“First off, Margaret, let me say that I think that you are right where you should be right now. You are in what I would call God’s greenhouse. What I mean is that a greenhouse is an environment where growth is accelerated. It’s not comfortable in there. Hot, wet, a lot of pruning—not a particularly clean environment, either—but the best for growth. That’s where I think you are.
“…[A]nd although there are things I could probably tell you, do for you, to ease this course, I dare not because I believe this struggle is for your strengthening. And if I begin cutting the bonds, loosening the cords, you will emerge weaker for it.
“Perhaps it’s a little like nature, the way a moth larvae changes into a butterfly. It is the struggle against the cocoon that sends blood into its wings so they will be strong enough to navigate the wind. Without that struggle, the wings would come out, but they would be deformed where it matters the most—inside. Pretty, but no strength.”
I’ve been home from Boston for a week and a half now, but I’m still not entirely ready to share what I experienced there.
Oh, I’ve written and submitted a 500-word summary of the week to the church newsletter, and sent thank-you notes to the financial backers who made the trip possible. I’ve even incorporated a lot of the ideas I got at the conference into my worship planning for the next six months. (Yes, I am the kind of guy who plans worship services six months ahead of time. Raise your hand if you’re surprised.)
But I think the most powerful lesson I brought back with me isn’t one that will show up in worship—at least, not directly.
More than once during that week, surrounded by hundreds of professional musicians for this workshop or the other, I had a conversation with God that went something like this:
“Wow. These people are really good.”
“Yes, David, they are. But why aren’t you singing?”
“What do you mean? I’m singing.”
“Your lips are moving and there’s sound coming out of your mouth—barely. But you’re not singing.”
“Oh, give me a break. It’s 9:30 in the morning. I can barely croak out a high E, and this chart is hanging out on G like it’s the food court at the mall!”
God sighs. “You are a child of the 80’s, aren’t you?”
“Well, come on. Just listen to these guys—I feel like I’m surrounded by members of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Did these guys start warming up at 4:00 this morning, or what?”
“Well, ‘these guys’ come mostly from classical choral backgrounds. You perform music that is very different stylistically, and your voice is perfect for what you do.”
“Yes. Exactly. Thank you—even though ‘perfect’ is a long shot. But why do you want me to sing now, here? This is Mozart we’re singing, not Avalon!”
“Okay, first of all, I’m the Omniscient Creator of the Universe. When I use the word perfect, I do so deliberately. Second, do you honestly think anyone here is going to look down on you for having a voice that’s different from everyone else’s?”
I look over at Doug, the resonant bass whose voice I’ve been secretly admiring all week. He catches me looking, smiles self-consciously, winks, and chucks my shoulder with a playful fist. “Hm,” I admit, unenthusiastically.
“Exactly,” says God, with a bit more self-righteousness than I’m quite in the mood for. “Now will you sing, please?”
(You did know God was a wiseacre, didn’t you?)
I wish I could say that conversation was an isolated one. But lately for as long as I can remember I’ve struggled with feelings of inadequacy. And for some reason, even though I came back from Boston feeling really good about the work I‘m doing at the church, and especially about my work with 3.12, I still find myself caught between the way things are and the way I think things ought to be. Shouldn’t I be able to just work more efficiently? Write faster? Play more accurately?
The answer, God keeps telling me, is “no—the way you are today is perfect for today.”
‘Course, that doesn’t take away the vague smell of manure.
I’m in Boston this week for the Unitarian Universalist Musicians’ Network Annual Conference. These sorts of conferences are always exhausting—very long, very full, very meaningful days. I’ll be returning home on Sunday, and hope soon thereafter to have processed some of my experiences enough to blog about them, but I did want to share with you a poem that was read as part of our very first gathering this week.
It’s from Mark Belletini’s new book, Sonata for Voice and Silence; Mark was the presenter for our Professional Development program on Monday and shared the poem as preparation for the day. It left me in tears—which, perhaps oddly, felt like a great way to start the week.
An Irony for Public Worship
Funny how the sun never asks
about what I did or didn’t do today before it sets.
Funny how the rain refuses to question my motives
before it soaks me through.
Strange how the peach is sweet in my mouth
whether or not I am feeling sweet that day.
Odd how the sky maintains its altitude
even when I am asleep, and not noticing.
Or how a toothache hurts even though
I passed all my tests and established a career.
Hard to express how the children in Sudan
mean the same thing when they say “I am” that I do,
even though we speak different languages,
and they will live a much shorter life than I will.
Difficult to comprehend how both music and silence
can seal the deal,
especially since no one spent even a single minute
composing the silence.
If you like the poem, please consider supporting Mark by purchasing the book. (You can do so here for $8.)
May the rest of your week be full of music and silence. I’m looking forward to returning home, a little bit different than when I left.
In his last post, Jason told you about a conversation he had with one of the protestors at PrideFest—a young woman who was touched by our music when we shared at a Christian coffeehouse not too long ago, but who refuses to acknowledge our ministry (and behaved in an undeniably un-christ-like manner toward Jason) now that she knows we’re gay.
We had a chance last night after rehearsal to talk about that experience—I had the “pleasure” of many such conversations during my years as an MCC pastor (and in fact I had a similar conversation online yesterday with a clergy person who entered an online forum on Homosexuality and Religion), so I could sympathize.
Unfortunately, “sympathize” is about all I can do for people who’ve been caught in one of those conversations. I certainly can’t offer any “magic bullet” (though, especially in the wake of the Knoxville shootings, I hate to use that metaphor). The Silent Witness program, in its wisdom, exists solely to stand between protestors and their victims at PrideFests and other targeted events (warning: that last link takes you to a pretty disturbing site). The Silent Witness program recognizes that no one ever wins these conversations, and that more often than not they escalate with frightening speed into unfortunate, emotional situations. The safest—and probably the only spiritually mature—response is to say “God loves you” and walk away from those confrontations.
I wish there were another way.
I wish the “God Hates Fags” signs meant as much to the people holding them as they do to me. I wish they could have the experience, just once, of getting in the car to go home at the end of the day and being unable to get the key in the ignition because you’re suddenly and unexpectedly overwhelmed, and sobbing uncontrollably at all of it:
The prayers and prayers and God-how-many-more-prayers—“Change me, God”—as puberty hit and you realized that you weren’t like the other guys, and that you might actually be one of those people folks talk about behind their backs, or—which is worse?—right in front of their faces.
The years of loneliness you spent trying to forget what you’d been taught, to reject the stereotypes, to learn to love yourself as you know God does, so that you might finally be able to tell your parents, your siblings, your family, your friends, who you really are. So that you might be able finally to have a healthy relationship with a special other person.
The soul-wrenching, unquenchable thirst for a community of faith—you know God loves you; you’ve felt it too many times to ignore it. But why do people pretend they know better than you who God created you to be? Why does “all are welcome” come with so many strings attached?
The years you’ve put into your life with your partner—the sickness and health, the richer and poorer, the paying bills and mowing lawns and repairing toilets and cooking meals and washing dishes and cleaning up after the cats and cleaning up after each other and compromising and compromising and compromising, all in the name of love. Love that those signs pretend is an illusion, something less than what the sign-holders feel for their spouses, children, and friends.
I wish I could take off my 3.12 shirt at the end of the Unity Parade, put on a nice comfy robe (and maybe a few tassels), sink into a cozy recliner of self-righteousness, and know in my heart that I’m closer to God than those people I ran into today. I wish I could hang up the shirt, put the signs in the closet for next year, and go on living my life without worrying that someone was going to walk into my church and start shooting because I don’t hate enough people.
Dang it. I’m starting to get emotional again—it happens every time I talk about this stuff.
Those are the words that appear on the brochures that David designed for our humble space at the PA Gay & Lesbian Chamber of Commerce booth at the PrideFest of Central PA this past weekend. It couldn’t be more true—I was reminded of that during some events of the weekend.
Nothing spoke that message more powerfully than hearing the voices of 100 gay, lesbian, and affirming folks as they movingly performed Joseph M. Martin’s The Awakening during the Voices United concert last Friday night. The song paints a picture of a dream—a desolate, almost post-apocalyptic silent dream. In this failed land, no music exists. Not even the birds can bring themselves to sing. Sadly, hopelessly, the dreamer builds his understanding of this broken world and comes to a heart-numbing realization. Without music, there would be no Hallelujah, no song of praise. No love song. No lullaby. And no hope for change or healing in the world. But then the “pinch” comes. The dreamer starts to awaken. What begins as almost relief finishes as an overwhelming testament to the powerful gift that the Giver of Song has given us.
Awake! Awake! Let music live!
A dear friend of mine was feeling very idealistic the other night when I asked him to accompany me to that concert. Well, let’s be honest—he just didn’t want to have anything to do with the Pride festivities of the weekend. The concert, the Parade, the Festival… he just plain didn’t want to. There are plenty of reasons for this, all of them justified and valid to him, and to those that know him well. I took the road of gently reminding him that as a member of the gay community himself, it would be good to “support the cause” as it were, to show others that pride in our community is important and worthwhile. I became concerned when his reasons started to focus on a particular aspect… why should we have a PrideFest?
We shouldn’t need to have one, Right? “I mean, 39 years after Stonewall, why do we STILL have to take the ‘Gay Ghetto’ out on parade just to show Central PA that LGBT people actually do exist? Why are we defined by who we love?” he retorted. Well, shouldn’t we be able to fall in love with the one with whom we naturally fall in love and not be served judgement for that simple fact? I mean, c’mon folks, in an ideal world, we can all love who we love and rejoice in the fact that nobody hates us because everyone is busy loving who everyone loves as well. RIGHT?
Ahem… I did have to remind my friend that we do, in fact, live in a human world, not an ideal one. Maybe when that world comes, we won’t need Pride. Or a festival. Or Silent Witnesses. Or music. Or support… or healing. Until then, in this imperfect, war-torn, $4-a-gallon, Bryant Park Project-less material world, “hurt people hurt people.” Until then, people will continue to congregate, and for many reasons. They congregate for worship, for support, for answers, for a sense of belonging… for pride. People congregate to feel. Hope, anger, despair, happiness, thankfulness… healing. That is why we sing. We pray for people to, despite their hurting, love themselves.
Another notable reminder of the importance of PrideFest came when I had the misfortune to encounter one of the many protesters during the festival. I found myself awkwardly involved in a discussion with a group of youngsters who had stopped my partner to talk along the fence. I recognized these youngsters as they had adored 3.12’s performances at a local Christian coffeehouse a few months ago, before they learned that the three of us were gay. One of the girls recognized me sporting my 3.12 T-shirt and said “I know who you are. How can you be here? How can you support these people, spreading their hate? You should be using your gift to spread the love of Jesus!” Just as I was about to explain to her that I failed to see how spreading words of love and acceptance was spreading hate, and ask her what the love of Jesus meant to her, and didn’t Jesus go among those who were regarded as outcasts and “sinners” and tell them to spread love, and wasn’t judgement reserved for God, and why the heck didn’t she have anything better to do on a beautiful Saturday afternoon than go heckle the queers at Riverfront Park… a Silent Witness intervened and politely asked all involved to move on.
I allowed that girl to hurt my feelings. I allowed her to break my spirit, because for one second, all of the bright, community-loving, good giving nature of the day was overshadowed by three youngsters’ closed-minded views of the love I had for myself, the love I had for my partner, and the love I had for my God. Was this feeling “the love of Jesus?” Was this what I was to use my gift to spread? I choose not to think so. I choose to be proud of who my God created me to be, and proud of the person He put in my life to love. And when the moment of hurt passed, I felt a relief that I was surrounded by people that loved me for who I was, without change.
So let PrideFest live. It’s a form of healing for many—to be able to say “I’m here and I’m proud of the beautiful soul my Creator made me to be!” Maybe some are able to feel this alone, in the context of smaller social groups, in ministry, or in simple prayer. Many though, feel a need to congregate to do it, just like many feel a need to congregate to worship. People also congregate to hear music. I shudder to imagine a world without music…
Just a quick note to let you know we’ve added a new series of photos to our Gallery, taken at today’s Unity Parade in Harrisburg. Swing on over and check ‘em out! (And then feel free to come back here and post a comment or two, so we don’t get lonely!)
“First off, Margaret, let me say that I think that you are right where you should be right now. You are in what I would call God’s greenhouse. What I mean is that a greenhouse is an environment where growth is accelerated. It’s not comfortable in there. Hot, wet, a lot of pruning—not a particularly clean environment, either—but the best for growth. That’s where I think you are.
Those are the words that appear on the brochures that David designed for our humble space at the 
