Forgiveness is an Inside Job

I am an eternal optimist.  Its a part of my personal creed.  But this is not with out reason.  I doubt that you'll find anyone who would say otherwise.  And this is not without merit.  I've enjoyed a lot of success during the past few decades.  At the same time, I've known defeat and frustration.  I am no stranger to success or failure.  It has me be well rounded, or at least I'd like to see it that way.  Over the past month I've sat with so many different emotions that I've come to rediscover sides of myself that had long been forgotten.  I've also discovered new truths and new strengths that will serve me well from this point forward.  I am oddly excited by the many new opportunities for growth and development that this sad chapter has opened to me.  I remain optimistic about myself and about life in general. 

Over the past few days I've become crystal clear that our ability to move on, Damon and I, is directly linked to our ability to forgive.  In so many ways this is the most difficult thing that I've ever felt called to do.  After all, what I am supposed to do with the deep hurt and betrayal?  How do I cope with the deep emotional scar of having something so dear to me ripped away in such as cruel manner?  Something that was my own creation.  Make no mistake about it; my ouster from ELEMENT was meant to hurt.  I was meant to be humiliated and put in my place.  It is no accident that there is a cloud over my name and suspicion spread about my leadership and management of ELEMENT.  All the while hiding behind personnel issues to avoid having to address specific allegations.  Its almost brilliant, except it provides no convincing explanation.  And no matter how many times a lie is told, it still a lie.  Time with reveal what's true and what's not.

If we are truly being fair-minded, and if there were legitimate concerns, wasn't there a point when I might have been informed of them and allowed to correct any deficiencies?  And how fantastic must these claims have been that it was necessary to plot and scheme while I was out of town visiting my mother and changing the locks during the night?  Why was it necessary to enlist (or be enlisted by) a subordinate to undermine my leadership from within the program and undermine me personally in the community?  A six-hour meeting to explain my removal isn't an explanation, it's trying to convince others of a point of view.  Consider it to be having a retrospective trial where there is no defense allowed.  Most people would think this unfair.  Consider the level of personalization and the profound hostility evident at all levels of these events.  It is reasonable to think that there may be more to these things than meets the eye.  This is much deeper.... and it's profoundly personal.

I just don't get it and I've made peace with that fact.  In fact, it is folly to try to understand the incomprehensible.  I will never understand what makes one person desire to humiliate or bully another.  I will never be able to wrap my mind around such total betrayal of friendship. What motivates another to respond to love and respect with such... I can't even think of a word to describe it.  During my quiet time this week, I was reminded of King David.  He writes in the Psalms about being betrayed.  While I don't have chapter and verse, the text says "if anyone else had done this thing, I could have borne it.  But you, you were my brother. We worshipped in the temple together..."  Betrayal by a friend is an unspeakable hurt.  And the impacts are truly too numerous to even imagine.  And, even given all the high drama, subterfuge, and palace intrigue, it all is simply written off as a personnel issue.  But in honesty, this was engineered to have a profound impact on every area of my life.  It was meant for my destruction.  And good people remain silent and just allow this to be.  So much for our work of supporting authentic and loving communities of men.  No, I will never understand all of this and I've made peace with that.  I accept all that has happened and I'm determined to emerge a better person.

I am a person of faith, perhaps more now than at any point in my life.  I know that bitterness and resentment come easy in the wake of all that has happened.  As my mother would say, bitterness requires nothing of me.  And I've spent more than my share of time wallowing in the pain and being justified in my anger.  That time has now passed.  These seeds of resentment can find no place in the fertile soil of my heart.  To focus on the pain only creates more pain.  I can see the emotional toil that this is taking on both Damon and I.  What you think about you bring about.  What you appreciate appreciates.  It's no wonder that keeping our focus on the injustice of what happened will only keep us stuck.  In fact, its a spiritual principle.  The Universe makes no distinctions when responding to the intent of our hearts.  It just responds with more of what we put out there.  I am quite clear of the impact of unforgiveness on the soul and how it ripples out into every area of life.  There is no safe place to store the hurt and the indignation.  There is no container in our hearts or minds that is strong enough to store all of the negative emotions so that they will not seep out into other areas of our lives.  The only way to freedom is forgiveness.

Now I'm not an expert on the subject of forgiveness and that my point of view on the subject may not meet universal agreement.  But these are my truths that have liberated my soul in my hours of darkness. 

Most often, we have it that forgiveness is something that we do to or for the other person.  In language, we say things like "you must forgive him" or we ask for people to forgive us when we've done something hurtful.  But this verbal shorthand would have us believe that forgiveness is directed outward, toward another person.  But in my view, forgiveness is an internal process that has very little to do with the other person. I can offer forgiveness and never again be in relationship with the other person involved.  Forgiveness is an inside job.  And there is no external thing that can make this happen for us.  The other person doesn't have to be deserving.  We don't have to profess our forgiveness.  Nor do we have to go through artificial processes or rituals to bring forgiveness to a situation.  Forgiveness can only come from a heart that is ready to once again be free. 

I forgive because I know that the seed of resentment is cancerous to my soul and its spread will destroy who I've known myself to be.  I am reminded in this moment of Reverend Deborah and can hear her voice clearly in my head.  "Pain pushes until vision pulls."  I am ready to be pulled into vision.  Forgiveness, in the spiritual sense, is to be free from the impact of the offense.  I don't have the power to forgive or absolve anyone for what they have done.  That can only come from God.  But when I am stuck in the impact, I litigate the points of the offense again and again.  What I get from all of this is the privilege of being right.  But it still has me stuck.  And as long as I stay stuck, I am separated from my good.  Possibility is out of my reach and abundance is a far-off concept.  The cancer of unforgiveness must be treated and removed to prevent its spread.  And that time, for me, is now.

I allow myself to be free of the impacts of all that has happened.  I stand in my greater yet to be with appreciation and gratitude.  I no longer litigate what happened and who did what.  Thankfully, that will be left to those who are much wiser and more objective than I.  I know that nothing was done to me, in the truest sense, because who I am is a divinely inspired idea.  I am perfect, whole and complete.  I am intact.  And I am released from the impact and the pain.  I claim my freedom.   Thank God!

What I know is this: these thoughts will come up again and I will be, for a moment, in the impact of it all.  But I know that those feelings and thoughts are only an invitation to once again release myself from the net of hurt and to again choose to be free.  I will simply choose it.  No longer am I content to stand on the sidelines of my own life, wallowing in sorrow and sadness.  Instead I step out powerfully because I know who I am and what I'm up to in this life.  I am in this game to win it.  And carrying the burden of unforgiveness is just something that I am unwilling to do.  This is who I am and this is what I'm about.  Any any other story is just that, a story.

The only person with the power to change me is me.  I refuse to be chained by the actions of others.  My soul is unyielding and my heart is enlarged.  I emerge stronger and wiser; ready to climb the next mountain that enthusiasm and optimism; because that's how I roll. 

So I say now, that it all within me that needs to be forgiven or needs forgiveness, is blessed and released. 

I am no longer enslaved.  I am free.

Why HIV Prevention Still Matters for Gay Men

Those who know me well know that I've been thinking about stepping back and creating a new 'what's next' after more than 20 years as an HIV preventionist.  In some ways, I'm lucky to have had something to fall back on after the events of the past month.  I've often stated that I wanted to move on in 18-24 months and retire from the world of HIV prevention.  But I had planned on moving on after ELEMENT was firmly established as its own organization.  While there are some that feign confusion today, this was always the intent of ELEMENT.

As events unfolded, it would seem that I no longer have the choice to move on at an appropriate time somewhere on the horizon.  As even as I continue to create what's next for me, there is a large part of me that would rather just leave the paradigm of HIV prevention and do something that is a complete departure.  But this lacks honesty; I've not yet fulfilled all that is in my heart around gay men's health and wellness.  Which is fortunate, considering that my mind has not yet released itself from thoughts and considerations about things that would make a difference for gay men.  As I think of it, I am more convinced that HIV prevention matters, maybe more now than ever.

Shortly after I moved to Colorado, I was asked to deliver brief remarks during Denver's 2006 World AIDS Day Rally.  I began with remembrance; remembering friends past, fellow soldiers in the fight against AIDS, my best friend....my mother.  I talked about medical advances and the changes that we've seen since the beginning of the epidemic.  I talked about complacency and fatigue; about the weight of losing an entire generation of men.  I shared my thoughts about the state of HIV prevention.


...'If our deepest intent is to positively impact the AIDS epidemic in our communities, we must be willing to rethink everything we know about HIV prevention.  We must be willing to shift the paradigm and inquire into the context of people's lives.  We must abandon prevention models  that are ineffective and be willing to speak truth to power.... We must have the courage to be controversial, not for the sake of controversy, but to advance the science of HIV prevention in a way that is meaningful to those whom we hope to serve."


These years later, as I read these words, I am reminded that this point of view is not simply my own perspective.  These words, informed by men who shared their thoughts and perspectives for nearly 20 years, are reflective of a central truth.  This truth is so true, that we all know some version of it.  Health departments across the country bemoan increasing rates of HIV infection among gay men.  Likewise, local HIV prevention planning groups struggle to identify effective programming for gay men.  Prevention needs assessments mirror themselves year after year.  HIV positive men speak of isolation, stigma, fear and ignorance.   HIV negative men seem to be making their own choices around HIV risk while the mainstream HIV prevention apparatus remains conspicuously silent.  What all these truths tell us is that the nature of HIV prevention for gay men has changed.  And, those of us who care about HIV education, prevention and intervention for gay men must keep up with these realities.  This is one point of view and may not be a global truth, but it is the view from the cheap seats.

I really don't have to look far to have an opinion about HIV prevention.  As a 46 year-old, Black gay man who is HIV negative, I know what it's like to live for more than 25 years in the shadow of an seemingly unending epidemic.  And while its true that I've spent more than 20 years as a champion of prevention, I've spent more than my share of time out of integrity with this truth.  I have been on so many sides of the gay experience that it makes my head spin.

I've been the guy who is up for three days chasing the party.  I've been the guy who has posted bail for my friendly dealer.  I've been the guy at the club that everyone wants to know because I have direct hookup with the best pill in town.  I was always a friend of the DJ, and have danced away entire weekends.  I've been the guy who has spent so much time on line cruising that I used to call it working a shift.  And I've been with so many guys that I call it doing my part for world peace, one man at a time.  I've had a profile on Bareback City, spent entire weekends in compromising positions,  and party and play.....  my understanding is not academic.

I do not own being negative as something that I've done.  In fact, the math speaks volumes.  This is how I know that the very nature of risk gives rise to risk.  I knew that I was making conscious choices about risk and had even developed some interesting thoughts about risk reduction in the chaos of a mansion filled with tweaked out party boys.  At some point, I'd even resigned myself to contracting HIV.  I had considered how I'd explain it to my colleagues.  Once, as I was waiting for my test results, I'd even planned a weekend of partying in Palm Springs.  When the result returned negative, I remember being crestfallen.

Even at this time in my life, with all the insanity going on, I met some of the most amazing gay men.  Perhaps it may have been their circumstance that allowed such an unvarnished glimpse of the beauty and dignity within gay men.  At a time when most would have said that I had fallen the furtherest away from my own values, I found such a wonderfully authentic community of men.  I witnessed great acts of kindness and compassion among men who were deeply mired in their own various and sundry addictions.  I used to love the after hours scene and would often be found with a small group of guys talking about our lives and whatnot.  Among these disparate boys and men, I continued to see their remarkable humanity and a generosity of spirit that I think inhabits all gay men.  I also saw exactly why HIV prevention efforts would most likely elude this part of our community.  And even if there were programs to reach these men, none would dare go that deep into the community to talk to them.

These men inspired Tribal Revival, a five-year project to address club drugs, methamphetamine and poly-substance use among gay men.  Our novel approach was to ask gay men what they wanted from their high and then asking them if they were getting that.  Most often, these men were not getting what they wanted from being high and through harm reduction approaches and motivational interviewing techniques, we proposed that we could create new social norms around club drug use unprotected sex.  But even then, our approach was contextual.

What I've learned over these years is that love, unto itself, is healing.  From my perspective, AIDS is no longer the big, bad boogey man that it was back in my earlier days.  I would argue that the collective silence around HIV/AIDS in our community has less to do with denial, indifference or even pathology; it may be that we've made an uneasy peace with AIDS, each in our own way.

Consider that gay men are making all manner of independent choices, including if, when or with whom to use a condom.  What if, similarly, gay men are making fully informed choices when choosing to use any kind of drug.  Can it be possible that gay men are rejecting traditional prevention models because they are perceived to be moralistic, over simplified, or that they don't fit our own picture of our lives.  Is it possible that younger gay men just want to be free and live lives of their own making, even if those lives look much different that what was possible a generation ago?  Do we have room in our concept of risk to honor the couple that considers all the angles and then make an informed choice to have condom-free sex?  How does the collective mourning and losses of the AIDS epidemic rest in the hearts of older gay men?  And what of the men who have simply given up, and have exhausted their desire to stay HIV negative.   We can really go on and on, but all of these scenarios include a host of contextual factors  that may give occasion to high-risk behaviors.  But programs that simply focus on behaviors will rarely create enough relatedness to have open conversation with these men about the context in which their risks occur.  Even those who may disagree must concede that behavior rarely occurs without a context. And this is why HIV prevention still matters for gay men.

I have yet to see a health department give grants to gay men to support our emotional wellbeing simply because they are concerned about the overall health of our community.  And I've not seen social research firms breaking down the door to study how wellbeing affects the choices we make in our lives.  Local planning groups don't convene to assess how social and political isolation impact the psyche of gay men, nor are they interested in how survivor guilt and fatigue rest in the hearts of gay men my age.  I love my colleagues, but I doubt that without the imperatives of a sustained response to AIDS that we'd get together and explore how to promote healthy social networks.  I am doubtful that the Colorado legislature would have allocated tobacco tax settlement monies simply to have gay men have meaningful interactions with one another.  I've yet to attend a national conference on gay men's sexual health or gay men aging with grace and ease that was not associated somehow with HIV.   Those things that impact our lives on a daily basis in profound ways have no standing onto themselves; it is the lens of HIV prevention that directs funding in these areas.  Without exception, programs funded to reach gay men are in fact attempting to shift behaviors through contextual means.  Just not enough.

"...We must lead our communities through inspiration and passion.  We must stop asking folks to feel sorry for us, and instead inspire them to partner with us....We must speak to each of our communities in its own voice and ensure that cultural competency extends beyond race, but embraces culture, sexual orientation and age.  If we embrace each of our communities just as they are, loving them and accepting them as perfect, whole and complete, our acceptance will pave the way for their participation."


And that, my friends, has HIV prevention being relevant and contextualized in such a way that that gay men can find a place to simply be ourselves and let our our collective and individual wounds begin to heal within the context of community.  HIV prevention matters.

The Sanctuary of the Heart

Lord, prepare me to be a sanctuary; pure and holy, tried and true.  And with thanksgiving, I'll be a living sanctuary for you.

Christopher

How I Got the Gospel of Gay: it was a gift

During the Landmark Forum, it is suggested that most of the pain and suffering in our lives come from our own inauthenticities.  That's a really powerful distinction to consider, regardless if you ultimately agree with it or not.  As I've sat with the possibilities before me I was hungry to distinguish my inauthenticities, if there were any.  Earlier this morning, I was meditating on honesty.  I don't know why, but it was just what was in my head.  After all, I consider myself to be a pretty honest person.  But I got clear that being pretty honest isn't the same thing as being honest.  And then I considered that honesty requires trust.  I'm no where near a place that I can talk about trust.  It was like a light bulb coming on in a dark room!  Being honest doesn't require trust, it requires honesty.

I move on quite well.  Literally, if you look at my resume you'll see jumps from San Diego to San Francisco; San Francisco to Los Angeles; Los Angeles to San Francisco; San Francisco to San Diego; and on and on until I choose to make Denver home.  One of the impacts of this nomadic existence is that I tend to close doors on entire chapters of my life.  Hence I am fragmented within myself.  No wonder some think me odd or that I think too much of myself!  This morning when I was in my practice, these doors came storming open and events in my past were aligned in a way that I really got to see a major inauthenticity in may entire way of being and relating that goes all the way back to 1982.  Something happened that was so major and transformative, yet it had been shoved so far in the back of my mind that I couldn't have imagined that it influences my life today.

When I was 18, freshly discharged from the Army, I took my gay 'ol self to San Francisco to live the crazy gay lifestyle that I'd spent years dreaming about.  Most often, when I talk about these days in San Francisco  the focus is on the beginning of the AIDS crisis.  But even while that was brewing, something else happened.  I nearly died.  Seriously.  How does something like that get pushed to the background?  Especially when I have a deep scar that wraps half way around my chest that I see every day!

I developed an infection in my pericardial sac, the sac that contains the heart.  It was the result of major oral surgery.  My experience of it was simply waking up in the hospital one day.  I woke up with ice and gauze stuffed into hole in my side.  I had a tube in my trachea and couldn't speak.  I think my mother was in the room when I finally woke.  For six weeks, I'd been 100% sedated in effort to quell the infection.  Course after course after course of antibiotics seemed ineffective.  For days the resulting fever would spike to 106 degrees.  I was later told I became delusional because of the high fever and the morphine.  I later remembered a recurring dream that I had been kidnapped by lesbians who had taken my clothes and were shooting me up with heroin!  I remember being restrained and being naked in a tub of ice.  After six weeks, because of the intervention of one of my nurses (a lesbian!) I was moved into a room, weaned off morphine and given no more antibiotic.  Whatever happened to me from there was up to my own body and God.  Defying the odds, I woke up.  I weighed 98 pounds and my youngest sister told me that I looked like E.T.

My mother was told that if I lived, I may have severe brain damage because of the fever and that I may be addicted to morphine.  None of the dire predictions about my fate came true.  I remember my doctor, Dr. Verrier, telling me that someone must have been praying for me and that God had something in mind for me.  A young, bearded doctor with piercing blue eyes, his strong gaze and the tone in his voice remained in my memory for years.  Around my bedside, relative after relative told me how much they had prayed for me and how God had shown me favor.  But I was feeling sorry for myself.   Everything in my life was upside down.  I hated being in the hospital.  I had been very healthy all my life and now I was an emaciated broken man.  Then God sent me Richard.

Being in a V.A. hospital is its own experience.  Being in a V.A. hospital when you are 18 (in peacetime) is something beyond description.  It was an oppressive environment.  I was the youngster, so people always came to my room to cheer me up.  Richard was one of these people.  He somehow became my nurse and everyday would spend an inordinate amount of time trying to get me to smile or laugh.  He was gay and spoke to me as gay men should speak; with concern for my wellbeing and affirmation of who I was.  And he was kinda cute.  I remember doing a lot of crying; feeling sorry for myself and being mad at God.

One day, Richard came into my room and flung open the curtains.  He turned to me and put his hands on his hips.  "Just because you almost died doesn't mean you have to look like you're dying."  His tone was stern and I could see determination on his face.  He went back over to the cart he'd pushed in and moved it toward me.  He had made an entire little spa on that table.  As he raised the head of the bed, he looked me deep in the eyes and said "I saw you had your ear pierced.  I brought a whole bunch of things for you to try on, but I think I'd like the simple gold stud better."  In that moment, his humanity left me so touched, that I found my own humanity and reclaimed my dignity.  While Richard cut my hair, clipped my nails, brushed my teeth and more, I had never felt so cared for by another human being.  He told me how fortunate I was and how this near death experience had given me a second chance.  He said that maybe there was something that I was supposed to do with my life.

This was right at the beginning of the AIDS epidemic.  And the sheer horror of the early 1980s in San Francisco completely eclipsed this major life event.  A few months later, I fell in with a Christian group, SOS Ministries.  These were the Jesus freaks that would hang out on Polk Street singing in doorways.  As I look back, I can't imagine that there was a more confusing time in my life.  What I got from these nice people, their devotion to one another and to God, was a constructive place to channel my new lease on life.  And that's the story of how I ultimately became a preacher.

As I stand here and look back, I can see how being part of a Christian ministry, gave me a sense of purpose and belonging that I lacked.  I was so taken by their faith that I tried to conform to their expectations.  I even lived in a house filled with ex-gay people called the Candlestick house because it was near Candlestick park.  I went to the Exodus and Love In Action support groups for ex-gay people. This is where I met my dear friend Gilbert.  As I write this, I remember Monty, the head gay in the house.  And Joe, he had curly blond hair and twinkling blue eyes.  One by one, we all found our way out of that cult-like environment. Gilbert lives in LA.  I should call him.  These guys, these gay men, are the men who taught me to love and support my gay brothers and how important unconditional support can be.

After I left the Jesus freaks, I began to hang out with my old friends from Polk Street.  But it was different now.  At 18, I was the wise one that survived the streets and a near death experience.  The boys used to call me Momma.  I used to just walk the stroll or hang out at Mrs. Browns, a coffee shop at the corner of Polk and Post streets.  Most often, all I could offer was a cup of coffee, a friendly word or a listening ear.  Every now and then, when I had money, I'd gather up the little ones and get them a hotel room so they could sleep in a safe place. Once I ran into one of the little ones, a 12 year old who was on speed.  He had just been attacked by a trick.  He had a deep bite on his arm where this old man literally took a bite out of him.  Not knowing what to do for him, I saw an undercover cop car coming down the street.  So I pushed him out in front of it.  He was reunited with his family and I hope that he is alive and well today.  I did this without being employed by an organization and with no financial support.

Once, on a rainy night, I was sitting in Mrs. Browns and one of the older guys (he was about 17) comes and sits at my table and asks me if I can buy him a cup of coffee.  He sits and just stares me down.  After a while, his face begins to soften and I can see that he starting to cry.  But instead he gets angry and clumsily pulls out a pocket knife.  "Why do you care about us?" he asked accusingly.  I told him that it was because someone had to and it might as well be me.  As he began to cry, I moved to his side of the booth and held him as he wept.  His name is Pat Tuttle, and I hope that he is alive and well.

That is how I met Gordon Shaborne, a County Commissioner from Multnoma County, Oregon.  Portland is a stop on migration path for homeless youth.  He was in San Francisco, the next stop on the southern migration corridor, to see what was happening in San Francisco to support homeless youth.  That's how he found out about me.  He was in town for a few days, and we met several times.  The Multnomah County Commissioners were undertaking an initiative called Project LUCK: Link Up the Community for Kids.  He asked me if I would be willing to go to Portland for a while and help them.  Their goal was to improve coordination among youth-serving agencies to the benefit of homeless youth.  The main focus was to relocate a host of services to The Camp, a popular area where these youth congregated. If I came, he said, he would find me a place to stay with some gay Christians.  So Pat Tuttle and I went off to Portland.  In addition to helping establish the initiative, I became its spokesperson.  As this was an volunteer gig, I got a job selling cars at Wentworth Chevy Town.  I stayed in Portland for about a year.  Gordon had come out of the closet and he and I were rumored to be having a fling.  One day, on a test drive, my customer tells me that he is a newspaper reporter and that he is investigating Gordon's secret wild gay sex life.  I quit my job and moved back to California a few days later.  Thats how I ended up at Simpson College.

It occurs to me that I closed this chapter of my life and never looked back.  When I talk about San Francisco, I talk about it from the perspective of being an 18 year old gay boy at the beginning of the AIDS epidemic.  When I talk about how and why I love gay men, I talk about my friend Glenn LaValley, whose death led me to be in action, resulting in my first AIDS-related position at the Inland AIDS Project.   When I look back before that, I call my married year the lost year.  But I've not looked back beyond that.   This fixed way of being is the result of a calling to be of service to my gay brothers. I even pastored a gay church in San Bernardino for about a year.  Our Father's House was an offshoot of the local MCC which had just closed its doors.

Having closed the door to this and other chapters of my life has resulted in an inauthentic way of being.  Having survived a near-death experience, having had gay men show up as angels at pivotal moments, and caring so deeply for an ever growing group of homeless gay boys has etched in my psyche a fixed way of being.  These factors, at that point in my life, gave me a sense of purpose.  Those boys on Polk Street who ate because I fed them or who didn't have to turn a trick because they had a safe place to stay, their faces was over me like a flood as I write this.  Many of them died; drug overdoses.  I have no idea how these men fared during the early epidemic.  My friend Doug, we met at Simpson, was homeless, living with AIDS, mired in addiction, and facing significant mental health challenges the last time I saw him.  It was about ten years ago.  He easy beauty was only somewhat recognizable all those years later and probably only to an old friend.

Just now I am reminded of the scripture that came to me yesterday and it makes perfect sense.  For the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.  Yesterday, I was focused on the gifts of God.  But what I know today is that its the calling is also without repentance.  It is the calling that never goes away. And many are called, and many ignore that which quietly pulls on their heart.  Back in that V.A. hospital, through the sweetness and love of Richard, a gay man who was just doing his job and living his life, I heard God's voice and accepted a call.  I spent the next five or so years trying to live out this call through traditional Christian service.  Hell, I even got married because that's what young preachers do.  But I left that, because it didn't fit.

This morning I am transformed by my own past.  I see my own truth.  I've been seeing my own life through a glass, darkly.  I've known myself only partly.  But now I am face to face with my truth, and I know even as I am known.  And now remains faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.  For the past 20 years, I've been living out a calling without consciousness.  I've connected this call to love gay men as something that comes from me; but its not.  It comes from something deep within me that is divinely inspired.

So I've got a new gospel now.  Its the gospel of gay and it good and  very good.

The doors of the church are now open...  That's my honest truth.

I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes to the Hills

Sometimes it seems as though down is up and up is down.  That has been kinda what's going on for me for the past couple of days.  I have begun to settle with some news that I didn't want to hear.  The harsh realities of unemployment are beginning to set in.  Getting up and at 'em in the morning is coming a bit easier.   But the sadness lingers, then turns to anger, then calls for forgiveness, and then becomes sadness again.  It is quite an interesting journey.  My mind begs for closure and my heart rebels.  The question of fairness has long since been erased from my mind.  It's like being on an emotional and psychic roller coaster that won't stop.  Down is still up.  Up is still down.  Or so it seems.

For the past few days, I have been experimenting with my own faith.  Sure, faith is easy to profess when times are easy and everything is going my way.  But in the midst of darkness, when hope is lost and the way is unclear, can I still summon my faith?  That has been the meditation on my heart for the past few days.  The truth of the matter is a bit of yes and a bit of no.  But on balance, I'd say my faith is intact.

Yesterday, I was called into remembrance of Sister Terry's words.  Now I've been having a time in the morning, getting into a place of praise and then being in the silence to hear what there is for me to hear at this time in my life.  I mean, how do I sit with all that's going on right now?  Where does forgiveness come from?  Why am I the one who has to forgive?  What's next?  These questions race through my head a million miles a minute.  Standing in a place of worship quiets these questions that plague my heart and my head.  I remember that deliverance comes with praise.

At some point yesterday afternoon, I swear that I'd sang every song that came through my head.  But I wasn't done yet.  I was brought to the remembrance of my old tattered praise and worship song book.  I grabbed it from its resting place and began to turn through it and, when a particular song hit me, began singing.

You are my hiding place, you always fill my heart with songs of deliverance.  I will trust in you.

And as the melodies coursed through me, these simple lyrics inspired by the Psalms were like a comforting balm for my soul.


He is our peace, who has broken down every wall.  He is our peace.  He is our peace.  

And I began to find peace.  I began to let go.  I released expectation and put it all in God's hands.


Cause me to come to thy river, o God.  Cause me to come.  Cause me to drink.  Cause me to live.


I understood that, despite what I might think or feel, recent events have brought me to my knees and have restored my faith.


Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.  

I put my trust in God.


Thou, O Lord, art a shield about me.  You're my Glory.  You're the Lifter of My Head.

Perhaps this is just what I needed.  Maybe I just needed a kick in the ass to get clear about what's important to me.   So I'm releasing any expectation of how things should be and I stand in the here and now trusting that all things will be just as they are meant to be.   I am not concerned about making something happen.  I step out in faith everyday knowing that the good I seek is seeking me.  At the edge of the abyss, I found the voice of God entreating me to jump.  This thing I'd thought to be for my destruction has actually brought me new life.  So I jump and allow it to be.

This afternoon, as I write this, my eyes fall to my open bible and rest on this promise... the gifts and calling of God are without repentance.

So I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, from whence cometh my help (Psalm 121).  I lift my up my hands in total praise.  Amen.

Communities of Choice

Over the past few weeks, I've learned many interesting lessons about community and belonging.  For at least the past two years, I have structured my thoughts about community along with the book that has, in my circles, come to be known simply as The Block Book.  As I find that I have a lot of time for reading lately, I decided to get back into it and see what new thoughts and ideas I could get from a fresh reading.

Oddly, even though I've picked my this book and read from it literally hundreds of times, I didn't make it past the second page of the introduction.  Often, when we talk about community, we talk as if there is some monolithic group of people who make up the particular community that we're talking about.  Even among sociologists, it is difficult to nail down a particular definition of community.  But here, not two pages into it, Block makes an important distinction that may throw traditional definitions on their head.  Block distinguishes community as the experience of belonging.  Each time we find a place of belonging, we are having the experience of community.  To belong, he asserts, is to be related to and a part of something.  This belonging is membership, which he distinguishes as being at home in the broadest sense of the phrase.  Having recently come to know the feeling of exile and exclusion, I have learned that when push comes to shove, the math of community changes drastically.

I hold myself as a community activist.  I certainly understand the importance of belonging and creating spaces that contribute to a sense of belonging.  For my whole life, I've been blessed with wonderfully diverse grouping of friends.  I've known men and women who, for whatever reason, have felt displaced and without community.  I've heard stories from many of my friends here in Denver about how they just don't feel connected to our local gay men's community.  It really doesn't take much to excite me about the notion of community or for me to be passionate about our community.  In my own life, in my partner's life, and in the lives of so many gay men with whom I interact, I see the difference that community makes.  A bit cautious, I still believe in community, but I've gained a new understanding and respect for what takes to be authentic in community.

Most often, when I think about it, I have experienced the most enduring sense of community among strangers.  This week, again, I had the occasion to be in community with a relative stranger.  I had a meeting with a young man who was visiting Denver.  He had I met for breakfast simply because a mutual friend, Scott, suggested that we know one another.  The only things that I knew about him was that he was flying home to Seattle later in the day, he had just recently attended the Gay Men's Health Leadership Academy, and that we shared a mutual friend.  As I walked into Racine's, he saw me enter and waved to me so that I knew where to find him.  When I approached him, we greeted one another with a robust hug as if we'd known each other for years.  I was surprised to learn that he had only met Scott the evening before, at the suggestion of yet another friend.  For the next two hours, we had the type of fellowship that only folk who are willing to be known can have.  My new friend, Paris, and I were experiencing community as a choice, just because people in each of our lives were in community with one another.  Community isn't a mystery; it's a conscious choice.

As I look at my own blind spot and inauthenticity about community, I have seen how community can be such an empty word.  Its like my Facebook friends, many of whom I do not know and don't rise to the level of friend.  Or in other areas where those whom I'd thought to be my friends demonstrated that they are not.  No harm, no foul; it's just nice to know what's what.  I was having lunch with one of my young friends yesterday.  We talked about the notion of friendship and how the word is used to connote things other than markers of friendship or mutual commitments.  Really, when used without intention, these words are empty and meaningless.  My own authenticity was not because I didn't have intention, but because I left no room for choice.  But here is another place I can take responsibility, be authentic about where I've been inauthentic, and create a new possibility.  So I'm taking on authentic communities of choice and a new possibility for gay men in Denver and the surrounding areas.

Right now, my community is small.  And I think that its a good thing.  But what I know is that the wonderfully diverse people who come into my world will find a sense of belonging and membership.  Even before I see their face or know their name, I set my intention to being a welcoming and loving space.  The choice to be in community will always be present in my actions and in my speaking.   I will actively reach out to those who are seeking community invite them to join.  I will resist easy labels of friendship or community for their own sake, but will hold open my heart as if it has never been hurt and continuously extend the invitation to community.  And I am okay knowing that not everyone will choose to be in community with me.  After all, its the choosing that makes it so special.

The doors of my heart are open..... and you are welcome here.

Have Faith in Your Dreams

This morning, as I was in my Spirit mind, I was startled by the still soft voice asking me to listen.  I took notice of the voice and was open to what needed to be heard.  As I opened myself to listen, I was still in worship, singing along to a Ricki Byars Beckwith tune.  A bit more insistent, I was entreated to listen.  In that moment, I realized that my listening to God wasn't much listening at all.  Hearing and acknowledging the urging to listen, I continued as I had been and still expected to hear something.  So I went into the silence so that I might hear.  "When did you stop believing in your dreams?"  My first thought was to deny that I'd stopped believing in dreams.  But, when I looked to see what was true in the question, I began to remember how I used to believe in dreams.


At some point along the way, I got it mixed up a bit.  Back in the day, I knew that my dreams had power and I acted like I knew it.  But as I look back, I can see the slow erosion of that faith.  I'm not sure when I began to have more faith in my ideas than I did in my dreams.  I think it may be cumulative affect of having to articulate cogent ideas in grant applications.  It may be the result of participating in so many planning groups and community meetings.  Or maybe I just got my priorities mixed up somewhere along the way.  Even over the past few weeks, I can see how visioning for Manifesto (that's what's next) has been influenced more by ideas than by dreams.  In some ways it made me sad to sit with the truth that I'd stopped believing in dreams; I mean really believing in them.  


I used to have an old Peugeot 505.  I bought the car with a salvaged title and I liked that it was a bit quirky and different, like me.  It was a great car, until one day it just stopped running.  Having spent what should have been my senior year in high school in servitude to my father's high school auto shop classroom, I had a basic understanding of how the mechanics of cars worked.  I could tell that the car wasn't getting any fuel to the fuel pump.  But I couldn't figure out why.  Peugeot had long stopped selling cars in the U.S. and it was hard to find a mechanic who specialized in Peugeots and didn't charge an arm and a leg.  I kept reading the service manuals, trying to find the answer myself.  After a few weeks, I had a dream that I'd taken my car to a mechanic.  In the dream, he looked under the hood, fiddled with this and that, and kept eliminating possible causes.  After a while he told me that I needed a fuel pump tachometric relay.  He showed me where to find it under the dashboard.  In the dream, he pulled it from under the dash and unplugged the old one and showed me what and easy fix it was.  In the morning, I was so excited that I jumped from the bed and ran to my Peugeot Service Manual, and sure enough, there was a part called a fuel pump tachometric relay.  I grabbed the phone book and turned to the Yellow Pages and found a dealership that had sold Peugeots and still had parts in stock.  The part cost about $160, and it was an hour drive to the dealership.  Long story short, I bought the part and plugged it in as I was shown.  The car started right up and never gave me another problem for as long as I owned it.  My father, a highly skilled mechanic, never believed that I fixed the car myself.  He said there is no way that I could have had a dream and then fixed the car.    But that's the gospel truth.


Another example comes from when I worked for the American Red Cross.  As we were launching our first major donor campaigns, I was tasked with researching donor recognition systems, including a donor acknowledgement wall for the lobby. The challenge that we'd identified was installing something that was a reflection of the esteem in which we held our donors while not being so nice that it looked like we were squandering donor dollars.  Some of these systems were so elaborate that they cost $50,000 or more.  At this time, it was not uncommon for me to have a dream and come to work the next day and tell my assistant, Cindy, about them.  Often, we followed my dreams.  I remember the mornings when coming to work, as she entered her office directly across from mine, I'd call to her with fierce urgency.  She would ask "what, did you have another dream?"  Anyway, I had a dream that we were having the major donor function where we were to unveil the new donor wall.  And there it was and it was beautiful.  The next morning I met with my executive director and drew it for him.  He liked it enough that we had a nicer rendering made.  This system was simple yet elegant.  And best of all, we found that we could have it custom fabricated for less than five grand.  I left the American Red Cross a few months later to work for AIDS Foundation San Diego.  A few years later, I randomly stopped by the Red Cross because I heard that Bob Wussler, the executive director for more than 20 years was retiring.  As I walked into the lobby, my breath was taken and my heart skipped a beat.  There, on the wall, was the donor recognition system that had come to me by a dream.  Even the small details like the lighting was as I remembered it.


Back in those days, I had faith in my dreams.  I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I know that I have to get back to that place.  As I move forward in developing a new nonprofit and a consulting practice, I know that there is something instructive in my dreams.  In my dreams is where the fertile soil of possibility and divine inspiration meet.  


I know now to trust and rely on my thoughts; but I must have  faith in my dreams believing that they are divinely inspired.  I tap into that which is greater than me and place my trust in its keeping, knowing that what has been promised will be fulfilled.  And that is the nature of God; the nature that I choose to plug into and hold in my awareness.  And so it is.