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.
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