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Glasgow, Scotland
Words are formed by experiences, and words inform our experiences. Words also transform life and the world. I am a writer and Presbyterian minister who grew up in the 1960's in the segregated South of the United States. I've lived in Alaska, the Washington, DC area, and Minnesota. Since 2004 I've lived in Glasgow, Scotland, where I enjoy working on my second novel and serving churches that are between one thing and another. I advocate for the full inclusion of all people in the church and in society, whatever our genders or sexual orientations. Every body matters.

Friday, May 31, 2013

I Am Me.


I Am Me.
In honor of every girl who has survived.
In memory of all the girls who didn’t stand a chance.

           Not a jizz rag,
           Not a punching bag,
           Not for you to brag.
I Am Me.

           Not an orifice,
           Not a pair of tits,
           Not for you to diss.
I Am Me.

           Not a mouthy bitch,
           Not a pushy broad,
           Not for you to hit—no matter how hard.
I Am Me.

           Not a helpless maiden
           Nor Handmaid of Satan.
           Not for you to shit on.
I Am Me.

           Not a needy whore,
           Not a brainy bore,
           Not yours to ignore.
I Am Me.

           Not an old man’s charmer (Leviticus 21:13-15),
           Not a king’s bed-warmer (1 Kings 1:1-4),
           Not yours to barter (Genesis 19:8, Judges 19:24).
I Am Me.

           Not a stupid missy,
           Not an untamed filly,
           Not for you to diddly.
I Am Me.

           Not a virgin vessel,
           Not a distressed damsel,
           Not for you to gamble.
I Am Me.

           Not a t-shirt slogan,
           Not a male that’s broken,
           Not for you to put down.
I Am Me.

           Not the shame of boys—“Sissie!”
           Not the blame for hormones—“Crazy!”
           Not the aim of your creation envy—“Hysterical!”
I Am Me.

           Not your closet for being gay
           Nor your test for going straight.
           Not your fix for what’s innate.
I Am Me.

           Not “forbidden fruit,”
           Not for “cherry-picking,”
           Not yours “ripe for the taking.”
I Am Me.

           Not a notch on posts,
           Not the brunt of jokes,
           Not a field for your wild oats—Go sow yourself.
I Am Me.

           Not to ply with drugs or drinks
           Nor supply frat boys’ high jinx.
           Not yours to score for scoring points.
I Am Me.

           Not a “Lassie,” “Chick,” or “Sow,”
           Nor a “Pet,” “Hen,” or “Cow.”
           Not yours to name, anyhow.
I Am Me.

           Not a passive receptacle
           Nor the weaker recipient.
           Not a submissive slot to fill.
I Am Me.

           Not a spoil of war or conflict,
           Not a thing to sell or traffic,
           Not yours to photo graphic.
I Am Me.

           Not my mother’s sub,
           Not my sister’s doub,
           Not for you to slug.
I Am Me.

           Not my brother’s hate,
           Not my father’s mate,
           Not for you to rape.
I Am Me.

           Not a cure for having AIDS,
           Not a prize at heaven’s gate,
           Not yours to genital-mutilate.
I Am Me.

           Not anyone’s blank slate,
           Not someone’s book of fate,
           Not yours to groom and bait.
I Am Me.

           Not a body in your attic,
           Not a slave in your basement,
           Not yours to crucify with your patriarchal religion.
I Am Me.

Sunday, May 26, 2013

The Path to Justice


The Path to Justice

This past New Year’s some friends from Minnesota spent a couple nights with us in Glasgow. One friend, Ann, had recently purchased some land here in Scotland.

One square foot of land.

As part of her acquisition Ann had been issued a certificate declaring her Lady of her land. Lady Ann was eager to visit her new territory, and she had the geographical coordinates of its location. We entered her coordinates on the computer and, lo and behold, discovered that her tract was on the mainland of Scotland, just north of a small village across the narrow waters from a nearby island.

Being a frequent visitor to this island, I pointed out to our guests that there were two ways of getting to Annland: One way required a vehicle which we didn’t own anymore, while the other way gave us an excuse to take the train and a ferry and a taxi and another ferry and get in some walking. So, after seeing in the New Year, we all decided to head to the Isle of Bute the next day.

Being a seasoned tour guide, I led us to our local train platform and showed everyone how to purchase return tickets to the coast. We chatted about how easy it is to get around Scotland without a car, while we waited for the train.

We waited, and we waited, until we heard an announcement: “Those of you waiting at this platform, there is no train service today.”

Only then did I remember that the second day as well as the first day of January is a holiday here in Scotland, and on certain holidays the train schedule follows a Sunday schedule when our local train doesn’t operate, in compliance with the fourth of the Ten Commandments. So I led us to the local bus stop, and we caught the bus to the main train station, thereby skirting the laws of Moses.

With our tickets in hand we climbed up several flights of stairs at the station to the correct platform and waited for the train to arrive.

We waited, and we waited, until a customer service agent informed us that the first train to the coast wouldn’t come for another hour, this being a holiday.

Being the considerate host that I am, I suggested we go get some coffee at the nearby pub—the coffee shop in the station being closed for the holiday. In the pub we enjoyed not only coffee but a full Scottish breakfast complete with blood sausage. While we trespassed against the Leviticus Holiness Code (Leviticus 17:10) two of our friends who were due to fly out of Glasgow that evening debated whether they should risk taking this trip by train that had so far failed to materialize:

If they didn’t use their tickets, could they get a refund?
If they went as far as the coast, would there be anything to do there, this being a holiday?
If they took the ferry to the island, would they be able to return to Glasgow in time for their flight?

Encouraged by caffeine and black pudding, and convinced by me that the chance of getting a refund on train tickets was slim to none, we all decided to throw caution to the wind and get the train which did finally come and transport us to the coast. There we purchased return tickets to the Isle of Bute—after checking with the ticket agent that the ferry was operating on schedule—and we successfully crossed the Firth of Clyde.

One of the two friends who had to catch a flight was wearing a watch and keeping track of the time, and by this time they had figured out that if they spent an hour on the island they would have just enough time to get the ferry and then the train and then the bus back to our house, in time to get their luggage and go to the airport.

That left Lady Ann and I to continue on our mission to locate her real estate. After saying goodbye Ann and I took a taxi cab north to another ferry terminal where we waited to cross the narrow waters over to the mainland. Fortunately we could see the ferry in operation and thus didn’t have to worry or wait very long.

Once we had made the five-minute crossing, we started to walk north along the two-lane highway. The map indicated that Ann’s parcel of earth was about a mile and a half up the road and just off to the side.
             
We walked and walked and walked.

We chatted while we walked—we talked about this and that, one thing and another—and we walked and we walked.

Providentially we carried a mental picture, from our computer search the night before, of a short wooden foot bridge that crossed the ditch on the side of the road where Ann’s plot lay. Periodically we referred to our map and saw where we were in relation to the body of water beside the road and to a distinct island in the middle of the water. Occasionally a car would pass us coming or going; we were walking safely on the side facing traffic and were careful to step out of the road whenever a vehicle approached.

Being an experienced walker, I knew we had walked more than a couple miles but we kept going.

“Let’s just see what’s around the next bend,” we said.

And we’d see around the next bend another bend. And around that bend, another bend. Every bend in the highway looked the same. Yet there was no foot bridge that we could spot. Perhaps the bridge no longer existed, or was overgrown with foliage and not visible anymore.

Neither Lady Ann nor I was wearing a timepiece, and given the refreshing light mist and the beautiful tweed-colored landscape and the endless twists in the road and the ever-beckoning prospect of our foot bridge, we moved out of time and into wait-less-ness. That is, we found ourselves not waiting anymore. We were simply walking and talking and looking and hearing. Taking in our surroundings and being taken in by them.

Whereas the night before we had sat at the computer and, with the click of a button, zoomed in on our destination, right now, at this moment—this moment that was expanding around us—we weren’t impatient, or worrying, or the least bit lost.

We were exactly where we were, doing what we were doing, being who we were being.

Suddenly there it was: the wooden crossing. About a yard or meter long. Reaching over the ditch. Precisely where it was supposed to be.

We crossed the footbridge, went up a ways, took photos of Ann staking her claim, and then we headed home.

Whatever the path to justice, we do get there.

Whether we treat the Bible like a road atlas,
or view scripture as a moral compass to guide our way,
or claim the Word of God as certification of God’s steadfast love and claim on us,
we get there.

Wherever the landmarks are,
be they ancient and seemingly unchanging,
or temporary and seemingly missing,
or invisible and real as the misty breath of the Holy Spirit,
we get there.

Whenever we head out,
as a child or young person who knows “something’s different about me,”
or as an adult who comes to understand “something’s different about me,”
we get there.

Why ever we make this journey,
because my very life depends upon it,
or because the life of my gay brother or lesbian sister or transgender friend or bisexual neighbor depends on it,
we get there.

However long it takes,
decades of struggling, waiting, talking, walking together, more talking, more waiting,
or a split-second image of truth we carry with us forever,
we get there.

Whatever the path to justice, we get there.
Whoever we are when we depart, we’re not the same upon arrival, thank God.

According to the Book of Proverbs (2:7-11, New Revised Standard Version),
“God stores up sound wisdom for the upright and is a shield to those who walk blamelessly, guarding the paths of justice and preserving the way of the faithful ones. Then you will understand righteousness and justice and equity, every good path; for wisdom will come into your heart, and knowledge will be pleasant to your soul; prudence will watch over you; and understanding will guard you.”

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Isn't God queer?!


Isn’t God queer?!

Isn’t it queer that God starts all people out as female and then continues to make less than half of them male and gives others of them both female and male parts?!

Isn’t it queer that God endowed each of us with erogenous zones that have nothing to do with sexual reproduction?!

Isn’t it queer that God chose a couple of nonagenarians (Genesis 17) who were way past child-bearing years to start one of the families of God?!

Isn’t it queer that Jonathan, the son of King Saul, and David, King Saul’s successor, had a loving, committed relationship in which, according to 1 Samuel 18, “the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul…. Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul”?!

Isn’t it queer not only that Jonathan loved David, but also that “the disciple whom Jesus loved” (John 13:23, 19:26, 20:2-10, 21:7, and 21:20-25) is traditionally thought to be “John,” and one of Jesus’ many titles is “the son of David” (Matthew 1:1, Mark 10:47-48, Luke 18:38-39)?!

Isn’t it queer that the prophet of Jesus—John the Baptist—never married?!

Isn’t it queer that one of the first theologians about Jesus—Paul—never married?!

Isn’t it queer that when Jesus refers to the Leviticus Holiness Code (chapters 17-26)—which includes a long list of prohibited sexual practices so that Israelite men don’t waste their seed in non-reproductive ways—Jesus doesn’t mention sexual activity but rather tells a story (Luke 10:29-37) about one man taking care of another man that illustrates the commandment in Leviticus (19:18), “you shall love your neighbor as yourself”?!

Isn’t it queer that when Jesus is tested by the religious authorities about punishing a woman accused of adultery (John 8:1-11) and the authorities quote the pertinent section of the Leviticus Holiness Code (20:10), Jesus doesn’t argue the code but rather acquits the woman?!

Isn’t it queer that when Jesus refers to King Solomon (Matthew 6:29 and Luke 12:27)—who had many hundreds of wives and concubines (1 Kings 11:3)—Jesus doesn’t judge Solomon’s sexual promiscuity, adultery, polygamy, or the fact that many of Solomon’s wives were foreigners, but rather Jesus comments on his glorious fashion sense?!

Isn’t it queer that God chose a young, unmarried woman to birth the savior of the world?!

Isn’t it queer that God’s gift to humanity never settled down and married and had a bunch of children like a good Hebrew was supposed to do?!

Isn’t God queer?!