Discernment and Deserts

Tomorrow is my birthday, and like the past two birthdays in a row, I will be spending it in a decidedly un-birthday fashion. Instead of coming home and having a party or lounging and having people lavish me with gifts, or peeling me grapes, or whatever, I will be going to my first meeting with my discernment committee in the continuing long, strange, trip that I've been on with God. 

My spouse and I were talking today about what I may or may not encounter when I talk to this group of mostly totally unknown people. I'm as foreign to them as they are to me. We're supposed to talk about Christian ministry, and what I, and they, understand that to be. I was describing the different types of Christian ministers (laity and ordained) as being a little like boxers and their coaches. The laity are the ones sent out into the ring to do battle with the world all week. The bell rings, and they go to their corner (the church building) where the coach (the priest) gives them water and towels them off and talks strategy for dealing with the next round, and then they are sent back out into the ring again. She kept staring at me.

"And how are you going to do ministry?" she asked.  Now I was staring at her.  "You haven't told me how you're going to do your ministry. I hear that question and I think in terms of whether you see yourself in a parish, or are you some kind of itinerant priest, or campus ministry, or prison chaplain."

"I don't know," I said, a bit exasperated. "I don't know where I'm going to be. I don't think it will be in a parish, but where it will be, I don't know." 

As irritated as I was that she couldn't understand my metaphor, I also was very grateful for the challenge. I may not know the people on this committee, but I have experienced people in the church and I am pretty sure I will have some people there who don't like metaphor and don't like boxing (I don't really care for it much either, but it's a great metaphor!) and just want me to get to the point. So, her challenge was a valid one. And I will have an 80-minute drive from Thomasville to Albany tomorrow to contemplate how I'd answer these questions in a more concrete way.

There just seems to be a perfect timing on all of this. It's the First Sunday in Lent, which this year is also my birthday, and the very sweet day of Valentine's. The Gospel lesson assigned for this Sunday is the events, as told by Luke, of what happens to Jesus upon his immersion in the waters of baptism. The story is that the Heaven's opened and the Holy Spirit descended like a dove with a voice saying, "This is my Son with whom I am well pleased." But before Jesus can embark on his ultimate mission which will lead to the cross on Good Friday, he must be refined and tested and faced with the very things that threaten all those whom he is attempting to reach with the saving grace of God. And so, after his baptism, he is driven out into the desert where he will contend with the temptations that the world has to offer: immediate gratification, possessions and power, and recklessness. Satan, who in the Jewish tradition is like a prosecutor, attempts to attract Jesus by laying out all that the world could offer to him if he'd use his God-given power working in him to a self-serving ministry.  "Make that rock into a loaf of bread" "How 'bout all these nations and kingdoms you could possess and rule?" "Go ahead and throw yourself from a tall height. You won't die." In Luke's telling of the story, Jesus withstands all this with seeming ease and self-confidence, and we in the Episcopal Church are reminded every week that Jesus was like us in every way, "but without sin." I believe that to be true. And I also want to believe that Jesus faced these temptations and withstood them, but did so not so easily. I want to believe that Jesus saw what this prosecutor was attempting to do; lay a snare to grab him at the ankle with an "A-ha! Gotcha!" I want to believe that Jesus, who is without sin, nonetheless could see and feel and understand the great temptations that we, who are so often sorely hindered by our sins, face as a regular challenge. Who doesn't want instant gratification, right? If we weren't susceptible to that, then there would be no need for Powerball! When I consider Jesus in this scene out in the desert, I picture him somewhat bedraggled and tired and thirsty and hungry. He is physically feeling the weakness of his human body. What better time for Satan to show up and offer him lots of bright, shiny objects, right? And what an opportune time for God to be the alchemist who uses these temptations as an opportunity to refine his Son to resist what we find so irresistable. 

Discernment for the priesthood, or at least mine up to this point, has felt like many trips out into the desert. It is a time to test and probe and see what is happening with me and God and a call on my life. I have attempted to avoid going forward with pursuing a call to become a priest. This wasn't something that I've "always wanted to do"; on the contrary, I left the church in 1991 and stayed away until late 2007, and didn't have particularly warm and fuzzy feelings toward clergy people during those years that I was in exile. I found most Episcopal priests to be awkward and incapable of being with people in their places of hurt and woundedness. I wanted no part of any of that. And then my father died, and God fired up a jukebox in my head of Episcopal hymns, and the rest--as they say--is history. The more I got involved, and the more I believed in the power of Christ working with me and in me, and through me, the more I was hearing from other people: "Are you a priest?" "Are you going to become a priest?" "VTS or Sewanee?" I am someone people continuously are coming to for counsel and support. And even those conversations are beginning to end with, "I think you'd be a great priest." The time for running away has stopped.

Pray for me as you might pray for all the people who, like Jesus  in the desert, are discerning and listening for God to guide them at this time when the temptations of the world are set in contrast to the call on their lives. Pray for us to listen. Pray for us to speak our truth. Pray that we may be one in the same way Jesus and God are one.  

Do Not Be Alarmed

Then Jesus began to say to them, "Beware that no one leads you astray.  Many will come in my name and say, "I am he!' and they will lead many astray. When you hear of wars and rumors of wars, do not be alarmed; this must take place, but the end is still to come.  For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines. This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.--Mark 13:5-8

Do not be alarmed. This must take place. The end is still to come.

What words to have in the Gospel reading this past Sunday, less than 48 hours after the terrorist rampage in Paris. What a message to ponder as pundits piece together on the news the string of deadly attacks waged by those who claim to be fighting against Western ideals in the name of Allah, praise be his name.

Are these times the "birth pangs" of something else on our horizon? 

The readings at the end of the church year are always of an apocalyptic nature. The diviners of our lectionary seem to want to remind us that we're approaching the close of the year, and that Advent is coming and will usher in a new round of quiet waiting and anticipation, and a chance to prepare the way for the coming of Christ back into the world in the most normal of ways: a baby born to a woman who would grow up to be the human embodiment of Love in his own violent and turbulent world of First Century Palestine. He would be "God with us," here to teach us to love our enemies, not curse them.

This perfect love of Jesus is tremendously challenging on a good day. It seems close to impossible on days when our news on television, radio, the paper and social media show us again and again that there is death and destruction and hatred all around. It's not much comfort in the morning office readings to have the Book of Revelation, with "the Devil" or 1 Maccabees with the "fight to the death" narrative. When one reads about Judas, called Maccabeeus, who"searched out and pursued those who broke the law; he burned those who troubled his people," it can feel as though you're right back on Facebook again!

What do we do about those who call themselves "Islamic State in Iraq and Syria" or "ISIS"? 

As might be expected, those Syrians who have been fleeing the civil war that is destroying their country, have been caught up in the crossfire of anger, suspicion, outrage, and fear. They are attempting to get away, but have been met at the border of some European nations with hostility. After what happened in Paris, France immediately closed its border and the news media has started alleging that there are ISIS members embedded in the streams of refugees getting out of Syria. This may be true. But it is also true that ISIS has successfully radicalized those who have felt disenfranchised and despised in their own countries because of their ethnicity or religion. While there are still questions about Friday's attack in Paris, the one thing that is clear is that at least one of the attackers was a French national. And there are some ties, it seems, that these terrorists may have had  to Belgium. That's a far cry from Syria. The Syrian refugees are not the enemy. Unfortunately, in the case of those who are becoming radicalized, the enemies may look eerily like us.

What do we do? I wish I had the answer to that. I am not one who likes war or advocates for war or violence to deal with conflict. I believe that ISIS is attempting to get us to act out of our fears and enter into a war (which has apparently already worked with France starting to bomb ISIS points in Syria). For me, I have to remember to keep living my life in Love. I have to pray not only for the victims of violence, but to remember our enemies as well. Gut-wrenching as that can be, I have to ask for God's intervention to soften the hearts of my enemies so it will have the reflexive action of helping to keep me from getting too invested in anger and revenge. I have to trust that God hasn't checked out and is seeing and aware of this turmoil. 

I also have to consider what the factors are that drive people to hate "our western culture." I'm not convinced by our government's narrative that they hate us because of our "freedom." I think they may hate us because of our misuse and abuse of our freedom. When our freedom leads to exploitation of others around the world, so that we reap the benefits of their resources, there's going to be trouble brewing. Does that mean I think the shooting of innocent people at a restaurant or a concert hall is OK? Do I condone the wanton taking of another life, the beheadings, the raping of the Yazidi women and girls? No way! ISIS is a barbaric organization which has seemingly lost all sense of humanity. I just don't want myself or anyone else suckered into diving head first into their pit of Hell and rage.

I don't have an answer for how to contain ISIS or how you can effectively destroy something that isn't a "state" with defined borders or has a conscience. This is an enigma. God help us all.

      

Baptism Under Fire in Central Florida

This is a story of church done wrong.

I was casually cruising through Facebook posts yesterday afternoon when I stopped to read a lengthy tale of baby Jack and his two dads, Rich and Eric, and their experience of looking for a spiritual home where they could have their son baptized and raise him in a faith community.  The couple has been together for 15 years and married a few years back in New York and then returned to their Orlando home. 

Rich McCaffrey shared what happened to them:

Being a gay couple, we knew we wanted to be part of a community that would be open to and respectful of our family. After some research, Eric and I felt the Episcopal Church would offer similarities to what we knew of the church growing up, and it could serve as a place in which we could grow spiritually as a family. We began attending the Cathedral Church of St. Luke in Orlando and quickly felt at home. We spent time discussing our desire to baptize Jack with the Dean, Anthony Clark. We were open with him about our family and that we wanted the focus to be placed, where it should, on Jack. The Dean was welcoming and open about the congregation, explaining it was a mix of conservative- and liberal-minded people. He agreed to Jack’s baptism, and recommended we opt for the later 6 p.m. service, since those who worship at that time tend to be the most “open.”

We chose Sunday, April 19 for the baptism. We attended Sunday services and recommended classes, becoming more familiar and pleased with our choice. We invited friends and family, both local and from out of town, and we looked forward to celebrating with Jack on what was to be an important day. On Thursday, April 16 we received a message from Dean Clark asking us to contact him regarding “a development” concerning the baptism. With relatives in the room, I called and what I heard still creates a lump in my throat. The Dean shared there were members of the congregation who opposed Jack’s baptism and although he hoped to resolve the conflict, he was not yet able to (the Bishop of Central Florida, Greg Brewer, was also involved). After probing further the Dean said “the issue is with you and Eric being the first two men who will baptize their child at the Cathedral.” He offered his apologies and further explained this was a bigger deal because of the exposure that comes along with the baptism taking place at the Cathedral. In essence “this is not no forever, just not now.” Three days before our son was to be baptized he was turned away. At that moment, he was unwelcomed by the church, and denied his rite to be recognized as a Christian. I was speechless, angry, and heartbroken.

Jack’s baptism turned out to be the very opposite of what it should have been. It became about Jack having two dads, rather than a community opening its arms to a joyful little soul, one of God’s children.

How many sins can one see in this story?

Let's start with the main one. As Rich himself noted, the one being baptized and celebrated is their son, Jack, not Jack's two dads. There is no reason, zero, zip, nada, to deny a baby the sacrament of baptism. This is about the child's membership in the Body of Christ, the marking and sealing as one of Christ's own forever. 

Then there's the idea that the Dean is capitulating to pressure from "some members of the congregation" because the couple is gay and the cathedral would allow a gay couple to bring a child forth for baptism is a "thing." The whole, "Well, let's do it at the 6pm service because they tend to be more open" is also disturbing. I understand why, but does it not feel a little like how Nicodemus felt most comfortable speaking to Jesus "at night" when, presumably, nobody would notice? I'm sure the 6pm service isn't the main one for the day, and probably no other couple...save for people who might attend that service regularly... have been instructed to do the baptism at that time, so as to not ruffle any feathers. Just that type of negotiation would have made me think, "Hmmmmmm...."

And then to cancel a baptism? I can understand if there's a family member or other honored guest who can't make it and the parents decide it can't be done until later. But to cancel it because some unnamed members of the cathedral complained? 

The irony of all of this is that one of the readings used for the Fifth Sunday of Easter this year was the lovely story from Acts where the apostle Philip finds himself in the company of an Ethiopian eunuch who is studying Scripture. Philip is delighted and the eunuch is eager to learn and understand what he is reading, and Phillip teaches him. And then the men see a body of water and the eunuch turns to Philip and says, "Look, here is water. What is to prevent me from being baptized?" And indeed, nothing stopped him and Philip baptized the eunuch into the budding Christian faith. Now, can you imagine if Philip had said to the eunuch, "I'm sorry, but there's been a development and because you are too different from me, I can't possibly baptize you"? Wouldn't do much for that whole mission to bring the Good News to the world, would it?

As this story has been gaining speed on the internet, the diocese of Central Florida, long known to the LGBTQ+ community of this state as a big Black Hole that is barely remaining Episcopal, has been saying that this has all been a "misunderstanding." Bishop Greg Brewer says he had only become aware of this issue when the Facebook post went out yesterday (odd since it seems that he was included in the initial consult that led to this "misunderstanding.") I saw where Bishop Brewer posted on a friend's re-post of the Episcopal Cafe article on this debacle. The bishop appreciated seeing the article and noted "this is difficult to work out without throwing somebody under the bus." 

Well, I'd say that Rich and Eric and Baby Jack have already been thrown under the bus!

I have a way for this to work out: the dean and the bishop apologize for having dissed this family so badly, and they ask the parents of Jack for forgiveness. And then they schedule the baptism, and they sprinkle water on Jack's forehead in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Perhaps they also move more deliberately through the Baptismal Covenant.  Have the Dean and the Bishop really take in with the congregation of the cathedral what it means to affirm their belief in a Triune God, and commit to a life in Christ as a community, going so far as to seek and serve Christ in others, loving their neighbor as themselves and respecting the dignity of every human being.

They can do it...with God's help.

End of 2014

Here in the United States, we're hours away from saying, "Good-bye!" to 2014. I am fine with seeing this year go away and become part of the history books. The year had a difficult and sad beginning for me. Multiple airplane trips north with delays, cancelled flights due to ice and snow in Atlanta, and unexpected stays in Baltimore and Jacksonville...all were part of the difficulties and trauma associated with the eventual death of my mom. She passed away on February 7th, and I was back with my partner in New Hampshire for my birthday for her funeral a week later. 

Losing my mom was different than when I lost my dad. Dad's death awakened my faith; mom's death put it more to the test. This might account for why I haven't been posting as much on this blog during the year. She was my most avid reader and would comment regularly. With her gone, this space has sometimes felt as if I'm talking to the trees, and just another reminder of her death. I started this blog in the wake of my dad's death and as a way of processing my faith journey, particularly as I returned to a church that had a reputation for homophobia before it split in October, 2005. With my mom's death, I also experienced something of a more symbolic death in having left that church in Tallahassee to join my new congregation, St. Thomas in Thomasville, GA. There I am opening to new life. I'm singing in the choir, serving as a Eucharistic Minister, lector and will be leading an EfM group. And my discernment process continues. In Georgia, it's allowed to continue because my sexual orientation doesn't pose a problem. 

Which brings me back to my faith. It has suffered some knocks but it hasn't waivered and, in fact, has been sinking deeper roots to draw up the Source to keep me centered. Something about having lost an important and central figure in my life has made me reflect on the importance of letting go of certainty and holding onto things. The worst pain seems to come from becoming overly attached to people, places or things and expecting that nothing will change. The one thing that will always remain is that Source which continues flowing like a constant river and even as all other things fall away and become part of my memories, I can continue to drink from that river. Without it, I don't know how I'd manage.

This blog will continue. I will post as I am moved to share that drink with all of you. Happy New Year and may 2015 bring new lessons. 

  

O Blessed Communion

"O blessed communion fellowship divine!
We feebly struggle, they in glory shine;
Yet all are one in thee for all are thine:
Alleluia! Alleluia!"
--For All the Saints, Hymn #287, 1982 Hymnal

One of the things I've noticed about myself is that I am keenly aware of "the seasons."  I'm not talking about summer, fall, winter and spring, which, in this particular part of the United States, are often simply called, "Too hot!" or "Too cold!" with about a week or two of "just right." I am talking about the church calendar, and the various occasions in the church calendar. The most recent is All Saints' Day, which many churches marked today, even though it was technically yesterday.

This is another time when what Christians, at least Christians still identifying with our roots in the early Roman Catholic traditions, have adopted what was a pagan custom and found meaning in it for ourselves. Pagans at this time of the year commemorate Samhain (pronounced Sowin) which is a time when the veils between the worlds of the living and dead have thinned and they remember the ancestors. We do the same thing in Christianity, even if we don't necessarily speak of it in those terms. We take this time to remember those loved ones who have died, and we reflect upon and give thanks for the communion of saints that have gone before us.

I realized that with this holy day coming up, my mind was on my mother, who died this year in February. As the weather transitioned from the season of "Too Hot" to "Too Cold," I discovered that I had in the inside pocket of my jacket several of her prayer cards from the funeral home. It seemed weirdly appropriate that they were there, and I pulled one out to put in my music folder. As we sang the traditional, "For All the Saints," I was able to have her looking at me with the smile I know would have been there if she were still in the flesh and with me. We didn't sing her favorite, ultra-Anglican, hymn, "I sing a song for the saints of God," but we did sing, "Ye Watchers and Ye Holy Ones," which had been in her funeral service. And while my particular church chose to stick to the readings assigned for 21 Pentecost, I was aware that elsewhere in the Episcopal Church, the Gospel lesson had been the Beatitudes...the same Gospel reading I'd selected for my mother's funeral. Clearly, it seems my mother was making sure the walls that separate us--the ones of living in this life and the next--were going to crumble some. Perhaps this is why the Patriots also won handily in their game against the Denver Broncos...

I have been touched with sadness through all of this.  There have been tears as I considered that I lost her this year... as well as friends who died quite suddenly and unexpectedly. Their memories are indeed for a blessing, and the loss is still fresh enough that it sometimes catches me when I realize that they are no longer here.

I keep remembering how I felt the day of my mom's funeral, held the day after my birthday and with more snow falling outside the church. Inside, I felt her presence, and I had an odd experience of sensing that she was sitting in the pew enjoying this celebration of her life. Today, I felt as though she was with me again and not just in a picture smiling back at me from my music folder.

The Real Mother's Day

Many people have been incredibly kind to me today.  I mean, really, really kind.  As in, looking at me long and hard to make sure that I was doing alright.  I understand why.  It was Mother's Day, and this is the first Mother's Day without my mother.  And for so many people out there, the non-stop Hallmark happy images and demand for chocolates, flowers, Sunday brunches, and cards that seem tied to this second Sunday in May is what today is all about.  And, if you have no one to share that with, then it can be a huge bummer.

But today, in the Episcopal Church lectionary, it was Good Shepherd Sunday.  All the readings pointed to and led up to the Gospel lesson from John where Jesus gives his talk about being the Good Shepherd (although the diviners of the lectionary put most of the emphasis today on the parts where he is the gate and the gatekeeper.)  What in the world can anyone say about shepherds, gates and mothers?  Thanks for the challenge because I can see a connection between my mom and this Gospel.

I was thinking about how a few weeks ago, at Easter, I felt very lonely, and I cried and cried and cried all day.  Not exactly the response I would hope to have at Easter.  But I was hit with empty space in my life that used to be filled by my mother's faithful phone call, gleefully announcing, "He is Risen!"  With that gone, and the stark reality that it is now gone forever, I was devasted and almost inconsoluable.  Almost.  The thing that I realized, many tears and tissues later, was that my mom had also risen, and that she now was in a position of knowing better than ever the reality of Christ, the resurrected One.  This thought helped to ease my own pain and give me some level of comfort that her life goes on in a way that I won't understand until my mortal life ends.  Her faith in God and in God as Christ was very strong, and she could comprehend that the resurrection is our signal that life will not end; it only changes.  So, in death, we are brought into a new round of life.  And since she believed that, why wouldn't she still be proclaiming, "He is Risen!"? 

And this is how I tie my mom into this idea of the shepherd.  In many ways, my own faith was herded along by my mother's shepherding me in the Episcopal Church, and our rituals and traditions.  She made sure that I knew as a child that while we celebrated Christmas and enjoyed those things that Santa would bring, I never lost sight of why we lit the candles on the Advent wreath, and went to church on Christmas Eve.  Easter eggs were fun, but we'd have to get them done before the Easter Vigil, and we certainly weren't going to go looking for them until we had gone to church to hear how Mary looked into an empty tomb.  Even during the years that I was in exile from the Episcopal Church, I was always quietly keeping the remembrance of the solemnity that comes with the Triduum.  I would play J.S. Bach's "Christ Lag in Todesbanden" in my car on Good Friday.   What better way for the "unchurched" to remain in touch with her tradition than to hear: "Jesus Christus, Gottes Sohn/für unsere Sund gestorben" on Good Friday?  Had the Christ Church choir, and my mother, never sung this piece, I would never have known to play it for myself.    Had my mother not instilled in me a love of the church seasons, I probably wouldn't have given a damn about any of it.   Her shepherding which, at times, did feel a little like getting poked with a rod to keep me moving along really did make a difference in my spiritual development.  A fact that I have only come to realize in her death.  Sad that I wasn't able to comprehend her contributuion sooner.

The relationship I had with my mother wasn't grounded in the secular traditions of Mother's Day.  It's roots were in the Christian holidays.  Mother's Day meant that we might get her something special, or find a funny card with dogs, but it wasn't a really big deal.  Neither was Father's Day for my dad.  I think, when you're lucky enough to have parents who are always with you and never divorced or separated, you find that your Mother's Days and Father's Days don't get defined by a greeting card company.  They are strengthened by relationship, and the honor and respect doesn't get limited to one day of the year.  

I've been OK, folks.  Thanks for the concern.  

And I Thought I Was The Reporter

I spent the early part of my working life in radio.  I love the medium, and I love the power it holds to give voice to the voiceless, and allows the reporter to use words to paint pictures for the listeners.

I was pretty good at it.  But when I went back and listened to my mother's appearance on my friend's AM talk radio program in 1995, and her reporting on Bishop Gene Robinson's consecration for "This Way Out" in 2003, well...

I was in awe.

Mom loved radio, too.  And she was nothing short of incredible when given the opportunity to speak into a microphone.  She was an amazingly articulate advocate for the advancement of Love. 

This past weekend, I held a memorial service for her at one of her most favorite haunts in Tallahassee, the Mickee Faust Clubhouse in Railroad Square.  About forty people turned out to learn more about this woman, who had to grow up pretty quickly.  Her parents divorced when she was only eight years old, and so in 1935, my mom became a "latchkey kid" before there was the term.  Her dad stayed in Bay City, Michigan, and her mom returned to New York, spending some of that time in Rochester and also in Bronxville. 

My mother bounced back and forth between the two parents traveling by train.  She used to tell the porters that she was a runaway princess.  And she'd do her version of Shirley Temple's "Good Ship Lollipop" routine in the train car.  She attended Carleton College for a year.  She then went to work at Time/Life Magazine in New York as a secretary.  It was shortly thereafter that she got involved in the Eisenhower campaign where she met my dad, a young lawyer and Navy veteran from WWII.  They made their home in Bronxville, where my three brothers were born.  In 1963, my dad took an offer to join a law firm in Exeter, NH, and the family moved.  Mom got involved in George Romney's campaign for president in 1968, and that's when I was born.

Both my parents loved all four of us unconditionally.  Many other people, those I remember well and some who I vaguely recall, also felt that same love from my parents.  They had a knack for taking in people, and taking care of those whose own parents were strangely absent from their lives. 

That strength of my mom's love really came into focus for me when I came out to her in 1991.  After some initial discomfort (mostly on my end because I got tired of fielding her many ill-informed questions), I told her to go to PFLAG and talk to them.  This was the start of my mom becoming the PFLAG momster. 

At her service... which really wasn't so much a service as an opportunity to gather friends and have a time to remember and reflect on my mom... I played a clip of a video of the 1993 March on Washington for LGB Rights (they hadn't added "T"ransgender to the acronym yet!)  Mom carried her big pink sign with "I Love My Lesbian Daughter and So Do Her Father and Brothers!" and she yelled, "Fuck You!" at the protestors who met us who were marching with their "Repent or Perish!" banner on the sidewalk. 

But the real gems that I shared at her gathering in Tallahassee were the opportunities for people to hear my mom's greatest radio moments.  The first was when Margie Menzel, upon meeting my mom and hearing about her Republican credentials while being a national board member of PFLAG, decided she wanted to introduce the Anonymous Peggins to the Tallahassee listening audience.  As folks listened, they were in awe of how masterfully my mother handled phone calls from a hostile audience.

The other was her wonderfully descriptive report of Bishop Gene Robinson's consecration at the "Episcopades."  Mom, who was an alto in the Christ Church choir for almost three decades, was singing at +Gene's consecration service.  I got her hooked up with Greg Gordon, one of the producers of "This Way Out" and my mother became an international radio star for the many LGBT listeners throughout the globe.

When I got done playing these videos, I remarked that she did a better job on the radio than I did.  Maybe I pulled on her hidden talents to make them my own.  I was just thrilled to share her voice with those who attended this particular tribute to the Anonymous Peggins.  Now more people have been touched... and more people have experienced what a love she carried in her heart. I hope we pass that on.

Theft and Loss in Holy Week

Well, I don't know about anyone else, but my Holy Week started off with my bicycle getting stolen from our carport, and the reality as I filed my tax extension that my business hit a big bump in the road this past year resulting in a loss of income.  The two are not necessarily related, except that they are.  I had been intending to sell my bike to recover some of the income I lost traveling to and from New Hampshire.  It was in good enough condition that I could ask a good price for it.  Now it's gone.

The theft happened while I was at St. John's leading Morning Prayer.  As I pulled into our driveway, I noticed my partner's motorcycle helmet and my bike helmet on the pavement of the carport.  I thought, "That's strange."  Then I realized that the bicycle, which had been holding these two items, was not there.  I ran into the house to ask my partner if someone had come to pick up the bike, or borrow it, or something.  "No?"  And so, a call to the police, a report filed.  And I was told I'm not likely to get it back.  Ever.

I was angry, not just about the theft, but that I had so stupidly left the bike unlocked (they also took the lock with them).  I was hurt that someone would just come up into our carport and take what was not theirs.  And I was frustrated that this happened just as I was making arrangements to put it up for sale.   My partner suggested that maybe a homeless person took the bike, and perhaps whoever stole it really needed it more than I did.  If that were the case, I might feel a little differently.  But it is just as likely that it was stolen for the purposes of a joy ride, and a trip to the pawn shop, so the thief might get a few bucks.

Theft and loss.  Those were the words that bubbled up to the surface for me as I lay in bed contemplating the state of my mind.   And so imagine how I felt as I listened attentively to the collect for the Wednesday in Holy Week this morning:

O Lord God, whose blessed Son our Savior gave his back to
the smiters and hid not his face from shame: Give us grace
to take joyfully the sufferings of the present time, in full
assurance of the glory that shall be revealed; through the same
Jesus Christ thy Son our Lord, who liveth and reigneth with
thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

I thought about that line of taking "joyfully the sufferings of the present time..."  and lined that up against my past 48 hours.  I can't say that I take any joy in "the sufferings of the present time" at all.  This prayer sounded to me almost like those martyrs of the early church who earnestly believed that they had to endure a gruesome death in order to achieve glory, a mentality that, in my 21st century ears, sounds an awful lot like the mindset of a religious zealot turned suicide bomber.

I then thought about this idea of Jesus being beaten and whether he really "joyfully" accepted those sufferings.  I somehow doubt it.  I believe that Jesus felt the injury, and while we don't know from Scripture if he cried, or shouted, or had any emotional response to being abused so badly.  I believe that each strike to his back could be seen in his face, even though he did not hide his face in shame.  How terrible to think that his hurt was so visible, and yet his abusers continued to beat him.  Those who are abusers, sometimes, seem to lose track of the humanity of those they are injuring.

So, what could be meant in "taking joy in the sufferings of the present time?"  I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm thinking that "joy," in this particular context,  is not meant to be "happy" or "light-hearted" or even having any kind of enjoyment and pleasure in what's happening at all.  "Joy," I'm thinking, may be a notion of letting go of fear or trepidation in times of trouble and sorrow, and recognizing that there is some truth in the old adage, "This too shall pass."  This collect has its roots in much of Isaiah 53 and the feelings of being "cut off" during the Babylonian exile.  But the prophet  notes that the suffering of Israel was not in vain and, despite what they may have thought, God has not abandoned them but is redeeming them even in the midst of their woe.  This, I'm thinking, is where "joy" might enter the picture. 

Put this along side my feelings of "theft" and "loss."  There is no pleasure in my bike getting stolen or the economic vagaries of being a self-employed massage therapist.  But to dwell in the hurt or anger or fear or trepidation will not get me anywhere.  A bike is a thing.  And my business goes through cycles of economic downturns and upswings.  But "theft" and "loss" go deeper for me at this time than either of those two things combined.  As I contemplated "theft" and "loss" I found that it took me back to my grief.  I have had to grieve the death of my mother, changes in some friendships, and the continuing sadness of leaving a church family.  Examining those things has pointed out to me how my grief, or more accurately, my hurt and my anger has been cutting me off from God.  How can I be reconciled to God when I am wallowing in the sufferings instead of  letting go?  I can shed tears, but I shouldn't drown in them.

Certainly, Christ is aware of the theft and loss that happens in life.  He knows about death, and he has been in that dark place of grief.  But Christ's life and death also point to his resurrection and ascension.  I'm counting on Him to be the reminder to me that the meanness of the world will hurt me, but it will not break me.

Reconciliation and Remembering

Today was not an easy day.  The readings for this Sunday included the death and raising from the dead of Lazarus and the valley of the dry bones from Ezekiel.  OK, neither of those are inherently tough readings, and actually they embody much hope in the redeeming works of God.  I should be left with a sense that God will reconcile and remember us always.  He will bring us to new life and lift us up out of the pit.  I've written about that take on the raising of Lazarus in a reflection on the words to "unbind him."

But today, as I listened to that Gospel lesson, the one I identified with the most in the story was Martha.  Her grief touched my own, and I reflected upon her situation.  Her brother is dead.  He'd fallen ill and she had really believed that if Jesus had arrived a few days earlier, all this would have been just a bad dream.  But things didn't work out that way.  I heard in Martha those opening words of our psalm from this morning:

"Out of the depths have I called to you, O Lord; Lord, hear my voice; let your ears consider well the voice of my supplication."

This is how I have felt over the past two months.  Out of the depths, I have called out to God: "Hear my voice!"  I have had moments of thinking that I wanted to tell my mom something, or get her input on an idea.  And that's when I am reminded that she's gone, and she's been gone to me, in that way, since March 27, 2013.  There wasn't a whole lot that she could offer me over the phone any more, and "So so so" didn't mean much without being able to see her facial expression.  But death puts an end to even the opportunity to have her smile and pat my hand.

Another part of the Gospel story also rang true to my own experience.  Martha went out to meet Jesus.  Last week, after the blind man was tossed out of his synagogue, Jesus went to meet him, an illustration of how Jesus will seek after us.  Today, however, Jesus hasn't quite arrived to the house and Martha has gone to him.   She wails to him her fervent cry of "Why? Why did this happen? Why did you delay? Where the hell were you when he needed you?!?!"  

I have been in this space, too.  I have found that I have actively sought out Christ to complain about everything from my sorrow at my mom's death to a constant plea of "Help Me!" every time I encounter another person who hasn't heard that she's dead and they innocently ask, "How's your mother?"  As I have mentioned before, Jesus seems to be the only one who totally gets the pain and the anguish in my heart.  He is the only one who knows how to sit shiva with those who weep and mourn.  And, just as with Martha, he is the one who is reminding me, "I am resurrection and I am life."  Yesterday in Morning Prayer, we read the story of Exodus with Moses and the burning bush.  We know that the name of God, as told to Moses, is "I am."  So, it seems to me, that God is resurrection; God is life.  Belief in God by believing that Jesus speaks as one who is completely at one with the One serves not only to unbind Lazarus; it will free Martha, her sister Mary, and me, as well.

Lord, I believe. Help me with my unbelief.

    

Grief

I wrote in an email to my spiritual director that all I really wanted to do was sit in a dark room.  This is how my profound sadness at the loss of my mother has been playing out.  I have no desire to have contact with people and yet my work as a massage therapist necessitates that I make contact with people.  Not even superficial contact, but true, physical contact of my hands working out the kinks in their muscles.  And so, for those hours in which I must work (because bill collectors don't give a damn about grief), I take moments to pray for the strength and courage to meet my clients wherever they are, and do my best to focus on them.  Weirdly, it is helpful to have those times.  For a short while, I can think about and concentrate on something else.  And it's exhausting because I have to fight to concentrate on something else.  Grief is just that strong an emotion.

As I walked to the 12:10 Eucharist at St. John's, one of the supply priests caught up to me on the sidewalk.  He asked how I was doing and I told him that, at that moment, I was OK.  He called me a liar.  He could see in my eyes, and probably in my countenance, that I was not "OK."  He laid his hand on my back as we walked and offered a prayer for God to be with me.  

I have no doubt that God is with me.  I figure that God's way of manifesting for me is the periodic introduction of "I sing a song of the saints of God" in my head, a tune that we used at my mother's funeral.   It was a moment of recognition that my mom loved that hymn, and it also provided a break with some much-needed levity for me and my siblings, each of us having our own private experience of the appropriateness of having that song juxtaposed with the much heavier "The strife is o'er."  There is no doubt the last eleven months of my mom's life reflected the heftiness of the words, "The strife is o'er, the battle done."   She endured a massive stroke that took out 40-percent of her brain, followed by the multiple failures of our country's version of elder "care" to work with her when she was wanting to work.  Her lack of language and the pathological resistance of all of us to the reality of death were the markers of the strife and the battle that was the end of her life on earth.  At the same time, there is little doubt in my mind that the next leg of her journey of life beyond this realm is more akin to that jaunty tune about the saints.  And on this particular Friday Eucharist, God gifted me with my own favorite tune from All Saints' Day, to play in my head as I processed the short way out of the chapel:

"For all the saints who from their labors rest, who thee by faith before the world confessed, thy name, O Jesus, be forever blessed.  Alleluia! Alleluia!"

 

But once the music in my head stops, the grief seeps back in.  There hasn't been a day that I haven't had to cry.  I know this is all part of the process.  I have had friends encourage me to give myself the grace to just break down as I need to and let the grief move through me.  Really, I don't need the grace to do that because it is just happening, and there's not a whole lot I can do to stop it.  Normally at this time of mid-February, I would have birthday cards.  Instead, I have been opening sympathy cards, and the numbing effects of grief overtake me again.  The cards are all lovely and they have beautiful sentiments and wise words.  But Hallmark doesn't make a card that states the truth of my grief: This sucks!

No truer words can be spoken of grief.  It sucks.  It hurts.  It's no fun.  I believe these are the words that Jesus himself understands.  The evangelist John tells us that he wept when he learned of Lazarus' death.  But I believe he didn't just weep; I think, if Jesus loved Lazarus, he wailed.  Deep, physical wailing in which the entire body cries out in the wilderness of feelings at such a loss.  Grief is felt not only in the head and the heart; it permeates the body.  It's the aches in the elbows, the throbbing in the feet, the knot in the stomach.  The heaving sobs of sorrow incorporate so many parts of the body that I think it's the body's way of letting it all hang out, so the grief doesn't get trapped and become a chronic pain.  

Yes, the memories of my mother are a blessing.  Yes, the knowledge that my mom has "gone to a better place" is good.  But those words don't touch the place of my grief.  No words can fully reach me right now.  This is where I turn myself to God the Christ and say, "You get it, don't you?"   If I can call myself fortunate in any way in this time of profound sadness, it is that I know that when the world cannot grasp the idea that "This sucks!" I can always count on the source of Love to not only fully "get it" but to sit with me in the dark room for as long as I need to do that with no demand that I put on a happy face or attempt to engage in any way that violates my own inner sense of when I'm ready to move on.  Jesus knows how to sit shiva with the one who is grieving.  This is my solace in my grief.

   

A Fitting Good-Bye

There were probably about 100 people in attendance at my mother's funeral from some of her oldest and dearest friends in the Seacoast of New Hampshire to the Governor of the state.  Mom is one of the Republicans who actively and vocally endorsed Governor Maggie Hassan, a Democrat, in her state Senate and Gubernatorial elections.  So, attending her funeral was a very nice gesture.

Mom had put me in charge of planning her service, and thankfully, she had taken the time to write out her wishes back in October, 2008, a year after my father had died.  Dad did not pre-plan, which left us with the task of not only mourning his death, but attempting to discern what would make for a fitting remembrance of his life.  Mom, at my urging, put some thought into what she would want, and as her planner, I am grateful.   

Oddly, she didn't select a psalm or even a Gospel lesson.   And after some thinking, praying, and discerning, I suggested to my brothers that since mom's major wish for the service was lots of music, we should have the psalm sung.  My niece, Charlotte, is thinking of majoring in choral music, so it was only natural that she would be the soloist and that we should have her sing Psalm 23, "The Lord is My Shepherd."  And, what better tribute to my funny mother than to use the version that has come to be known as "The Vicar of Dibley" theme song.  Both my brother Carl, and her best friend, Cathy, who is also a singer, had arrived at that same conclusion about the psalm.  And so that was one thing decided.  Mom had desired Cathy to sing a solo, and so I asked her what she wanted to sing, and she chose a spiritual called, "Deep River."  And it was unbelievably beautiful, and served as the prelude to the service.

With the Gospel, I looked at the various John lessons and thought, "None of these work for the type of woman my mother was!"  And so, I started with looking at the passage in Matthew 25 where Jesus talks about feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, freeing the prisoners.  As I read it aloud to my partner, and as I felt myself becoming emotional contemplating the message of the reading, we both were drawn to go to the Matthew version of the Beatitudes:

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, 

his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

 ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

 ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

 ‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

 ‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.

 ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.

 ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.

 ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

 ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the 

kingdom of heaven.

 ‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter 

all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, 

for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way 

they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

‘You are the salt of the earth; but if salt has lost its taste, 

how can its saltiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, 

but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

 ‘You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden.  

No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, 

but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house.  In the same way, 

let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works 

and give glory to your Father in heaven.

My mom had named four hymns specifically that she wanted to include in her celebration of her life.  I realized we could use some cover time for the Eucharist, and so I picked two more, "The strife is o'er" and "I sing a song of the saints of God" two very different hymns in their tone.  Both very reflective of not only how my mother's last eleven months of earthly life had been, but the joyous nature of her spirit as well.  Put together, they captured the heaviness of grief while delighting in her life among the saints.

My three brothers and I were given an opportunity to speak.  I gathered with them yesterday to lay out an order and get a sense of what they were going to say.  The priest was concerned that we not repeat the same stories over and over.  Of course, each of us has had our own experience of our mother, and the Anonymous Peggins, Hurricane Peg, Margaret Bailey Clark Gage was a large life-force, so there was plenty for us to talk about without too much overlap.  Tom, our family historian, noted that my mom was a latch-key kid in the 1930s, long before that became a "norm" of American families.  Her parents divorced when she was only eight years old, and her mother had to work.  And mom would spend her childhood riding trains back and forth between New York City and Bay City, Michigan, to be with her parents.  My brother Carl noted that she was in a better place than where she'd been at the end of her life.  And my brother Edward talked about her fearlessness when it came to speaking truth to power.

I don't have their spiels, but the following is the text of what I said:

"My brother Tom told me that the last thing my mom heard before she died was the Hospice chaplain saying The Lord's Prayer.  And I reflected on these lines, 'Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.'   This was my mom's mission: to bring heaven to earth and earth to heaven.  And she did that by being a loving, persistent, and passionate voice for justice.

When I came out, I had no idea how my mom would react.  Nothing she'd said or done up to that point indicated that she'd be OK with having a gay kid.  In fact, her letter to me which forced the issue--a  letter in which she hoped my friendships with women were 'healthy, wholesome, and appreciative'--felt judgmental and made me angry.  In our stilted conversation on the phone, I told her I was gay.  I waited for the wrath of mom.  Afterall, that's all I had ever seen from culture and the church and the Republican Party.  Instead, she went quiet (Yes, my mom WAS quiet) and she said, "OK."  She had been worried that I was sick.  Now, she knew I was not.

After many more conversations, and many more questions, I encouraged her to get in touch with Nora Tuthill and the local PFLAG chapter.

That's when the creation of the PFLAG "momster" came into being.  One meeting of hearing about the disparity of treatment and how my rights and dignity were systematically denied was all that it would take.  This was unacceptable, and Peggy Gage, the Hurricane, was going to bring heaven to earth and earth to heaven, and you better not try to stop her!

Everyone, including the cashiers and baggers at Shaw's Supermarket, was going to hear why we needed to be concerned about equality for all. (Aside: seriously, I can't tell you the number of times I'd be standing with her at the cash register and she'd be introducing me as her 'lesbian daughter' and I kept thinking, 'Really?  Do we have to do this now, mom?')

Mom was a big reason why this congregation became a more inclusive and welcoming place.  And one of her greatest thrills was to be part of the choir that sang at Bishop Gene Robinson's consecration service.  Incidentally, she also was the Nellie Bly of that event for an international gay and lesbian radio magazine.

When my parents moved to Florida, and my mom wanted to attend an Episcopal Church, I had to tell her a sad truth: the Episcoapl Churches in Tallahassee in 2005 were not anything like Christ Church Exeter.  

Fortunately, about a month after her arrival, the biggest (and frankly the best) Episcopal Church in Tallahassee had a split, and all the clergy, almost everyone on the vestry, and 2/3 of the congregation marched out on a Sunday to start a new "Angican" church down the street.

It was a painful event for St. John's, but it meant my mom could attend an Episcopal Church in Tallahassee... in her rainbow beads and PFLAG buttons. And woe to anyone who grumbled about Gene Robinson in her presence... including the Bishop of Florida!  She made many friends in that congregation, and I know she was very happy when I had my own renewal of faith and would sit with her on Sunday mornings.

Even in Tallahassee, mom could not stop talking about Christ Church and all the people she loved here.  So she left sunshine for snow...because she loved New Hampshire.

Mom did us a great favor by leaving behind clear directives about what she wanted in this service.  I want to read just this one portion to you because it is vintage Peggy Gage (I wasn't going to imitate my mother's voice, but my brothers egged me on, so I read this paragraph in "her voice"):

"As I said in the beginning of this, I want my ashes mixed with my husband's in our resting place at St. Andrew's by the Sea, and if I pass when the weather will allow it, as soon as possible for all concerned.  But, I leave all of this up to the planners.  I have mentioned Susan planning a lot of this, but I hope she includes her brothers in any of her ideas on how things should be run.  All of my children are cradle Episcopalians, so they should know the drill, so they had better do it right.  I have spoken....I love them all so much and am very proud of all of them, and I hope they continue on with their lives with love, passion, and dignity."

Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven....

It is now up to us to bring heaven to earth and earth to heaven."

My Melancholy Valentine

Today is my 46th birthday.  And I will be spending it with the body of the one who brought me into this world, my mother, Margaret Bailey Clark Gage.   

I say, "with the body" because, having gone through death with my dad, I'm aware that the body that I will see in a casket at Brewitt Funeral Home will be the body that held the soul of my mother.  But "mom," as I know "mom" will not be there.  Or, at least, I hope she isn't.  That would actually be more troublesome because it will mean that her soul hasn't ascended to become one with the saints, a place where I think she deserves to sit, stand, dance, and above all, organize!

People are wishing me "Happy Birthday" on Facebook, or in email messages.  Unfortunately, as much as I can acknowledge that today is my birthday, I can't bring myself to be all that "happy" about it.  Don't get me wrong: I'm not regretting that I came into this world on time.  February 14th was my due date.  My mother laughed at the doctor when he told her I'd be born on Valentine's Day.  She was about to turn 40 years old, and she was pregnant with a Valentine's baby.  I'm sure that was hilarious to her; of course, Sarah also laughed at the thought of having a child late in life, too.

As the legend goes, my father and brothers had failed to note that June 19, 1967 was her 40th birthday.  She cooked dinner, served it, listened to their banter around the table, and at the end of the meal, in her best Peggy-style, said, "Well, now that you've all forgotten my birthday, I have a little surprise for you: I'm pregnant!"  The legend continued with my mom getting active in organizing Governor George Romney's presidential campaign in New Hampshire.  She had just gotten off the phone with some of his workers when her water broke.  My dad took her to Exeter Hospital, dropped her off (yes, just dropped her off) with the instructions, "Do the same good job you always do," and four-plus-hours later, at about 2:47am, I was brought feet first into the world.  This is apparently a hazard as there is a risk that I could have been strangled by the umbilical cord.  I was not, and my mom now had her first, and only, girl after three sons.  When she called my father to let him know, she began by apologizing for my gender.  I guess there was some kind of expectation that I was to be Richard Sheldon Gage.  Instead, I was Susan Chase Gage.  The doctor remarked that he'd never, in all his years, heard a mother apologize for having had a baby.  

Happily, both my parents not only got over whatever hangs up they might have been having about becoming parents again in their forties, and I'd like to think that I brought a new energy into their lives.  My mom and I had many adventures.  One of the most memorable was a trip by train across Canada, starting in Vancouver with a stop over in Banff and rumbling along through the Canadian Rockies and the plains and the northern side of Lake Superior until we reached our final destination of Montreal.  Mom engaged with other passengers, and I think, for her, this recalled her childhood spent traveling between her divorced parents in Michigan and New York.  She used to tell the porters that she was a runaway princess, and she imagined herself to be like the childhood movie star, Shirley Temple, who also died in the past week.  That trip was magical and special not just because of seeing the amazing scenery and talking with mom about it, or the fact that I became the whiz kid of the Via Rail Bingo games (seriously, I collected many little prizes because I kept getting Bingo).  But it was one of the rare mother-daughter times in our lives.  It seemed as though my mom could relax, and so could I.   

At the end of both of their lives, my parents looked at me in ways that communicated two messages: one was the immediate of their own circumstances of being ready to get out of the body; the other was to look at me for the permission to move on.  I will never forget the hand-holding and hand-squeezing exchange with my dad where the phrase that came to me was, "No fear and no regrets."  The other was two weeks ago with my mom.  The same thing: holding hands and having the phrase, "It's going to be OK," becoming the statement of the day.  That was the message I left her with when I said good-bye: it's going to be OK.

I hope today that I will carry that same message with me.  

I Got To Hold Her Hand: Margaret C. Gage, the Anonymous Peggins

Standing by for a video shoot for the Faust Film, "The Weimar House"

The news this week has been dotted with nostalgic moments of the night when the Beatles made their first appearance on American television on the Ed Sullivan Show.  One of the songs they played was their classic early signature tune, "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." 

That would have made a good theme song for me at the end of January as my partner and I were attempting, in the face of unfriendly skies and constant flight cancellations, to get me home to New Hampshire.  All I wanted to do was hold the hand of my mother as she lay in Elliot Hospital with a ventilator in her throat.  I was lucky.  I got there in time.  I held her hand. I stroked her arm. I hummed the Episcopal hymnal to her.  I said good-bye.

My mother, known on her official documents as Margaret Bailey Clark Gage, but best known as "Hurricane Peg," passed away peacefully Friday morning at the Hyder Family Hospice House in Dover, NH.  She was 86, and more than ready to make her way home to God.  Heaven needs some organizing, and they've got the supreme force there to straighten them out.

My mom was definitely a force of nature, and that's been coming through as I receive messages from all the many people who were touched by her.  Jean-Marie Navetta, the Director of Diversity and Equality Partnerships with PFLAG National, recalled the impact "Hurricane Peg" had on the Republicans on Capitol Hill:

Nothing was like going to Lobby Day with (or without) Peg. On my first-ever PFLAG lobby day, she was not able to attend. There was not a single GOP office that I visited where at least one legislative aide or congressperson themselves looked around and said, "Well you're PFLAG. But where's Peg?" As a vet of more lobby days than I can count, I can say I'd never seen anything like that before.

A Republican, and a lobbyist for equal rights for the LGBT community.  Especially the "T" community. When my mom got involved in PFLAG (Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays), she found many friends in the transgender community.  Every time anyone wanted to jettison including "transgender" in an effort to get "something" passed in the way of equal rights for the rest of us, my mom would bristle.  PFLAG moms and dads are not inflexible people, unless you want them to bend away from justice for their LGBT children.  Then, you better hope the branch does not come back to smack you in the face, or split your head in two! 

Mom's journey into PFLAG began when I finally got tired of fielding her questions.  She had many because, well, she had had no reason to pay attention to anything related to the LGBT community until I came out.  Luckily, I remembered seeing an article in our hometown newspaper, The Exeter News-Letter, advertising that Nora Tuthill, the wife of the doctor who delivered me, had started a PFLAG chapter.  They met in the Stratham Community Church.  I told mom about it and suggested that maybe these folks could answer her questions.

"You know Nora, mom, so these folks won't be strangers."

She went.  She saw all the most liberal women and men from our area in the room.  She listened to their stories.  And she got angry. 

What do you mean my daughter could be fired or denied housing for loving women?
What do you mean she can't adopt children because she's gay?
Are you telling me that my daughter is worth less to this society than my sons?

As I've told people, directing my mom to that meeting was the beginning of the creation I call "The PFLAG Momster."  She would call her state and federal representatives, write to them, knock on their doors, point her finger at them, and give them what-for if they didn't start righting these egregious wrongs in the name of justice and equality.  Her stated belief about politicians is that "they put their pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us," and so she was never afraid to tell them what she thought.

One time, when Sen. Bob Dole was running for President, she and my dad were visiting us in Tallahassee.  Dole was having a campaign event at the Moon, an entertainment venue only a mile from our house. 

"I want to go talk to him.  He wasn't in Washington when I was there, and I want to know where he stands on equal rights for LGBT people." 

I was not that thrilled with this idea because I really didn't want to have to go spend time around the Florida Republican Party.  So I agreed I would drop her off and pick her up.  She apparently stayed in the area close to the entry way.  When Sen. Dole came in, he saw her and looked pleased and surprised.  Mom had worked on the Ford/Dole campaign in 1976 and was an alternate to the Republican National Convention in Kansas City.  Sen. Dole and his wife Libby had spent time on our front porch, in our living room, and mom used to joke that Bob Dole was once in her bedroom... making a phone call.  So, the Kansas Republican knew very well who my mom was.

"Well, look at that!" he exclaimed, amazed to see my mother in Florida. "It's Peggy Gage! One of my long-time supporters!"

Mom wasted no time.  She smiled warmly and then went straight to her point.

"Hi Bob! I was in Washington, D.C. lobbying on behalf of my lesbian daughter.  You weren't in your office and I want to know where you stand on equal rights for gays and lesbians."

The way mom told this story, and I have no doubt about her reporting of it, it was as if all the blood was draining out of Bob Dole's face as he stammered to answer her direct question.

"Well, um, y'know, Peggy, I, um, I don't have anything personally against gays and lesbians..."

"Well, that's reassuring!" she says.

He fumbled his way toward saying something about not being against the LGBT people of the country, recognizing that this was becoming an issue.

"And I hope you'll vote in favor of the Employment Non-Discrimination Act," she said, no doubt smiling the whole time.

For her, that felt like a fun and successful evening.  For me, it felt like my mom was my shield.

When my mom and dad moved to Florida to get my dad into an assisted living facility here, my mother's biggest concern was where was she going to go to church.  She was a cradle Episcopalian, and she raised her family in the Episcopal Church.  But sadly, 2006 was a time of great bitterness and wailing and gnashing of teeth in the Episcopal churches around here because of the bishop of New Hampshire, Rt. Rev. Gene Robinson being an openly-gay man.  I had to tell mom that there was no way she could attend the Episcopal church in Tallahassee.  I drove her past St. John's and showed her how their signage didn't include the trademark Episcopal phrase about welcome, and the shield was obscured by an enormous Third Reich-looking eagle.  She was crushed.  I told her to go to one of the Lutheran churches.  She did.  It bored her. 

"OK, I'll see if I can find you an Episcopal Church."

I called Holy Comforter and asked, I think three times, for the woman to tell me if they were part of ECUSA.  "Seriously, are you an Episcopal Church affiliated with the headquarters in New York?"

The woman repeated again, "Yes."  So, I took mom by there to see the church.  She was OK with that one, but it still wasn't her cup of tea.  And she scared the rector when she met with him and started her conversation with, "I'm a Republican.  I'm from New Hampshire. Gene Robinson is my bishop and I love him!"  The poor man didn't know what had hit him.  Let's start with the fact that this is the South.  And in the South, you don't speak in such direct ways, especially if you're a lady with gray hair who uses a cane.  But my mom is a Yankee.  And Yankees don't drink sweet tea, and they don't sugar coat their opinions.

On Rosh Hashanah, I had taken my mother with me to my partner's temple.  After the almost-three hour service, we went to Lucy Ho's Chinese Restaurant to have lunch.  That's when we saw the newspaper above-the-fold headline that the rector of St. John's, in a moment of high drama in the church service, announced he was leaving and taking most of the monied people and vestry with him to start a "No Gays and No Girls" Anglican church down the street. He'd been sowing the seeds of hatred and homophobia for years in the place, but when he realized he wasn't going to be able to steal the building, he just stole about 2/3rds of the congregation, labeling the left-behinds "unorthodox."

I let out a shriek of joy.  "Mom!! Look!!! He's gone!! You can go back to that church!!"

She was so thrilled and excited.  I had told her it was the closest to what she'd know as an Episcopal Church in Tallahassee.  I got her settled in to attending services, and she found many new friends that she loved, including my eventual mentor, Mtr. Lee Shafer, and others including Fr. Lee Graham, and Fr. Harry and Lianne Douglas.  And while she was there, she continued her advocacy for LGBT rights in the Christian setting.  Given the amount of homophobia that had been infused into that church, curing them of this cancer took persistence on my mom's part.  But this wasn't anything new to her.  It just made her shake her head that she was having to go back over much of the same ground she had already tilled to make her own church in New Hampshire more gay-friendly.  But she did it while she lived here.  And I know she was very happy when I had my awakening and returned to the church to sit with her in the pew at services.

My mom was the first person I told that I had started this blog.  I was very cautious and shy about it because I really was wondering, "Why the heck am I going to start writing about being a queer Christian?  Am I mad?"  But she encouraged me with her comments.  She started out identifying herself as "MCG."  Then, for some reason, she found the comment section frustrating and insisted that she was going to post using the anonymous setting. 

"OK, but please sign your name," was my compromise.

And so, she'd post under "Anonymous," and then sign with her childhood nickname, Peggins.  This is how I came to identify her as "The Anonymous Peggins."  I gave her a gift one year of my blog as a book.  She loved it.  She told me that she kept it on her bedside table and read it over and over for a couple of weeks.  She encouraged me to take what I've posted here and turn it into a book of spiritual writings especially for those who have felt betrayed and abandoned by the church because of their sexual orientation.  I have known that pain, and I have come to realize that the many misdeeds done in the name of Christ over the decades do not negate the true message of Christ: that I am loved, I always have been loved, and I always will be loved.

I found it quite fitting that the day my mother died was Friday, February 7th, the day the Episcopal Church commemorates Cornelius the Centurion, one of the many early Gentiles that the original apostles encounter and discover--much to their surprise--that even these supposedly "unclean" people are destined to be baptized with the Holy Spirit.  The reading from the Book of Acts is of the time when Peter, starving, dreams he sees a sheet come down with all kinds of "unclean" livestock.  He's instructed to kill and eat.  Peter protests, noting that these are not clean.  And God rebukes him, reminding him that "What God has made clean, you must not call 'profane.'"  He's then led to find Cornelius and baptize him.  That's when the eyes of Peter's heart open and he realizes that there is no distinction to be made between Jew and Gentile.  And we all say, "Thanks be to God," that he figured that one out!

These are the stories that also speak to us queer Christians about how deep, broad, wide, and unceasing God's love is for all of us; hence there is no real justification to leave us standing at the gate.  Mom enjoyed how I would articulate these messages, and she'd occasionally send them off to her clergy in New Hampshire with a "Look what my daughter wrote!" I simply articulated the message of Christ, which is the message of PFLAG, which is the message of my mom: Love.  Period.

May she rest in peace and rise in glory and may light perpetual shine upon her.

 

Margaret C. Gage, June 19, 1927-February 7, 2014

 

A Celebration of Life is scheduled for Saturday, February 15, 2014 at Christ Church, Exeter, NH, at 11am...followed by a luncheon reception in Harris House (the church parish hall)  Visiting hours will be the afternoon before at Brewitt Funeral Home.  Donations in the memory of Margaret "Peg" Gage may be made to PFLAG National (www.pflag.org) or NHSPCA (nhspca.org).

Healing Hymnody

This is the entry I put up yesterday on my mom's CaringBridge site:

*****

The picture I've put here is the view out the window of mom's room at the ICU. As Tom said in his entry, mom is the prettiest lady on a sedative. Only today, she hasn't really been on much sedation. She's resting, and was basically asleep for the first 90-minutes of my visit. As with all my trips home, I really don't have a desire to do much of anything but hang with my mom. So, for a long time today, I just sat with her, holding her hand, stroking her arm, and humming softly some of her favorite Episcopal hymns.

"Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God Almighty! Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee..."

"Alleluia! Sing to Jesus! His the scepter, his the throne..."

"Ye watchers and ye holy ones! Bright seraphs, cherubim, and thrones, raise the glad strain, Alleluia!"

Lots of alleluias. I had a talk with today's attending doctor, and the palliative care nurse, and the many other nurses. It's heartening to see these folks paying attention, being mindful, and treating mom with kindness while having to do some fairly unkind tasks. Ventilation is not fun, and when my mom is awake, it's very clear that she wants the tube out of her throat. And, at some point, that will have to happen. She's doing her part to breathe as much on her own as she can, and we seem to be very close to her being able to do that. Her heart rate looks good. Her blood oxygen levels are also looking good. What everyone has told me, she has more color in her cheeks today than she did even three days ago. So those are all the positive and upbeat signs.

Still, this latest event has taken a toll on her. That's very clear to me. When she was awake, her first thing was to cry when she saw me. I don't know what the tears were exactly, but I can only imagine that there is frustration, fear, and perhaps the tears that a child would shed when they are finally reunited with a parent they'd thought they'd lost at the mall. Parents, when they age and when they are in these more fragile states, really are dependent in the way we used to depend upon them. And mom hasn't seen me since the end of September. Her eyes closed. I held her hand.

"Eternal Father strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave, who bidd'st the mighty oceans deep its own appointed limits keep: O hear us when we cry to thee for those in peril on the sea."

I stared out the window of her room. And I squeezed her hand. The one thing I kept telling her is that she's going to be OK. This is something I do believe is true. No matter what, my mom is going to be OK. 

I won't speak on behalf of my brothers, but I think we are all hoping mom will get a chance to start breathing for herself without ventilation soon. And from there, my hope is that she can breathe in comfort. For herself.

"Breathe on me breath of God. Fill me with life anew that I may love what thou dost love and do what thou wouldst do..."

*****

As I sit here this morning, I realize that I didn't share what these hymns and humming these hymns were doing for me.  At times, it was hard to get through the melody line because I would start weeping.  This sometimes happens to me in church, by the way, and it makes it very hard to sing through watery eyes and a runny nose.  I would take a deep breath and start again, and found that the resonation in my chest, throat and mouth were aiding me as well.  And so a prayer for mom, a way to comfort her, became a way to strengthen and comfort me.  I've been praying for strength and courage.  Now I realize that there needs to be a more trinitarian approach: strength, courage, and comfort.  Here enters the healing power of hymnody.

In massage therapy, the person giving the massage also receives.  The theory is that we all are energetic beings, and the exchange of energy between therapist and client through touch is a powerful healing tool that is made more powerful when the therapist is open to the giving and receiving exchange that occurs with a universal force.  I call the universal force, "God," and my experience of that force is through Christ with the workings of the Holy Spirit.  The more open I can be, the more the energy I am distributing through my hands is a channel for God to assist in the healing.   Why would the same not be true for humming songs from my mouth?  And did I not recently talk about how God has put a new song in my mouth?

Just some insights for the first Saturday in February.