50

The clock has already passed midnight, so I guess I have to refer to my birthday as yesterday.

So, yesterday, I turned 50.

I don't have much to say about it except that I am full of gratitude. I think I would have felt gratitude about turning 50 anyway---I've had enough friends who didn't make it to half a century to know it's not a given---but after the spring I had, when I spent a couple of weeks not knowing if I would see 50,  I think I have some obligation to extra gratitude.

Thank you, God.

Not only for reaching half a century, but also for friends who will meet me for lunch with accessories like this to wear during lunch:


If I had any more abundant life, I might break.

I will extol you, my God and King,
   and bless your name for ever and ever.
Every day I will bless you,
   and praise your name for ever and ever.
Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised;
  God's greatness is unsearchable.

One generation shall laud your works to another,
   and shall declare your mighty acts.
On the glorious splendour of your majesty,
   and on your wondrous works, I will meditate.
The might of your awesome deeds shall be proclaimed,
   and I will declare your greatness.
They shall celebrate the fame of your abundant goodness,
   and shall sing aloud of your righteousness. 

[Psalm 145:1-7]

Peace in the Silence

This morning, our adult formation class had a session on "silence" and it's place in our relationship with God. I got there late so missed about half of the discussion, so where I go here from there probably has little to do with this morning's session except to say that it got me thinking about this topic all day.

One thing that came to mind and has colored my thoughts is a story a friend told me years ago. I forget the details except to say there had been some ugly family stuff and in the midst of the resultant turmoil, a matriarch of the family cried, "Peace! Peace!" Someone answered her, "You don't want peace, you want silence."

Silence and peace. I've been thinking all day about the ways these are used interchangeably and the ways they are not the same. In this morning's discussion I heard people talk about how hard it is for them to keep silence---a silent retreat is torture for them. I heard other people talking about how they need peace and quiet. I heard Sting singing in my head, "you may win this coming battle, but could you tolerate the peace," realizing that it had only tangential relation to our conversation.

It did remind me that we speak of war and peace, not war and silence.

And how the phrase "peace and quiet" is either one of the most used redundancies in our language or they're two different things. We also don't say "peace and silence." Or "silence and quiet."

Also: John Cage did his best to tell us that there's no such thing as silence.

How easily my mind rambles and wanders.

For LGBT people of a certain age, "SILENCE = DEATH" stickers bring dark memories.

There is at least one story from the Desert Fathers that comes to mind wherein an Abba keeps silence to preserve a murderer's life.

If I have a point here, it's that silence and peace have subtle differences. People in the middle of chaos can speak of having peace, while some people keeping silence find no peace at all but turmoil.

Everything casts a shadow, it seems.

So I end with two related question, ones I hope to ponder (without hope of having all the answers) for some days to come:

Where do you find yourself in silence? And are you at peace with that silence?

Well, I'll add a third: Where is God in your silence and in your peace?

One Rainy Bus Ride

This post will be fairly free of God-stuff. Just a note at the end. So if you don't want God-stuff, you can read for the sake of a story and stop at the next to last paragraph.

I have to tell this story carefully, with as much compassion and sensitivity as I can, as I'm not here to make fun of or in any other way denigrate homeless people. This was just slightly funny and a piece of reality only people who use public transportation see.

Last night, I got out of a rehearsal for a play. Normally, I would have taken the MetroRail to a bus at Wheeler Station, but the trains were stopped this weekend, in anticipation of a building being imploded on the line. (For those who know downtown Houston, I'm referring to the destruction of the now-vacant Macy's [formerly Foley's] building.) They had buses scheduled to take up the slack of the trains, but I decided I'd just walk to a bus stop where I could pick up an 81 or 82 bus, which would take me to the Galleria area, close enough to walk home.

An 82 came along soon enough and I was glad. It was raining, but not hard.

A couple of stops later, a homeless woman got on with another passenger. Suddenly, the bus was filled with a smell like a dead animal. It was putrid and strong, and because the other passenger had come to the back of the bus, where I was, I wondered if it was her, even though she had no outward appearance of someone who might smell like this. As other passengers got on, particularly ones who sat closer to the front made it clear where the smell came from. They all moved to the back. One noted, "Man, you can't get away from it!"

Let me clear. This was not like any homeless person smell. Any public transit rider is familiar with that smell. This was the sort of smell I recognized from dead armadillos or possums or any number of dead animals I might have encountered growing up on a farm. It's even different from spoiled meat. I suspect part of the stench is the smell of rotting entrails as well as muscle, but I digress. The point is, this was a distinct, unique smell.

I should also note that I recognized the homeless woman. She used to spend some times in the chairs at the Barnes & Noble where I used to work. I'd had to wake her up a time or two and send her out into the night as we were closing the store. She never smelled like this then.

So, anyway, there's a dozen or so of us on this smelly bus, and I'm really kind of happy with how everyone's taking it. They're being sensitive enough to not make loud, outward responses to the smell. A couple of men in t-shirts had pulled the top of their shirts up and over their noses (making them look a little bit like bandits, I though), but for a late night bus ride, I thought everyone behaved relatively compassionately.

Then the skies opened up and barrels of rain came down. This being Houston, that means there's pretty immediate flooding. Our bus came to a complete stop in a storm, all of us trapped in the smell, 2-3 feet of water swirling around outside our windows. We couldn't go forward. We couldn't go backward. No to the sides. We had to wait out the storm and the hopefully quick recession of the flood waters.

Meanwhile, the homeless woman slept.

I chewed some spearmint gum, which seemed to help with putting another scent in my nose. At times, I even thought I might have gotten used to it as it seemed to bother me less. Then I'd catch a fresh whiff (no pun intended) of the stench. There was no escape from it.

Other cars went past us, most of them turning around and going back the way they came. A wrecker went by. Then a firetruck. This seemed ominous.

More ominously, I saw one woman, talking low to another woman, make the universal gesture for "throwing up." This concerned me more than a little. I was managing okay with the dead animal smell, but I know from experience that the smell of vomit is a strong trigger for me. I was certain that if anyone threw up in that enclosed place, I would surely follow, particularly mixed with the original stench.

Even as I started to get a headache,  I couldn't help but chuckle at all this. It seemed like the stuff of a sitcom episode. People were going up to the front of the bus to talk to the bus driver. Some stayed up there, others came back to the back of the bus. Some would make an occasional sudden move like a trapped animal looking for an escape. One woman took a picture of the flood waters. It looked like she was posting to Facebook or Twitter or something. Glances were shared, but other than the people talking to the bus driver, no one really talked.

The homeless woman slept on.

This is non-fiction, so all the foreshadowing for worse things to come didn't get fulfilled. Eventually, the rain let up. It seldom rains hard for long in Houston. The waters receded enough for us to start moving forward and before long, we were going at regular speed down Westheimer toward the Galleria.

I do wonder what created that particular smell with this woman. If it was in (from?) her body, perhaps she didn't smell it. If was something in the cart she dragged onto the bus, well, I hope she cleaned it out somewhere. That it was different from the usual homeless person smells made me worry about her. Did she have some place on her body that was putrefying? I hope not. What a misery that would be.

Of course, we picked up drenched people along the way, new faces to react to the stench, new people to try to get away from that which could not be escaped. The bus was filling up and as we passed the Galleria, I gave my seat to a man, telling him I was getting off in a few stops. I stood by the back door.

Then, two stops before mine, there was a person on a motorized scooter who had to get on. Again, the people on the bus behaved as well as could be expected---we were all quite ready to get to where we were going and off that bus, and the bus driver seemed to have more trouble than usual trying to strap the scooter with the safety straps. I began to wonder if I should get off the bus and walk the extra 4 or 5 blocks.

I hoped the guy on the scooter had a strong stomach, because he was absolutely trapped to sit next to the homeless woman.

Finally, we were on our way again. After 90 minutes or more on that bus, I exited into the light rain, my umbrella up. I watched the bus go buy, full of people holding their noses, a handicapped man strapped in next to a sleeping, unfortunate woman.

* * * * * * * * * *

As for God-stuff: Several years ago, in another situation with another homeless person on a bus, this thought came to me: 

When Mary, the Mother of God, comes near, we smell roses. Her Son, on the other hand, smells like this.

Changing Churches (part 4, Episcopalized)

Tonight, I became a member of St. Stephen's Episcopal Church here in Houston, which also means I have joined the Episcopal Church and, most significantly, have left the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

I'm still a bit surprised to say that. I don't know how long it will be before I'll be able to say "I'm Episcopalian." That doesn't sound quite natural, yet. Even tonight, as they had us sit in the front row of the nave, I said to my neighbor, "I'm Lutheran. I don't sit in front pews."

Some thoughts, some serious, some silly:

+ + +

In the year and a half of attending St. Stephen's, I've had both moments of going, "say what?" and "oh, that's totally what I do/think/believe already." Some of the "say what?" moments come when I realize that this is, in fact, the church of the British Empire and occasionally it becomes apparent. 

I have issues with the British Empire, to say it simply. 

But I am also reminded that Martin Luther was successful with his revolution in part because he had the protection of a prince. If this isn't being touched by Empire, I don't know what is. And really, any communion of any size since Constantine knows something about Empire. This doesn't excuse the corrupting influence of Empire, neither does it mean I need to search on for the "pure" church. I have the feeling that many thoughtful churches are aware of this influence and are working against it, at some times more actively than at others, but self-awareness is a start. 

What I do like about the Episcopal Church (despite a little bit of suspicion about it) is that they don't really do systematic theology. Their theology is in the Book of Common Prayer, which is quite orderly but not exactly systematic in the way we think of systematic theology. And I say that having actually enjoyed my systematic theology course in seminary.

Having a theology that is shaped by prayer, however, makes sense to me and as I've long said that I was an "experiential theologian," I have sort of believed it and lived for a while now.

My seminary friend, the late great redheaded wild woman of God, Kathy Glenn, had accused me some time ago of having crypto-Episcopalian tendencies. I've found she was right. 

+ + +

Someone asked me after the service if I heard Martin Luther crying "Nooooooo!" from heaven. I said, no, he just grunted and said, "Ach, das ist adiaphora."

(Really, I don't mind saying that my Lutheran soul is slightly annoyed that the bishop has to come and receive me into membership. I would have joined months ago had it been allowed via some other means. Concessions. We make 'em.) 

+ + +

 There is some real and difficult sadness around this transition. For one thing, I do think of myself as Lutheran. "Luther" and "Lutheran" are words that permeate my history.

Luther League. Lutheran Campus Ministry. Lutheran Student Movement. Lutheran Seminary Program in the Southwest. Voting member of the 1991 ELCA Churchwide Assembly. Former employee of Augsburg-Fortress Publishers, the publishing house of the ELCA. I'm sure there are other things I'm forgetting. 

And I've said a few times now that I'm not really leaving the ELCA so much as I'm joining St. Stephen's Episcopal Church, which seems to be a really good place for me. 

Having said that, part of what makes St. Stephen's a good match for me is that I brought to St. Stephen's my idiosyncrasies (a religious performance artist? art-making as a sight for theological reflection? who says things like that?) and it was one of the few times in my life that I wasn't looked at oddly. Even the few times I was listened to in the Lutheran Church, there was still a general confusion about what to do with me. 

But the rector at St. Stephen's not only listened to my ideas, she embraced them, encouraged them, and facilitated their implementation. Really, if my little company, Breath & Bone/Orts Peformance, manages to do much of anything, enormous credit has to go to St. Stephen's and the support I've received there. 

It makes me sad that I'm not saying that about a Lutheran congregation. But sometimes you have to follow the joy.

+ + +

I have mentioned to the rector the possibility of St. Stephen's joining the ELCA. She laughs as if I'm joking. So maybe she doesn't take me seriously in all matters. Still, the seed is planted . . .

+ + +

I think it's a really good time to be the ELCA. This also makes this transition hard. I think there are great things moving in that church body, on a national level. LGBT people are welcomed as clergy (well, officially, anyway). The first openly gay bishop was elected to a synod in California a few months ago. The first woman was just elected, a few short weeks ago, as the Presiding Bishop of the ELCA.  The excitement around her election electrified my Facebook newsfeed for a couple of days and I was excited, too. Something interesting and exciting is happening the ELCA. I hate to leave it. It, and it's predecessor body, the American Lutheran Church, has been my family for all my life.

But if it's a cliche that gay men often create their own families, well, I feel that's a bit of what is happening here. Having learned that I just sort of make the "old family" uncomfortable, I've gone and found a family that seems willing to take me, oddities and all.

I'm celebrating. I may look back wistfully now and then, I may have moments of sadness as I watch the old family do wonderful things without me, but I feel adopted into something new. And adoption is something to celebrate.

+ + +

Finally: Years ago, my friend Martha joined the Episcopal Church. I don't know if she remembers this bit of silliness, but she said that after her reception into, she swore that she could now see auras.

After this evening's service, I so very much was tempted to go up to Bishop Andy Doyle and say, "You know at first, seeing auras was a little disorienting, but you adjust really quickly, don't you?"

Ask Seek Knock and Vocation

Last week, a friend sent me an email with a question about the "ask, seek, knock" passage in the Bible (it appears in Matthew 7 and Luke 11, if you want to look it up real quick). Her question revolved around someone telling her that if she didn't receive what she asked for she didn't ask for the right thing, which led to some questions about some professional pursuits of hers. 

 

I hadn't realized, when I was answering her yesterday, that today's assigned Gospel reading was the Luke 11 version of the saying.That coincidence prompted me to look at what I sent my friend. What follows is an edited version of my answer to her:

First, I think a lot of first world Christians make the mistake of taking a verse or two of the Bible and then misapplying it. We might be misapplying it because we're out of a cultural context or we might not be reading enough text around the verse and expect the verse to apply to whatever we want it to apply to on it's own. There are sometimes socio-economic reasons for the misapplication, too.

I think this "ask, seek, knock" verse is one of those verses that gets misapplied for all those reasons. This passage appears only in Matthew and Luke.

In the Matthew account, it is part of the extended Sermon on the Mount, which includes the beatitudes and the Lord's prayer. Luke places this teaching right after teaching the Lord's prayer. In both cases, We're seeing Jesus in his usual mode of discussing the present-and-coming Reign (Kingdom) of God (as the Lord's Prayer asks for the Kingdom to come), while Luke's concern for the Holy spirit is also evident. (" . . . how much more will the heavenly father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him.")

So I'm not sure Jesus it talking about asking for a career or a car or a boyfriend, no matter what honorable reasons we might give God for asking for those things. ("Oh God, if only I had a car, just think of all the ways I could better serve you and the community!") I think we have here Jesus talking more about asking, seeking, knocking to see the Reign of God, where the poor are blessed, the mournful are comforted, the naked are clothed, and we receive our daily bread.

I understand how we get confused. The parable Jesus tells just before the ask-seek-knock passage (in the Luke account) is about a neighbor who bangs on the door in the middle of night, asking to borrow some bread for unexpected guests. The persistence of the neighbor is rewarded, eventually. And maybe there's something to that for those of us wanting a particular career---persistence not only in asking for it but also working for it.

But one commentator I read also points out that while we often associate God with the person who has already gone to bed for the night, Jesus is really saying that God is at least as good as the one disturbed in sleep and better. In the context of Jesus' larger message, however, I'm led to think that Jesus is really talking about seeking God's Reign. Ask to see God's reign, seek it out, knock on the door of God's Kingdom and we see it. Be persistent in the desire for the Holy Spirit, and God will not deny us.

But asking for something else, not getting it, and then thinking it's some kind of fault on behalf of the asker . . . well, it's not a wrong assumption, I guess, because the asker is seeking for something Jesus never promised.

It's also a little bit like treating God like Santa Claus. If we ask and receive, we were good, if we ask and didn't receive, we were naughty? It's God as magician and praying/asking correctly as incantation. A good number of American Christians seem to believe in this, I don't.

On the other side of the question, however, is the question of vocation or calling. If I'm called to be a ________, why aren't I more successful at it?

I think I can only talk about this from my personal experience.

I have an entry in my journals, from 1985, where I declared (in rather pious terms) that I felt the calling to be a performer and that this was a calling from God. Over the years, I'd let that go, not finding a way to pursue it in the way I felt called to. Realizing I was gay, I didn't believe I could pursue "Christian theater" (yeah, that was an interest at the time) and because performance is so dang expensive to produce, I turned to something else I'm fairly good at: writing. I think writing is, indeed, part of my calling, but for several years, I focused on that exclusively. I reconnected with performing in grad school, but even then I didn't take it seriously.

To be honest, both writing and performing have sometimes seemed like really frivolous callings to me. Mother Teresa had a serious calling. I felt like I didn't. But finding that journal entry from 1985 again, it hit me and hit hard. Well, shit, that's still it.

So I've put more energy into performing the last three years. It's difficult, it's full of hit and miss, I don't make a living at it. I'm also the most content I've been in a long time.

I think the thing about vocation is that we think that if God is calling us to something, we'll be successful. Of course, that depends upon definitions of "success." What I've come to realize is that following God will not necessarily make us successful in any kind of terms that includes a nice house with a swimming pool. I mean, it may, but that's not the point. I think we get confused about following our calling whenever we forget that to follow Jesus is to follow someone who ended up on a cross. On top of that, several of his first followers also ended up on a cross or were beheaded or fed to lions or in other unwelcome situations. The point of following a call isn't success. The point is the following. The following, the journey, whatever you want to call it, is the reward.

Which is all probably cold comfort, but I really believe it. The peace I've had since giving up making excuses for why I'm not performing seems like some sort of confirmation. Not that there aren't obstacles and frustrations and real fear and failure. I suspect it takes an awful lot of peace to be able to follow Jesus into a confrontation with lions.

So, whatever you're called to. follow that calling, recognizing the obstacles and dangers therein. Follow the calling with an eye and ear turned toward why you've been called to this task. (My own calling is currently being tested and refined by this). Do what you have to do to keep living indoors and eating and follow the vocation. I promise no bed of roses, but I think you'll find some sort of peace and maybe even some sort of success in that following.

Just be ready to have all your definitions of success turned upside down.

I Don't Want to Talk About Abortion

Let's start here: I'm a gay man. I will never be pregnant, nor will I ever cause a pregnancy. For this reason, I feel it necessary to tread lightly on a subject like abortion. An unplanned pregnancy is not something that will have direct impact on me.

Still, much is being said about abortion and most of it seems overstated, stated in terms that suggests that one answer fits all lives, or is based purely upon ideals and wishful thinking. And since so many of the people talking about it are men, who might be affected by an unplanned pregnancy but don't bear the physical consequences of it, I find the urge to add my voice. I do presume to speak for anyone, but hope I speak in solidarity and compassion with some. Not everyone will agree. Obviously.

A link that has been passed around on Facebook actually covers a good deal of what I would say, so I'll start with pointing you to this blog by Eric Folkerth.

The rest are my rambles, in no particular order.

Abortion is a Serious Matter

I do not hold with people who treat abortion as an inconsequential thing. My limited experience shows that women who find themselves in the situation of considering one understand this, but I also understand that some are a bit more cavalier about it. I think it is a serious matter to be considered carefully.

I say this not to induce guilt one way or the other, but to recognize one thing: Sex and sexuality are powerful. Even in non-procreative circumstances, I think it is full of vulnerabilities and emotional consequences. That sex can also cause a new combination of genetic material to come into being, this is mysterious and awesome and full of wonder.

At the same time, the fact that this happens is also just a matter of science, and often accidental, even when two people are trying to conceive. It happens every day and is ordinary and often full of flaws. It is fragile and many, many embryos "die" before the end of the first trimester.

I think we begin to make a fetish of the embryo when we treat it as something to be protected at all costs. It is not a person. It has potential to become a person, yes, but I cannot see how we can count an embryo as a person.

So somewhere between an accident of science and an occasion of mystery, there is a big room full of careful consideration. I do not advocate for capricious choosing of abortion. Neither do I think choosing one is murder.

The Bible is Not Clear on the Subject

Pastor Folkerth covers this pretty well. What I would say further is that the writers of the Bible, in a pre-scientific age, and had different notions of what even caused a pregnancy, much less when life began.

For one thing, so much depended upon the man. If you read the sexual prohibitions in the Bible, you will see things against a man "spilling his seed." That's because the best "science" of the day assumed that a man carried the seed for new life in his semen, and that a woman was merely the field in which he planted it---hence all the talk of a woman being "barren," an agricultural term for a field that could not produce good crops. It was assumed that that the "seed" was good. They had no way of knowing that semen actually contained numerous little swimming "seeds"---or not.

In that worldview, it was all about protecting the semen and "spilling" it (via either masturbation or "pulling out" before ejaculation) was tantamount to wasting heirs or descendents. This why the Roman Catholic church still has prohibitions against masturbation and condoms.

So, if we really wanted to have Biblical, pre-birth, "life protecting" legislation, we'd be focusing a whole lot more on men and their semen.

Otherwise, what Pastor Folkerth says about the "breath of life" is what I understand, too. I'll also back up his comment that saying life begins at birth is also problematic. What I would add is that part of living as a religious person is accepting some ambiguity about things. These things are not either/or.

Laws Restricting Abortion Mostly Affect the Poor

I think I can state this simply: A rich and powerful woman---or the mistress of a rich and powerful man---will always have access to safe abortion. Always have.

This is why I've said that if legislation is not a "war on women," it is certainly part of a war on the poor.

I'll leave that to be somewhat self-evident.

Women Get Pregnant in Many Awful Circumstances

I get the impression that most of the "pro-life" people think that women are just out having fun, getting pregnant, and not wanting the responsibility that goes with their actions. Even when I listen to women who are advocating for stricter abortion laws or abortion prohibition seem to be very far removed from situations like these:

Women are raped. Women can get pregnant via rape (which seems ludicrous to say, but apparently you have to say it). Carrying a pregnancy to term does not redeem the rape. Neither does an abortion. The rape remains a traumatic, life-altering event. Whether choosing to terminate or carry to term a pregnancy conceived in rape, the choice is fraught with many landmines, many laid in the very specific circumstances of a woman's life. How anyone can say that a woman who is pregnant under this circumstance must give birth is insensitive at best. A woman may, in fact, have the emotional and personality traits and support system in place to carry such a pregnancy to term. But however a women chooses, my immediate compassion is with the woman making the decision, not the embryo that some would place as more important.

Girls are forced into situations way beyond their control. There is such a thing as "survival sex." This may take form in prostitution, but it may also be just what a girl (or woman) has to endure to keep any hope of surviving to something beyond her current life. Homeless girls, poor women, women and girls who are geographically or emotionally cut off from protection . . . Is there no compassion for their choice to not want to bring a child into their situation?

Also, men have a history of violence. Not all men, of course, and there are any number of men who will and have stood by the women they've gotten pregnant. But there are also men who don't want to be a father and will do things like punch a woman repeatedly in the uterus until she miscarries---or worse. I'd much rather a woman trapped with a violent man (for whatever social, emotional, economic reason she may be trapped) to have the option of sneaking away to a clinic before he learns she's pregnant.

In short, we have to stop imagining unwanted pregnancies in situations where a heartwarming solution can be had. The world isn't that friendly. We've somehow gotten to the place where some people feel more protective of an embryo than of the fully formed person carrying it. It's easy to transfer all our happiness for our friends or ourselves over a pregnancy that we want, it's easy to think that because you wanted a baby everyone does, it's easy to think that "everything will work out fine" because it did for you or someone you know----but for this kind of thinking I have two words: Stop it. We have to look at real situations, real lives, in short, reality. We have to stop guilt-tripping women into decisions because of our ideals or wishes.

Men Need to Take More Responsiblity

I don't know how this can happen, and I'm certain it's not through legislation. But all those Facebook memes about stop telling girls to not get raped and start telling boys not to rape? That sort of thing is a good place to start.

We need to cultivate a society where sexual experience is not the mark of manhood, where talking (or worse, forcing) a woman (or another man for the gay men out there) into sex is not some sign of masculine prowess, where fatherhood is treated as some kind of achievement. Because sexual experience just makes you sexually experienced, talking someone into doing something they don't want just makes you a bully, and paternity, despite some individuals' specific experience, is remarkably easy to achieve.

I've toyed with all kinds of ideas for how to legislate male reproductive abilities in a way that corresponds to legislation that legislates women's reproductive choices. So far, I have nothing. But the fact that men have the "power" to procreate without the physical wear and tear (and thanks to modern medicine, we've forgotten just how dangerous pregnancy can be for a woman---read some history on mortality rates for women giving birth even a century ago), without the financial burden of medical care, often without the financial burden of caring for a growing child (despite laws in place to hold men accountable through child support payments).


I honestly don't know the answer to this problem. Other than to say to my heterosexual counterparts: Cultivate some responsibility already! (And those of you who have---you know who  you are---thank you. You are the real men of the world.)

I'm sure there's more to be said---the internet is full of people saying it. And I don't like talking about it.

But to sum up: Have more compassion for the person---the woman---who is fully formed and in crisis than for an embryo. I'm not pro-abortion. I recognize it's sometimes misused (as when parents choose to abort because they learn their embryo or fetus is the "wrong" sex---these stories particularly trouble me). But it is not a one-size fits all situation. And I'm convinced it is not the same as murder.

But let's keep the procedure available and safe for those who find it to be the best choice for their situation. And love the women, no matter what. Because, no matter what, their decision---either decision----will be with them a very long time.

Pride Eucharist

There is this thing that happens to me during church services (and other times). Without warning, I'll suddenly be fighting back from crying. It might be in a hymn or a reading---absolutely no way to guess when it'll happen, but I'll suddenly find it hard to carry on with the singing or whatever. All my energy goes into not crying.

That happened this evening. I into Houston's Montrose district for the Pride Parade. I was going to be walking with the truck that was carrying folks from the local Integrity chapter and St. Stephen's Episcopal, the congregation I'm attending.

Before the parade started, we celebrated the Eucharist. We were in our designated spot, some on the truck that was decorated for the parade, most of us milling about on the ground, #34 in line. The tailgate/lift on the back of the truck became the altar with the bread and wine set up. A priest from Trinity Church lead the rite.

The words are all familiar, nothing new to me. The context, however, was everything. On that noisy, chaotic corner, with parade floats and costumes all around us, music blaring, we gave thanks to God for being with us, for feeding us, for sustaining us for the work (and play) God has given us.

It surprised me that this affected me as it did. I won't attempt to explain it, other than to say:

It was indeed meet, right, and salutary.