Preludria: From Whence He Flew

In the first book of my Queer Place Trilogy, Out of the Silent Planet, we discussed my acknowledgement and acceptance of my queerness as a natural, unstoppable (or at ultimately, irresistible) outpouring of redemptive shalom. Shalom, the peace-end that works as a conciliatory thread throughout and without time to tie us into the Creator's intimate process of glorifying the Godself, is made manifest as Truth begets Love. Truth, we saw, was a hard-earned product of the married efforts of what I call the Integral Identity Process and the Progress of Accord and Actualization. These, I theorized, are processes that we go through in order to come to terms and maturity in any of our given and taken identities, however I narrowed it down to my coming to peace with my queerness, in particular. Furthermore, this queerness I bear is like a spacesuit given to me that I might take off from a planet of binaries where I do not feel at Home. So, I took off into space to find my proper Place with the Cosmic Christ. 

This next book, Preludria, my attempted homage to the fellow non-word Perelandra (C.S. Lewis' second book in his Space Trilogy), will be an examination life's patterns while dwelling on my given home planet and decision to reject its gravity. As such, I will be bending the Space metaphor to a properly pre-launch state; I will be discussing my childhood in terms of seasons on this sphere, and examining the narratives at play there that have lead me here: the launching pad. 

First of all, a note on queering. I do not believe in superimposing anachronistic understandings of my present Self into my childhood narrative as a way of defining who I was. I am who I have come to be, and I was who I had become. The gap is essential, past understandings crucially held separate, present developments unique from who I have been. This is important to me because throughout my discernment process, as I discovered new, scary, and intriguing parts of what I would come to recognize as my queer Self, the strongest deterrent for my curiosity was others - often other (likely well-intentioned) queer folks - saying, "Oh yah, that's just how it works, " or "Yes, that's just how you have to do it," or the now-proverbial "Well, I was born this way." Resonant of the bland binaries that have gridlocked queers into dead-end narratives, this passive acceptance of the "now is as always has been" is a dangerous divorce from the deep analysis needed to discover the chaotic romance between chemicals, characters, accidents, and blessings that have made me who I am every moment that I have existed. In short, this exploration of my youth is intentionally devoted to both nature and nurture, the lattice and its wandering vine.

That said, I will now undertake what can be considered a "queering". A queering, or a queer reading, is a method used by literature and cultural critics and analysts, imposing the question "but what if this character were L/G/B/T/Q/A? Would that help us understand his or her actions? Would it clue us in on drives, motives, or developments?" Or, perhaps queering is used to find a gay hero, lost in a heteronormative entertainment industry, nuanced short story, or simplified ancient text. Any way the queer lens is used, its gaze may reveal truths, but it most certainly will scrutinize details hitherto passed over, or intentionally obscured. Here, I take a queer lens to the life's seasons as I have experienced them, asking the question: from where does my queerness fly?

Book 2: Preludria: From Whence He Flew

Chapter 1: Autumnal Aspirations

We are born in Autumn. We egress the fullness of life connected to its source, falling from it by some natural gravity that we call birth, and land on the earth to be immediately asked - demanded - to breathe, to eat, and to see on our own. Just as seeds helicopter from a tree to the soil, we depart the womb's connection and are pushed into the independence (and the denied-interdependence) of Society, the world below. We thus begin our fight to become individuals, Selves. Yet, we inevitably submit to the crush of time - we are detritus predetermined to be both the footstool and the cornerstone of civilizations to come. 

I was born in a small Connecticut town with many other white people like me, a small margin of diversity, an assumed, if not passive, Christian ethic, and not much to do on weekends. As a kid, I liked romping through the forest on my own, searching for salamanders, building forts, playing house with the neighbor kids, collecting Pokemon cards, and wearing yellow dresses. Well, okay, there was really only one particular yellow dress I was fond of: it belonged to a (still dear) friend, and I don't know how often I actually put it on, I just knew it was a blessed freedom to twirl in. That was it, it was just nice to twirl in. Salamanders, rocks, and secret paths in the wood were equally enchanting. To play. To discover the world. To take to the wind as I glided down from my source to the soil of Society. 

A love of wonder and whirling stuck around. By the time I passed elementary school, I had decided that I just didn't like jeans. Everyone wore them - what a bore. Instead, what fun it was to wear pants with 30" bottoms, tight shirts (one which actually included a blow-up bubble on the front), and talk about Jesus while doing it. Not only did I like visually sticking out, I wanted everyone to know that I was on my way to paradise and they could join me. I was being raised in a Pentecostal church where we believed in a God that was alive, and it helped that we could see and hear this God in our healings, our spoken tongues, and we were wooed by His victories here and abroad on the mission field. I took up this mission call willingly. If was to join Society, I was going to continue to be conflagration of vibrant foliage on the way down. So, visually and verbally, I found good use of the loudspeaker that I had discovered as part of my Self. 

But, people started to resist, to rebuke, to recoil. My reception began to get fuzzy. The other boys didn't understand why I spent more of my time with girls than with them on the soccer field. They didn't understand my zealous attitude, and why I was stronger than their jeers. Eventually, a name for this abnormality that roamed their school halls arose: "Gayson". I wasn't like them, so I must be "gay". I didn't know what this word really meant, except that it was bad and that it meant I was not "cool", according to some. I had some notion that it had to do with my oddity, but I simply dismissed it with, "I'm different because I'm a Christian." (Oh, the irony!) And lived another day, by the power of Christ, my fellow oddity.

But, as the days went on, gravity was taking its toll. I was landing in my descent from the womb of wonder, and it was getting cold.
Come middle school, I was still thrilled by a good romp in the woods, where trees and streams were friends who didn't protest. I also liked video games, visual arts, and theatrical pursuits. When (male) Society was not giving me much to live by, I found solace in my creative endeavors, my ever-faithful female friends and sought friendship with my teachers. For a while, I delighted in the fact that I was a successful student, I could do impressive things with my hands, my voice, and my mind. But, my being was starting to change. Hormones were starting to fly as the world around me entered into puberty. Girls started listing the guys they liked, guys: their girls, and me... well, yah, I found some girls more interesting than others. So, I presumed that meant I liked them. And I did. This girl was very pretty and very smart. That girl was really funny, and friends with my friends. This other girl I had known forever, that other girl was brand new to me. So, the first year of high school I tried out that thing that other kids had been talking about for a while: dating. 

I liked it. I liked her. She was pretty, smart, funny, and grew up a Christian home as well. We went to movies, we went shopping, we hung out, and I had a promised date to all those freshman dances. We snuggled, we flirted, and then her birthday came around and she asked me if I'd kiss her. Hmm, that was a new one. But, here I was, lover of play, wonder, and newness. I'd seen this done many times on TV, I don't know what made me so nervous, or what made it seem so alien to me. Well, she finally landed one on me, and it became this nice little thing that happened when I'd walk her to her door after a date - as long as mom couldn't see from the car me kissing a girl. After all, years and years of "guys-only night" discussion in my church youth group had taught me that desire leads to sex, and that's sin, and sin means death. Safe conclusion: never look at girl with desire. This was usually pretty easy as I looked at my girl friends as equals, but I was treading on unholy territory with my sneaky kisses.

Time passed, and I started to get a little bored in the relationship; I decided I didn't "like" her anymore. So, naturally, I broke up with her - in the classic "let's be friends style" in Taco Bell, a nice, if unsanitary, neutral space. It seems I couldn't find a monocle on my space suit to keep my looking in one place for too long; there must be other adventures to be lived, wonder to be observed. But, this whole partnership thing was confusing. Was someone supposed to come with me as I wandered? Boys were bothersome bullies, and girls were enough like me, that I might as well be by myself. I didn't understand the people on this earth I was landing on, but I was starting to see that if my protest of a Self was to stay here, I might have to quiet down, I might have to bundle up.

Chapter 2: The Deep Winter

albedo: the light and heat that is reflected off a surface back
 into the atmosphere; it is increased by snow and ice

We find ourselves within our Selves in winter. We are wrapped up in our own self-contemplation like a renewed womb to find warmth against the contrasting culture around us. Others bring otherness, and they, together in their togetherness, shine like blinding albedo wondering why we are not part of their blanket-statement societal stasis. Yet, having gathered for warmth, our steeled Selves stand out in juxtapositional jest; strangeness is highlighted. Like a crisp and bland accumulation, homogenized culture makes stark our realized Selves against what seemed to be the fertile soil of Society. Awake upon earth fallen asleep, we must learn from assumption, from observation, from mistake, from adventure, from loss who we are allowed to be among Others. Yet, in winter, all decisions, all experiences are made more extreme. If outdoors, we are bitter cold, if inside, we seek an untouchable heat, flame. In winter, we learn - if we can - to survive as Selves in Society.

Toward the end of high school, I was starting to get antsy. I had been in drama club for the last few years and I had found comrades with whom I could play, joke, and be awkward. I had been affirmed in the spotlight, I was still a decent student, but I started to think less about me, particularly staged versions of me. I was no longer content with memorizing lines to merely entertain. I became concerned that we were sleeping in an world awake with conflict (the early rumblings of the "Save Darfur" campaign were afoot, for a time reference), and I was no longer content not being...something. I didn't know what, I knew I was not it. 

I started to stoke the fire. I started a "humanitarian club". I co-directed a play with a friend about elitist luxury and proletariat unrest. I did indoor track. I wanted to go. I wanted to run. I wanted to shout. I wanted to jump. And mostly, I wanted to break, to cry, to give up, to just be it. 

Yet, I was miraculously productive in this state of decay. I had some clandestine toolbox of creativity that kept me working. Having since spoken to friends and parents about this period, they had little idea what I was going through. My parents celebrated my performance, my teachers were impressed by my efforts. In grasping I made an attractive facade. But, I began to trade in this social credit for investments with no return. I took "mental health" days to get away from the pressures of school. I'd lay in bed staring at books instead of reading them. I'd play action/adventure games because their heroes would make such great feats at the nimble flick of my thumb. At home and at school, I used my reputation to assure all that all was well. But, as my prideful diversions accumulated, my escape routes were quickly eroding. I would not suffer the embarrassment of being seen suffering.

Suicidal contemplation came like a midwinter fantasy of summer. Release. While it may seem odd that I was stoking the fire of faith-driven activism with one hand, and dousing hopes' embers with the other, it came quite easily for me, for they were completely different endeavors. In fact, you might say different Selves were pursuing them at the same time. Alas, I was plagued with Gnosticism. My body and spirit were divinely divorced, yet my spirit was unjustly burdened by its woeful vessel. I had things to do. I had social and political barriers to break down. I had people to save. Why were the chemicals rushing through my body demanding so much from me? Guys were hot and unavailable, girls were ubiquitous and equal, teachers and pastors were insufficient, sex was taboo yet ever on my mind, Jesus was my homeboy, the Holy Spirit was my breath. I was horny, I was lonely, I was happy, I was full of myself, I was special, I was nothing. And mostly, I was exhausted. This bickering conversation between body and spirit had done me in, and while it would mean losing my (self-)righteous spirit, this body had to go.

It was in this state of exhaustion I met with Death. Death could be all that I could not. Death would be lover - to caress my burdened limbs that could no longer hold hope, parent - nurse and caretaker to mature the liberation from my body, sibling - playmate in fantasy worlds and constructs that cannot stand. My spirit sunk deep into hibernation to commune with its new god: Mortality. In this dream, I could escape the responsibility of living, sure, but I could also be better than a-perhaps-something, I could be a definite-nothing. I could be one with the void. I could sleep.

Charon: from Greek mythology, the ferryman who carries
souls across River Styx to the Underworld, at the price of
a coin, placed in the deceased person's mouth

But, instead, I woke up. I realized there was a deeper dream, one that could be lived. I realized that I had to live to know what death was worth, anyway. I had seen in the darkness a comedic Charon with a shrewd hand on his purse, informing me that I didn't have enough to board the boat to Beyond, not enough life yet lived. Life, while costly, had been paid for by Christ, so that death would be unaffordable. So I turned to Christ, the one who had queerly perverted Death from its binary bounds into the liberating grays of choice. Thus, in choosing Christ, I forsook Mortality - my morose lover, neglectful mother, abusive father, subversive sister, berating brother - for the Father-Mother Bosom of Creation, Sexless Brother, Lover-Guide that is Life: the God Eternal.

Where once Death stood as the ultimate end, the assumption of restful non-doing, Death had been transfigured to become a new means to Life. And in this, I learned the proper protest. I had been giving myself to the sways of politics, society, and dogma to determine was was good or evil, right or wrong, beautiful or ugly. But, communing with Death taught me to see the rareness of a life fully lived. In His protest of the grave, preceded by humble submission to torture, Christ showed me the way of redemption. To re-deem is to re-claim. To buy back. There is a cost and there is a reward. This is nothing new, however. This is the way of farmer who sows and reaps. This is the way of the birthing mother who carries, pushes, and cherishes. This is the way of Nature who buys back the sky from winter's wraiths through its great endeavor toward the worshipful sun. This, then, is the proper protest: not that one can oppose the present burdens of life with the threat of death, but that one can overthrow the unbearable lightness of Being, despite Death's draws, through the cataclysmic creativity of a life rendered redeemed by Love.

Love cannot help but act by the jealous nature of God - its other name - and thus it bursts forth from any container which seeks to hold it captive, even the ground. So, I rose from the ground of despair, and I was commissioned as the grain of wheat, whose death paradoxically begets life, to supplant life and reason into a world distracted by death. Coincidentally, it was around this time I became a student of archaeology at Wheaton College. 

Chapter 3: Spring's Eastertide

Having recognized our Selves as worthy of life among Others, by the test of extremes external and internal, we break into spring yearning past our might to survive and we teeter-totter our way toward the meandering sun, asking rather how we might learn to thrive within holy Creation. Death, we have learned by however we encountered it, is inefficient, and more so, has proven only to be a temporary solution. Death, winter's task, is instead overturned to catalyze Life, and our second birth, our necessary egress from Society's defined bounds into the welcoming ether of interactions uninhibited - that glorifying chaos-construct that is Created Nature. Thus as a seed, though thrown far from its source, we grow in a familiar and reflective pattern from whence we flew, all the while becoming something entirely different, undeniably new. 

If it was my mind that dragged my burdensome body to the grave of winter, it was my body that had the power to push through, against gravity, and grow towards renewed faith. And in that way, my body, too, was redeemed. While there was plenty of body mysteries interrupting me on my way through middle and high school, college brought me to a whole new place: the land of men. Unsurprisingly, I (and all the other queers) had slipped through the heteronormative filter of mandated same-sex housing and into a world of great confusion. I had grown up living in with a father, mother, and sister, so the idea of being forced to live with nearly 50 peer males running around in any amount (often little) clothing as they desired was...what the Kingdom's code of sexual holiness demanded? That seemed a more than a little strange. 

At this point I was still very much in a dark, cold corner of my proverbial closet. I was astounded by not only the sheer amount of people I was asked to live "in community" with (2, 4, 50, or 2300 depending on the scale), but also by the fact that so many of these people, men in particular, were so "comfortable" with their bodies. They were ready for their roommates, hallmates, and - on special occasions - for the whole campus to be privy to their entire corporeal geography. And where there is new geography, exploration, exploitation, and Empire quickly follow. But, wasn't I done with these pursuits of death and destruction?

Well, I was not done, inasmuch as I was finding out I had not enjoyed the exploits others were granted during puberty (at least in the movies). Now, I was granted a community of benevolent same-sex peers. I had no idea what it was to be in a group of fellow young men with no "adults" telling us what activity with which we should be occupied. That said, I did have a few dear male friends in my childhood, but the glaring majority were girls. I was now free to freely engage brotherly manhood. I was free to be among men, and here my oddity (which was rather tame compared to my elementary and high school incarnations) was quietly dismissed by my fellows as funny, artistic, or just that: odd. Gayson had died to the eyes of Society, and I was free to be me. And, as much as that sounds like a cat poster, it was also true. For the first time, it was assumed that I was like all guys, in some way or another. For the first time, I was assumed to be a man. 

An aside: I remember that it was around this time I realized I had never really been affirmed as a man. Sure, I was brother, son, and even boyfriend to someone at some point, but I saw these as mere coincidences, not roles ascribed from my maleness. As such, I never affirmed myself as man. That is not to say that I had thought myself a woman, or girl, nor had I taken an identity beside male and female. I want to honor the identity development of the trans* person and note that I have always felt at home in the maleness of my given male body. But, I felt that I had been socially raised by the girls that I grew up alongside. Fittingly, I have learned certain behaviors, attitudes, or postures that were typical of a girl, but they often just became unwittingly ascribed to my nature through a decade of unconsciously practiced nurture. I was male, with some feminine flourishes. In that way, other males in their male bodies seemed different than me in my male body and feminized mind; I was more easily associated with the female tribe rather than the male tribe in the cafeteria, gymnasium, or art class, but I was comfortable knowing that my life was to be lived with my male genitalia and physical realities. I just really didn't know what it meant for them to be joined with the female "counterparts", nor did I see the social or emotional need for that. 

Here in the halls of a men's dorm, Jason the Man, for once was on viable ground to grow into his maleness. But, resurrection - even in fertile soil - proved to be no easy task. Death's dirge was still resonant in the back of my throat, and at times I still called for its company. Its echoes came like a tuning fork to reprimand my off-beat desires. As I became a man among men, my spirit was revived, and with it, my childhood wonder. The Nature, the body, the emotional fragility, the fear, the strength of the Man became the hilly woodland where I could get lost in never-ending new discovery. But, the closer I got to men, the more this resonance became a magnetism, more than a song. I wanted to be with men, more, and differently than other men seemed to express. Quickly, wonder turned to fear. So, like any good, Christian queer does, I committed myself to counseling. 

I don't know what I was trying to get out of counseling. But, as I noted before, I knew that wandering new geographies had a historical penchant for exploitation, and I was not interested in that. I knew that in my vigorous wonder, I'd explore things others had hitherto marked private property, and I was not ready or willing to test (all of) these laws. Instead, I was curious about what the law of God on these matters, be it biblically or personally revealed. In counseling I found a place to peruse my field notes from the road thus far. In counseling I learned to look in, in order to look out. I fit very naturally into my counseling sessions. I, my Self, became my new fascinating object of wonder. What was I becoming? Who would I be? Who should I be?

But, in counseling, I learned about Others, as well. I learned that I was not the only man who ever liked men who also loved God. I also learned that the gravest judge and executioner of the rebel queer was likely to be myself, at least once I'd turned a blind eye to the violently judgmental arm of conservative evangelicalism. In counseling, I was allowed to express all that I had within me, and let it be. That is where I started to learn to come out. Before that, I had done some dangerous processing of my emotions within myself that had categorized them as inappropriate, wrong, unholy, unreal, and at the very least inopportune. But really, our emotions are our momentous truth when they are revealed and reveled. They are likely not the Truth, but they color our reality so thoroughly that to ignore them is to live in a delusion that any clarity can be had without all variables being accounted for. Rather, like a compass used in our pursuit of truth, the poles of thought and emotion cooperate to veer us toward reality.

It was during this time that I started considering more deeply a future of celibacy. Coming from a conservative Christian background, two viable options were given to me by the Church at large (my individual counselors were more forgiving): 1) to be healed back into a state of heterosexuality from my state of sinful homosexuality, or 2) to commit to celibacy so as to not sin in my homosexual existence. Something about the narrative of being "healed into heterosexuality" did not appeal to me from the start. I do believe that there are legitimate narratives out there along these lines. I do believe that there are those men and women who ascertain that a particular path of sexual (and thus spiritual) healing will involve them practicing an orientation they previously had not. I also believe that there have been horrible abuses - including death - proscribed to queer brothers, sisters, and all those in between in the name of "God" and "holiness" that need not have been committed. And overall, I believe that God is creative in how God raises us. To the second option, I've always liked restrictions, rubrics, and measures, (if not only to deny them) so decidedly disengaging sexual intercourse whilst still living into my sexuality and embracing celibacy seemed far more appealing. So, just as the feeble sprout of my realized social-spiritual-sexual Self broke into the fresh air with renewed life, I had found a lattice on which to grow toward the Sun. 

Nature, it seemed, was taking its course. Furthermore, it appeared the God of Nature was on my side. 

Chapter 4: Toward the Hope of Summer

Today I still stand among the late blossoms of Spring, cloaked in my shiny spacesuit - summer has yet to come. But, I hope. And hope is what will bring summer's graces. Past the suffering, the fall from unity with God, the romance of Death, the resurrection of faith, and my recent coming-out, I yearn to be at Home with God. I've spent a few years dwelling in and on the idea of celibacy, and I am still young. In these few years, celibacy has meant a lot to me. In my latter years of college, celibacy meant that I had a role in the Kingdom, one with a defined history and a mysterious present and future for me to discover. For millennia, celibates have been the priests and the prophets of the global village, of Spirit-revering people. Since my earliest pondering, I wanted to embody these strong characters of the Church. I wanted to have the power to speak and be believed, to utter the mysteries of God, to be alive in the Spirit and seek truth. So, I will try, and I will fly.

rumspringa: the Amish tradition of leaving the
known community during adolescence in order
to discern future level of commitment 

But, again, I am still young. I will wonder, and in my wondering I will wander. I will try on the prettiest of the yellow dresses I find and give them a twirl. I will take joy in my spacesuit and find out what abilities I have yet to discover. I've already found quite a pleasant whirl in the wonders of yoga, Christ-centered meditation, liturgy, dance, song, and contemplation - all things that are both near and far from the tradition in which I was raised. Perhaps I'll experience a little rumspringa, however late in the game - but, I've only recently become a practicing Mennonite, so not too late, right? 

Yet, however far I wander, I hope to come back home to Christ. Though I have taken off from this planet of wrote narratives and bland binaries, I hope to return to and with Love. Christ was my first love, and by God, Christ will be my last love. In and through Christ all things were (and are) made; just as I worship an omnipresent God, I know that at all points of Creation I am meeting the eyes of its, of my Creator. In that I find hope, and pray that you will as well. 

From Nature we are gifted unprecedented freedoms unwarranted by the assumed rubrics of Self and Society during the rooted growth of Spring. Communing with our True Nature, we find the deep network of being that encompasses all, but is envisioned only within our Selves. The toil of refining the Self for the sake of Others (Society) is consoled by finding our Selves in Others, and bending to the way of Nature's leading. In Summer, the God of Nature is revealed and revered. As all that comes from the earth grows but toward the daily Sun, so each of our lives is an outgrowth of the grace of that Sun, our source and our end. In time, Summer matures each Self to dress it with blossoms unforeseen, that the Sun might be glorified, that the Self might be redeemed, that Society might be embellished, and that Nature might be seeded by the Truth its Creator has reinforced, and finally, that Truth through Love may be renewed. 

Hopefully, 
Jason

Out of the Silent Planet

I am a systematic thinker. 
As chaotic a strand you might find any thought that comes from my hands or mouth, I promise you: it is tied off at (at least) two ends. Along with systems, I also think in images and basic formulae. 

That is, I am often solving for x. Whether I am given a shape, a line of thought, a school of thought, or a bundle of emotions to consider, the input is usually received as something like:
(x+7)+(h-2r)+(how she feels about abx^2)-(who God is-x% of myself)*(trinitarian considerations of x within a compound of bxr)+what I ate for dinner = y.
Solve for x. 

Working through this list of variables, narrative, and mysteries, I end up asking a lot of questions about the nature of y, and mostly a lot of "why" itself. As a kid, I was (fondly?) known as Mr. What-If to my parents, always exploring what-if case scenarios, ad infinitum (that is, I still do, therefore I have no proof of this phenomenon's end).

These analytic characteristics are only worth mentioning because I am going to wield them in a new arena: an analysis of my sexuality. For the first time in the digital public realm, I want to discuss one more variable in my equation, one more thing to consider as you view the y that I am. Consider: my same-sex attraction. Furthermore consider: my acceptance of it. I am embracing my queerness, and I want to take you along on this odyssey, not because I would make a good captain or that I know any more than anyone else, but just the opposite. I need a crew that understands what ship we are flying as we soar through the space of eternity on the sacred vessel of Humanity, and I want people asking questions about why it flies as it does, how we can fix it when it is broken, and how we can learn to cope with its eccentricities.

So, I must apologize for the misleading priming I've utilized to get attention back on my blog, alas, the following three posts, while superficially referential to C. S. Lewis' Space Trilogy, have very little to do with Lewis and his inviting fantasies. Rather, they will have everything to do with my reality as a queer-identifying person, my fanatic pursuit of a romantic, yet flirtatiously elusive God, my upbringing within a Christian context, and my future striving as a peacemaker in a world at war in which two of my Selves appear to be stationed at opposite poles. This is my meager epic. This is my Queer Place Trilogy. In Book 1, I will talk more about why I am "coming out". In Book 2, I will explore the land I am coming from. And in Book 3, I will look at what frontiers may lay ahead. All aboard?

Book 1: Out of the Silent Planet

When I landed in Evanston, IL two years ago, something about the person I was had been was left like a heavy cloak back in the realm from which I hailed. Enthusiastically, I entered into a community of fellow Believers in Christ as an apprentice with Reba Place Fellowship, one known village born from a diasporatic idea(l) known as "the new monasticism" - the new old way to live in proximity with other spiritual seekers in order to construct community for intentionally living out "shalom". Shalom - the peace-cycle of time's narrative in which all things are made new, bright, and glorious for God's sake, just as they began - was an idea that I had encountered during my studies and extracurriculars. I had had some occasional conversations with fellow seekers about the application of this alien concept to my everyday life, but while under the not-so-light burden of scholarship, this idea could only be pondered within the semi-controlled conversational labs of small groups of fellow radicals who were similarly slowed by the typical nemeses of lack of time, imposed constructs of Western thought, and a materialistic culture's induced ethical ennui. Unsatisfied with mere conjecture, I decided it was time for the science of shalom to escape the lab and discover its true nature in the light of other suns - for me, under the open skies of community life.

Shalom's greatest promise is that, in my encounter with the full depths of reality, I could and I would find peace. However, shalom's potential caveat was that in the long, sweeping arc of my narrative, I could and would fight the most violent of wars, feel the most searing of losses, and experience the emptiest of hungers. But, I would be fulfilled, in time.

Roman Cauliflower, an example of a naturally-occurring
fractal: a geometric or physical structure exhibiting a
repetitive, self-same pattern at all scales of analysis.
See also above: Nesser River in Egypt.

As a fractal (see left), I see this spiral of shalom in every narrative of life observed, and in the invisible metanarrative of all Life created by Love. Life from death, growth from loss, ecstasy from the abyss. So, while I burned with an infernal intrigue for the consummation of shalom, I set out knowing that I was chasing an ideal end whose means would not be idyllic. But, like a redeemed Prometheus, Lady Wisdom and Her torch bearers have passed Her heavy torch by exhortation: seek the truth at all costs. Lest She be bait for the ravens, I will carry it on.

Truth, it turns out, is a means that demands itself as payment. But even before that investment can be made, transparency must be practiced, which is a phenomenon that generally only occurs in a space of trust. Furthermore, spaces of trust are established by nurturing a sense of belonging, a capacity made capable by an acknowledgement of identity. So, let's work that forward: Acknowledged identity leads to a sense of belonging, which encourages the establishment of spaces of trust, in which transparency can be practiced, so that truth can be facilitated as a means of participating in shalom. It is by this convoluted due process that we can see the many available pitfalls obstructing our access to the high arc of shalom, with particular complications caused by the fact that we are given many things with which to identify (e.g. sexuality/gender, job/career, spirituality, political philosophy, nationality, etc.). Even within these identifiers, we have a galaxy of many planets from which to hail.

So it is in an effort to foster shalom that I offer you my exit from the Silent Planet. Just as I mentioned with shalom, it is important for a science for it to leave its laboratory; an animal is best observed in nature, politics are best observed among the people, economics in the agora. Sexuality, as one of many identifiers, is perhaps best observed in that liminal space between desire and touch, speech and proposal, want and need, temporal and eternal. However in the majority of sexuality discourse of this planet (for the sake of the metaphor, let's limit my "planet" to Western Christianity in an American context), this liminal, eclipsed space is often disregarded or unregarded as null, nothing, nonexistant. Silent. You are either (hetero)sexually active or you are not doing life right - hold the nuances. This platitude very efficiently colludes with various other flat binaries such as male-female, child-adult, Christian-heathen, violent or weak (victor/loser), hot-or-not, "straight" or sinner.

While these binaries are efficient, they are not entirely effective, as they are most certainly not comprehensive. In fact, my quotidian activities often collapse the common binaries. I am a man who spends most of his social time among women. I am a 20-something who occasionally has the attitude of a moody 4-year-old, yet is the benefactor of ancient and contemporary wisdom handed down by those much older than me. I am a Western Protestant Christian bent on mysticism and the chase of Christ-consciousness. I am a third-way pacifist who believes history's last violent victory was Christ's slaying of Death on the cross. I am a decent looking face when my acne decides to leave me alone for a week. And I am mostly attracted to men, and even more so attracted to not "obtaining" a partner - I am mostly happily celibate, but I might also be a good flirt. Thus, when I found myself planted on a planet meant to grow "masculine" men who are submissive to older men but hubristically flaunting to peers, trained to dominate women as lessers, given Salvation as means to judge and slay another (with abs glistening in the Hollywood sun), all so that with their "manly" braun they'd be able to place the foundation for the next Tower of Babel....I decided it was time for me to depart. Because with so strong a mythology as what has been fed to the majority of men (and women) on this planet, my narrative and the narrative of like-humans before me has oft been doomed to silence, shrugged off as impossible, or shunted and shot upon its refusal to stay in line.

Unsettled, the first step of me becoming at home with my queer identity was realizing that I was where I did not belong. I realized that I was wearing a space-suit in the place that should be my home planet, worn to protect what couldn't survive there. But, after a few attempts at shedding elements of the complex creation that was keeping me alive, after trying to minimize and delete parts of myself, I decided I had been given this space-suit for a reason. Within this strange craft, and a little divine inspiration, I was free. Free to explore worlds unlike that into which I was born, to meander the mysteries of the universe, to rend dark matter, to unite the galaxies, to find our place in the Cosmic Christ. Furthermore, it was my joy to discover that this is the power of the Queer.

Queer folks have the gift of being the inhabitants of Space. No, not that we are alien and should not belong, and not that we are higher, lower, or incongruent with inhabiting this planet, but rather for now we are inhabitants of Space. We are the explorers of first and final frontiers. We are those that can be the go-betweens, the liaisons, the interpreters for those who choose to live in the binary world. We are the static between radio stations, the gap between constellations, the weirdness to keep "normal" evolving, the sunsets and the moonrises. Though we are often unseen, we are continually becoming more-seen, and the benefit to us all is that reality is being revealed. And it is good.

Remember, all this is about bringing shalom, the peace-end, into greater light, one star-torch at a time. For a systematic thinker like me, my endeavor is making known the unknown, clarifying the remaining variables, looking for solutions to our "why"s. So indulge me a little further, as I humor the other visual learners out there with a little show-and-tell. Think of these as a couple of meteorites I have gathered while floating around Space. Or, just look at is for what it is: I want to break shalom down into a couple of processes I see going on (and then we'll wrap up).

The Integral Identity Process

Our identities are ever in formation. Like I mentioned, I see my sexuality as merely one element of my identity - though not necessarily the "most important" part. I also identify as male, Christian, spiritual-seeker, reader, writer, sculptor...the list goes on. While here I've been metaphorizing the exploration of my sexuality as a movement into outer space, I believe each of our identity nodes go through a similar process. This I call the Integral Identity Process.

It is, as most things in nature, cyclical. To keep with the current discussion, I will utilize sexuality as the identity node under analysis (i.e. queerness as space-suit).

The first step is recognition of your given place. What is the planet (read: culture) where you are saying about what you have been told you about the person you should be? Who should you be? What do you identify with here? For me, I was born male, and I am content in my male body. However, I am not content being told that I must "obtain a wife" - for many reasons, but we'll leave that there for now.

The second step is the acceptance and rejection of elements of your place and your given identity/story. As a Western Christian male, I was told the end of my sexual narrative as an unwarranted spoiler: I was to marry a woman and have children. I do not reject that as an end, but I reject that I am given my end by those who do not write my story, namely I do not accept society, but God as author. Thus in this step I add and subtract elements of my identity (or tools and functions to my space-suit, per se).

The third step is jettisoning myself into Space. It is time for trial and error. What parts are necessary for my space-suit to have so that I can stay alive? What are the necessary tools for communicating back home? Do I have what I need to move forward? I might move back and forth to the second step in order to prepare for further exploration. To be fair, I revisit these phases frequently.

The fourth step is the establishment or re-establishment of Place, integration of questioned identity. After exploring the Space you've been given (be it queerness, alternative career, unexpected loss, crisis of faith/existence), and you have discovered the tools and resources you need to keep you alive, you establish yourself at Home in your new identity, and hopefully on some fertile planet of community.

But, remember, this is cyclical. This will happen somewhat endlessly, refining your identity in the furnace of time, per the nature of dynamic and perpetual shalom. So, let's take a look at one more level out:

The Progress of Accord and Actualization

Shalom is often spoken of having four directions: towards Self, toward Others, toward Creation, toward God. In more detail, shalom pursues the reckoning of assumed self to the True Self, the equalizing of the Self with the rest of Humankind (Others), the revisioning of Humankind as humble caretakers within Creation and the role of Self within it, and the reconciliation of Humankind to Creator. These four arenas are interconnected and invisibly convoluted, but if we consider each arena as fostering its own Integral Identity Process, and the development of identity discussed above, we can eek out some kind of system for actualizing shalom.

Earlier, I established that identity must be acknowledged before belonging is felt, belonging leads to trust, trust allows transparency, and transparency facilitates truth. Truth, furthermore is one manifestation of shalom. Thus, with this theoretical process in place, one arc of the spiral of shalom could be represented as follows:

This is a "scale up" from the Integral Identity Process (IIP) as the IIP occurs between each of the steps of actualization (see lower section of diagram). The IIP happens in accordance with the arenas of shalom (Self, Other, Creation, Creator). Essentially, we have a formational Integral Identity Process in accord with Self, with Others, with Nature/Creation, and with God/Creator to facilitate outward development of the identifier until we actualize a state of shalom - peaceful acceptance of the identity. This means that I do not just say, "Hey, I'm queer", but that I have reconciled within my Self the identifier of queerness, established belonging that I might identify among Others that I am queer, so that I might recognize a greater Nature of "queerness" within cosmic Creation, allowing transparency of this identity into new realms, so that ultimately, in my identification with God as first and final Love, I can pursue and perceive Truth as a fruit of the perpetual shalom. Ultimately, we have an elaborate scheme for keeping our identities in accountability of all Natures (Self, Other, Creation, Creator) with the Godself, as the metanarrative, the bending arc of redemptive shalom, is revealed.

***

Alright, so why subject you to this process? Because this is how I went about feeling Home in my Queerness. I did not necessarily have names for each of these stages through the years, nor a Virgil to guide me through these spheres, but, by God's grace, I've come to this place of peace in relatively few pieces. This convoluted process (be it invisible and merely theoretical) could be easier - it should be easier - however it will always be there. Along the way, this space-suit - as powerful as it may be - gets heavy, and we space travelers need to know that we have places of solace where we can shed our woes and get some fresh air - space stations in the abyss, oases of hope (too far?).

Space-suits aside, I implore you to facilitate this process of finding a Place in the Space that we inhabit by lubricating this manic machine of identity analysis with Love - the essence of God, first and final author of shalom. In all that you do, love. For, in all that you do, you are amidst this process of forming a world in which billions of others are seeking Home as they cycle through deciding what parts of their identities fit. Whatever we've got under our helmet or below the belt, we belong in God. Christ came, holy and absurd, that we might rest well in the bowed arches of shalom, finding all that we need to be in Truth - borne with love - and the eternal outpouring of peace beyond comparison.

With that I end this first book of my Queer Place Trilogy, brothers, sisters, and all those in between. You're likely to see elements of what we discussed come up again, so no worries if you haven't come to any conclusions. After all, life's not so much about conclusions as it is about asking better questions.

As a final note: thank you dear friends who have given me the Space in which to explore these ideas. I offer this now to a wider circle of brothers and sisters so that better, more truthful conversations can take place with me and with folks like me. I am on a continual search for the meaning of Home, but I offer this and coming chapters as notes from the odyssey thus far. Thank your for your patience, prayers, and play. Tune in next time for Preludria: From Whence He Flew for some thoughts on my youth, early tinkerings with the Space-suit, and the preference of "queer" as identifier.

Go now with peace to love and serve God.

Yours,
Jason

(Still) Striving for Sagacity

I am very excited to get back to reflective writing, philosophizing, metaphorizing, and making grandiose claims about things seen and unseen, but before I hop back on that horse, I want to take time to acknowledge some tracks in the mud left by the previous ride.

I had sat down with the full intention to write out my re-inaugural post, when I came across this old draft that never got completed, nor posted. Yet, reading it through, I think it is a worthy artifact in the development of my thoughts (and feelings!), so I hope you will indulge me by reading my old news.

Cue black-and-white nostalgic look into the past...

The following was written late in the summer of 2012.

I have recently returned to Ellington, Connecticut after 1) a long summer journey which included Jesus-minded friend-making through Youth Hostel Ministry, 2) a time in Chicago discerning my future with some fantastic Mennonites, 3) some more time back in Wheaton passing the time with the most pleasant of people - the remnant of the Class of 2012, and 4) a long train ride to the east, where I am for a short time before returning to Evanston and the Reba Place community.

I am a Man free from the stressful schedule of scholarship (though not loose from the leash of loans), a Believer released into a world reveling in recalcitrant secularism and agnosticism, a Boy thrown from the realm of imagined innocence into the den of reality
- one of sweat, tears, and sometimes blood, and a Mouth never at a loss for words,but a Mind ever wandering for truthful wonderings.

Is truth creative? Is holiness heavy, or weightless? Can righteousness really be recognized by wrongdoers, like me? I've no fewer questions, but the same impetus that enticed me to my college endeavors keeps my fingers typing today: to seek truth at all costs.

The thing about Truth is, it knows no container. No time can end it, no space can dwarf it, no place can fully portray it, no person may fully comprehend it. For now. True understanding is for those who have the ability to stand over all thoughts and things in a given singularity and remain in sagacious passivity at their intimate interlocution, unsurprised  and unusurped by their inner workings. We may not have that power nor the capacity to obtain it, but toward that end, Truth, do we ever strive. Or, at least we should. Proto-Protestant Reformer Jan Hus of what we now know as the Czech Republic died for the sake of truth. "Truth prevails" was essentially the motto of this intellectual martyr, borne brazenly as he became a conflagration for this cause, eventually burnt at the stake following an official condemnation by the Catholic Church (who later expressed regret for this treatment, by Pope John Paul II). While a prime example of striving for sagacity, his is a story that I cannot do justice for here. However, from Jan Hus we are reminded of an age-old lesson: truth has its costs.

The unwary reader of the book of Proverbs might think that "seeking wisdom, no matter the cost" might practically translate as "try really hard." I don't think trying is involved. If we must try to breathe, then we know that we are in great trouble, it should not be a trial, it should be habitually forgettable. What then, if we made our desire for wisdom so simple? No, simple is an improper word for this, with its connotation to unintelligence or "simple-mindedness."  

What if we made our striving for sagacity as reflexive as breath? With the inhalation of air, with the expanse of the lungs ballooning with new entrance, oxygen enlivens our corporeal construct. However, what came before and what will come after this expansion was and will be the purging of that which has been used and cannot be used for the same use again. In the case of lungs: mostly carbon dioxide, but in the case of our minds: what must we loose so that we might leash more learning? All that lives cycles, in some form or another. What cycle, then, do we submit our minds to so that we can shed the skins of old folly and invite in fresh flesh to bronze in the enlightenment of tomorrow? I ask, because I find myself itching at some flaky folly, festering to be loosed from these languished limbs. I've come to an end of a season; how, in this autumn, do I plant bulbs for spring? My mind's hands have known the turning of textbook pages and the passing of unpleasant tests, but my mind's feet have lost their nerve, untrained in practicality. How do I work on my mind, now when my immediate work is not for my mind - that is, when my primary position is not "student"?

Questions, questions. Practically speaking, what usually happens to me, and is telling true currently, is I become quite tired, sluggish even. I get roped into the conveniences that televisions and computers offer for a man interested in new stories but unwilling to write or sculpt them yet. I further plug into video games and their never-near narratives, and find myself a world that never lived nor never will birth the ballad I've been given to sing. Escapism. Hibernation. Call it what you will, it's oft accompanied by many yawns, low-spoken murmurs, and unenthusiastic agreements. (I suppose it was those rare dreams of mind-winter napping that became the kindling for the nonchalant flares of activity on this blog.) But, beside dismal accounts of my boring down-time and regurgitated metaphors of four seasons that you will hear time again on this blog, let us turn to examine how we might, even in our habits of hibernation, wander after wisdom, rather than dismissing it as too expensive, or more dangerously, dismiss wisdom as optional.

If you're a human, it turns out that seeking wisdom is not actually that hard. Thank God, really, because if it is as important as that breathing thing we do, we should be celebratory it isn't too difficult. According to the Proverbs alluded to above:

Out in the open Wisdom calls aloud, she raises her voice in the public square on top of the wall she cries out, at the city gate she makes her speech: 'How long will you who are simple love your simple ways? How long will mockers delight in mockery and fools hate knowledge? Repent at my rebuke! Then I will pour out my thoughts to you, I will make known to you my teachings. (Proverbs 1: 20-23, see verses following for further exhortation.)

So, I don't know if it was being raised with many female teachers, many female friends, or just having sensitive ears, but I've always found it pretty easy to listen to shouting women, so tuning into Lady Wisdom should be pretty easy. But, for those of you who may have a more natural aversion to such sounds, let's pose this as a "listening" versus "hearing" opportunity. We all know you "heard" your mom or dad's lecture, but did you listen? Think of wisdom as that which can be heard, and righteousness the result of listening.

While you may have gotten out of that question when mom or dad asked, "Did you hear me?" because they used one word or the other, Lady Wisdom will not be the one asking about your wisdom and righteousness, it will instead be your poor neighbor, your struggling sister, the new kid, the old loser, the tired traveler, or the subtle stranger. It will be Jesus asking, "Did you listen?" How wonderful it would be then, if we would respond, "Yes, Brother Savior, I breathed." As inhalation and exhalation are two parts of the one life-giving process that is breathing, so are listening and speaking the two parts of the one life-giving process that is sagacity. The same delicate lung walls are used to process the in-going and the out-going air, just as the same gray folds process the input and output of wisdom to and from our heads. (Perhaps the vocal cords and ear drums were built so close together that they might learn to play in rhythm with one another, harmonizing a symphony of simple truths.)

...and that is where the post ended.

I could now "finish" the post, wrapping it up nicely with another witty anecdote and an application point and send you on your merry way, but there is something honestly riveting about encounter a near-but-not-neat completion of a thought, a dream, an attempt at an exhortation to echo Lady Wisdom. In a way, this little two-year-aged draft was the firstfruits of the flirtatious promenade along the ideological precipice the last two years have become. Not long after this I'd entered into a time of intense discernment, external reflection, hidden humiliation of invisible expectations, and an encounter with empowering peace. But, that's the story that will take place now...two years later.

Let's get back to the future next time with the start of a three-part blog series whose titles will be pseudo-namesakes after my dear book mentor, C. S. Lewis', space trilogy. Tune in next time for the first installation: Out of the Silent Planet.

But, until then, listen to that crazy lady in the street, Lady Wisdom. She want's your attention, for Christ's sake, and the sake of generations to come.

Peace,
Jason