Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful… well, maybe not so fateful, actually… life. I think it’s going to be a long one, though I’ll try to keep it short. It’s the story of evolution. Or at least the evolution of one life. Mine.

I was born in Council Bluffs, Iowa, USA. At 1 1/2 years old, my family moved to Omaha, Nebraska, just across the mighty Missouri River from Council Bluffs. Omaha is a more economically vibrant community than Council Bluffs, and is about 10 times larger. Council Bluffs equals small town hicks, Omaha equals suave urbanites… well, as far as this part of the country is concerned, anyhow!

Dad was an engineer working with a local gas company that was destined to become a major corporation, part of the now infamous Enron. But dad was also back in school, studying law. By the time I was old enough to really hold on to my memories, dad was a Patent Attorney (the only one in all Nebraska) in private practice. Our family was a good, solid middle class American family, a mom, a dad, 3 kids, a dog or two (until I was in Kindergarten) and a cat, two cars in the garage… though, no picket fence. Picket fences simply weren’t done in our neighborhood. We really wanted for nothing, as far as I knew. Our house was a white ranch with rust colored shutters, and red brick lower walls. We had 7 elms in our yard, all of which survived the elm sickness of the 70s. I learned to climb those trees, and had a blast doing so!

We stayed in our western suburbs, going to school, and church, and doing our shopping. We were Republicans. Most folk in the area were. We shopped down the street at the local stip mall. Dad worked downtown, a part of the city that made me cringe. I hated going there. We had to, from time to time, as the better department stores were there. I was never so happy to have the mall open up out by us! And then a second!

I went to the local public school for a few years, then a new Catholic Church opened it’s doors and a school and I transferred there. For high school, I attended a private, catholic boarding school. I hated being away from home.

One year, as part of our education, we had to go downtown to a really nasty part of town, and helped out in a new shelter for the homeless… we had to help clean and scrub to make it ready for the coming residents. I hated it. I preferred my nice clean whitebread suburbs.

Well, let’s fast forward a bit. I went off to college. I wasn’t really sure what to do with my life, but two very divergent paths seemed open to me, and of interest. One was the Catholic priesthood. The other the military. I read those famous lines in John “If you love me, feed my sheep.” Three times, Jesus asked “Do you love me”. Three times he was assured of that love. Three times he responded “Feed my sheep.” I read those lines, and thought yes, I’ll do that. But other opportunities offered themselves, and in the end I enrolled in ROTC, got a scholarship, got married (yes, to a woman!) and headed off to my first military base assignment. I spent 4 years there, divorced, moved to California, and volunteered my time at my nice upper middle class Catholic Church. I, the lone, staunch Republican, ex-active duty army officer, in Berkeley, California in 1987. Berkeley. California. The only city in the United States with it’s own foreign policy, diametrically opposed to that glorious foreign policy of the worlds’ greatest leader, Ronald Reagon. Radical Lefties in a Liberal (shudder) state.

I offered my services to the pastor. He asked me to sit on the Social Justice Committee. The rest of my committee members were mostly university professors and professionals from around the community.

Now, let me ask you this… do you remember what was going on in the world in 1987? Ronald Reagan was president, fighting the mighty Evil Empire (which would crumble in a few more years) via proxy wars in El Salvador and insurgencies in Nicaragua.

And here I sat, in a room full of radicals, the lone Republican. They wanted us to bring in illegals from El Salvador and I didn’t like that one bit. Don’t really remember much else, other than this. I only post it so that you get a picture of my character at that time.

Comes 1991, and I move BACK to Omaha to begin studying for the priesthood. I was provided housing in a home deep in downtown part of the city. I remember driving down to the house feeling a great deal of fear and concern. It dawned on me that day that my “yes” to what I perceived as God’s calling was really a “Yes, as long as I get to do ministry to rich white folk.”

So “what’s the point of all this?” you ask. I was thinking about this on my way to work this morning. And I’ve begun to change. I’m no longer the conservative, republican ex-military man surrounded by arch-liberal professors discussing the plight of the world’s poor.

Thirteen years have passed since a cocky, rich, Republican drove in to downtown Omaha. In those years, I’ve moved a lot, lived all over town, in other states, and am now living over in Hicksville Council Bluffs, again! If I cared to put myself on that ugly “class ladder” that so many American’s are so intent upon, I guess I’m still middle class; poverty has not even come close… but I’m not happy. Relative financial success hasn’t filled my life with meaning.

Recently, I’ve started to realize that 18 years ago, an experience I had on the wind swept prairies of northern Nebraska was more than I thought it was. I was reflecting on that sense of calling I had perceived at the start of my college life “Feed my sheep.” I remember praying, “God what do you want me to do?” And I remember that request to Feed His Sheep. “But God, what do you want me to DO?” I asked again and again that week. Then, one beautiful evening, as I watched a glorious sunset and looked at an old cross up on a hilltop silhouetted against that sunset, I felt peace and really felt (I still DO believe this) that God spoke to me. “Don’t worry. You will do My will.” I thought that meant the priesthood, and I dedicated the next 10 years to achieving that goal. I think now, I misheard God. I think God really meant it… “Feed my sheep.” “Feed my people.” Not with spiritual food, but with real, honest stick to the bones, hot nourishing food.

“When I was hungry, you shook your head in sorrow and wondered why someone wouldn’t feed me…” I read that in the bible, didn’t I? Isn’t that what Jesus said to those who purport to be his followers? Or was it “When I was hungry, you FED me… whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, THAT you do to me.” Yeah, that’s it.

Jesus was a compassionate prophet, the Son of God. Marcus Borg has that right. Boil away all the rest of the gobbledy-gook of scripture, and focus on Jesus words and actions… he didn’t care about the politics of his day, the singleminded insistence on “doing things right”; Jesus merely reflected for us what God wanted him to… that God is all about love, and God is all about mercy, and God is all about compassion. And most importantly that following after God is all about BEING those attributes, modelling those concepts in our life.

I read a sign the other day: “The smallest good deed is vastly superior to the grandest intention.”

I can’t do a lot. I may be far from poor, but most of my paycheck goes to taking care of myself and Scott, and Gary, too. But I can give of myself. I’ve found a new ministry… feeding God’s Sheep… feeding the homeless at my church. I have to miss worship to do it… and I don’t care.

With every sausage I put on a plate, I look into the eyes of a hungry person, and say “Have a nice day, sir.” Or “Have a nice day, ma’am.”

Every sausage on a plate, every serving of eggs or potatos or pancakes, I give to God. I feed a lot of Jesuses. How many more have I ignored in my life? Far too many.

Well, it’s been a while since I blogged last. Nearly two weeks. I’m not sure, really, why it’s been that long. The day after my last post, I left for a trip to Houston, and got back the following Tuesday. Then there was LOTS of work to get caught up on, both at the office, and at church… But, that’s that, now’s now, and I’m ready to post again.

The focus of my thoughts for the past couple weeks, off and on, have been on the issue of marriage. Of course, we all know the negative focus afforded that topic in this past mudslinging fest, also known as an election. That probably got my mind on the topic.

Then, at the retreat I was on in Houston, we (a group of 52 mostly GLBTIEtc folk) shared the facility with International Marriage Encounter. The first night there, we were lectured on the importance of NOT displaying public affection for each other. Instead we were subjected to the PDA’s of straight couples. This irritated me immensely. But that angst is not the topic of this column today, so the heck with it.

Since returning from Houston, I’ve been reading the blog of a guy who was getting married last weekend. He posted many endearing blogs this past week as the excitement built, then some thoughts since the ceremony concluded.

So… marriage has been on my mind a lot, lately.

What, exactly IS marriage? And what is it we, as gay folk (and all the rest of the alphabetic cohorts of ours) want in marriage? Okay, I’m not going to answer those questions for anyone but myself. Obviously, I can’t answer for anyone else.

And my column is not the place for a scholarly evaluation of marriage, either. So if I leave something out, and you happen to come across this blog, see that something is missing, well… get over it.

Very loosely stated, I see marriage comprising 3 elements, not all of which are present to each marriage.

First, marriage is between two individuals. It’s two people coming together and saying “We want to commit ourselves to each other, to living and loving together.” It’s probably, in this stage, mostly exclusive to the two. I say mostly exclusive, because I won’t rule out that some couples enter into this relationship with an open understanding that there will be others. That’s not part of what I want to discuss. So, marriage is between two people.

Second, marriage is the joining of two people together, as in the previous paragraph, in the sight of God or a Higher Power, and for these individuals, it is an agreement to honor their relationship with each other and God as a commitment of some type.

Third, marriage is the joining of two people together as sanctioned by the state.

And this is really the point that began my interest in this blog.

Call it sour grapes… the “Theology of Sour Grapes” or the “Politics of Sour Grapes” or just plain “Sour Grapes”. Either way, I just don’t see it.

Yes, it would be nice if I could enter into a marriage contract with my partner that is recognized by the state. It would be cheaper if I could, there’d be lots of convenience things, but that’s about it.

What’s important to me is the first two options. And I have those. I celebrated a Holy Union with my partner in 1997. That means that my relationship with Scott is every bit as valid as anyone who stood before a minister and was “officially” married.

The state has no business in marriage, and needs to get out.

I grew up in a staunch Republican home. I also grew up in a time when wives TENDED (I don’t mean to generalize, here) to vote the path their husbands voted… at least, all the parents who provided role models to me… mom & dad, aunts & uncles, my friends folks. And generally, the kids I knew sided with their parents… so, I was a staunch Republican… and my favorite cousin was a staunch Democrat. It was during those formative years that developed (and maintain) a strict abhorrence of political discourse. Voicing opinions about political issues always induced argument. And I hated arguments… especially with those I love!

As I grew older, my political views became more and more my own. And by the time I left active duty in the US Army (I was a captain! – just had to brag, a little) I was confirmed in my conservativism.

But almost immediately, I was confronted with a new viewpoint… and that conservativism came under assault. Being the good little Catholic boy I was… and seeing as how I was feeling called to the priesthood… I got involved with my local church… and my pastor felt I would be an asset to the parish’s Social Justice Committee.

Imagine, if you will, an arch-conservative, militaristic, and yes, arrogant Republican, joining the Social Justice Committee of a church located in (Gasp!) Berkeley, California! I was SO anathema! And I was on said committee with sociologists from UCB… And it was the height of the Nicaraguan conflicts and all the mess in El Salvador.

I was able to get my point across, and to do so in a positive and non-threatening way… I believe I enriched their perspectives… but I also began to feel the walls of my conservative reality trembling.

I can’t, with confidence, point to all the various chips and cracks on that wall along the way, but sometime after 1994, those POLITICALLY conservative walls came tumbling down (there are of course, vestiges of those walls remaining…)

The RELIGIOUSLY conservative walls took a little longer to fall, but fall they have.

In fact, politically I feel the Democratic Party is a bit out-dated and far too conservative. And religiously, I don’t really think there are many churches that “get it”… and I don’t believe ANY denominations do. Though, some come closer than others.

For instance, I love my pastor deeply, and will follow her and her guidance because I believe she’s “got it”. But, on the whole, I don’t really hold much stock in the position of Pastor… at least not as currently modeled in most churches… I really believe that we, as people of God, are the pastors, the leaders.

I also feel that the scriptural reference with which I started this blog entry today is a valid model for our churches activities, if not the true model.

By this, I mean that I believe worship is secondary to our church life. Social Action, Social Justice, Compassion, Fairness… these are the mission we as Christians need to be involved in. These are the actions that Jesus espoused.

Worship leads, if not tempered with copious quantities of Social Action, Social Justice, Compassion and Fairness, to religiosity. It wrongly focuses us on ourselves and doctrine, dogma and rules.

Yet, God calls us to focus on our sisters and brothers in need, in slavery, in subjugation to the basest of powers. Humility (not taking ourselves seriously but taking God seriously,) too, is a necessary ingredient.

Humble involvement in caring for God’s children, God’s CREATION, is the truest form of worship that I can conceive. I believe this to be true.

Guess I’m just a radical. So was Jesus. I hope I can be counted in that legacy.

Somehow, I got thinking today about boats. Well, that’s a bit overly broad. Specifically, I got to thinking about a particular boat, on a particular lake, with a particular cast of crewmen. More specifically, Matthew 14:22ff.

Not long ago, I read a book entitled, I think, “If you want to walk on the water, you have to get out of the boat”. Long name, huh?

I was struck by this story, and what it says about people in general, not just the disciples.

There are 12 folks in what we suppose is a fishing boat. It’s not a big boat. By all accounts, it likely not much more than a large row boat. These folks are far out from shore, probably in deep water, it’s night time, so the shore isn’t visible, perhaps not even lights from shore. The wind is blowing up ferociously, and the “tiny ship was tossed.” (credits to Gilligan’s Island).

I imagine most of the folks were getting sea sick, and were probably very frightened. All of a sudden, they see their teacher walking towards them on the surface of the water.

Peter, who will soon come to be known as the rock, has had enough of the waves and calls out “Lord, if it is You, command me to come to You on the water.”

And the teacher commanded “Come!”

So, in my mind, I see Peter bound out of the boat and start walking towards Jesus; then it hits him. “I can’t do this! No one can walk on water!” He looks down, then he sinks like a stone. Only Jesus saves him, pulls him up and helps him into the boat.

For 2000 years, it seems like Peter comes out on the short end of the stick, here. All the homilies and sermons I have heard castigate Peter for taking his eyes off Jesus, for not having faith enough to walk to Jesus.

But there are 11 others, that’s 92% of the crew, who were too scared to even try!

Let’s look at it another way. This crew of 12 is in a boat at sea in a storm, the boat is tossed viciously in the wind and waves, in the middle of the night. One looks to Jesus, and says “Let me come to you.” Ninety-two percent of the crew stays on the boat. They don’t know what they may face. For all they know, the boat on which they are being tossed about may break up. Jesus is there, and only 8 percent have the presence of mind to seek him out.

What does that tell me? I’m thinking 100% of us face trials in our life that are too much for us, that have us afraid for our lives, and seem insurmountable. I’m thinking ninety-two percent of us don’t ever bother looking to the one we believe we have faith in to rescue us… we don’t seek out that one, we don’t try to go to that one.

Ninety-two percent of us stay where we are, too frightened by the unknown to look… even to the less known… for help. We stay rooted in fear.

Eight percent of us do turn our eyes on the one and call out for help, wanting to go to that one. Notice Peter’s request. It’s not “Jesus, if that’s you, come to us.” He says “Command ME to come to YOU.”

And even then, he’s not perfect. He falters, even buoyed up by the one’s command, he falters. Yet that one still reaches out and lifts him up.

In the end, that one also saves those who aren’t calling, who fail to turn their eyes upon the one.

Says something interesting to me about people in general. And it says more to me about that compassionate One, One who works to save not only those who call for help… but those who don’t.

I just realized that it has been nearly a week since I last wrote or posted to my blog. I wonder why that is.

It’s been an eventful week.

First of all, my mom’s surgery last Wednesday has come and gone, and proved to be quite anticlimactic. No tumor or cance was found. The surgery was brief, and mom was home by 3. I suspect my new-found hero, Marcus Borg, might disagree with me, but I believe that this lack of cancer was purely miraculous. It was there, now it’s not.

I struggled through a boring Thursday and Friday, then Friday evening survived an attack by the killer house cat. Yes, you heard right. I have a major wound on my finger from where this killer chomped down… HARD. In his defense, it was a purely autonomic response caused by a seizure. He didn’t mean to bite and cause me 48 hours of intense pain! He’s forgiven… was forgiven the moment he released his bite. He never really NEEDED forgiveness!

Saturday, I spent the day preparing the ingredients for a rather large meal. And Sunday morning, I COOKED that rather large meal, feeding about 75 people breakfast… mostly homeless folk.

Now THAT was an experience. It was a GOOD experience. No, it was a GREAT experience. From the arrival at church at 7:15 a.m. until we left.

I had great assistants. Gary was there, and a newer member of our congregation, Michael. Karla got there soon after. And then James, one of the people we feed, showed up… and turned out to be great at cooking. Of course, Scott was there, too, working 5 times harder than I did.

We cooked 40 pounds of potatoes, 200 sausages, 12.5 dozen eggs, and 6 gallons of Orange Juice. And 3 pounds of onions.

But, really, the most awesome part was just to stand in the serving line and watch the reactions of 75 mostly homeless people, children and elderly alike. To plop 2 sausages on a plate and say “Goodmorning, sir (or ma’am)”, and to see their smile, and hear their reply, “Thank you”. To receive their applause and know that I made a difference that morning.

Is it wrong to say that? I’d have done it even if they didn’t respond, but it seemed all that more special to know they appreciated it.

I guess it was that “Eric Camden” moment, needing, wanting to do something for someone else. And realizing that compassion is more than a feeling. It’s an action compelled by gratitude.

But it was exhausting, too. I spent most of the remainder of Sunday passed out on the sofa, stirring only to do another load of laundry.

A new definition of a successful weekend to me: Feeling like, for once, I accomplished something of meaning.

It’s a good feeilng.

Beginning to write today is hard. I want to post something to my blog, but I’m not really sure what to say, or even where or how to begin.

For one thing, I’m already incredibly tired. It’s only 10:30 a.m. and I’ve been up nearly 8 hours already. Really, these early mornings are taking a toll on me, and I’m not sure how to fix it.

Life seems to be changing for me… Again. I discovered late last week that my mom has been diagnosed with cancer. Tomorrow, she’ll be having surgery, and the doctors are hoping to remove all of it. She’s upset, dad’s upset, and I’m a bit worried. This is a hard blow for them. About 4 years ago, it was learned that mom had heart problems, and they’re pretty serious. She’s on medication for them. Two years ago, mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease. And now, this. Squamous Cell Carcinoma. If mom didn’t already have all these other issues, I’d likely not be too concerned yet, as according to various sites on the internet, this is very treatable, even if “aggressively malignant”.

Watched “7th Heaven”, last night. This program has become a soapbox for a whole list of societal ills. No episode goes by without some character lecturing on the woes of some issue or another. And sometimes their attempt to tug the heartstrings almost makes one physically ill. And yet, I watch it because it entertains, it’s clean, and remarkably, those little lessons in the plights of this or that group of people are interesting. Maybe not written all that well, or perhaps more to the point, not acted very well. That’s okay. Perhaps that’s the charm.

Last night’s episode was about the underfunded, overworked Children’s Social Services, the Foster Care programs, and the like. Once again, Eric Camden is trying to save the world; this time, it’s 3 orphaned children who can’t live together. At long last, Eric discovers that this is one problem there isn’t a quick fix for. And yet, the fix that he comes up with is fascinating.

What if an entire church community decided to be part of the solution? How novel! A Church community doing something besides filling the pews on Sunday for an hour or three? Okay, I know there are a lot that do just that, MORE that is. But I’m still left with a rather cynical view of the average church. I think the ones that do more are anything but average.

Which brings me to my goal. Marcus Borg, “Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time”. I’m picking up steam reading this one. Marcus has introduced me to a very interesting historical figure, Jesus. And I find myself really connecting to this view of Jesus. Can I sum up this view of Jesus in a line or two? No, Marcus’s view is far too complex for that; but I can sum up one part of who this Jesus is that I find so attractive. The Compassionate Jesus. “Be compassionate, as your Parent is compassionate”. Luke 6:36. Or, as other translations state “Be merciful, as your Parent is merciful”. (I’m providing the inclusive language here, not the translation.) Or, as The Message translates it: “Our Parent is kind; you be kind.” I like that one.

See, that just who Jesus is to me. He’s the teacher telling all those around him, “Hey, folks, God is a kind, compassionate God. You want to be close to God? Be like God. Be kind and compassionate.”

Borg sees Jesus as a “spirit person”, and as a teacher of wisdom, or sage. But he’s not about teaching conventional wisdom, the prevailing wisdom of the society around him. Jesus’s whole message was subversive, an alternative to the wisdom of Middle Eastern society of the 1st century.

It’s remarkable to see the gospels again through this filter of compassion… just about every thing we read in the synoptics is in someway a didactic of compassion.

And that’s what 7th Heaven seems to be about these days. Compassion. Eric seems just about bowled over by the powerful sense of compassion he feels. He can’t seem to really cope with this need to be kind and compassionate. He wants to help everyone and everything around him, and when he can’t his heart seems to break. He’s compelled to act; not by choice but by some seemingly inner force.

It’s a force that is far weaker in me; but I sense it, nonetheless.

Compassion. A politics of living, an ethos that seem so foreign, alien really, to the church of the 21st century. I hope I’m wrong.