Peace Be With You: A Sermon for 3B Easter

 I could have called this "Deja vu all over again" but I cut that line from the sermon figuring that those who missed last week's Gospel lesson from John, and those who were there, wouldn't know or remember what I was talking about last week. But I still wanted to say somethings differently, even if the basic message is the same. Such is life when you're the only one preaching and celebrating at a church. 

 

Text: Luke 24: 36b-48 

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Jesus stands among the disciples and says, “Peace be with you.”

Before I get too far along in this sermon…I want to hear from you:

When you hear the word, “Peace”…what images…or thoughts pop into your head?

(Leave time for responses)

With those things in mind…can you imagine for a moment…what it must have been like for the disciples?

These were people who had pinned their hopes and dreams of freedom and liberation from oppression on the man Jesus only to see him ruthlessly killed by the Roman Empire.

They were far from those (fill in any image or phrase that might have come up).

Their hearts were troubled.

As we enter into this scene in our Gospel…we need to know that the two disciples whom Jesus had met on the road to Emmaus are in the room with the others.

They’d just had their encounter at the dinner table where Jesus breaks bread and opens their eyes to see that he is risen.

And then…he disappeared.

They’ve rushed back to Jerusalem to the tell their friends how their hearts had been “strangely warmed” by his words as they were walking and talking.

Now…here comes Jesus again…suddenly standing with them.

The group is startled.

They think he’s a ghost.

But instead of saying, “Boo!” he’s told them, “Peace…be with you.”

He shows them that it is truly him…wounded in his hands and feet and yet unbroken.

And then…to further make the point…Jesus asks for something to eat.

They offer him a piece of fish.

At Emmaus…Jesus eats bread. 

In Jerusalem…Jesus eats fish. 

The loaves and the fish again…a meal Jesus and the disciples once shared with the thousands.

A meal in which Jesus demonstrated the abundance of God’s love for the all the people.

Not only giving them what they needed in that moment…but providing many baskets of leftovers.

This is the peace that Jesus brings into the room…into the lives of these scared souls.

A peace that says, “All is NOT lost. Love IS alive…and well…and eating bread and fish.”

This is the love that he then traces back over time…back to the days of Moses and the deliverance from the oppression endured by the ancestors in Egypt.

This is the peace that comes at times of trouble and fear when the psalmist cries out for help.

This is the breath that brought to life those dry bones…the breath that commands the prophet Ezekiel to prophesy and give life to those skeletons.

Slowly…methodically…with caring and concern for the disciples…Jesus reminds them of all these things.

 All of which pointed to a future.

A coming time of peace.

A time when they could live into the commandment to love one another as Jesus had loved them.

Follow in his path.

Be a friend to the stranger and to the lonely.

Be an advocate for the person who in need of help.

Include those whom the authorities have pushed aside and relegated to the margins of society.

Most importantly…Jesus gives the instruction that anyone who speaks in his name…anyone who claims to be part of his tribe…has an obligation to turn away from those things that get in the way of living in love…and forgiveness.

This peace that Jesus brings to the disciples is the same peace that Jesus brings to us…right now.

Because like the disciples in this Gospel…we…too…are witnesses.

Think of a person or people who have shown up when you needed help.

When you have either been in a jam or have been having a particularly difficult day.

That person who sat with you…listened to you…walked along side you.

As a massage therapist…I do this all the time with my clients.

The body often carries hidden hurts and wounds that show up as that painful knot in a muscle…that chronically aching shoulder.

Once touched…and the connective tissue around the muscle releases…sometimes…so does the memory of whatever happened to the person.

It may come out in heavy sighs.

Sometimes it’s tears.

Maybe words.

Whatever and however a person needs to express what has troubled them…the release not only happens physically with the softening of the tissue…it’s happened in their mind and in their spirit as well.

These are holy moments…met with the peace that comes from therapeutic touch.

It’s why I tell people that massage therapy is a ministry of healing.

I have seen this same peace manifest in support groups.

For a while…about fifteen years ago…I led a local chapter of the group Parents…Families…and Friends of Lesbians and Gays…or PFLAG.

The meetings were a safe space for people to gather…most of them cisgender straight people…who had sons and daughters that had come out to them years ago.

Florida voters had just enshrined a ban on same-sex marriage in the state constitution…and these folks wanted a place to learn how to support their children who now felt unwelcomed in their home state.

People came in…sometimes with righteous anger…sometimes with tremendous guilt because they’d never had to think about discrimination before.

And because it wasn’t part of their lived experience…there would sometimes be a sense of helplessness.

They knew that there were things that just didn’t know.

People would share their moments of triumph in speaking up for their kids.

Others would confess when they messed up.

Maybe they’d said some things out of thoughtlessness that were hurtful…or had stumbled in some other way.

We’d listen.

And just as it happens in any support group…there was always someone or a couple someone’s in the room…who’d been there…done that…got the T-shirt…and donated it already to Goodwill.

They could hear another person’s story and say…”Yeah…I did that. But now I know better.”

And as the late Maya Angelou once said, “Once you know better, do better.”

I watched as parents ministered out of their own experiences…their own mistakes…their own discoveries… to other struggling parents.

And by the end of the night…I would see a mom who’d been wracked with anxiety at the beginning of the meeting leave looking much lighter and brighter.

I could witness that dad realizing that he wasn’t alone.

While God’s holy name may never have been invoked…God’s peace was present…and a burden was lifted from a parent’s shoulders.

The passing of God’s peace is how we transition in our service from this time of hearing the scriptures…and praying for one another and for our world….to that moment where we break bread…the body of Christ…and share in a common meal of thanksgiving.

I started this sermon with asking you what images or thoughts come to your mind as you think about peace.

If what you imagined is something that brings peace to you…think of how you might pass that to your neighbor this morning.

Think of how that peace might help another as they approach this table to meet Christ in the bread and the cup.

As witnesses to Jesus’ love…we are now the apostles of that love to one another.

And that’s a transformative love worth sharing.

In the name of God…F/S/HS.

 

 

 

 

 

The Pope and All The Noise

There's been a lot of noise lately and I'm not talking about the road construction that happened outside my massage practice Tuesday which provided the extra vibratory experience for most of the day.

I'm talking about the constant hand-wringing over marriage equality as dioceses in the Episcopal Church wrestle with "What'll we do? What'll we do?" And that's compounded by the on-going drama in Rowan County where the Clerk of Court, Kim Davis, continues to make headlines in her effort to stop gay and lesbian people from getting married. 

The clashing and clanging gets even louder when you factor in the announcement from the Archbishop of Canterbury Justin Welby that he wants all 37 primates of the Anglican Communion to fly to England in January so they can prayerfully consider what the future holds for the very fractured Communion. The ABC even extended a "guest" invite to the leader of the Anglican Church of North America, Foley Beach.  Bishop Beach has said he wants to know what the other bishops aligned with the Global South want to do. And, from their early responses to this invite, it seems they aren't inclined to go to England because they don't want to be in the same room with The Episcopal Church or the Anglican Church of Canada. And so while the Archbishop seems to believe we have a communion where we are a couple that is "sleeping in separate bedrooms," from where I sit, it would seem that the couple is not only split; one has taken up residence elsewhere entirely. I don't think this is a situation where Humpty Dumpty can be put back together again. 

The invite to ACNA struck a nerve with me because of the history of how they came into being. They have been instruments of discord and fear about gay and lesbian people and our participation in the life of the Body of Christ. In Africa, their Global South partners have backed anti-LGBTQ legislation including the calls for putting gay people to death. To say that I'm not exactly comfortable with their presence in any meeting is a huge understatement. And yet, if I am to be faithful to my trust in God, I must also be willing to believe that God knows my misgivings and God knows that the only shield and strength against fear and hate is Love. And so the call to me is to ground myself in Love and put on that armor of Light that Paul talks of to face those who fear me.

And having done all that, I can say that when I heard the news of this meeting, and the almost predictable response from the GAFCONites, my response to all of it is, "Meh!"

Same thing with the fretting and dialoguing and teaching and discerning and talk, talk, talk about marriage for same-sex couples in the church. As I used to say many times while serving as the President of our local PFLAG chapter, "The more we act as if there is something to keep secret, or hidden, or in the closet about being gay, the more it becomes a 'thing' and the more it feeds into the belief that there is something 'wrong' with being an LGBTQ person." I apply the same thing to the angst about marriage. The more everyone acts as if having a same-sex wedding is a "thing," and not the usual celebratory and happy occasion that's supposed to be associated with a church wedding, then we create our own Hell of "what's going to happen? Who's going to leave? What will the neighbors think?"

What does any of this have to do with the pope? My observations of Pope Francis as he visits the United States for the first time is that he doesn't let the noise interfere in the mission of Christ. Amidst all the rancor and garbage and muck of politics and immigration and keeping a person such as himself "safe," I watched a video of him beckoning his security detail to allow a five year-old child to approach him with her note as he rode along a parade route. The girl from L.A. is a child of Mexican immigrants who fear deportation. He embraced her and took her note. He arrived at the White House in what appeared to be a Fiat compact car; not a limo. There was much ado made about Pope Francis having to meet a crowd of 11,000 people at the White House which would include about a half-dozen gay people and one of the Nuns on the Bus activists. This may have caused the Vatican and some others grave concern, but the Pope seemed to get through the event without any problem. See, in my observation, Pope Francis does this amazing thing: he lives in the moment, following and modeling the life and teachings of Jesus Christ. When one is doing that, there is no place for fear of the "other." There is only the presence of being in Love.

It's as if he, too, is experiencing all that which would distract from Christ as "Meh." Because it is.

Let us pray the words from Psalm 146 from the Book of Common Prayer:

1	Hallelujah! Praise the LORD, O my soul! *     I will praise the LORD as long as I live;     I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.
2	Put not your trust in rulers, nor in any child of earth, *     for there is no help in them.
3	When they breathe their last, they return to earth, *     and in that day their thoughts perish.
4	Happy are they who have the God of Jacob for their help! *     whose hope is in the LORD their God;
5	Who made heaven and earth, the seas, and all that is in them; *     who keeps his promise for ever;
6	Who gives justice to those who are oppressed, *     and food to those who hunger.
7	The LORD sets the prisoners free; the LORD opens the eyes of the blind; *     the LORD lifts up those who are bowed down;
8	The LORD loves the righteous; the LORD cares for the stranger; *     he sustains the orphan and widow,     but frustrates the way of the wicked.
9	The LORD shall reign for ever, *     your God, O Zion, throughout all generations.     Hallelujah!

You Can't Hide Your Light: National Coming Out Day 2014

‘No one after lighting a lamp hides it under a jar, or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a lampstand, so that those who enter may see the light. For nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed, nor is anything secret that will not become known and come to light. --Luke 8:16-17

Let these two sentences sink in for a minute. Today is National Coming Out Day, and when I read these words out of Luke's gospel, I smiled broadly and thought, "Yes!" This is the truth of what it is for a person who comes out. The moment that a person ignites the spark and puts it to the candle of their inner truth, there's no way to hide it. And why would they? The realization that one is gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender is a bigger personal shift than most people understand. There's the whole process an individual goes through to figure out why he or she doesn't feel "right." Society, and all its various cultural institutions, are geared toward being heterosexual. So, if you're not that, then you tend to feel "weird" and out-of-place. And, for many, they don't know what "it" is that makes them feel so ill-at-ease. Once they discover what "it" is, it's as if all of their life finally starts to make sense and fall into place. Lack of confidence gets replaced with a sense of worth that they were hitherto unable to wrap their minds around. And, just like that light that cannot be hidden, the understanding and appreciation of who they really are shines through and cannot be, nor should it be, covered up and hidden.

There was a wonderful story shared as a meme by PFLAG National on Facebook today.

This, to me, is the way that God working through us can do infinitely more than we can ask or imagine. Whoever was the actor or actress in that Mickey Mouse costume that day responded in the way that I believe Christ calls us to respond to someone so young and searching for the candle to light in her darkness of self-doubt and worry that the world will turn against her. Whether that person playing Mickey is a Christian or not, their response was the act of Christian charity that all of us who do call ourselves Christian would be well-advised to follow. And for all we know, given the high number of LGBTQI people in the entertainment industry, that Mickey Mouse may have been having a personal moment of realizing that he or she was able to either keep that flame burning or snuff it out. 

Not all people feel safe coming out, and that is the reality and one of the many shames still facing us in this nation and the world. For those of us who are safer in being authentically who we are, it is incumbant on us to keep pass the light to others and burning up fear to blaze a new path and a new way so that all people can come out.

Whoever you are, and however you identify, don't be afraid to let that light and spark of inner truth and power of yourself shine through. You are the light of the world. And the world will be much darker if you continue to hide your light.  

Sing My Tongue

My brain is a jukebox.  

Unbeknownst to people who encounter me on the street or in conversation, there is often a soundtrack playing very low in the background inside my head.  It's like I have "theme music" playing.  As I've noted before on this blog, this abundance of music in my mind was a gift from God when my father died.   And it is the gift that keeps on giving to this day forward.

One of the tunes that has been ever-present lately caught  me by surprise.  It's a hymn that we often sing on Maundy Thursday in the Episcopal Church, the night when we commemorate the Last Supper and strip the altar of all its finery. 

"Sing my tongue of glorious battle" is a plainsong chant.  The organ usually accompanies us until the end when, many times, the congregation and the choir sing it acappella as we stare at the nakedness of our altar.  It can be chilling and powerful.

It's curious that a tune associated with Holy Week should be so forward in my mind in the middle of what we call "Ordinary Time."  But events in this Ordinary Time have been reminding me that our Easter for this world, sometimes, feels like a distant destination and that we are perpetually caught in a loop of repeating Good Friday.  I've been keeping close watch on the situation involving the 19 year-old unceremoniously turfed out of his family home for being gay.  People in the boy's hometown have attempted to reach out to the parents and grandmother and get them to see the errors of their way.  Instead, they ignore the help, sometimes out right reject it, and continue to breathe threats against their son, all with a Bible in their hands.  

"He endures the nails, the spitting, vinegar, and spear, and reed; from that holy body broken blood and water forth proceed; earth and stars and sky and ocean, by this flood from stain are freed."

I've been saddened by this situation, and the thought that parents could be so cruel as to completely cut off a child and deny him an opportunity to see his siblings or even the family dog.  Somehow, in their worldview, treating their son and grandson this way will lead him to "change."  Still, in 2014, there is a belief out there that people "choose" their sexual orientations.  Unreal.

The good news for this young man is that, where his parents and his grandmother have failed him, others have stepped in to help.  A call to find a temporary home for him in Tallahassee has landed him a bedroom and his own bathroom at the home of a PFLAG family.  Where he's staying is being kept under wraps since the boy's father is threatening to take away the truck.  And in Tallahassee, if you don't have your own means of transportation, you are going to be at the mercy of a half-assed bus service that doesn't even take you to all parts of town.  Some folks have given job leads.  And those who know and love him from his home town are still offering him help with a little bit of cash here and there.  Good Samaritans can still be found when the ones who claim the mantle of Christ do little to exhibit the model of their Savior.  With any luck, this young man will land a job, and be able to get on his feet, get established in Tallahassee, and move forward with his life.  And there will be Easter out of this Good Friday. Perhaps we will arrive at the moment when Christ is allowed to be resurrected instead of constantly crucifying Him with a Bible in hand.

I've told those who are attempting to reach the family and talk sense into them to leave it alone for now. They've done all they can, and the best thing any one of us can do is to pray that they come to their senses. 

I look forward to hearing Easter hymns in my head. 

The Trouble That's Brewing

This week, I've been gobsmacked at the news I've been hearing.

Apparently, a five-member, and all-male, majority of the United States Supreme Court has decided that not only are corporations considered "people," these bricks-and-mortar-over-the-internet-add-appropriate-sales-taxes-"people" have religious freedom, and can freely exercise their religious beliefs to opt out of portions of the mandated Affordable Care Act; namely, no birth control coverage for female employees... but coverage of male erectile dysfunction drugs is OK.

Putting aside what anyone thinks or believes about abortion and birth control, this is a dangerous precedent that the high court is establishing.  As I understand it, what these five men are saying is that any corporate CEO can claim "religious freedom" to skirt laws that he or she doesn't like because now a "closely held for-profit business" is an extension of the CEO's "personhood."

And who is most likely to invoke this "religious freedom"?  Businesses such as Hobby Lobby, who say paying for contraception violates their "Christian" values.

As I attempted to make sense of all of that, with the fast and furious opinions flying on Facebook, I found myself engaged in a lengthy phone conversation with a young man from Southwest Georgia. His parents, upon learning of his homosexuality, have thrown him out of their house, cut-off contact with him and are forbidding him from having any contact with other family members.  And, in the course of listening to this scared young man, he told me how many times his parents or his grandmother or his  aunt were telling him that he was "going to Hell" because the "Bible says this is an abomination!" They believe this because, they say, they're Christians.

And then there was the news last night of the angry mobs of white people who blocked a road and screamed at the people inside three buses.  The buses were carrying mostly undocumented immigrant children from Central America.  This gathering in a small town in California could have been South Boston in the 1970s, or the Deep South in the 1960s.  How ironic that this story ran on the same night that we, as a nation, were marking 50 years since the signing of the Federal Voting Rights Act designed to allow blacks the right to vote.

This scene, looking so similar to the violence African-Americans and the Freedom Riders faced in Alabama and elsewhere, is being played out again... this time with Central Americans in a Southern California town.  No doubt, some of those screaming the loudest at these children were probably doing so with a crucifix hanging around their necks.

Christianity is in trouble.  Not because of atheists or non-Christians.  Not because there is rampant discrimination and persecution of Christians in the United States.  Not because gay and lesbian people are getting married.  Christianity is in trouble because Christ, who should have been resurrected and ascended, is still being crucified by the very people who say that they are His followers.  Each time people who claim the mantle of Christ exhibit behavior like screaming at children, throwing teenagers out of their homes, and denying female employees a health benefit because it offends the religious beliefs of a company owner, it is the bang-bang-bang of the nails into the Body of Christ.  Worse yet, these "christians" become the face of Christ that the media is more than happy to share with a public that feeds on cynicism and division.  I've said it before that Christians are the ones waging war on Christians in this country.  It's one thing to say that Jesus Christ is Lord and Savior; it is an entirely different thing to behave and live a life that actually models the ministry of Christ.

As often happens, I was struck in yesterday's Morning Prayer with the words from Psalm 119:

Let my cry come before you, O LORD;     give me understanding, according to your word.

	Let me live, and I will praise you,     and let your judgments help me.
	I have gone astray like a sheep that is lost;  search for your servant, for I do not forget your commandments.

As I watch and listen to all this anti-Christ behavior by my fellow sisters and brothers in Christ, I am grieved.  It feels to me as if those who profess a belief in Jesus Christ have gone astray like lost sheep, and not only do they need Christ to come looking for them, they need to start looking for Christ in the eyes of the people they are cursing.  How is it Christian to scream at people?  What part of one's Christian belief is under attack if other people get a prescription for birth control?  Again, from Morning Prayer, we heard the story of Balaam and Balak.   Balaam was supposed to curse the Israelites, but God placed a blessing on his tongue:

"How can I curse whom God has not cursed?
How can I denounce those whom the Lord has not denounced?" (Num.23:8)

I think about the situation with the19 year-old who has parents and family who have turned their backs on him. Despite the things said to him, I told this young man he isn't going to Hell.  God has not cursed him; his parents have done that.  And by doing so, they have denied the Christ in him.  Same thing with the immigrant children being screamed at as they sat inside a bus which had driven from Texas to California to a processing center.  And to add more financial burden to female workers by denying them a portion of their health care coverage is not something that has come from God either.  For a "closely held" corporation to wrap itself in religion over that issue, and be allowed to do it, is mind-boggling.

Christians who keep asserting that their religion is under attack have no earthly idea what it is to really have their lives threatened for their religious beliefs.  Their children are not kidnapped and forced into adopting another religion.  Their books are not banned or burned.  Their homes are not invaded and their women raped.  No, the "christians" in this country are claiming that because this is a pluralistic society and they must share the gifts that God have given all people, they are under attack.  This makes a mockery of those who are truly under threat for their religious beliefs, while denying the seed of God that is present in all others. I don't remember that being in the Gospel.

I looked ahead to the Collect of the Day, Proper 9:

"O God, you have taught us to keep all your commandments by loving you and our neighbor: Grant us the grace of your Holy Spirit that we may be devoted to you with our whole heart, and united to one another with pure affection; through Jesus Christ our Lord who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit one God for ever and ever. Amen." 

Seems like a good starting point for the reflection and return to Christ necessary to save Christianity from itself!

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.

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).

The Unconditional Love of the Father

As a leader in our local chapter of Parents, Families, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays (PFLAG), I'm quite often asked to make presentations to groups about the work that we do.  Today, it was at United Church.  Two services, with a total of about 50-60 people.  And in-between the services, I got to help out in the kitchen, chopping carrots and potatoes for the stew that the church was making to serve to the homeless later today.

The committee that asked me to present, the Mission Committee, gets to invite someone to come in and do what they call a "mission moment".  It's a short period in the service, roughly 3-5 minutes, to present whatever the cause may be, and what we (the presenters) would like from the congregation of United Church.  Sometimes, that's money.  Sometimes, that's time.  For me, it was about people power.  Particularly straight people power of those who believe in changing our world through the spread of unconditional love.

This being Father's Day in the United States, I framed my remarks, appropriately enough, around my father, Edward "Bud" Gage.  Those who have been reading this blog for a number of years know how integral my father is to my spiritual journey. How appropriate, then, to reflect upon the moment I "came out" as gay to my dad.   I had told my mother already, and she had been sitting with this information for about six weeks.  She decided it was time to tell my dad, and so, she arranged the phone call. 

I was scared to death.   My dad, the former Navy officer, the former Exeter District Court judge, the life-long, staunch Republican, raised a Calvinist in the Dutch Reformed Church, was a looming presence in my psyche.  The thought of telling him about my sexual orientation was incredibly frightening. I thought, "There's no way he'll understand this."  He would hate me.  He would disown me. And, more crushing in my mind, I would have been a disappointment to him.

My mother, very helpfully, set up the conversation in this way:

"Bud, Susan has something she wants to say to you."

I was crying.  My partner, probably harboring many of my fears as well, was standing by, holding my hand.  I pushed past my tears for the big reveal.

"Dad.  I'm a lesbian."

There was a pause.  And in that dead space on the phone, I was conjuring up the image of my dad, ready to explode in anger about the dishonor I had brought upon him, the family and myself.  Every really bad after-school-like special was colliding in my brain as I waited for his answer.

"Well..." he said, slowly.  "Who's to say Jesus Christ wasn't gay?"

I was stunned.  And I started laughing, not so much at the remark and the suggestion that maybe Jesus and John the Evangelist did have a little something special going on between them.  But it was more at the release from my fear of rejection, and the recognition that what my dad was really saying in that statement is: "I love you unconditionally." 

Though my father didn't march in Pride parades, or wave a banner proclaiming, "I love my lesbian daughter," I know he did.  He would demonstrate that love in so many ways by engaging in laughter and conversation with my partner about legal topics, and basking in the attention of all my lesbian friends who helped celebrate his birthday one year when my parents came for a visit.  He would go to PFLAG conferences with my mom and enjoyed learing about the transgender community. One day, he got a phone call from his cousin Fred, a very conservative and homophobic man, who demanded to know why I, Bud Gage's daughter, was on a radio program talking about "those homosexuals."  Fred's son had heard me on "This Way Out" and called his dad to find out if that was me.  Fred was furious. And when he called, I think he expected a much different reaction from my dad than the one he got.  I think Fred was hoping my dad would share his "grave concern" about me. Instead, my father reiterated that he loved me, he was proud of me, not only for being who I was in my sexual orientation, but being a voice that people heard on the radio!  Needless to say, Fred never attempted to discuss this topic with my father again.

It is this kind of unconditional love that my father modeled which is reflective of the love I see in all the parents who come to PFLAG, especially as they attend, listen, and share with one another.  They want to do right by their gay children in the same way other family members and friends want to do right by the lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people in their lives. This group provides them a safe haven to come and ask questions where they won't be judged, and they will also feel that same unconditional love, which they then can carry with them back into the world.

This is the same unconditional love that I believe comes from the one who I call Love.  This is the lesson that I believe Jesus Christ lived, preached, died, and was resurrected to demonstrate to all people, believer and non-believer alike.  

My big ask of the United Church community is the one I ask of all people who are not self-identified as a member of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, questioning, queer community: join us in our struggle for full equality.  Become active in PFLAG.  Keep us on the path of moving equality forward, one family and individual at a time. 

 

Seeking Prayers for A PFLAG Mom

My mom, Peggy, has suffered a massive stroke.  My brother, who lives with her, found my mom yesterday morning, not moving and not making any sense, lying on her right-side in her bed.  He called 9-1-1, and, because my hometown is small, they arrived within minutes.

The stroke was on her left-side of her brain; hence she is unable to speak.  But there is evidence that Peggy is still in the body because she is wagging her finger at the doctors, and is able to follow a nurse's instructions to squeeze his hand.  My two brothers, who live in New Hampshire, are on top of things.  But still, I am going to go home Easter afternoon to be with her, and them, and help in making some of the decisions that we'll have to make about the next step.

In the meantime, I please ask that you all hold Peggy (or more formerly Margaret) Gage in your prayers.  My mom is a fighter.  That's what made her one of the outstanding parents in PFLAG.  She loves all her children, and won't let anyone smack us down.  In turn, we love her, and we will be advocates for her health care.

Dear God, the giver and sustainer of all life, wrap Peggy up in your love and give her strength and will to live.  Grant her doctors, nurses and medical team wisdom and skill to treat her with accuracy, speed and care.  Surround our family in the circle of your light and love and pull us together to follow, to question, and to act in ways that reflect your love for Peggy.  I ask this in full trust in your Holy Name.  Amen.

"Well, she's a Christian"

This past week, I went with one of our PFLAG parents to a local Tallahassee high school to talk to their Gay-Straight Alliance about our organization and what it can offer to the parents of these students. This was the first time I'd been asked to speak to an organization of mostly LGBT kids. Often, I'm the gay person asked to speak to the straight social work majors at a university. So this was an entirely different experience for me, and a good one. I was amazed and thrilled to see the classroom filled, and have the chance to share the story of PFLAG and how it is grounded in love. My parent, who tells a great story of overcoming her own prejudices about homosexuality, is a shiny example of what *can* happen with that parent who loves his or her child.

So, the presentation, which lasted about ten to fifteen minutes, was positive, upbeat, hopeful. The kids were attentive, interested, their eyes on the two of us and not their iPhones.

Then it was their turn to share with us. And my heart was heavy listening to them. So many of them are not out to their families. Their parents don't know that they're in this club. One of the girls shared that her mother taunts her for her haircut, and doesn't want her to wear flannel shirts because that will make her look like.... well, what she is. As I took all this in, I found that like with all things with me these days, I wasn't prepared for this. And yet, oddly, I was ready. Because I have lived through these difficult years of human existence called, "Teenager," and thus I know the pain they're experiencing, even if it isn't exactly like the pains I went through at their age.

With the one girl and her obnoxious mother, I didn't answer her, "What do I do?" right away. As Jesus told his disciples in Matthew, "Do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say; for what you are to say will be given to you at that time." The context of that piece of advice was for the disciples as they faced persecution; I wasn't facing persecution, but I was faced with a "What do I do?" from a teenager trapped in a horrible situation with her mom. I took a few moments, and reviewed in my head some of the details of what she had presented.

"You're doing everything you need to do right now," I started. I noted that she deals with the hurtful remarks about her hair and clothes by turning them into a joke back at her mother. I told her that was probably the best thing she can do while she's still under this woman's roof.

"Sometimes, the only way you can come out to your parents and develop a real relationship with them is by putting some space between you and them. The important thing is to know yourself, be grounded in yourself, tap into this group of your peers for support, and love yourself."

I asked her if she had a sense of where her mother was coming from on all this.

"Well, she's a Christian..."

This was a theme that ran through some of the stories we were hearing from the kids in the room. And I am always amazed to hear that mom is "Christian" and yet says horrible things about gay people. Nothing, and I mean nothing, could be more anti-Christ than that. In all my studies of Scripture, I have yet to find the passage that says, "Belittle and berate your children because it is always best to play out your own fears by tearing down others."

And that's what it comes down to: fear. Whatever is in the mind of this girl's mother, it is grounded not in Love, but in fear. Which led to probably the most difficult thing I had to say to this child.

"You have to love your mother. Know that she isn't in the place where she needs to be with you. Maybe she will be some day."

I later met with my rector, and told him about this encounter with the students at the high school.

"You were doing youth ministry. That's really all it's about. Being the stable, sane, adult anchor."

If that is true, so be it. If my presence could give even one child hope that they, too, will survive being a queer teenager, then so be it.