or, "what I did over summer vacation"
I am both happy and grateful that Ted Haggard, the evangelical leader of the New Life Church leader who eventually admitted to sexual immorality with a male escort, and to buying drugs from the same male escort has been rehabilitated. I would not want to have walked in his shoes over the past two and a quarter years. He resigned from his church after a voice mail with his voice asking the male escort for drugs was made public, and eventually, the church he had helped to found banished him not only from it, but also from their community—but not before requiring Haggard to undergo three weeks of intensive therapy supervised by four ministers, after which one of the ministers pronounced him “completely heterosexual.” (By the way, what does “completely heterosexual” even mean?)
Ted had confessed to his wife early in their marriage that he had homosexual feelings. One of his therapists (during the more long-term therapy he underwent following the scandal) described him as a “heterosexual with homosexual attachments.” And Ted stated that, while he still feels a sexual attraction to men, he no longer feels compelled to act on it.
One of the good things his very public struggle brought about is that sexuality is not always so clearly delineated—so “black and white.” Sexuality is far more complex than hetero-, homo-, bi-, metro- and a-. I suspect this has been the case since the beginning of time.
On some level, I admire that his wife, Gayle, chose to stay with him and try to work things out between them. Oftentimes, when a spouse or partner goes through some trying experience from which it seems a couple might never recover, they divorce or split up. Even Haggard’s children focused on trying to remain a family as they watched their father’s anguish. I expect redemption has new meaning for him now.
Oprah Winfrey had Haggard on her show on the day before a documentary about Haggard and his family trying to rebuild their lives after the scandal was to be shown on HBO. Oprah was both trying to understand his rehabilitation, and, at the same time—not exactly having him, or perhaps—his story.
The only thing that is difficult for me with his story is the “sound-byte-friendly” resolution, or the “spin” that Christians can put on an event when it suits them. Haggard asserts that, at his lowest moment of his life—as he was considering suicide, God came to him and said, “Now I can save you.” But save him from what? From committing suicide? From himself? From his scandal? From being hypocritical when denying it? From being heterosexual with homosexual attachments? All of the above?
I don’t know that I would pronounce myself “completely homosexual, ” though some of my friends might. I don’t think any of us is completely anything, other than a human being. But where I differ with Haggard and I side more with Oprah is that I believe that God—rather than save us from “ourselves” creates us in His/Her image, and all of who we are is good enough for God from the very beginning. I’m going to say that one more time: I believe that God—rather than save us from “ourselves” creates us in His/Her image, and all of who we are is good enough for God from the very beginning. Many, many churches prey on our vulnerability and instill in us a belief that we are born into “sin” and we’re going to eventually make a mess of—if not everything, a lot of it. If we buy into this, well—it helps keep many a church filled across the world. The God of the King James/Southern Baptist Church on my childhood in the late fifties was a vengeful God. Eventually God was gonna “whoop our asses but good!” But tonight, while watching a tennis match, I heard from the broadcasters that Serena Williams was helping to start a school in Kenya. This is an African-American athlete who grew up in the projects of Compton, California. She, who undoubtedly has struggled a lot of her life, thanks her God, Jehovah, after every opportunity and is using her position as a celebrity to help bring education to some less-fortunate African children in Kenya. That’s a shining example of the God I envision: a God of grace who breathes life into each of us with the wish of, “Okay, let’s see what you can do. Let’s see how many lives you can bless on your journey as you maximize the potential inside you. Ready, set—bless!”
When I say the following sentence, it’s not that I mean that Ted Haggard bears no responsibility for his actions, for clearly, he does—and he got consequences in spades. But, as a human being, Haggard, like so many (-sexual) others before and after him, was doing the best he could before and after the events that created the scandal. He was a vivid demonstration of what happens to a person when he can’t bring all of whom he is to the table. And I believe that, when God gave the life of His only Son for us—that’s when we were saved—that act of largesse, of supreme sacrifice was so that we can learn from it—and then, do better. Be better.
I suppose, if I had to choose a label for myself, it would be “homosexual with homosexual attachments.” But, hey--who chose the attachments?
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Saturday, January 24, 2009
"Prayers for Bobby"
I didn't know much about this movie, and didn't realize, when watching, that it was based on a true story. But I found it beautifully directed, and amazingly acted--particularly by Sigourney Weaver in the role of the pious, intolerant Mother. And while I'm a fifty-six year old man who has moved through levels of acceptance of my own homosexuality, watching a movie like this reminds me of the questioning gay teenager I was growing up in the late fifties/early sixties in the Southern Baptist church, and in a church I loved--Angier Avenue Baptist Church in Durham, North Carolina. One of the most powerful lines in the movie is when Sigourney Weaver's character confesses to an Metropolitan Community Church minister that she finally understood why God had not healed her son of his homosexuality--because there was no reason to.
I spent the summer of '78 (the summer before I moved to New York City) with my family in Durham. I substituted for area church musicians, and I ended up playing one Sunday at Temple Baptist Church. There was a beautiful Yamaha grand piano there. I asked the minister of the church if I might play an inspirational and classical concert there towards the end of the summer--a sort of goodbye present to my family and friends, and he said that would be fine. I felt some affinity with that minister, and I didn't know why. Because he was the minister of a Southern Baptist Church, I decided to meet with him one day. I asked him if he thought that gay people go to hell when they die. In the Southern Baptist Church, the "heaven/hell" issue is a pretty pithy one, and you wanna know where you're likely to end up. He answered "No, he did not think that gay people are likely to end up in hell." I was pretty relieved to hear that, but somehow, even before I asked him, I knew that would be his answer. I told him that he was the first minister whose counsel I had sought out, and I had done so because I sensed he had had some life experience that had made him different from other ministers I'd known--less condemning, more compassionate. He told me that his wife, during the course of their life together got a little lost and went into a coma for no apparent medical reason. She eventually came out of her coma, and that experience of almost losing her had changed him forever. I knew that he worshipped a more inclusive, more loving (than vengeful) God. I was glad to have crossed his path and to have had this discussion with him. His humanity touched me. In some quiet place in my heart, even then--at twenty-five years old, I knew that he was right about gay people not going to hell because they were gay.
I moved to New York City for three reasons:
1) to get lost in the sea of gay men that I had heard were there (I was not disappointed on that account);
2) to be able to work in music and theatre in the richest pool of talent in the world;
3) to prove to myself that my talent was competitive, and that I could hold my own in the richest pool of talent in the world.
I knew that I had to "come out" about my sexuality in a more significant way than I had before. I had to actually embrace it, celebrate it, rejoice in it, and especially--not to apologize for it. I went into therapy. Now, in New York, therapy's a way of life. In the south, it was not a favorite topic of conversation. I was fortunate to find an amazing therapist (from South Carolina originally, and an ordained Methodist minister), and off we went! At some point, when I was ready, he told me about the Metropolitan Community Church--a Christian church with a specific outreach to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered people. I got the address (at that time they were meeting on Sunday evening at a borrowed sanctuary on W. 4th Street in Greenwich Village). I don't know if it was the welcoming way of that particular church, or how emotionally and spiritually ripe for the picking I was, or a combination of the two, but when I walked into that service that Sunday night--a church where not only all of whom I was was welcome,it was celebrated, I started crying and couldn't stop for the entire service. I couldn't sing a hymn. I couldn't do anything but weep, and exhale. It's like I had been holding my breath my entire spiritual life.
That was the beginning of a long and beautiful journey of peeling back layers to discover who in the world I might be. I'm happy to say, that, though there've been some slugfests between God and me since then, I continue to be awed at the miracles that go on daily, usually the result of humankind.
In 1996, when the AIDS Memorial Quilt was going to be displayed in full in Washington, DC, for the last time for a long time to come, I decided to go and see it. In addition to the Quilt, there was a large tent where the names of those who had died from AIDS were being constantly recited. People would line up to read a single page of names from a large notebook, and oftentimes—at the end of the page—the reader would add the name of someone dear to him or her who had also died from the disease. I noticed one woman who looked out of place in the line. She was short, and older than most of the others there, and dressed like the women at my home church in North Carolina. It had been an emotional morning for me looking at the Quilt, so I decided to pause there for a moment and listen to the names being read. The older woman finally made her way to the front of the line, and I listened as she read. At the end of her page, she added, “And for my beloved grandson, Tim, who I miss every single day.” Her voice choked a little as she said that. I watched as she walked out of the tent, and made her way to her car as humbly as she’d likely come. She got in her car and drove home, I imagined. I also imagined, too, that, without anyone else in her family or circle of friends knowing it, she had found out about the weekend and had decided to come all by herself—regardless of how out of her realm of experience this trip to the Quilt had to be. And yet, her love for her grandson was so great that she felt she had to come and declare that love in front of others like him. I was moved by the courage it had taken for her to travel so far outside of her comfort zone to bear witness to her feelings for her beloved grandson. She gets it, I thought. She gets the big picture.
And so does Mary Griffith, upon whose real life story "Prayers for Bobby" is based.
I spent the summer of '78 (the summer before I moved to New York City) with my family in Durham. I substituted for area church musicians, and I ended up playing one Sunday at Temple Baptist Church. There was a beautiful Yamaha grand piano there. I asked the minister of the church if I might play an inspirational and classical concert there towards the end of the summer--a sort of goodbye present to my family and friends, and he said that would be fine. I felt some affinity with that minister, and I didn't know why. Because he was the minister of a Southern Baptist Church, I decided to meet with him one day. I asked him if he thought that gay people go to hell when they die. In the Southern Baptist Church, the "heaven/hell" issue is a pretty pithy one, and you wanna know where you're likely to end up. He answered "No, he did not think that gay people are likely to end up in hell." I was pretty relieved to hear that, but somehow, even before I asked him, I knew that would be his answer. I told him that he was the first minister whose counsel I had sought out, and I had done so because I sensed he had had some life experience that had made him different from other ministers I'd known--less condemning, more compassionate. He told me that his wife, during the course of their life together got a little lost and went into a coma for no apparent medical reason. She eventually came out of her coma, and that experience of almost losing her had changed him forever. I knew that he worshipped a more inclusive, more loving (than vengeful) God. I was glad to have crossed his path and to have had this discussion with him. His humanity touched me. In some quiet place in my heart, even then--at twenty-five years old, I knew that he was right about gay people not going to hell because they were gay.
I moved to New York City for three reasons:
1) to get lost in the sea of gay men that I had heard were there (I was not disappointed on that account);
2) to be able to work in music and theatre in the richest pool of talent in the world;
3) to prove to myself that my talent was competitive, and that I could hold my own in the richest pool of talent in the world.
I knew that I had to "come out" about my sexuality in a more significant way than I had before. I had to actually embrace it, celebrate it, rejoice in it, and especially--not to apologize for it. I went into therapy. Now, in New York, therapy's a way of life. In the south, it was not a favorite topic of conversation. I was fortunate to find an amazing therapist (from South Carolina originally, and an ordained Methodist minister), and off we went! At some point, when I was ready, he told me about the Metropolitan Community Church--a Christian church with a specific outreach to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered people. I got the address (at that time they were meeting on Sunday evening at a borrowed sanctuary on W. 4th Street in Greenwich Village). I don't know if it was the welcoming way of that particular church, or how emotionally and spiritually ripe for the picking I was, or a combination of the two, but when I walked into that service that Sunday night--a church where not only all of whom I was was welcome,it was celebrated, I started crying and couldn't stop for the entire service. I couldn't sing a hymn. I couldn't do anything but weep, and exhale. It's like I had been holding my breath my entire spiritual life.
That was the beginning of a long and beautiful journey of peeling back layers to discover who in the world I might be. I'm happy to say, that, though there've been some slugfests between God and me since then, I continue to be awed at the miracles that go on daily, usually the result of humankind.
In 1996, when the AIDS Memorial Quilt was going to be displayed in full in Washington, DC, for the last time for a long time to come, I decided to go and see it. In addition to the Quilt, there was a large tent where the names of those who had died from AIDS were being constantly recited. People would line up to read a single page of names from a large notebook, and oftentimes—at the end of the page—the reader would add the name of someone dear to him or her who had also died from the disease. I noticed one woman who looked out of place in the line. She was short, and older than most of the others there, and dressed like the women at my home church in North Carolina. It had been an emotional morning for me looking at the Quilt, so I decided to pause there for a moment and listen to the names being read. The older woman finally made her way to the front of the line, and I listened as she read. At the end of her page, she added, “And for my beloved grandson, Tim, who I miss every single day.” Her voice choked a little as she said that. I watched as she walked out of the tent, and made her way to her car as humbly as she’d likely come. She got in her car and drove home, I imagined. I also imagined, too, that, without anyone else in her family or circle of friends knowing it, she had found out about the weekend and had decided to come all by herself—regardless of how out of her realm of experience this trip to the Quilt had to be. And yet, her love for her grandson was so great that she felt she had to come and declare that love in front of others like him. I was moved by the courage it had taken for her to travel so far outside of her comfort zone to bear witness to her feelings for her beloved grandson. She gets it, I thought. She gets the big picture.
And so does Mary Griffith, upon whose real life story "Prayers for Bobby" is based.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)