It is 11:30 pm, June 12th. Went to bed at 8:30. Exhausted
from the day’s news of horror in Orlando .
Oddly paired with this day was our congregation’s celebration of our very
special pastor’s retirement after serving our church for nearly 12 years. A
celebration of a special person and her contribution to sharing meaning and
value of life with everyone she met. A person who lives love and readily shares
it. A life of purpose and personal being in the largest sense. We love her. She
loves us. She loves me.
Yes; her ministry is very personal to me and to each of us
at Trinity Lutheran
Church in Warrenville , Illinois
In February Pastor Wende married Rocky and I. We had been
together for 16 years, had a commitment ceremony in a church that would perform
such 11 years ago, but now that gay marriage is legal in Illinois and America,
we needed the legal protections and sharing of household ownership, insurance
coverage, tax benefits, and all the rest. We asked Wende and she jumped right
on our request arranging our ceremony in two weeks time from start to finish.
We invited only our kids and their families plus 3 close friends. Over 100
people learned of our event and dropped in to witness it. A spontaneous pot
luck supper was available immediately afterward in the church’s fellowship
hall. Another celebration of love, commitment and support. From so many people.
A treat!
As I think on the state of our nation – our world, really –
I keep thinking of who we each are. We are people. We are citizens. We are
family. We are fellow workers, creators, artists, managers, coordinators,
performers, musicians, writers, whatever else we each do to contribute to the
value of life on the planet.
I think of the kid who senses something larger than himself,
or herself. He or she knows that something special is brewing in the mind. A
meaning. And idea. A motion of time and spirit wending through experience felt
and sensed not known.
Perhaps this young person will write a poem to express the
thought. Or maybe a short story as metaphor to get at the itch of this illusive
idea gnawing in his mind. Or a play, a novel, a song, a lyric? Or maybe a
painting or piece of pottery? Who knows what will come of this process of
expressing one’s inner thoughts and yearning for meaning?
I know a lot of gay people. Men and women. Their experience
in America
has been similar to mine growing up gay. It is different than growing up
straight. It is difficult to describe or articulate. I know I am different. I
felt my otherness from an early age when I had no way of knowing what it was.
Or why it was. Is.
A woman knows she is treated different from men. A black
person feels differentness, otherness, too. And immigrants, smart people,
simple minded people, people with physical disabilities or appearances that do
not fit norms.
Norms. The word that begs comparison. To what is not quite
ever known. But comparison to ‘lesser than.’ It is palpable. We know when we
are being pushed away, off, ignored. Nothing is said. The behavior speaks loud
the meaning.
I sing. Not because I can but because I must. I have learned
to make a joyful noise from my singing. It is a pure baritone-tenor with a
simple sweetness that reverberates within and satisfies me. I make these sounds
and others notice. They approve and ask for more. I assent at church. There
this is a valued skill. And it is welcome and used.
I write. It is something I must do. I must articulate an
idea no matter how hard it is to do. The act of writing calms my mind. I am
doing something I can do. I can write something no one else will. I can say
what is on my mind that no one else can possibly know or write or sense or…
I have gone to gay nightclubs in years past. There is an
energy there that is intoxicating. People like me. Acceptance and welcome.
Smiles and appreciation. Freedom to be me. To be just me.
Without acting. Listening to music I do not understand but
feel and vibe to. My classical roots are pulled into dimensions unknown before
but understood at this moment. The rhythm and melody. The lyrics and phrasing.
All mean something. These meanings form community shared among those present.
We are of one tribe for the evening or moment.
I conjure the thought of what happened at the Pulse in Orlando in the wee hours
of Sunday morning, June 12, 2016. A young man enters at 2 am when last call for
drinks had sounded. He has a hand gun and an AR 15. The latter is in his arm
and aimed at the densely crowded space. He opens fire. Killing those near him, bullets
piercing bodies and traveling into one or two others standing close to the
first victim. In this way he ranges through the cramped space and kills 50
people in short order. The victims are stunned, dead or dying. The stunned move
out of the way, drop to the floor, inch their way out of the building or under
cover from gun fire. 53 others are wounded and bleeding.
The gunman exits and encounters police; he returns indoors
and herds 30+ hostages at gun point. Everything that has happened occurred in
mere minutes – 5 or 6. The hostage situation takes nearly three hours for the
SWAT team to resolve. They ram the front door and burst into the interior of
the nightclub. They find and kill the gunmen in short order.
Then begins the grisly analysis of what has happened. It
will take days but 50 bodies lie in pools of blood and twisted mounds of flesh.
Moaning wounded weep and cry for help. Medics are summoned and soon the wounded
are processed and removed to hospitals. The dead remain where they have fallen.
The dead are there to witness the horrible end.
The scene will be processed and tabulated and analyzed
endlessly until sense is made of it all.
Elsewhere the investigation grows with practiced system, and
process. Professional crime scene staff will discover nearly every nuance of
meaning from the scene. They will form questions for all they don’t understand.
In time they will piece together the answers. In time we will all understand.
Just not know. It is too grisly. It is too hard to know in
full. ‘We see through a glass darkly’ claims 1st Corinthians. This
is what is referred to. We do not know but we sense the meaning and eventually
come to it in the fullness of time.
These are old fashioned words to explain modern events.
Somehow the words bring comfort.
A kid sits down to make sense of what he doesn’t understand.
He creates art to aid his expression. All art is this statement of
dis-articulated ideas. It is why art niggles the mind and lures us within to its
power. It is a witness of our own yearning for meaning.
A lot of gay people are artists. They have to be. They
encounter dense thoughts that beg understanding with little support of same.
The search goes on as well as the expression. Until, at last, meaning pulls
into focus yet blurry. That’s as good as it gets most of the time. And it’s OK.
Sometime hard questions will be asked. Why did this happen?
Why did this gunman hate these people? Does/did he feel the same about me? He
doesn’t know me. He didn’t know his victims, either. That doesn’t seem to
matter. Why is still the question. Why still matters. Why.
You see how this is personal?
Yes. I know you do.
June 13, 2016
No comments:
Post a Comment