Are You Guys Brothers?

      In the midst of my lament that this truism comes as such a surprise to, or causes so much upset for so many people, I received an unrelated message from a person who told me to repent because of my educational DVDs that affirm the uniqueness and goodness of all sexual orientations.

     Repentance from sin is always good. I worship the God of the Bible friend, the only true and living God; His standards, not our own, are the bar for His judgment. It sounds as though it is you who has created a god, one of your own imagination that winks at, and is tolerant of sin. Jesus Christ is available today: repent and trust in Him, instead of ear-tickling preachers that give license for the lusts of the flesh. God bless you.

     When I say that being gay is a gift from God, I don’t mean to imply that I think that there is a workshop in the sky in which angel elves assemble us with loving care at the instructions of a jolly, old man whose belly bounces like a bowl of jelly when he laughs. What I mean is that all living things – roses, butterflies, humans, whales, tomatoes — share the spark of the “unnamable,” which some call God, and that everything about us manifests the perfection of that spark. Thus, my being gay, is a unique manifestation of the unnamable. I experience it as a gift.

     If I hated my feelings of attraction for other men, I would be as sad and silly as the rose that hated its beautiful scent, or the butterfly that hated its wings, or the whale that hated its size, or the tomato that hated its taste. Celebrating my feelings of attraction, physically and romantically, to other men, is my “thank you” gift to the “unnamable” spark or to God.

     Within days of receiving the Internet message from the person who wanted me to repent, I heard from a gay man who, with his male spouse, had read and loved my new book Are You Guys Brothers? He ended though with the statement:

     After Prop. 8 it seems we’re being induced – yet again – to have to prove ourselves worthy human beings.

     I responded immediately with gratitude for his kind remarks about my book but also with the counsel that the best way to help others understand us is to live full and happy lives. Our calling as gay men or lesbians, as bisexuals or transgender people, as black, Latino, Asian men and women, as people with disabilities, is not to try to explain to others who we are (though I have been doing that professionally since being fired by the Catholic Archdiocese of Detroit) but rather to let them experience us as they would a rose, the butterfly, the whale, and the tomato. Repenting for being such things and for celebrating our uniqueness is nonsense. Worse than “nonsense,” it is criminal, evil, and stupid.

     Gay is indeed a gift from “God” and loving being gay is our gift to “God.” If you don’t believe that, you should consider repenting.

     When it was announced that the Rev. Rick Warren had been asked to open the Barack Obama inauguration with a prayer, Ray and I considered not watching the much-anticipated event. Our hearts and minds had been filled with such excitement and hope over the new direction of the country that we didn’t want our experience of its commencement ruined by angry feelings of resentment that we might just as easily avoid. But we changed our minds and sat with our friend Milton, a Brazilian who dreams of one day voting as a U.S. citizen, in our living room and participated in the celebration with the rest of the world by standing and singing, clapping and dancing, crying and sighing with the images broadcast by C-SPAN.

     We started out watching CNN and then decided that the network’s attempt to provide balance by having conservative Republican commentator William Bennett on hand would only sour the experience. Andy Card was on CBS and made us angry by his attempts to explain away every George W. Bush failure, so we opted for a comment-free broadcast. We didn’t care about a “balanced” perspective. It was our time to feel unadulteratedly good.

      For that reason, we were very relieved that the Rev. Rick Warren’s invocation wasn’t personally offensive. He really did better than okay. His prayer was free of any negative reference to gay people, which I think probably reflects his real personal opinion. My guess is that though he has become a lightning rod for angry feelings about conservative religious influence on the passage of Proposition 8 in California, Warren is not a homophobe and doesn’t want to be thought of as anything other than a true expression of the love of Jesus. Where he and I would differ is on what Jesus would think about the state recognizing gay marriages. “Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s.”

     The Rev. Joseph Lowery, for my money, did a better job, though, of capturing the unconditional love of Jesus, and the spirit of Obama in his closing prayer, as did Bishop Gene Robinson whose beautiful invocation on Sunday couldn’t be heard by those assembled because the microphone wasn’t working and couldn’t be seen by those outside of Washington because HBO chose to edit it from the broadcast. What a foolish decision it was to eliminate from the public record the words of a national religious gay icon who will be remembered in history long after we have forgotten the name of most of the minstrels who performed uninterrupted and in full volume on the stage. Even if Gene Robinson does nothing more with his life than he already has, HBO will be scrambling through its archives upon his death to show us what he once said which they foolishly but not maliciously chose to edit. Of this, I have a dream.

     Organized religion plays a big role in the transfer of presidential power in the United States, at times more dramatically or obnoxiously than at others. God was repeatedly asked to bless America. Heads were bowed often during prayers. Oaths were taken “under God.”  Yet, our new president in his remarks acknowledged that we are a nation of many beliefs, including those who choose not to believe. The first time presence of a representative of Hinduism at the National Prayer Service was another indication that for at least the next four years there will be an embracing of religious and spiritual diversity. Unlike our experience in the past eight years where undue influence by the Religious Right was welcomed in the Bush White House, President Obama’s approach seems to be like that of President Andrew Jackson who felt that freedom of religion also means freedom from the proselytism of religion.

     None of this is to say that Ray, Milton, and I objected to Barack and Michelle Obama bowing their heads when prayers were being said during the inauguration, or of the use of the words “under God” in the oath, or of opening and closing the ceremony with speeches by ordained ministers. If there is a personal God, it undoubtedly is fulfilled by affirmations of love of neighbor. Without positive action, though, as we all know, the bowed heads and request for blessing mean nothing and will produce nothing.

     This brings up an e-mail I recently received from the middle-aged Mormon woman who has been writing to me since she heard my presentation on gay issues in her workplace. Initially, our dialogue was about her struggling with gay people being allowed to marry. The newest message spoke of how she recently confronted the young members of her Cub Scout troop.

      “I thought of your seminar again when one of my cub scouts announced last night that he had a new word … “homo”.  He then went on to explain that it meant that someone was gay.  I explained that homo was not appropriate and was typically used in a disrespectful way.  I told the boys that homo was short for homosexual, but that most prefer the term gay.  One of the other boys asked what it meant, so I explained that it meant that two people of the same sex had feelings for one another.  The first boy responded with an “ewwww”.  I told them that I have some good friends who are gay and that these are wonderful people whom I love… I told the boys that we should always be kind and respectful to people, no matter what.  I hope at least of little bit of it sunk in.  So thank you, once again, for the seminar you presented at work and the other words of wisdom you provided via e-mail … definitely made it easier to talk with the boys.”

     Why is this relevant to thoughts on the Obama inauguration? Because just as Ray, Milton, and I held our breath when the Rev. Rick Warren offered his prayer at the event, so too do many gay people hold their breath when they learn that someone is a Mormon, not knowing that she, like the Salvation Army Captain who writes to me regularly, are doing everything they can to confront homophobia in their lives, and that though I might disagree with them on the tenets of their religious beliefs, and on their position on the meaning of the word “marriage,” they, like me, have the same hopes for healing under our new president, and they like Ray, Milton, and me, were also jumping up to sing with their hands over their hearts, to clap and dance, and to cry and sigh as they watched what might well be the most important inauguration in their lives. And they too undoubtedly held their breath during Rick Warren’s prayer, and were relieved he didn’t say anything that would wreck their moment of unadulterated joy.

     On our cherished, brisk, hour and fifteen-minute morning walks, Ray and I explore any and all thoughts and feelings we have had in the previous 24 hours that we want to share with the other. It may be just the observation that the pelican gliding at the moment over the ocean is extraordinarily majestic or it might be an extended discussion on how we feel about our own and each other’s eventual death.

     Yesterday our conversation was heavily influenced by the report in the New York Times about the 21-year-old Briton who fell hundreds of feet to his death while scaling with his also ill-fated friend the notoriously dangerous icy ascent of the 14,000 foot Tacul peak in the French Alps. Two years earlier, Rob Gauntlett became the youngest Briton to reach the top of Mt. Everest. At age 19, he and a traveling companion had traversed by skis, dogsleds, bicycles and sailboat 26,000 miles from the North Pole to the South Pole.

     “What a sad waste of life,” I said.

     “But what a way to go,” countered Ray. “He died happy, doing what he loved to do.”

     He may have been happy with his life, and just before he fell, but I doubt he died happily. I imagine that he was horrified during his long fall, feeling dread that he was dying many years before he imagined he would. He had lived a happy and active 21 years doing what he loved to do, something most people his age probably couldn’t claim to have done, but did he greet death with joy?

     And yet, as Ray argued, there are many young men and women today as young as Rob Gauntlett who greet death with joy as they blow themselves up because they feel they are entering a much happier life in heaven. They didn’t climb Mt Everest in this life but they imagine far greater joy and exultation in the next.

     For Christmas, I gave Ray a copy of the book This Republic of Suffering - Death and the American Civil War by Drew Gilpin Faust. During our walk yesterday morning, Ray cited Faust in saying that most of the thousands of young men who died on both sides of the horrible national fratricide did so feeling good about their noble sacrifice and trusting that they were heading to their eternal reward. Like the young suicide bombers of today, the inexperienced, conservative religious American youth of the mid-1800s didn’t cling to this life because they anticipated a great reward in the next.

    Did they die happily doing what they most enjoyed? I doubt it. I think that most of them would love to have lived longer and maybe one day have experienced some of the thrill of Rob Gauntlett’s life. Even Jesus, at 33, who died doing what he felt called to do, and who had expectations of a better life after this one, prayed that he might be spared the experience of his death on the cross, but “Thy will be done.”

     So, here we are today at 5:30 a.m. in the Cleveland Clinic in Weston, Florida, having missed our cherished morning walk, and I’m sitting next to Ray who is lying in bed in a hospital gown and blue hair bonnet, looking a bit pale and helpless as he waits for a biopsy on his leg muscle to determine why he is experiencing weakness, and I’m thinking about the day one of us will be watching the other die.

     He’s not dying. Though suffering back, neck, and shoulder pain from disc problems, arthritis, and a reaction to statin drugs, he’s otherwise healthy and happy. I nevertheless make funny comments to him and to all attending doctors and nurses to make him and them laugh so that the situation has no feeling of seriousness. I’m not ready for letting go now, no matter how long we’ve lived and no matter how many emotional, psychological, and spiritual Mt. Everests we have climbed together. Not yet, if I have a choice.

     Could we both die happy? Yes, we both feel we have lived full, happy lives. Though neither of us imagines an afterlife of eternal reward and bliss, we aren’t afraid of or resentful of death. We’ve had more than our fair share of the banquet of life. But I can’t say that either of us would die happily and I know that neither of us would happily let go of the other, at least, not as this time.

     Perhaps, though, I should check in with him again. If Ray is able to go for our walk tomorrow morning, we’ll have to talk about that.

     My courageous and determined friend Sol Gordon died recently. Many people are now petitioning The New York Times to print an obituary to acknowledge Sol’s significance in the worldwide sex education movement. He deserves the recognition of a Times obit and it’s ironic that he hasn’t received it.

      Sol - the pioneer - helped make it possible for teenagers since the 1970s to get accurate information on sexuality in an effective way. While at Syracuse University, where 500 students a semester eagerly signed up for his provocative class in human sexuality, Sol published a series of sexually-informative comic books that were widely distributed but ultimately banned from distribution at the New York State Fair. A doctor of psychology who was revered by colleagues in countries throughout the world, he was regularly picketed by angry social conservatives throughout the country when he was invited to speak publicly about sexuality. Sol, with his great sense of humor and his legendary wisdom, mentored me and many other sexuality educators who would never have been as effective as we are without his sponsorship. He’s been honored throughout the world for his contributions to the field of human sexuality. He and his wife Judith wrote several books for children on sexuality, and Sol himself penned dozens of others. Clearly, he is as significant as the minor actors on television and in film who the Times honors with long obituaries and photos. Sol was better known than them and his work touched the lives of far more people globally. You might want to Google Sol Gordon to learn more about his many, many contributions to our attitudes about human sexuality.

     The irony of Sol’s life and death not receiving notice by the newspaper of record is that despite his extraordinary accomplishments in his eighty-plus years, Sol - the man - never felt he was famous enough. In that way, he mentored me too. I learned from watching him over the years that fame is like a recreational drug. The high it provides is fleeting and you can never get high enough. I suspect that fame for Sol was seen as a means to an end. Fame meant influence. Dr. Ruth had fame and thus influence despite Sol having worked harder in the field for a longer period of time. He resented that. I would say to Sol, “What more do you want? Look how many books you have published. Look at all of the awards you have received. Look at the numbers of lives you have positively impacted.” But I was unconvincing.

     I’ll never write as many books as Sol Gordon nor receive as many awards. I’ll never be as famous as he was. Having tasted the addictive drug of fame when I was young, much like the experience of child actors, I know how a person can crave more than their fifteen minutes of notoriety. Public praise is a stimulant. It can create an insatiable appetite for more and more recognition. I have shared Sol’s feelings of resentment and anger at those whose fame and influence, in my opinion, far exceeded their skills and performance. But I gratefully came to see it as an addiction, like my former craving for Chardonnay and cigarettes (and my current craving for dark chocolate.) And so, to the best of my ability, I got off the train to celebrity some time ago. I now take refuge in the teachings of the Tao that remind me that if we seek people’s approval, we will be their prisoner forever. Do your work, it says, step back and be satisfied.

     So, I grieve the absence of my friend and sponsor, and I lament that he didn’t get the full recognition he sought and deserved during and after his life. I’m so very grateful for all that he did for me to help me get my message about gay health and happiness to a large audience I would never have otherwise reached, and for the incredible life lesson he taught me about being satisfied with one’s accomplishments and feedback.

     “Wisdom is knowing what to overlook,” Sol said to me as we toured an art museum and he saw that I felt overwhelmed by the many styles of painting I couldn’t possibly take in, understand, and appreciate. Remembering those sage words, as many of his others, has helped me navigate a world that often feels too complicated to fully embrace at any one time. It also aptly prepares me to celebrate the reality that neither will my life and death require an obituary in The New York Times.

    Do you know that scene in A Christmas Story when Ralphie punches the living daylights out of the bully Scott Fargus, the kid with the yellow teeth? Do you secretly cheer him on, as Ray and I do?

     I suspect that all of us have a Scott Fargus or two in our lives who have bullied us for so long that we fear if we ever fought back we wouldn’t be able to stop ourselves from beating the crap out of them. Maybe the kid with the yellow teeth is a real person, such as Pope Benedict XVI, James Dobson, or Rush Limbaugh, or maybe the bully is more generic, like the person who talks on a cell phone in the restaurant, bathroom, or movie theater, or the person who lets their dog poop on the sidewalk and doesn’t clean it up, or the person who ignores the “Merge” signs and cuts into traffic at the last minute. You don’t speak up. You seethe in quiet. And then one person goes too far once too often and pow! Pow! Pow!

     I dream about it, and I cheer quietly when Ralphie bloodies Scott’s nose, but I know that it’s not the person I want to be. I don’t want to bloody the Pope’s nose. I just wish he would quit being such a bully.

     But what about shooting him with a paint ball gun? Like Denny Crane in the TV show Boston Legal, wouldn’t it be fun to carry around a gun filled with chartreuse (that’s yellow green for our lesbian and straight male readers) cartridges and to fire away at the car with the open windows and the rap music blaring through the neighborhood, or the people who treat waiters and grocery clerks as if they were less than human, or the preachers who use the Bible to justify their bigotry? Splat! Splat! Splat!

     If I had such a gun, I would use it way too often. That’s why I don’t have a paint ball gun or any other weapon. I would do harm to others and that’s not the person I want to be.

     Sometimes, in fact more often than I’d like, I don’t use my fists or a gun to give bullies their due. I use my tongue and my computer instead. Stirring the pot so that others come to hate my enemies can be far more lethal than bloodying their nose or covering them with paint. And while it generally feels good when I get in my licks, I don’t usually feel very good about myself later because it’s not the person I want to be.

     I don’t want to be a person who creates or exacerbates divisions. I want to be a person who helps build bridges and heals wounds. I don’t want to die feeling that I beat an enemy. I want to die knowing that I left this world a more loving and peaceful place than it was when I entered it.

     My reading in the Tao te Ching yesterday was:

     “Whoever relies on the Tao in governing men doesn’t try to force issues or defeat enemies by force of arms. For every force there is a counterforce. Violence, even well intentioned, always rebounds upon itself.

     “The Master does his job and then stops. He understands that the Universe is forever out of control, and that trying to dominate events goes against the current of the Tao. Because he believes in himself, he doesn’t try to convince others. Because he is content with himself, he doesn’t need other’s approval. Because he accepts himself, the whole world accepts him.”

     That’s the man I want to be. My resolution for 2009 is to focus more attention, time, and energy on being a man of peace.