2009-08-26T21:00:00.001-04:00

cracks in the white

words on my red

t-shirt leave tracks

color trickles through

breaking letter islands

into smaller white scabs

aching to be peeled

away so the red

cotton rivers can flow

where machine washed

lingo grows old

and then goes

Lunch – Hold the Bloody Tongue Sandwich

2009-08-26T15:13:00.000-04:00

Today at lunch, I rested on cool stone steps beneath the blazing sun, mostly because of the rather gusty crosswinds and dry air. I fell asleep twice, I think, and didn’t manage to bite my tongue in the process, which I usually end up doing inadvertently waking me from my naps with a painful startle. I relish lunch breaks when the weather is just so, and I can go out and do a little daydreaming, a little mediating, a little getting away from it all.

Birds of a Feather

2009-06-03T16:00:00.003-04:00

From "The Vine"

Many autumns ago when I was visiting my family in the little, rural Arkansan town in which I was raised, my sister and I decided to take a drive over to the "Central Park" of Blytheville, Walker Park, and sit beside the duck pond, talk, and relax. There were many times during our childhood that Mom would load us into our long, faux-wood sided station wagon, drive to that very spot and let us feed the ducks and geese some leftover, stale bread which Mom called "duckbread". (It actually wasn't until junior high school that a friend finally pointed out to my embarrassment that "duckbread" was not a real word for leftover, stale bread.)

Anyway, on this beautiful, warm, bright, autumn day, Tara and I arrived at the park and walked down to a bench sitting in the shade of a bright red leafed oak, looking out over the rippling, calm, green pond. As we sat and talked, listening to the gentle waves, we began to watch the different flocks of ducks and gaggles of geese that had made our little park their seasonal home. As children, neither of us had taken much notice of the many different families and types of aquatic birds there, and so that day, we began pointing them out to one another, trying to identify them.

There were mallards swimming together to our left, the males with their distinctive heads of a metallic green sheen beside the mottled brown females leading the way with little ducklings paddling close behind. On the one small mound of an island out in the middle of the water, small wood ducks sunned together on the short beach just outside the shade of the few island's trees, their blue colored wing patches vibrantly catching the light. Arriving from the sky to our right, a skein of large Canada geese in white chinstraps around their long, black necks touched down into the water with soft splashes and short calls to one another. And, among other similar flocks still, there was a group of white Embden geese fearlessly and noisily approaching some delighted, screaming children who held out pieces of "duckbread" before their wide-open bills, closely supervised by some adults, all on the opposite side of the pond.

"Birds of a feather," Tara began, and I finished, "flock together." Yes, there in nature, God's living creations seemed to fit together so perfectly, each group picturesque with its own species, family and type. And interestingly, the animalistic nature of humanity seems to be in accord as persons usually seem to gravitate towards groups of people with similarities: similar looks, ideas, finances, etc. But at that time back in my hometown, thinking about such groupings in relation to myself, I honestly didn't really know where in life I fit or even what feathers covered me. For so many years up to that point, I had felt alone and different, outside and ostracized. "You know, I guess I don't really fit in anywhere, Tara," I said, sadly, "There's really no flock to which I belong."

As if on cue, from behind a rock set back in a little cove of the pond, an American Black duck, about the size of a mallard, swam out onto the water. "Awww, there you are," Tara pointed, giggling. I smiled and watched as the duck floated alone out into the sunlight. Suddenly, right after him, another bird appeared from behind the rock, a large white goose wearing an odd voluminous, round afro of feathers atop her head, and there swimming alongside was a wood duck with bluish, crooked wings pointing straight to the sky rather than flat against his back. And then a little platinum, albino duck of an indistinguishable type joined them, closely followed a Canadian goose with a stunted, short black neck and a mallard with a discolored teal head and mandarin orange bill. Likely rejected by their own kind because of their oddities, these misfit water birds swam as their own flock into the sunlight, across the pond right in front of us, together.

Surprised, inspired and enlightened, I accepted the divine epiphany and turned to my sister with wide eyes full of new hope, "I was wrong; I DO belong to a flock somewhere. If these misfit birds have found one another and formed a family, I'm certain God must have a little flock out there for me." And sure enough, God has proven it to be true with all of the many different yous paddling across life's waters with me together, within God's Son's Light.

Are you feeling like a little lost duck? God has the perfect, unique flock for you too!

Spiritual Abuse

2009-01-28T12:00:00.000-05:00

As a child, I was spiritually abused. That is not a statement that I make lightly without a real, deep sense of hurt and pain. It is a truth that I have only recently in adulthood been able to admit happened and understand that it was wrong and should not have happened to me or any child. When I recall my experience, I wonder how many of us, especially those of us who are LGBTQ, share this spiritual abuse in common? If so, how did it shape our lives, our spirituality, and our relationship with God? I believe there are many of us who have survived to tell about the religious beatings and molestations of our fragile and innocent souls brand new unto the world. Therefore, it is no wonder that, whether preached from the pulpit or shouted from a street corner, when faced with the same kind of verbiage and jargon of that damaging religious dogma, which almost completely shattered our spirits, we react negatively, angrily, and crouch back into an infant position, hugging and rocking ourselves in order to try and find some comfort.

My spiritual abuse began when I was just a baby. Crying as a toddler in the middle of a Sunday morning's holy worship service was absolutely intolerable. On every occasion, I was punished for being "bad", dragged out the back of the church and given a good spanking until I was quiet. Being "bad" as defined by my Christian, Protestant, Southern Baptist church meant that I sinned (a lot) and therefore was a miserable sinner in dire need of something called repentance, usually induced by overwhelming guilt. I cried, I sinned. I spoke when adults were talking, I sinned. I spilt my milk, giggled during a prayer, wet the bed, I sinned, sinned, sinned. I wanted that toy that my friend had, well, God help me. And as a child far too young to understand fully what these things mean, I was indoctrinated with a basic idea of what it means to be a child of God. No, not that God is Love and Loves us unconditionally, but that I was really bad, which made God really, really mad, so God punished Jesus instead of me, and that if I didn't accept all of this and try to be perfect like Jesus is, then God would send me to suffer and cry in pain and sadness for eternity in fiery hell with the devil. Oh, don't get me wrong, I was also taught that God "loves" the little children, Jesus "loves" me, but there was always a "BUT".

Perhaps I was a child taking things far too seriously or perhaps I was a child who thought too deeply, but whatever the case, I was a child who pondered my Sunday School lessons diligently, listened to sermons intently, and was absolutely terrorized into believing in God and Jesus, and Satan, for that matter. I lived in constant fear of being anything other than what God had instructed in the Bible for all of us to be or doing anything other than what God wanted us to do. I was utterly terrified of the devil and was positively sure he was just around the corner ready to pounce on me at any moment. By the age of five, I understood that I was a lost, unworthy sinner and, worried sick, instructed my parents to call our pastor to our home so that I could be saved and protected. For until that happened, if I died and knocked on Heaven's door, Jesus would answer saying, "Sorry, you can't come in. In fact, I don't even know you." The door would slam shut, and Satan would appear, putting his horrible arm around me. Going down?

Many scream-filled, reoccurring nightmares later, just imagine what happened as I began realizing that I was very different from other little boys. A whole new can of worms was opened. My being "bad" became my being "evil". God being "mad" at me became God "hated and despised" me. For years, no matter how perfect, no matter how righteous I strived to be, my damnation to hell became more and more likely until it was finally assured. It seemed that even a salvation experience at eleven would not, could not, save me. By the time I graduated college, my head was so full of religious contradictions that my spirit was virtually unconscious, beaten into a coma, surviving only by the goodness and love of God's life support of which I was unaware at the time.

It was then that God removed me from the people, places, words and things which threatened to extinguish my soul in God's Name. By the grace of God and God's goodness and faithfulness, my soul did survive, my spirit breathed, and my heart continued to beat, waiting for the day when God did liberate me from the shackles of my indoctrination, healed me with the Spirit, and awakened in me the purity, honesty and innocence of which I had been raped. The Riverside Church is one of God's hospitals where I was attended to, and I am fortunate and blessed that God carried me there. God has a plan.

So as a survivor thankfully making it through to the other side, whenever I hear theological language that pokes at my bruises or salts my scars, I suddenly find myself impassioned, emblazoned, and full of fervor in making sure that abuse never happens again, that others are clear in understanding. I wholeheartedly believe that it is vitally important that we do NOT repeat this kind of history nor ever let another child or adult go through this kind of confusing, terrifying, painful abuse again. For God's sake, this must stop and be stopped, and that's why I am writing all of this today, what I believe God is calling me to share.

It is as if God stopped by for coffee this past Sunday afternoon, and as we chatted, God held up before me all the religious doctrines, traditions, and dogmas and said, "Chad, do you know what's really crazy? Do you see all of this and how messy and scary it has become? Can I tell you what all of this really means? Will you share what it was supposed to say to you and humanity simply, utterly, and completely.

Just this: I LOVE YOU.

I came as Christ to say 'I LOVE YOU', and like that game where you pass a secret in a whisper around a circle of friends, the message seems to have come out different than its purest intention. My Good News has been added to, subtracted from, used for power and gain, abused to oppress and destroy, incited to cause terror and fear. All I want is to call you here to Me, to hold you and comfort you, to Love you just as I made you, always and forever." God then stared down into the coffee mug, and I thought, you know, I believe God's feelings are hurt.

So, allow me to close by offering a little advice. Whether you've endured a similar childhood experience as mine or not, I implore you, my friends, always keep handy your Holy sifter, and whatever you hear, whatever you are told, whatever goes into it that does not demonstrate and convey God's eternal LOVE for you, sift it! Let only Christ's unconditional Love fall onto the dough of your heart. Then knead it with compassion, mercy and forgiveness; sprinkle it with lots of love for yourself, and allow it to rise into a genuine, authentic relationship with God. For you are promised that God is and always will be faithful, staying right by your side, with unending compassion, pleased smiles, deep love and a tender embrace no matter where you are on your life's journey or spiritual walk, no matter your doubts, fears, questions, or brokenness. No matter what, you are precious to God and so very Loved.

And hey, if you aren't exactly sure about God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit or anything else, know that you may start as simply as just saying, "Hey God. Haven't talked to You. What's up? Bye." I promise you, God will be overjoyed to begin a conversation with you.

Time

2009-01-15T13:00:00.001-05:00

From "The Vine"

Welcome to 2009!!! I apologize for the delay in getting out the first Vine to you, but after my return from the Christmas and New Year holidays in Arkansas with my family, I found myself inundated with items which needed my attention and was unable. However, it is a New Year, and things are back on track, thank God.

This New Year has had me pondering "time". Just after my mother passed away a little over a year and a half ago, it seemed quite suddenly that my watch's battery died. The hands simply stopped moving around the minutes and hours. The second hand did not even attempt to skip forward. In that moment, I felt it was so fitting that my time had stopped. In deep sadness and grief, quite honestly, I had wanted my whole world to stop moving forward and thought that it couldn't, shouldn't, wouldn't now that Mom was no longer here on Earth with me. I really had assumed that life had ended, that time had finally run out.

But, as much as I thought that was what was happening and what I wanted, the sun still appeared in the East and descended in the West. The stars still churned above me as seconds passed into minutes into hours into days and nights. Through time, God had a way of keeping me keeping on moving forward on my journey of life even if I thought it shouldn't and had little desire to be present in it. It is as if God was smiling while trying to comfort me, and, like a parent holding a crying child's hand leading him up the sidewalk as the tearful child is completely unaware of the direction he is moving, God was guiding a blind me forward embraced in God's purpose and plan for my life.

Months and months later, I finally replaced the watch's battery and just as soon as I inserted it into that little space in the back, the watch's hands jarred awake and began their track around the face and over the numbers. The wheels were set into motion and the gears began their systematic rhythm. Yes, in some ways while doing that, I felt like time was starting all over again, but today, in this brand new year, in this new number moved forward, I realize that it had never stopped and that although Mom had left, God had never and would never ever leave me stranded alone in a stalled second. The same, of course, is true for you!

Trust

2008-10-29T15:57:00.002-04:00

From "The Vine"

Last week, I was stressed out. My father had been in the hospital for a couple of days while he was being tested for early dementia, work was especially busy with a project that had to be completed by the end of the week, church responsibilities were weighing on me as I was concerned about Maranatha's year ahead and questioning what I was really contributing to the Mission and Social Justice Commission, my finances were badly suffering, plus my personal relationships seemed frayed and disconnected somehow.

As I was rushing around, I attempted to go over it all line by line in my head. I thought of ways that I could control the situations, the resolutions that were just out of my reach, the activities that I could plan but might fail. I bounced from decision to indecision, solutions to confusion, order to chaos. I wanted to tie up everything in neat little packages with beautiful silk bows, but everything in my brain seemed ripped, crumpled, broken, and in disarray. I thought I was going to lose it.

Standing on the subway platform, waiting for the A train uptown, my head began to pound as thoughts shot into consciousness like a machine gun with a heavy finger on the trigger. I felt as if I was being executed by my own mind, which had simply given up and basically told me that I would not be able to handle it all, that I was out of my league, that I was not going to be able to survive. I squinted my eyes shut, rubbed my temples with my fingers, and let out a tense breath of "God, help me!"

Just a few moments later, the A train rolled into the station. There, framed in one of the subway door windows, a word stitched on the back of a sweatshirt of a guy who happened to be leaning back against the door stopped right in front of me. The word "TRUST" looked out at me. . . . "TRUST" . . . Suddenly a wave of acceptance and relief washed over me in God's answered prayer. All of the "I need to, I should, I've got to, I control, I determine, I must"s melted away in the word God sent me as a loving, tight hug and embrace.

Because I couldn't find peace in my stormy mind, it seems God had to take an express train to say, "TRUST ME! Let go and let ME take care of you. Trust ME because I utterly, unconditionally love you, and I am in complete control. Trust ME and dare to risk everything on my boundless love, on the more than sufficient grace of my Son, Jesus Christ. Just trust ME! TRUST!"

In recent weeks and days, the world itself seems upside-down evoking tornadoes of concern, worry, and lots and lots of stress in all our lives. But, as I was reminded, rather than attempting our own efforts to lasso that which really cannot be contained or controlled, right now is a better time to be grateful and hand over to God all our worries, concerns, stresses, and bewildering thoughts. Then we can step onto the train of life with clear minds, new perspectives, fresh hearts, and simply just TRUST.

ME: icicles

2008-04-11T17:49:00.000-04:00

4/11/2008 5:49 PM

for now,
let us
just be
icicles
hanging,
waiting
for sun
to warm
and heal;
allowing
us to drop
water:
the truth
contained
within you
and me;
us now
splashing
aloud

alive.

ME: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

2008-02-21T16:44:00.000-05:00

2/21/2008 4:44 PM

Last night, I actually paid for one of the worst haircuts I've ever had. Yes, I am being overly dramatic, but it really IS a bad haircut. I mean, even when I used to cut my hair myself, chopping indiscriminately at fuzzy ends and clipper cutting the sides so as to have a "cool" looking mullet do (I was young once and pulled it off quite nicely, if I do say so myself), I still did better than this lady who took a whack at it, literally, yesterday. And leave it to me to feel sorry for her, telling her that it looks nice, that she did a good job, and then giving her a tip on top of it. It's just that she spent so much time cutting that I didn't know what else to do. Complain? Give her suggestions for improvement? Have her finish what she started? No. All I could do was throw on my cap and leave smiling, trying to mask my disgust and resentment, vowing to never have my hair cut by her again.

I knew it was a bad sign when, before she even looked at my hair, she started making small talk in some indistinguishable foreign accent about how much she liked my watch. You're a hairdresser; there is no need to notice and make conversation about my accessories. I thought to myself, she's trying to butter me up. Either she wants a good tip, or she has very few clients. I now believe the latter to be the case. When she finally focused on my hair, she ran her fingers through it, inspecting the hairline, the cowlicks, the varying lengths. I explained what I wanted simply, short on the sides and back, and leave the top long, just trim it a little bit. Good grief, I don't have a lot of hair as it is, so I didn't consider these to be inadequate directions. She said, oh yes, that would be perfect, that cut would suit my face marvelously, although I didn't ask for her opinion, nor wanted it. Just follow my instructions and cut my hair! That's when I noticed her dyed reddish-auburn hair, which didn't look "bad" per say, but it did look a little "off", clumsy, dented, choppy, frizzled, for lack of better words to describe the indescribable.

I should have gotten up right then, said, oops, I completely forgot that I have dinner plans, I'll have to come back another day. But I didn't, mostly because I REALLY needed a haircut. I mean, the hair on the back of my neck could be pulled into pigtails, it had gotten so out of control. It was absolutely time to be neatened up, and, you know, a new, nice, fresh haircut can make you feel like a new man. So I calmed my fears, closed my eyes, took a deep breath and trusted.

Out came the scissors, another bad sign, for me anyway, because when I say that I want it short on the sides and back, I mean that I want it SHORT and EVEN, like only clippers can do. It's my fault that I didn't say something then, but in my defense, I have had my hair cut before where the hairdresser didn't use clippers and ended up doing an amazing job getting it short and even, so again I just trusted her. Carefully, she pulled out a stretch of hair and cut it SO SLOWLY that it was like she was cutting a line drawn on a piece of paper. Every cut she made was slow and seeming so precise, like she was an artist working on a sculpture. Her face was tense, lips pursed, eyes squinting, and she dropped small talk altogether for silent concentration. She pulled my head to the side, pushed my head down, pulled my head up, directed every position of my head for her cutting expertise. Then she flapped at my ears with her comb, and brushed off hair into my lap. From her satisfied expression, I knew she was done with the sides and back. Yes, it did look a tad shorter, in some places, although I could still see some hair sticking out looking as though it had been completely missed. I thought to myself, surely she hasn't overlooked the unevenness. She is so intense; maybe she is going to go back over it all. Needless to say, I kept quiet.

At that moment, my hair didn't look horrible. It was longer on the top, shorter, albeit uneven, on the sides and back. I could have lived with it. But then she began to work on the top, pushing my head down so she could face it directly! Have you ever? Personally, I have never had anyone cut my hair head-on like that before. But, I thought, maybe that's just as good a way, what do I know? Suddenly, she began chopping, and huge chunks of hair began cascading into my lap, big chunks of too long hair, the length almost an inch. I wanted to see what she was doing, but she held my head down, as if drowning me under water, and continued to prune the top of my head. As my lap filled with my brown and some white, gray (yes, it's TRUE!) hair, my face flushed with red annoyance and deep concern. Still, she had already started and had my head somewhat pinned down, so I could do nothing but let her continue and watch more and more fall onto the black salon cape covering me.

When I looked up, I think she saw the shock in my eyes, because she immediately grabbed some pomade and began trying to style it, pushing hair this way and that, pulling up the front and swirling her hand around over the top. I didn't want to believe the mirror. This crazy lady had cut my hair shorter on the top than the sides and back! Okay, so the top is even, but it is SHORTER than the sides and back! WHO in the world styles his hair that way on purpose other than the monks you see in pictures who shave a circle on the tops of their heads? What's worse, she was done, finished. Her masterpiece was complete, and she wasn't going to go back over anything. "There you go, all cleaned up and looking much better," she said, "You know, I think you look more like yourself." Uh, what? She removed the cape, as well as the towel around my neck, letting all the cut hair fall onto my sweater and down my back. I thought, this lady KNOWS she gave me a bad haircut and is too flustered to even pull out a neck duster. She just wants me out of here ASAP! Noticing hair all over me, she grabbed the hair dryer and started blowing the hair off of me. "Yes, well, it's nice, looks good, good job, thanks," I lied, getting up, fearful of her touching my head again. "Don't you want to see the back," she asked pulling out a mirror, and I looked. "Now, what you need to do is dry the sides forward like this; see how that looks, and then at the crown, just swirl it around so it will lay down nicely. See?" I wanted to roll my eyes and tell her to 'brush' off. I have been styling my hair since I was a kid, really, so I think I know exactly what to do and what I think looks nice.

I don't know what gave me away, maybe I did roll my eyes, although I don't think so. Maybe I'm not very good at masking my feelings, everything shows up right in my eyes and on my face. Whatever it was, I could tell that she became a little angry and annoyed with me. She frowned deeply, looked me directly in the eyes, and left me with the parting words you never want to hear from your hairdresser, "Really, you know, it's ONLY hair."

MY only hair, indeed.

ME: Soul Food Comforts

2008-02-15T16:21:00.000-05:00

2/15/2008 4:21 PM

For a smalltown, Arkansan boy, unbuckled from the Bible belt, now living in the big, "sexy" New York City, there is nothing more comforting, especially on a cold, drizzling evening, than heading into a warm, restaurant to gobble down some good ole southern cooking. You must know what I mean. If you are not from the south, picture these homemade delicacies: mashed potatoes smothered in dark gravy, baked macaroni in creamy velveeta cheese, barbequed red ribs, fresh lima beans, fried chicken legs, cornbread full of kernels, hot fried green okra, sweet candied yams, buttermilk biscuits lavished in white gravy, pork chops done just so, buttered corn steaming, sufferin' succotash, yes, everything that might be bad for the body and heart yet so DEFINITELY good for the soul. And in the Big Apple, if you have a hankering for southern cooking, it rightly comes in the form of "soul food" at some of the best soul food restaurants in the Northeast. You just have to find them.

Now I have lived in New York for over 11 years (I know, I can hardly believe it myself), so you can rest assured that I have sought out many, many Southern & Soul Food restaurants in the city. Let's see. . . In Harlem, I've been to Miss Mamie's Spoonbread Too to have banana bread pudding as my entree, Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, where I always leave way too full, burping and teetering on sweet iced tea, and Manna's Soul Food & Salad Bar, just like any other salad bar, except all the fixings will have no trouble putting meat on your bones. At Astor Place, Acme Bar and Grill has the BEST fried okra in town, although not nearly as good as my grandmother's of course. In midtown, there's Virgil's Real BBQ, frequented by corporate types of all sorts, and in the Village, you can get the absolutely best southern breakfast at the Pink Teacup. Just off of Union Square, I head to Chat-n-Chew, and on the Upper West Side to Rack and Soul or Shark Bar, which offers the most delicious southern cuisine while dining in a very posh ambiance. I COULD go on, but I think you get the idea. Yes, I have ventured out and about to find my comfort food and have not been disappointed in the least. (No, it's not home, but it's pretty darn close!)

So when my friend, Nathan, and I made plans to have dinner together on Wednesday night, I was surprised that when he suggested we go to Sylvia's, one of the most famous Soul Food restaurants in Harlem and in the city, I realized that in all the time I have been here, I had never been there! I mean, they call Sylvia "The Queen of Soul Food" for grits' sake!

The rain that had continued all day had died down considerably, it was only misting a little, so we walked the blocks across 125th Street instead of catching the bus. There "she" sat on Lenox/Malcom X Boulevard between 126th and 127th with lights all aglow, inviting us to come on in and have some supper. We went in and sat at the bar to wait for Nathan's partner, Leslye, and ordered the fried catfish fingers, which were quite good. It's EXTREMELY hard to find GOOD catfish in the city. Absolutely nothing can compare to the amazingly tasty catfish you can get at an Arkansas fish fry, where people from all over the community pop by a farmer's shop and lunch on freshly fried catfish and homemade hushpuppies. (My mouth is watering just thinking about it, and I've already eaten!) Once Leslye got there, we sat at a table near the front and ordered. The place was packed with people, including the famous Sylvia herself, who sat off at a side table, dressed in a jacket covered in the Sylvia's logo, ate smothered meatloaf and collard greens and observed her patrons, occasionally having her picture made with a fan. She watched the tables so closely, I wondered if she was trying to determine what the looks on our faces meant as we took big bites. I had the fried chicken, buttered corn, and macaroni and cheese, along with their special sweet iced tea mixed with lemonade that they call an "uptown". Overall, it was pretty good, but I must confess that I have had much better in the city. No offense, Sylvia. Still, the home cooking, along with great company, certainly made me smile and think back to Arkansas, gratefully remembering all the good things and good food.

Unfortunately, once I arrived at my apartment and raced through the door down the hall to the bathroom pulling at my belt, I was also able to reminisce about the first time I had to have a spoonful of that pink stuff that I thought tasted like bubblegum.

Is home where the heart is or where the stomach is moody?

ME: Hoping for Hope

2008-02-13T11:09:00.001-05:00

February 13, 2008 - Wednesday

There's something that has always annoyed me. Beginning in childhood, society immediately began training me to be a winner, a fearless hero triumphing over ANY situation, "fixing" or masking my emotions so that I could continue to march forward without shrinking or shirking away from a "successful" life. It told me that I was not supposed to get down, certainly not in any kind of debilitating way, and that if I did manage to lose my footing, I must immediately pick myself up, dust myself off and keep on going. There did not seem to be any middle ground in this, no waiting or lingering period; either I won or I failed. Either I rose above or was defeated. And once this outcome was determined, it was considered final.

I guess it is because of this notion that society also deems there is a specific time limit for being sad and/or depressed and a time limit for maintaining sympathy of another's dire situation. In the case of grief in the U.S.A. workplace, usually three paid days of bereavement are given an employee (with a full-time job) if an immediate family member dies. It's just enough time to make the necessary arrangements and be back at work being "productive". In confiding with acquaintances, I have found that the limit seems about two to three weeks of empathetic looks and "how are you doing"s before the evaporation of noticed concern. (Note, however, that friends and family are completely different and don't usually follow the unsaid time limits; therefore, they are not included in my observation here.)

In our culture, it seems subliminally asserted that once that last grain of sand drops through the hourglass and "the time" is up, no matter what grief and sadness remain in which we are covered or drowning, we are still expected to pull ourselves up and onto our feet, a smile is to light on our faces, and we are to look forward to the future, never looking back (or turn to salt). We are supposed to be alright, okay, not stuck, not defeated, for that's the only healthy way to be. And any lingering emotions should be kept private within our "back-to-normal" selves, or only discussed confidentially with a therapist. Okay, it's true that I am overly-emotional and sensitive, but is it just me or does this whole idea just seem inhuman?

So a couple of weekends ago, when I attended a retreat at a quaint little Dominican convent nestled just east of the beautiful Hudson River, with sunsets exquisite even in midst of winter with bare trees, brown ground, and ice floating near the riverbank, I was relieved to finally understand something different from what I have been taught. The retreat was called "From Loss to Community: Finding Hope in Difficult Times", and there I discovered something much more truthful and real.

Through the retreat's exercises and meditations with others who were also experiencing deep loss, I found that, ironically, sometimes one MUST be completely defeated, stretched out on the ground, limbs limp, eyes shut, tears flowing, heart broken, and breath heavy with uncontrollable sobbing, before one can really truly begin to rise from the weighty blow of sadness and grief of whatever the situation flattening one's life. Sometimes for a time, perhaps a very brief moment or a long span of rest, one must fall into the point of hopelessness, or rather, the point of simply hoping for hope, in order to discover that more hope really IS there; that hope has always been there shining. Sometimes, in the darkest of days, when all one can do is look up from the deep, muddy, black hole one finds himself in during life does one REALLY begin to see the sun and find within himself that he does believe that all is NOT lost; life is NOT over. This is something we, as society, should not deem trite or weak, nor should we put a limit on its length or depth. I believe we should embrace everyone's brokenness, allow the wounds to mend in their own time, and not revel in a kind of "get over it" mantra.

I have heard "get over it" a lot in my life. Most recently, it was tossed towards me as not only advice but also a command when I protested against the war, lost a friend to AIDS, then lost my best friend to his much-too-early death. "Get over it" was taught to be the way in which I would more easily move on, the way to succeed, win. Just get over it, don't think about it, and poof, it is gone, and you are on your way. But just "getting over it" does not allow me or anyone to move through the pain, experience the grief, understand suffering, mourn loss, and heal the soul at our own pace in our own time. Just "getting over it" negates any emotion we have, which is as just and true as any part of ourselves: our eyes, ears, hands, or feet.

Speaking personally with you, I honestly found God's blessing in my not "getting over" my mom's death. At my point of exhausted extinguishment which seemed so close, when my apathy constricted me breathless, when I couldn't really muster any care for myself other than in the asking of God to "Help me", it was there, in my complete and utter surrender and defeat that I finally found God's Help and Hope. I don't believe I would have recognized it any other way. At that retreat, which I believe was heavenly sent to me, beside the frosty, flowing river, I finally understood what hoping for hope means.

I think it's like when the suffering, bleeding and dying Jesus Christ was at His "end" on the cross and, probably feeling defeated and afraid, exclaimed and asked God, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" before He breathed His last earthly breath. During that moment, the human Jesus could only hope for hope.

And God certainly did not abandon Christ, nor will God ever abandon you and me. God is a God of new beginnings. Now I see . . . and hope.

~ ~ ~

"When life descends into the pit, I must become my own candle, willingly burning myself to light up the darkness around me." - Alice Walker

"All we are asked to bear, we can bear. That is the law of spiritual life. The only hindrance to the working of this law, as of all benign laws, is fear." - Elizabeth Goudge

"When you are down to nothing, God is up to something." - Unknown

ME: new friends =

2008-01-23T00:20:00.000-05:00

January 23, 2008 - Wednesday

Today, I finished my psychiatric appointment with his "Be well, Chad" and walked down the one creaky flight of stairs in the Upper East Side townhouse office, out into the cold, chilly breeze of 5th Avenue, which huffs and puffs freezing, occasionally, through my New York City these days. Stuffing my hands in my coat's pockets, because of forgetting my gloves at work, I walked towards the cross-town bus stop thinking about his advice for the weekends: Just get up and take a shower. All the rest is to be determined. It is good advice, and I will take it, as my Saturdays and Sundays have been spent in bed, sleeping, trying to sleep, wrestling with will, ignoring hope, settling into a kind of eternal hibernation, which is not for me to live.

He had told me not to give up my friends of cigarettes and wine in a previous session, so I held onto that advice as well, while walking and trying to determine where best to find those vices tonight, those which seem to comfort me best during this most hard and difficult time. (Perhaps you do not know, and I do not feel the need to elaborate now, but, within the past year and a half, three people close to me have passed, in tragic ways, and it has been ever so difficult to keep on keeping on.)

I crowded onto the overstuffed bus, normally quite full for its trip across Central Park, and I only thought of two things: What would I drink? And if I did drink, what would I eat to compensate? This is sad, and I know, but it is true. I decided to just go home; go to the C train, take it to 125th Street and then transfer to the A to my home in Washington Heights. I could decide the rest later. Like getting up and taking a shower on Saturday and Sunday.

During flight, I attempted to write my journal, finding that I really had nothing to say. What could I say? Should I comment on the traffic in the train, what they were wearing, who I thought they were, where I thought they were going? Could I even attempt to be somewhat creative; try some sort of poetic prose that will ultimately find me nowhere? I ended my entry with "there is nothing to say" and continued on my journey home.

Once out of the subway, through the tunnel and out into the moonlight, I checked my messages on my cell phone, but there were none. I think I sighed, "I have done such a good job of causing my phone not to ring; I am truly an expert." Alone, people walked past me briskly on the dimly lit sidewalk hoping to get home and out of the chill surrounding all of us. I had no need of the music on my MP3 player, for my mind was racing so loudly, music certainly couldn't be heard.

My routine found me at Fort Deli. I bought lots of bottled water, a pack of Newports, and a SmartWater (which I do adore). Then it was a quick hop and skip next door to Sanchez Liquor for a bottle of Merlot. My "friends".

I walked into Sanchez to see those two familiar faces. The owner and his friend were there beside the new wood counter with smiles and hellos. I'll admit it, I'm a regular, and they know me well and like me. As I put the bottle of Merlot on the counter, the friend seemed to remember something and spoke to the owner in Spanish.

The only words I understood were "Heath Ledger" and "Brokenback Mountain". Brokenback?

I paid for my wine, and then asked if they were talking about who I thought they were. "Oh yes! Isn't it horrible? We can't believe it. Drugs and alcohol." No, no, they were just sleeping pills, I said. "And anti-depressants and alcohol," he replied. The alcohol, I had not heard, yet it rang loudly, like the school-bell for the changing of classes; but still, it was left to be confirmed. Yet, true or not, it seemed that my entrance into the store had reminded him of death, and that left me feeling afraid and aware.

Perhaps it is time for new friends; ones that love and support, rather than just ease the pain. What do you think?

ME: Speaking at The Riverside Church

2007-11-19T20:19:00.000-05:00

11/19/2007 8:19 PM

Yesterday, Sunday, November 18th, I was asked to speak to The Riverside Church congregation about the group Maranatha: Riversiders for LGBT Concerns of which I am Deputy Convener. I was SOOO nervous, but thankfully, it went fine. I have reprinted my speech below.

Much Love!

Chad

"MINUTE FOR MISSION" for Maranatha: Riversiders for LGBT Concerns

by Chad Gurley

Presented at The Riverside Church on Sunday, November 18, 2007

Hello. My name is Chad Gurley, and I am honored to speak with you today about The Riverside Church's ministry, Maranatha: Riversiders for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Concerns. Of course, with ever changing definitions, self-identifications, and updated political correctness, Maranatha could potentially be termed Riversiders for Queer/Questioning Concerns or Riversiders for Same Gender Loving Persons Concerns or Riversiders for Intersex or Gender Identity Concerns . But to be concise today, I hope you will allow me to group all of these into the phrase "gay and lesbian" knowing that when I say this, I am not excluding anyone within our LGBTQSGLI community. Now, that's a mouthful.

I am the Deputy Convener of Maranatha, and when asked by our Convener, my mentor and dear friend, Dr. Wilhelmina Perry, to do the minute for mission for Maranatha, I was nervous and not sure how best to sum up what Maranatha is, what Maranatha does, and why Maranatha is important to The Riverside Church, as well as the gay and lesbian community – especially in a QUOTE UNQUOTE "Minute". Still, I will do my best, and hope you will be patient with me.

The word "Maranatha" means "The Lord Cometh" or "Lord Come to Me" and was used by the early Christians who were persecuted for their faith in Jesus Christ. As they would pass one another or sit together in cells, they would say, "Maranatha" in order to give each other the hope and encouragement that Christ was with them and that Christ was coming again to take them Home. In the face of all the adversity, do not be afraid. Be strong and faithful. I believe this must have meant a great deal to those few courageous gay and lesbian folks here at Riverside who, 30 years ago next year, in the late 70's, decided to "come out" publicly to their church family and form a group of support for one another in God's House, becoming one of the oldest gay and lesbian groups in a church community in the United States. And they should be applauded for their historic prophetic vision of knowing they were included at God's table and asserting such to those who were probably uncomfortable, who disagreed, and who did not have the same conviction.

For the past 29 years, Maranatha has involved itself in so many ways, I would need countless minutes to do it justice. I could tell you about Maranatha's commitment to helping gay and lesbian homeless youth, who make up the majority of homeless youth on the streets today, many kicked out of their own homes and families because of confessing who they are. Or I could tell you about Maranatha's partnership with gay and lesbian senior or elderly organizations, which assist and care for those who are often left alone without extended families or without protection from abuse by those who are homophobic in nursing homes or care centers. I could tell you about Maranatha's advocacy work, in its hope for marriage equality, or laws that would protect us from discrimination or hate crimes. Yes, I could go on and on about all that Maranatha has done and is doing, but what I believe is the most important thing that Maranatha does, the most important thing it has done for me personally, is something seeming so simple, yet so profound for those of us who are gay and lesbian, and that is sharing the faith that God does truly love us.

In Arkansas, I was born and raised a Southern Baptist, saved and baptized when I was eleven, attended a Christian elementary school and later a very fundamentalist Christian university. Needless to say, my faith in God is deeply rooted in my soul; however, in knowing very early in my life that I was different from other boys, I began harboring my secret, which ultimately grew into intense hatred for myself. While I wanted to trust that God loved me, for I loved God so much and wanted to do whatever God wanted me to do, I was bombarded by images and verses and slogans that only affirmed that God hated me, despised me, rejected me fully and completely for who I was. Even the unconditional Love of Jesus Christ, His unfaltering Grace, seemed too far out of reach for me from what I had been taught and learned, and in hating myself, I began to believe a different kind of song, "Jesus MAY love me BUT". I wanted to obey Christ's command to love others as you love yourself, but when you don't love yourself at all, it proves to be very difficult to find the energy to love others as you should love. I was broken and alone and made tearful pleas to God to change me so that I would be loved by God, but my prayers were never answered, and I was left confused and severely depressed.

When I moved to New York, I decided not to go to church, for I could not reconcile my being gay with my being Christian, and I struggled for many years, until just after September 11th, my parents, who did not accept my being gay, came to visit me in New York and stated that we WERE going to church together the Sunday they were here, and that we were going to go to The Riverside Church. "You know Chad, it's famous, Rockefeller built it." I honestly did not know anything about Riverside, so I shrugged my shoulders and said sure, I would go with them.

That Sunday, so close after September 11th, was emotional for all of us, and as we sat in the pews, just down there, we held hands during service. It was then that one of the ministers rose to speak and said something to the affect of "We have got to end homophobia and embrace our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters in Christ." My heart fluttered awake. I felt Mom's hand in mine and knew at that moment that I was being called home, my parents had brought me and introduced me to my church home. Home! Could it be? I finally felt God's true love for me manifest and Christ's warm embrace. I joined Riverside shortly thereafter.

In June of the next year, Maranatha held its annual Pride Breakfast and Sunday service. I felt like a little kid all over again as I got ready for church that morning, but instead of feeling hatred for myself, instead of feeling that Jesus wanted no part of me, I felt love, hope, excitement, acceptance. My spirit was renewed. When I walked into the Assembly Hall for Maranatha's Pride Breakfast, I was greeted with open arms – there in that room was a group of other gay and lesbian people and straight friends who not only believed in God, but believed that they, as themselves, were affirmed and loved by God, and their passion and compassion moved me so deeply, my soul felt relief and release. My burden was lifted.

In many ways, I believe that Maranatha and the community of Maranatha through God's providence has healed me and made me whole again. Maranatha helped to give the courage to say with assurance, yes, I am gay AND I am Christian. I AM a child of God. Maranatha has carried me back to my Savior's embrace of Grace and has encouraged me forward in my personal spiritual journey, one that I did not believe I could have because I am homosexual.

So, in closing, I hope that those of you listening who may feel alone or abandoned, who need a shoulder to lean on, a friend to confide in, or an embrace to catch your falling tears, will come to us in Maranatha for support, for we are here for you, and we feel so blessed to have the opportunity to give back to you in sharing the Love of God we have been given. Praise God.

"Maranatha"… "The Lord Cometh", and He loves me so much, He loves YOU so much! Christ's given Freedom for all to be just exactly who He has called you to be is the best news, the greatest gift, and we are forever grateful.

Thank you, Maranatha and The Riverside Church for reconnecting me with our most Loving God!

ME: Now are the days

2007-11-12T22:25:00.000-05:00

November 12, 2007 - Monday

Now are the days when I walk out of work, at a time one would consider a reasonable hour, only to find that night has fallen, blackness everywhere, well, except in those small circularly lit locations of street lamps or the square patches left by flashing traffic signs. Now are the days when I must wrap myself in a knitted scarf, bury my hands in my corduroy coat pockets, and move quickly towards my destination, hoping to beat the chill rushing towards my bones. Now are the days when Halloween candy has been replaced by Christmas garland, Santa Claus already appears on Coca-Cola cans, all leaving Thanksgiving in a kind of holiday limbo. And now are the days when I often experience the most loneliness, my faithful companion, when I notice more intently that I am somehow on the outside of the couples and families walking bundled together on the sidewalk, keeping each other safe from the dark and warm in the cold. Now are the days when I listen to Annie Lennox's new album, discovering my own tears coupled with her beautiful moans. And, please don't get me wrong; I'm not feeling sorry for myself, for somehow I relish in this dark emotion, which seems to envelope me and release some necessary cry aloud to announce my existence and a hope for an other in which to wrap myself during these dark, cold, holiday days that are now.

ME: Red and Yellow, Black and White . . . AND Orange!

2007-10-19T17:36:00.000-04:00

10/19/2007 5:36 PM

This weekend, I will be attending an "Undoing Racism" Conference at The Riverside Church, put together for our lay leadership. This summer, I was elected to the Mission and Social Justice Commission at Riverside, hence my being invited. This conference couldn't come at a more opportune time, as all across the United States, it seems that blatant racist displays have heightened in occurrence. Just last week, a black, Teacher's College professor, just across the street from me here at Columbia University, found a noose hung on her office door. For those of you who don't know, nooses were used in the lynchings, violent executions usually by hanging, of African-Americans particularly by the Ku Klux Klan after the Civil War, and sadly, sometimes even after the Civil Rights Movement. It is a hateful kind of "let's teach them a lesson, let's show who's boss", fear-mongering act, wanting to express white dominance, which is utterly and completely deplorable, disgusting, and oh so wrong. Therefore, the fact that empty nooses are now popping up all over the country, in New Jerseyand Louisiana recently, shows that although America has continued to make improvements in its racial relationships, it is a far cry from our living together in true peace and harmony.

Columbia's School of the Arts encouraged everyone to wear orange this past Tuesday as a show of solidarity against bigotry and for diversity, for not only was the noose hung on the professor's door last week, over the weekend, bathrooms were vandalized with anti-Semitic and anti-Muslim graffiti, somewhat surprising considering that we are a liberal university in one of the most diverse cities in the world! I donned my bright orange Penguin v-neck sweater, ready to join the masses in saying, "Enough is enough!" I mean, really, this is 2007, almost 2008, and it is completely outrageous that these kinds of things are happening, and further, that somehow hate is continuing to be passed down from generation to generation. When I got out of the subway station and entered Earl Hall's gates, watching people rushing from class to class, building to building, I thought that I had gotten the date wrong from the flyer. Everyone seemed to be dressed so, uh, normally. Then, occasionally, I would see a pop of orange from across campus. I was discouraged. There are so few of us in this solidarity, I lamented. Upon arrival at my office, I noticed no students were wearing orange there either. "What happened? Where is your orange? You couldn't wear an orange shirt, pants, shoelaces, something?" I asked. All replied, "I guess we didn't get the memo." Turned out, the School of the Arts did not do the best job of advertising the day (something I would think the School of the Arts should know how to do, actually); however, at the rally after lunch, once all the orange wearers got together, we did seem like a rather large orange fist raised up from Columbia saying that we do not accept this and will not accept this on our campus, in New York, or in the world.

So, although I am not especially thrilled about sitting in a conference ALL weekend (I do relish my weekends), I am excited to learn what we can do to make this world a much more humane and accepting place to live. We're all human. We all feel, love, suffer, experience, enjoy. We all pump blood through our hearts and breathe air into our lungs. Hopefully, this conference will help to teach me some ways, even if they are just simple, everyday ways, in which we can work together to end not only racism, but also sexism, classism, homophobia, religious-intolerance, and the like. After all, God loves all God's children – no matter what.

ME: Drizzles

2007-10-11T16:20:00.000-04:00

10/11/2007 4:20 PM

It’s drizzling in New York City today. Cloudy skies and windy remnants of the severe storm, which plundered through the North American plains, dropping at least 28 tornados along the Midwest and South, are now passing over us here in the Northeast in a rather gloomy, anti-climatic fashion. And I can help but feel a little melancholy, although I’m not exactly sure why. The weather isn’t helping my mood much, but that’s not really the crux of what has me feeling dreary. At least, I don’t believe so. Perhaps it’s because time this week has moved in slow motion, each second seeming much longer than the “tick” of “ticktock”, giving me all the more moments to reflect, allowing discontent to rupture.

Earlier today, I read a small part of an interview with a well-known actor, and the title of the article was something to the affect of “He knows where he’s going and where he wants to go”. Upon reading that, I let out a silent moan thinking, good grief, I really only know where I’ve been. Where am I to go; actually, where do I want to go? Those are questions aspirations are made of, and I still haven’t quite figured out any of it yet. (And is that something that has to be figured out, I’ve wondered?) In any case, it made me grumble with slight jealousy that while others are ambitiously working their way towards their “goals”, I am still a little kid looking out the window at the rain falling, day-dreaming away the days, within a 30-something year old body, which, it would seem, should be somewhere much further along in this thing we call life.

Alas, I digress and must assert to myself that sometimes daydreams do billow into dreams, which can then burst into goals, which just might motivate this little kid towards some grand aspiration other than watching drizzling precipitation. We can hope!

ME: Nightlights of the NBA

2007-10-04T15:07:00.000-04:00

10/4/2007 3:07 PM

Years ago, I used to blog or journal quite a lot. Then I began writing poetry, and all my thoughts were turned into tight, concise little bodies of verses, which I completely understood; however, some folks who read my knitted words wondered just what it was I was trying to say. Ah, the joys of poetic form. And now, that form has seemed to have left me, and sadly, without being able to write, I do feel altogether alone. For it was in those moments of expression that I felt the most comfort, even if what I was expressing was painful or even uncomfortable. So, I thought I would mildly attempt to journal a little again, in hopes that I will find some understanding of myself, begin another healing, as it were, even if it would seem to others as utter jibber-jabber about mostly nothing. All of this being said in hopes that you will please try to bear with me as I attempt to find my way.

Last night, at Columbia University’s opening to Queer Awareness Month, we had the honor and delight to hear John Amaechi speak to us in a large room in Lerner Hall. The room was packed with people to hear this 36 year old, 6’10”, stocky, former NBA player, dressed in a navy, tailored suit and multi-colored stripe shirt, speak about his being gay, black, British, and his coming out in the largely homophobic profession of sports. I must admit, he was wonderful, inspiring, handsome, and eloquent, if not also blunt, outspoken, and directly to the point. He is a psychologist now and certainly made us all think, ask deep questions (such as, why do we all feel the need to label people, just as I did above with “gay, black, British”?), as well as laugh and have a good time. Many students ask him questions, some interesting, some boring, some trying to sound intelligent only to sound silly, and still, no matter the question, he pondered them all and then answered each so sincerely, I was enamored.

John spoke of his mother, who passed away some years ago due to cancer, and had such love in his heart for her, it resonated upon every word he used to describe her and brought out an affectionate sparkle in his eyes. While it was endearing to hear him speak of his mother, it did make me sad, and I found myself feeling a little weepy, although I maintained my composure throughout the remainder of the talk. I began to wonder what it would be like to date such an amazing man with such a fondness for his mother, and, as another student raised her hand to ask a question, I tried to picture myself going out to dinner with the larger-than-life Mr. Amaechi in some nice, swank New York City restaurant, where everyone would look at us with awe and admiration. Already feeling sensitive and emotional, it was then that I scolded myself harshly, as the frenemy in me does so often, simply telling myself that I was way out of my league, and how could I even fancy such a daydream.

Then those voices, which I imagine we all hear from time to time, especially when we begin comparing ourselves to others, erupted in an unified chorus, basically affirming that I was NOT successful or accomplished, not all that attractive to look at, ultimately a failure at the 34 years of life I have lived thus far, and that it would be an absolute miracle if anyone of moderate social standing found me the least bit appealing. I mean, my bathroom is dirty and there are dishes sitting in the kitchen sink. Repulsive.

I shook myself back to John speaking at the front of the room, walking from side to side, his hand outstretched and animated as he began to tell us what we could do for all of us, gay, straight, black, white, rich, poor - humanity. He said, we each had to shine our own unique light. We might not believe we were the smartest or the best light. We might believe that we don’t really have much to offer anyone. We might wonder if we even have a light within us at all. But, he assured us, we all do. “Think about a nightlight,” he said. The nightlight is such a dim little light, not even as bright as a candle, with such low wattage, you might wonder what it is good for. In fact, even if you wanted to, it would be virtually impossible to even read by a nightlight. However, he told us, the sparkle in his eyes brightening, remember that the nightlight is one of the most warm, securing lights you have in your home. That one little bitty light in a hallway can keep you from tripping over your slippers while frightening the nighttime monsters away. That light can provide you with enough clarity to see your way through the dark. So no matter what you think of your light, shine it. Shine your light, and perhaps you will help not only yourself, but also someone else see their way through this sometimes very dark world.

The room rose in a standing ovation, which he modestly accepted. And, as I stood, smiling and clapping, I decided to stop listening to the frenemy in my head who all to often tells me I’m not good enough, that my light is far to dim to shine. Instead, I would shine whatever light that I have, the light that I have been blessed with, given, and hopefully, just maybe, someone, even if it’s just me, will find my light quite incredibly bright.

ME : live 1

2007-08-01T12:15:00.001-04:00

Sent: 8/1/2007 12:15 PM

my cable is broken,
therefore my internet
is down,
therefore my phone
is disconnected.

it now amazes me
how much
i rely
on them.

now there is silence,
the sound of my birds,
the wind through
the window through
the fan through
the fan
to my living room.

i now wonder
how much living
i've really been doing.

i'm waiting to die
rather than longing
to live.

and still it's life.

Live!

ME : umbrella

2007-06-05T21:23:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/5/2007 9:23 PM

Jesus
lean out with Your umbrella
give me a little shelter
from this rain that falls
hard hail upon my soul

ME : invitation to smile

2007-06-05T21:22:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/5/2007 9:22 PM

i don't go out
i sit alone
at home
waiting for something
to come to me
arrows spin round
and round

i hear outside
i know it's
happening
music of life
there for me
inviting my scared,
fractured soul
to smile.

ME : THANK YOU

2007-06-05T21:21:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/5/2007 9:21 PM

Father God
Mother Earth
for All
You've
Given Birth
We Thank You

Poetry : trying to be

2007-03-01T20:01:00.000-05:00

Sent: 3/1/2007 8:01 PM

stop trying to be
something thought better
and just live this moment
of being, knowing
i am

alive

ME : TV

2006-11-30T21:56:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/30/2006 9:56 PM

TV has become our housekeeper
it hasn't cleaned so good

ME : turning the tv off

2006-11-30T21:55:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/30/2006 9:55 PM

what if everyone stopped watching the tv, one day?
what if everyone stopped reading the newspaper, one day?

When they only concerned themselves with their own lives;

That day.

ME : thing

2006-11-30T21:50:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/30/2006 9:50 PM

a little more
a little more something
just a small thing
just the thing
minus
ing

Poetry : dream on God's shoulder

2006-10-04T20:15:00.000-04:00

Sent: 10/4/2006 8:15 PM

dream on God's shoulder
and know
that you are meant
to be

ME : Dear Uncle Stan

2006-09-11T00:05:00.000-04:00

Sent: 9/11/2006 12:05 AM

the thing i remember the most
about you and me
since i first came into birth
was my riding with you
on your motorcycle
back in the seventy somethings
i remember being so scared
yet thrilled
when we were out there

i was safe

on your motorcycle running wild and free
across interstates in every direction
places to be seen and none explored
and you've almost explored every one

you are secure

the thing i know now
is that you
are about to go for a ride
out into the sun setting
just like the movie star
you've always been
to me in my life
and although that makes me sad
i know i'll see you
again

so drive
we're all holding on
to your waist
so drive

love will never let go

i love you

Chad

Poetry : man on fire

2006-09-06T21:03:00.000-04:00

Sent: 9/6/2006 9:03 PM

i play russian roulette
with my life
because i don't trust God
to take
the next shot
discounting all my worth

nevertheless i still
Believe in You

Poetry : polls

2006-09-06T20:59:00.000-04:00

Sent: 9/6/2006 8:59 PM

now i don't know much about polls
or what they really want to say
or even who's been asked
but i would be a child left behind
if i was consistently testing in 30s
out of 100

isn't that failing?

Poetry : scent

2006-09-06T20:54:00.000-04:00

Sent: 9/6/2006 8:54 PM

he splashes cologne
upon his face
and the perfume
lingers
on his hands

fingers
upon my skin
testing
for my pulse

am i breathing?
do you hear
the rhythm
of my heart
beating?

am i still
alive?

and

now I walk
with the sweet
sweet smell
that sweet,
sweet unique
smell

had
all day

Poetry : alone

2006-09-06T20:46:00.000-04:00

Sent: 9/6/2006 8:46 PM

i run my fingers
through these dry
sands of time

just feeling
like crying

feeling lost
like the desert
when that dune buggy
made a wrong turn
so now i'm out here

in this wilderness alone

all

a l o n e

ME : wrestles

2006-08-20T00:55:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/20/2006 12:55 AM

what's it like
when the pinky
wrestles
the thumb

ME : Dear Leonardo

2006-07-10T11:44:00.001-04:00

Sent: 7/10/2006 11:44 AM

what can i say now?
what do i tell you
now that you aren't here?
what does this world
look like, really?
who really
understands my tears?

questions.
and you said
we should live them.
but you stopped.
and i don't know what
to do with that.
i'm lonely.
i'm broken.
i'm searching.
i'm afraid.
my faith is shaken
to its core.
and i don't know
what to do with that.
i'm lost.
i'm in great pain.

you were my best friend.
my best friend.
i know people don't say that
after the fourth grade,
still
you were my best friend.
My only brother.
My always.
The one who got me.
That one person on this Earth
who really gets me.
Understood the words
coming out of my mouth
whether quiet or loud.

We whispered about
our cosmic connection,
that fateful day
the subway doors slid open;
my destiny finding
you waiting for me there
and we knew we would
always be together.
i thought we would,
always be together.
Leonardo and Chad.

Oh my Leonardo!
My Soulmate.
My One.
Who i missed out on.

Within my personal
confessional,
i would say
that the resounding
answered 'why?'
must be
that i wasn't there
for you.
i allowed
my own suffering
and depression
to drown me
so much so
that I missed
your call.
and you missed
my call.
and we missed
calls
all the way
around.
Damn!
Fuck!
i let you down.

please please
forgive me.

so now missed calls
are replaced
with missing you
missing our magical
Peter Pan companionship,
playing together
as adult children
all these ten years
we shared
in our twenties
and just a little
beyond.

in life
you did
inspire me
so much:

to understand and embrace:
the fun of climbing trees
and trekking along wooded trails.
the humor of our innate silliness
in making funny faces, clownish gestures,
and speaking in cartoonish voices.
the freedom of somersaults and handstands
in the crowded sheep's meadow
no matter who was watching.
the ecstacy of movement,
expressing feeling through dance.
the confidence of staring
across a room towards another
reaching for your eyes.
the great importance of accepting
a loving touch.
the creativity in drawing
outside the lines of convention
and tradition.
the silent disruption
of wearing torn disealed jeans
while conferencing with
suits of the republic of bananas.
the necessity of standing
up for ourselves,
debating those
who say we are wrong.
the sheer and utter joy
of wearing dresses without any shame.
the fulfillment in my finally
accepting the girl in me.

i felt us grow together
as you nourished a new me
away from the timid, self-hating
little boy you first met.
i grew
in your learning me to express myself
as an individual.
i grew
as you taught me to accept
exactly what i am feeling,
without the shoulds or should nots.
i grew
as you showed me that anger
is a worthy emotion
to be embraced and used for good.
i grew
as you broke down those walls within myself,
silencing the harsh voices
who said i shouldn't be.
i grew
because you demonstrated to me
that we can be,
we have dignity,
so i have the right to be me.
i grew
because you gave me
the courage to live.

and now you've died.
and i don't know what
to do with that.
i'm confused.
i'm hopeless.
i'm abandoned.
i'm angry
because i feel
like you cheated me,
that you cheated you.
everything i learned from you
i guess you were still learning too.
but there was so much more
growing we had left to do.
Yet you were ready to end your dance.
through playing with chance.
the time was up,
the pain too great to bear,
the tears exhausted,
so you made your exit.
and that makes sad
so very, very sad,
so that i don't know what
to do anymore.
i'm stagnant.
i'm empty.

for i love you so much.
you must know
that i love you.
you must know,
i love you so much.
did you doubt it?
did you believe
that you were not
loved?
did you think
i wouldn't notice
your absence?
did you forget
my eternal love
for you?

well if you remember,
then meet me again
someday,
back in fourth grade,
my best friend,
i'll wait out
on baseball's right field
sitting in the grass
picking at clover
for no one is hitting
out here
except maybe you
and we will talk
and talk
and listen
and listen
and talk
and listen
and then
we'll laugh
just before becoming silent
at your finding
our four leaf clover,
then we’ll escape together
over the hedge
long before
the game is over.
next time.

i will miss you so much
until the next time.

Love,
Chad

~ Dedicated to Leonardo Smith, 10/12/1972 - 06/05/2006

ME : The Central Park Horse

2006-04-30T22:42:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/30/2006 10:42 PM

does anyone think about the Horse
lined up along Central Park South?

looking, seeing
into the windsheilds
of taxis flying by
waiting for a slap
on the behind
living
but not the life
running, flying
through
the wooded
hills

there must be
something more
than the life of a central
parked horse
tied up
and bound
with blinders looking
towards a mirrior
of the tailgate
before her

He only listens
to the touch
on his ass
as to when
to begin walking
so he should be
starting
instead of simply
being a slave
within a cemit
concrete
statue

prohibited from
galloping
in wide open spaces
hearing, singing songs
of running the stampede
through Your Open Door
horses running
wild and free
and held in Arms
Loving without reigns

God, let that Central Park
Horse
be stretched
out
across
the wide
green and blue
towards
the orange
blazing sun.

Son

ME : not about land

2006-04-20T20:41:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/20/2006 8:41 PM

it's not about land
it is not about that land
it's about the land
upon your heart
do you think smart

it's about the field
of you
that you plow
and grow
and harvest
guided by the Gardner

it's not about land
it is not about any land
it's about the Earth
within your heart
rumble grumble
you begin to start

now run

ME : Prayer is all about Love.

2006-04-15T18:10:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/15/2006 6:10 PM

Prayer is all about Love.
So just listen,
and call out,
accept the Love,
God pours out for you.
There's no reason to argue
over prayer.
We all call out.
And still always,
the Love of God,
we receive.

Happy Easter!

He Is Risen!

ME : strawberries

2006-04-14T23:19:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/14/2006 11:19 PM

i remember fresh strawberries
right off the field
red plump and busty
smothered in icing
sugar and cream

i look today at slicied
and diced straw
berries on an dessert
plate looking
like mere
cabbage

ME : Patient

2006-04-14T23:16:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/14/2006 11:16 PM

i am patient
because God
is patient
with me

ME : flake snow

2006-04-14T23:10:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/14/2006 11:10 PM

flake
snow
fall
unique
each
one
flake
snow
fall
steps
misteps
fall
snow
fall
blow
around
pushed
pulled
this
way
or
another
until
finally
found

uniquely
here

ME : birds

2006-04-06T21:47:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/6/2006 9:47 PM

As I lay looking up
towards my tent's roof
and listen to the radiator
whiz and hiss,
I long for those days
as a child in Arkansas,
with my body resting
on a grass green bed
where my Mother Earth kissed.

Looking far off
into the night black sky,
looking up to the stars
then reflecting in my mind
with closed eyes,
I hear the chirps,
sneezes,
and melodies
of another kind.

Their conversation
is fascinating
as they call
to one another,
their rhythm
divine;

beats
of nature
resound
in their
voices.

and then
a transition

ME : before it's gone

2006-04-06T21:43:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/6/2006 9:43 PM

you got to stop sitting back into it
and start walking it
see the adventure of life
know it
before it's gone

ME : beautiful today

2006-04-06T21:40:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/6/2006 9:40 PM

that was beautiful today
walking through the tomb
an empty baptismal pool

the last time i walk
through those waters
was when i was eleven

and into a new life for me

ME : arkansas

2006-04-06T21:36:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/6/2006 9:36 PM

wave wheat
to me
say hello

ME : Alright

2006-04-06T21:33:00.000-04:00

Sent: 4/6/2006 9:33 PM

i'm my shadow looking for the real me,
searching outside the clouds for the sun
who's there for me.

i'm gray reaching for the light
hoping and praying for true sight,

and i'm the black that completely agrees
that together we'd make more colors
than seen.

i'm a bit of both,
the black and the white,

so i'm me

and to God
that's Alright.

ME : kissing

2006-02-08T00:05:00.000-05:00

Sent: 2/8/2006 12:05 AM

i miss kissing
it was so long ago
the last time
a while far behind
where my anxious stare
at pale red to pucker
hoped for invitation
then drew into acceptance
and touched warm
tasting new dew drops
of honeysuckle nectar
beaded across the lace
of mint julep leaves
my grazing rolling hills
of the horizon
meeting the sun
carefully
leaving
pink

ME : batting on things

2006-02-06T22:10:00.000-05:00

Sent: 2/6/2006 10:10 PM

i'm a sweaty ten
flushed red cheeks
white knickers
with padding
and my heart
is racing
pounding
batting
on things.
i knew
i'd never be
a baseball player
like mama and daddy
encouraged so
hitting homeruns
shortstopping hits
in left field
sand was far
from my eyes
as i searched
for the fourleaf clover
in the sunlit patch
hoping to receive
a sign of luck
the chance that life
was truly more
than just a game
and still now
many years later
with frozen pink cheeks
as white hairs grow
over a cold hole
in the ice
all around
frozen water
and me fishing
i suddenly realize
i'm still batting
on things
struggling to take
the risk of hitting the ball
it flying high by
me not concious
of the web
catching behind
yet now I see
for a reason
i'm just trying
to find that
perfect pitch
to me
the pitch
the break
the smash
that would make me
bat it out of the park
the one that would be
a full homerun
i just need to know
which
pitch
is
the
bite

ME : life preserver

2006-02-05T20:07:00.000-05:00

Sent: 2/5/2006 8:07 PM

i spent most of my life
angry with God
over everything
i thought was wrong
with my life
until i realized
that it is perfect
in God's Eyes,
thanks to Jesus Christ:
my Life Preserver

ME : Jesus Prays

2006-02-05T19:38:00.000-05:00

Sent: 2/5/2006 7:38 PM

Jesus kneels by His bedside every night
and prays for every single name
who called to Him
for His Father.

ME : sickness

2006-02-05T19:22:00.000-05:00

Sent: 2/5/2006 7:22 PM

is our nature
from birth
we die
struggling
against time's
current

but remember
there's something
much more
than nature

in human

ME : deal with it

2006-01-02T22:22:00.000-05:00

Sent: 1/2/2006 10:22 PM

it's the silence that startles me
the quiet that seems so unfamiliar
because now i can hardly deal with it
i become bored and melancholy at the
lack of change which haunts my abode

ME : seeking love

2005-12-20T19:33:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/20/2005 7:33 PM

i find myself seeking love
in roaring desperation
a lion on the prowl

ME : His clicks

2005-12-20T19:29:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/20/2005 7:29 PM

His clicks mean that you are both beginning to fight,
and that doesn't seem quite right,
because you both know you fear Him,
so better to love one another than test any of them.

ME : to cry.

2005-12-20T19:19:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/20/2005 7:19 PM

i feel as if i might
burst into tears
at any moment.
walking down
the sidewalk,
eyes glazed,
staring off ahead
of me at a blur.
i notice only
the streaks of light
twirling around
the fluorescents
in a kind of dance
of melancholy.
and it seems
always this way.
and it seems that
this is the way
i feel the most comfort,
yet the most discontent.
i hardly remember
what love felt
like anymore.
i can barely remember the joy
of looking into a face
who looked back adoringly.
and yet,
i am not even sure he's
who i am missing or sad for.
i feel that i
have broken
my own heart
somehow.
inadvertently,
i smashed it
with my own unkind words
and scolding.
it's as if i must
abuse grace
to believe it,
or strive for perfection
in ignoring it.
i teeter from one side
to another
unable to find balance.
and this petrifies me
into a place
of complete
and utter
stillness.
i do not
move.
i stand
alone.
and it
is
there
that
i
begin
to cry.

ME : thinking of words

2005-12-20T18:50:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/20/2005 6:50 PM

if i were to think of words to write down on this page
i think their meaning for you would not quite be the same

as mine

for words are evolving creatures in consensus among us all
Webster enters a five six and seven so somewhere there's a fall

in semantics

ME : U

2005-12-16T20:15:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/16/2005 8:15 PM

i'm going to read
a speech today
just me being me
and telling you
all i need to say
there is

ME : attic

2005-12-16T20:13:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/16/2005 8:13 PM

he told us
to go everywhere,
to view his house
in its entirety,
so as i tried to climb
the ladder to the attic,
the steps fell
off the wall,
as he ran up to me
to say,
that was just for show.

ME : constipated

2005-12-15T23:02:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/15/2005 11:02 PM

my muse has left me
run off with the sandman
to make inspired babies
cuddling next to the ocean
and i'm left here alone

constipated

salt between my legs
itching my hair
the ideas pound yet
quake instead of
surfing the shore

exiting

ME : eggs

2005-12-03T00:06:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/3/2005 12:06 AM

it's left me
disappeared
like the Easter eggs
i've looked for
before
in the country club greens
somehow never
to be found
by me at least
and i felt alone
not wanting to win
'the one with the least'

you know
i might have won that time

ME : dark

2005-12-03T00:05:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/3/2005 12:05 AM

you were fumbling in the dark
for the light switch
under the nightlight
that had burned out two nights ago
when you gave the advice
to see

ME : gutter times

2005-12-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/3/2005 12:00 AM

i've fallen back down into the gutter
and still i hear echoed footsteps stop
Light beams through the bars' shadows
and His hand reaches through lines
to touch mine

ME : i wish it would run into a stretch

2005-12-02T23:58:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/2/2005 11:58 PM

i wish it would run into a stretch
cast my arms open wide
lean back into into the pulling
feel the weight of my belonging
knowing it will come

i wish i could finally feel free
to be totally me
cascading

ME : a gun for shooting doves

2005-12-02T23:55:00.000-05:00

Sent: 12/2/2005 11:55 PM

he had
a gun for shooting doves
in the glove compartment
of his car

ME : gratitude

2005-11-12T00:00:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/12/2005 12:00 AM

If i'm doing perfect in the laws
but not doing perfect in the love
flowing from my imperfect person
therefore not being who i am
me
so very saved by Grace
who's flawed and human
some crazy and some wild
yet Loved.

Then I'm a fool.

Who do you look for
wherever you are?

ME : not perfect

2005-11-05T17:40:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/5/2005 5:40 PM

i'm so sorry that i can't be perfect.
i'm so sorry that it is so impossible.
i try and
try and try
and try and
try and try.

and i'm so sorry i can't be perfect.
i'm so sorry when i let you down.
i want you to be happy.
yet i'm not happy.
so right now,

i can't even make myself go around.
around and around. until, i feel stuck.

ME : eight

2005-11-05T17:29:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/5/2005 5:29 PM

W 4th
F to
2nd

Houston & 1st
btwn 2nd & 1st

8:30 p.m.

Make that
8

ME : a ladybug

2005-11-02T22:43:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/2/2005 10:43 PM

a ladybug
crawled out
on the leaf
of an oak tree
just outside
my bathroom window
beyond the wind
chimes swaying
in a clock's
rhythm

ME : ultimate

2005-11-02T22:39:00.000-05:00

Sent: 11/2/2005 10:39 PM

i say 'ultimately'
a lot lately. perhaps
i feel that i am
at the point in time where
i see things in their
Ultimate.

like the
whole world in my
Feeling.

Or just perhaps
i see neon gloves on
a red haired girl
flipping her strobing
metallic toe
and that's an
ultimate.

Who knows?

ANEW : 661.00

2005-08-16T23:50:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/16/2005 11:50 PM

just write. just write. just tell. just tell. just give it all.
just find your fall. just be. just be. just be. just find. a way.

you'll see. oh, i'm trying to see. you'll see. and i'm confused.
I'll see. i'm trying to see but i'm blinded. I'll go. will you lead
me through?

have faith. yes i do believe You truly. have faith. confusion has
peace when believing. faith believes. yes it does and i hear You and
i'm walking. go on. a little sheep of Your flock, thank You Your
rod. i'm a bit of God,

and i'm Humbled.

ANEW : seen before

2005-08-16T23:31:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/16/2005 11:31 PM

i gave some meaning
tonight
a light i shone in
the dark muddled haze
of leaping frogs
and shadowed in
lushness of lily pads
and i have to wonder
is it closer to the
moon than what i've
seen before

ANEW : today's poetry in motion

2005-08-16T23:18:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/16/2005 11:18 PM

that is poetry in motion:
the song upon your heart
ringing in whatever tone,
giving you some start.

the rhythm’s slow,
the rhythm fast;
sometimes good
and sometime's bad,

yet what is to be had
is all within you,

discover you

for you
are the Heart.

ANEW : Abandoned

2005-08-15T20:48:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/15/2005 8:48 PM

Where are the words,
dear Lord?
Is there nothing to say?
I am in some pain
over my letter to my friends
and family
about my being gay
and my position on gay marriage.
I do not want to hurt my parents.
I do not want to cause them pain.
I don't understand
what my life is all about,
and sometimes I become confused
and doubtful of my existence.
Oh Lord,
my God,
please guide
and direct me.
Help me dear Lord
as I search and seek You.
Lift me from this melancholy
and help me to be joyful
at last.
For so long I have searched
for joy,
and ever always
it seems just beyond my reach.
Is it my duty or destiny
to suffer
in this life?
I am confused
and worried.
Be with me,
my dear Father.
Comfort me,
Your child.
I am lost.
Find me.
Draw me near
to Your heart.
In Jesus Christ's Name
I pray.
Love, Chad

ANEW : the next poem

2005-08-15T20:47:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/15/2005 8:47 PM

the next poem seems within me
yet somewhere nestled deep
and out the moment of birthing panic
it will finally be free

there is a verse to be sung
that i have yet to know the tune
a melody for every tongue
the light for many like you

the artist's pad may be blank
but energy roars towards fingertips
and soon when all is outloud
the sketch will come to life

and live.

ANEW : weakling

2005-08-15T20:46:00.000-04:00

Sent: 8/15/2005 8:46 PM

you know

i never
remember
them
telling me
i was
strong

it makes
difficult
finding
during now
that i am
not weak

Gracefully not

ANEW : chick

2005-07-13T20:44:00.000-04:00

Sent: 7/13/2005 8:44 PM

and she's yelling at her
a little girl
is crying inside the hall
crying and weeping
and crying in the hall
resounding
within my quiet walls
and i hear their voices
call down my hall
she's a woman
in her fifties
and she's yelling
at the child

the woman's angry
has had enough
it was finally done
while baby cries
and she cries
as the woman scolds
and scolds
as they climb the fifth stair
their voices vibrating
in my apartment complex's walls
our lives in unison
yet not knowing each other
while sharing
the same dwelling
nevertheless still
her cries are echoing
down the iron, marble,
and tile fall

people are now
coming to their doors
saying a hello
trying to see
what's up
regarding this child
that won't shut up
they hear the woman
as she laughs
bearing a fake
controlled grin
greeting each of them
with simply acting past
'a how do you do'
while bawling child
is in hand
that weeping baby
completely dismissed
and ignored
all the while pushing towards
their home's door

then suddenly
my ears catch
another child call out
lightly happy
calling to his mother
in a closer apartment
on my floor
and i hear his mother answer
within the wall
as child still questions

when
wham
bam
there is slam
and a hard
tight click
behind the door
an invisible wall
the sobbing child
is silenced
and becomes
just a chick

yet i know she's more

ANEW : sun

2005-07-01T20:22:00.000-04:00

Sent: 7/1/2005 8:22 PM

seems we're anxiously
waiting
next to glass
towards sky
for the sun
to rise

missing
the knock
at the door
of our neighbor
asking,
how we are

how shall we
honor
the Son

ANEW : Who is Jesus

2005-06-21T22:21:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/21/2005 10:21 PM

I.

When everything
is drowning your every,
He walks into the room.
In silence,
He sits down next,
beside you,
and He puts His arm
around your shoulders,
and flinchless,
you fall
into His warm hug.

you break down and cry,
and He leans in,
listening to every word.
you never hear a sigh,
a murmered wondered "why?",
because He Loves you,

And He knows
and understands
what it is like
to be human in life.
He did the Perfect God
through human,
and we love Him.

II.

Oh my Savoir,
the Fulfillment
of the Holy Story
that is God's History
on the Earth.

You are God's
Sacrifical Lamb
doing what Father Abraham,
Father of Humanity,
was finally told
not to do.

Lay down
His Own Son
on the blood
spilled altar,
because of belief
and faith
in You.

Instead,
Abraham and Issac
sacrificed a lamb
in appreciation
of Your Amazing
Mercy.

You, Jesus,
are the Ultimate
Sacrifice
God did do.
Truly,

Paid the price
for me,
setting us free,
because life
is so hard
to live
Your Being,

The Real
as You Did,
when You
were on Earth;

For You were honest
outward / inward
through and through

You are God.

III.

Oh my dear
Older Brother,
You have been my Hero
from the start
deep inside my heart
in every
single
way.

I want
so much
to be
like You.

And it's now
I realize
that I'll never
be able
to achieve that,

so
I must
be me
just me
through You

for God.

i'm so Thankful
that You Knew me
from the Start.

IV.

Jesus Saves me!!!

V.

And That's Grace.

ANEW : another

2005-06-20T20:42:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/20/2005 8:42 PM

i have come to the point
where i have more fun
by myself
for some reason so afraid
to be hurt/hurt another
so alone

i go on wearily wandering
no longer understanding
the reason
for not needing another
when some person loves me
i hope

ANEW : Untitled

2005-06-16T20:55:00.000-04:00

Sent: 6/16/2005 8:55 PM

i'm simply a part
of the carpet of God
very simply a single
colored thread
in The Full Tapestry

that is
God's Masterpiece

Where the Deer and the Antelope Play

Next Chapter, New Blog

Rainy Days and Mondays

Snapture

I *Shot* New York

Daily walks

between cars

The Language of God

The Ministerial Challenge of Spiritual Abuse

my eyes spy

The Dilemma of the Inclusive Christian Identity

Next Chapter: New Beginning

Spring in New York City 2010

Wedding Queer Visions and Same-Sex Marriage

The Promise of Hope

Beautiful Easter Saturday

Oh for WARM quiet nights of quiet stars!

met my breath

Two Pieces

the "straight" voice

All the cool boys

Couples Counseling

did Jesus shower on the third day

downtowntrain

vinyl maxim

Lunch – Hold the Bloody Tongue Sandwich

Birds of a Feather

Spiritual Abuse

Time

Trust

ME: icicles

ME: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

ME: Soul Food Comforts

ME: Hoping for Hope

ME: new friends =

ME: Speaking at The Riverside Church

ME: Now are the days

ME: Red and Yellow, Black and White . . . AND Orange!

ME: Drizzles

ME: Nightlights of the NBA

ME : live 1

ME : umbrella

ME : invitation to smile

ME : THANK YOU

Poetry : trying to be

ME : TV

ME : turning the tv off

ME : thing

Poetry : dream on God's shoulder

ME : Dear Uncle Stan

Poetry : man on fire

Poetry : polls

Poetry : scent

Poetry : alone

ME : wrestles

ME : Dear Leonardo

ME : The Central Park Horse

ME : not about land

ME : Prayer is all about Love.

ME : strawberries

ME : Patient

ME : flake snow

ME : birds

ME : before it's gone

ME : beautiful today

ME : arkansas

ME : Alright

ME : kissing

ME : batting on things

ME : life preserver

ME : Jesus Prays

ME : sickness

ME : deal with it

ME : seeking love

ME : His clicks

ME : to cry.

ME : thinking of words

ME : U

ME : attic

ME : constipated

I Shot New York