The Search

**5**

Invite Jesus into your heart, my Sunday school teacher says. I do. Over and over again I do, but if I never feel a change, how can I know it worked? What does it feel like to have a grown, bearded man, robed in blue and white, living inside my heart? Is he wearing a crown of thorns when he enters in?

**11**

Give your life to Jesus, the camp speaker says. Surrender all you are. Commit your life to him. I do. Over and over again, I pray, I read the Bible. I fast. I am baptised. What does it feel like to be dead to the natural man, alive in Christ? If I don’t feel different, am I doing it wrong?

**15**

I choose my story, the Christian author says, I choose what I want in my story, and I know what I don’t want. I don’t want sin. I don’t want attractions towards women. I don’t want to be gay. I make the choice solid. I commit fully to God’s plan, not my desires. I am happy, right? I may not know who I am. I write dark poetry about being alone. I think about hurting myself, a cry for attention, but surely God is attentive to me. I don’t need, nor deserve the attention of others. If God is with me, must I feel so alone?

**18**

I’ve been promised a personal relationship with God. I seek to know this being I follow. I plan to isolate myself from others. I don’t need human relationships, I need God. I imagine sitting on the floor, hiding beneath over-the-ear headphones on my first day of Bible college. I can’t afford the headphones that I imagine, so I settle for the earphones that come with the MP3 player I buy for this purpose. I sit and observe the other students. I am not here for them. I am here to know God. As the year passes, I do meet the other students, I write about the Trinity, but God never shows up. Where is he?

**19**

At Bible camp, I watch as parents show up with a cake for their son. No one knows it is my birthday too. No one celebrates me. Surely the God who formed me, who knit me together in my mother’s womb, surely he know. That ought to be enough. I can quote the scriptures, but I cry in the basement, alone. Does God see me? Can’t he send some one my way to cheer me up?

**20**

I head to Bible college again; different school, different city, new friends. I’m still seeking for that relationship with God. I still avoid getting too involved in social aspects, but I do enjoy community with my roommates. I attend a new church, but find only performance and noise. Is God in the textbooks? The hymnal? Can he really speak directly to me?

**23**

At work I share with youth this good news that I’ve been promised. There is a loving God who can help every youth overcome every challenge. God can help in all situations. In my secret thoughts I wonder why God helps some frantic wealthy woman find her car keys, when every day there are children dying of hunger in Chad. I wonder, if he doesn’t care about the children dying across the world, why would he care about my dad, dying of cancer? Why does God help others, but never me?

**24**

And why doesn’t God comfort me after my dad passes? Why do I try so hard to be righteous, but feel so alone? I’ve memorised scriptures, I’ve written papers, I’ve prayed, but it has made no difference. I wonder if I can find comfort somewhere else. I wonder if sinful living is the path to choose. Yet, as I list vices, none of them appeal much to me. I go through Christian motions, but my heart drifts from the hope it once held. God makes no difference in my life. My belief in him isn’t what makes me a good person, so why believe in him?

**25**

I’ve given up, and yet, I am drawn back by missionaries who once again promise a relational God. They are patient with my questions, sure in their answers. I want to believe. I want to believe in the hope they offer. I want to believe there is goodness and reason in the messiness of life. I desire again for evidence of this being, count every song that pops into my head as a sign. Get baptised, the missionaries say. I do. I participate in community. I accept who I am, a little bit. For the first time say the words, I’m gay. I wonder why God still wants me to marry a man. His plans seem to work great for everyone else, but are they really what is best for me? Why can’t God have a personal plan for me?

**27**

I go on a mission to put off thoughts of marriage. I go on a mission longing to connect with the spiritual, to hear God’s voice, to heed his direction. I go on a mission hoping my commitment to serve God will earn me a personal experience with him. I go on a mission believing that God, who has so often remained silent in my life, will speak into the lives of others. I learn again to hide my sexuality, to fake spirituality, to assume my thoughts are from God. I learn how dark anxiety feels. I remember how lonely I can feel in the presence of people. I don’t give up. The weight of responsibility presses on my shoulders, but I push against it. I choose to be joyful, I find life in music. At times I journey with others, at times I fight alone. Does God ever take my side, or does he just watch from the sideline? Why, after all my effort, don’t I see miracles?

**30**

I love her. I intend just to be her friend, but I love her. More importantly, she loves me. I feel that love. We could just be friends, but I know what I want. It is not the voice of my Sunday school teacher, the voice of the camp speaker, the voice of the missionaries, nor that of any other religious leader. It is a voice from within me. Our love is tangible, and I want to give my whole self to this woman. Do I love her more than I love God, my bishop asks me. Yes, and I’ve felt her love in ways I’ve never felt the love of God. We have a very personal relationship. She cares about me and validates me in ways I only hoped God would. The choice is easy. I abandon the religion which makes me choose, and we marry. Does God rejoice with me?

**31**

We don’t hate God, and we don’t hate religion, so we choose to explore churches willing to accept our relationship. Something within me always draws me back to churches. It isn’t the music nor the sermons. It isn’t the theology which I spent years studying. As I search for God, I asked, can a community be God to me? Can a church be Jesus? I had sought tirelessly for a relationship with God, but had I missed the point when I overlooked human relationships? Perhaps to feel love from God was to feel love from people. My wife and I searched for such a community until we found a place where I can believe that God is love, because it is a community of love. A place where I can believe that God cares, because they care. A place where I can believe that God accepts me, because they accept me. So, I have found the love, compassion and acceptance of God, without any certainty that there is a divine being. Perhaps I could have found this earlier, but it wasn’t what I’d been looking for. Promises of magical intervention, lofty visions, had my eyes focused away from the Christlike love of others. How can I spread this love?

Congratulate Me! Today I Peed in the Potty!

I like to think my appreciation for affirmation and praise is only human.  Perhaps it is fuelled by my low self-esteem that is buoyed up by the praise others give. I like to be acknowledged.  I have been thinking about integrity.  Integrity is taking onus to do what is right even when no one is around to clap for me.  When people are new to church, their efforts are acknowledged.  They are asked if they have been reading the Book of Mormon and receive affirmation for a positive response.  They begin to learn that these habits are good.  This is much the same as to how we treat young children.  They are praised when they zip up their own coat, eat all their food and pee in the potty.  Eventually the child is expected to carry on these habits without receiving praise.  When I was a child, it was expected that at the end of the meal I took my dishes to the dishwasher, and expressed gratitude for the meal.  Perhaps at one point I received praise for these behaviours.  I do not remember that, but I do remember the gentle reminders to clear my dishes.  When I am at my mom’s home I perform these habits, partly because they have become part of my nature, and partly because, whether my mom expresses it verbally or not, she is pleased by this routine.  This is the transition which needs to happen with my faith developing habits.  If I expect human, or even divine, praise every time I say a personal prayer, read my scriptures or go to church, I am going to be very disappointed.  As much as I long for this kudos, I am missing the point.  The point isn’t to get a pat on the back every time I do good.  I need to do that which is good even when no one cares, because it is good.  I can do it knowing God is pleased, whether I can feel his pleasure or not.  I should do it because peeing in the potty is better than peeing in my pants, and if I don’t zip up my coat, I will get cold.  I should do it because as I take care of myself, I can take care of others, I can acknowledge their efforts with understanding that some of the littlest tasks take great effort.  And as I do the little tasks, they will become habits, they will become part of my nature and I will become one who seeks to please God if people notice, or even if they don’t.

Saying Good Bye to My Past

As I have been unpacking my belongings, I have found all sorts.  Notebooks filled with stories, a bag full of dreadlocks, clothing I forgot about, a box of photos I have yet to look through, and three hockey pucks (but I have yet to locate my skates).  among all of this I have also found reminders of who I used to be and what used to be important to me, bits of my past with which I can no longer identify.  Though I know this, I do not want to let go.  I am great at trying to justify my reasoning.  After all, isn’t having my selves lined with books that speak agains my beliefs evidence as to how strong my faith really is?  After all, I still do think that closets are for clothes.

Those are the two categories of belongings onto which I am holding.  Many of the books which speak against the Church i have never even read.  Sometimes I think I ought to read them to get my money’s worth.  My knowledge as to what critics say against the Church is no indication as to how strong my faith is.  I knew much of the critique before I has any faith.  Furthermore, I have no intention to read the literature, and just having it on myself is not going to do anyone any good.  I could give the books away, but I do not think they will do any good for anybody.  

The other category could be summed up as gay pride.  As I was driving earlier this week I came to understand that pride cannot be part of my life.  I feel this is counter-cultural, and all of societies reasons are my means of justifying holding on to this piece of my past.  I echo the words of society, it is who I am, I cannot change, i am not bad.  And perhaps it is part of who I am, perhaps it will never change, and quite certainly God created me good, but all that considered, pride is not the way forward.  If the opposite of pride is denial, that is not the answer, nor is the answer somewhere between those two points.  I would posit that it is some place two feet above.  I can acknowledge and accept that I am attracted to women without making it a point of pride.

Philippians 3:7-8: “But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.  Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ.”

I must put my past behind me, recognize that it is rubbish and rest in the rewards Christ has offered.  It is time for church, but I must pass by the recycle bin first.

Polepole

Reaching 5895 meters above sea level, Mount Kilimanjaro is the world's tallest free-standing mountain and the highest peak in Africa.*  At the tender age of thirteen, I along with my sister and my father, set out to conquer Kili.  Eager, and with spring in our steps we began the journey, three and a half days up, one and a half down.  We carried only our day packs and were ready to run with the gazelles up the constant incline.  Our guide, however, warned us against such sprints.  His advice was simple, "polepole" - slowly.  The idea was that going slowly at a sustainable speed would be quicker than a binge and purge approach.  It's the story of the tortoise and the hare.  It worked.  Our trek was slow, but it was consistent.
Polepole.  I am often overwhelmed at how much I have to learn, how much I have to grow.  I have goals of being totally humble, completely faith-filled and perfect.  While those goals are great things to aim for, they are not achieved over night neither are they achieved sprinting.  Polepole.  I hope that every day I can become a little more humble, gain a little more faith and move closer towards perfection, but the journey is long, the destination is still far away.  What matters though is that I am on the journey, I am taking steps, no matter how polepole, in the right direction.
You might think this is a poor analogy if I tell you that I never made it to the top of Mount Kilimanjaro.  However, even in that there is a lesson to be learned.  The goal set out for us was to summit for sunrise.  My sleep, uncomfortable in a dorm of strange men and women, was cut short when I was awoken a little after one and beckoned to begin the journey heavenward.  It was dark, the steep trail lit only by our head lamps.  I was tired, grouchy.  Our goal, which had previously been hidden from us by the clouds, was now cloaked in darkness.  There was greater urgency than in the previous days.  If we were to make our goal, we had to keep going.
I couldn't keep up.  I didn't feel well.  Whether it was because of the altitude, the physical exertion or the lack of sleep, i do not know, but I felt miserable.  I begged for a break, and in the darkness I sat down.
I couldn't do it, I told them, and then I was told that I didn't have to.  I could go back to the scary dorm room filled with strange men and go back to sleep.
The choice was mine - conquer Africa's highest peak or go back to bed.  That was a big choice for little 13 year-old me.  I knew hours of hiking were still ahead.  The summit seemed to be nothing more than a fictitious promise, and surely the sunrise couldn't be that amazing.
I'm convinced I could have made it.  While altitude sickness seems to be the most honourable excuse, I think I was just tired.  Had I gotten up, taken just one step and then another, polepole I would have made it to the top.  However, my sister, rather than encouraging me along, gave me a ultimatum.  Now or never.  "Let's go, and if you can't, then you go back and let us go on."**  I went back.  I spent the night coward in a corner of the dorm room hoping and praying that the men wouldn't touch me.  So much for sleep.
My sister and my dad when on to summit the world's tallest free standing mountain while I stayed behind.
I'm thankful for the people who haven't left me behind as I journey to become more like Jesus.  I too often I'm pouty, I sit down and complain that I can't do it.  Every time I do, someone comes along and tells me to get up, to take another step, to look back at how far I've come, remember the strength I've been given thus far and to carry on.  Little by little, inch by inch, do whatever I can do, and if all I can do is sit there for a minute or two, that is better than retreating.  I love that the Gospel asks us just to do however little it is that we can.  What matters is that I am on the right path, not the speed at which I am progressing and while I want to sprint towards the goal, I can't.  It is too far away, but everyday I can learn something new, I can put into practice everything I've learned and step by step, polepole, I'll get closer to my goal.  Will I succeed?  Ultimately the choice is mine.  A choice made up of a thousand choices.  On Kili the choice was mine and this is no difference.  I'm just thankful for those who have made the choices easier, who have encouraged and supported me and reminded me that I am where I need to be.  I'm on the journey, I'm on the right path, I'm going in the right direction and that's what matters.



*http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mount_Kilimanjaro
**I feel like I should defend my sister.  She's great and we had a lot of fun together hiking up Kili.  She was also a teenager, grumpy from not getting enough sleep, and well you can't expect much patience from a 16 year-old.  She likewise has made little steps towards greater change, so when she decided that we should run 15 miles a couple years ago, and with less than a mile left I just wanted to give up, she wouldn't let me.  She encouraged me every step and told me I could do it.  It turns out that she was right, but I couldn't have done it alone.  Thanks.

Just some pictures...

because I got a camera.

 I got a composter!  It was free!

I planted a garden!  things are growing!

 This is my money tree.  I think it has deep and symbolic meaning, but I don't know what that is yet.

This is my cherry tree with my reader sitting under it and contemplating life and the future.

but normally my reader hangs out on my bookshelf.

The Cavity

I thought I might say something at my dad's funeral, but I didn't know what to say. I read some of the memories my sister had written, and they made me cry, but I was still clueless as to what I should say. Then I realised that I was afraid to remember. I was afraid to remember because then I would realise my loss. Eventually I wrote (and then read) the following: When I was 6 my dad took me up Mount Cavity. He knew his children well enough to know that it would be a mountain I would love, and Karen would hate, so, I reckon, that is why he took me up there by myself. It was steep, cliffy and there were a lot of rocks. He had previously been up there, probably when he was around 16, with his brother Stan. Every year dad would take me on a camping trip. We would stop for breakfast at Smitty's, and on these trips my dad would tell me stories about his youth, and about his brother Stan. He had many fond memories of the time he and Stan had spent together in Jasper, but I was always too shy to ask about Stan, who had died before I was born, except on those trips where the conversations naturally flowed. The hike up the cavity is steep and involves a fair amount of short climbs, but I was fearless. Coming down I grabbed on to a loose rock and slipped. My dad was below me, as he always was, ready to cushion a fall, and he did, but I still ended up with a nasty scrape on my knee. It was about to rain and my dad wanted to get down before the rocks got wet and slippery, So he told me not to look at my knee, gave me an Advil and we carried on down the mountain. I still have a scar, and remembered that event clearly. This September, my dad, regressing in health, wrote a bucket list, and on it there was a family trip to the mountains. Thankfully we were all able to make it out to the mountains. We went on three hikes, the last one was up to the Cavity. As we hiked up, we came to the place where I had fallen, some 16 years ago, in a mountain full of rocks, there was something distinct about that place. It was a place where memories had been formed, a place where dad had protected me from greater injury, and got me to get up and press on through the pain. It was also there that I learned the lesson to always check if a rock is secure before using it to bear weight. It was something that my dad had told me before we started on the hike, but a lesson I had to learn on my own and would remember through our future scrambles. Falling did not take away from my confidence in scrambling. I always knew my dad was below me, ready to catch me, and would do everything he could to keep me safe.

Why not...?

I have been put face to face with my pride recently. I was reading a book about woman in leadership (especially Church leadership) which suggested that men are often unwilling to learn from woman because of their pride. But what about woman? What about me? It occurred to be that I may be too proud to learn from woman as well. Somehow I can get caught up thinking that I a better than the average female. I start thinking that they are all touchy feely and none of them use their brain very much. I easily believe that there is nothing good about being touchy feely and that I have nothing to learn from them. sorry, I am wrong. I need to live like I believe that I can learn something from everyone, because I can, and because I am not better than them. I tend to judge people quickly and then decide whether or not I can learn from them, or if they are interesting to me. I dismiss people quickly. I don’t give them a chance. This too is wrong. And it is degrading. I say that I believe that all people are valuable, but I don’t treat them all as if they are. I need to learn to treat people right, but what if I am unwilling to learn from the person who can teach me this? It is time that I push through the boundaries I have created.

For she who has been forgiven much, loves much.

Ever since she moved into my house, I started to pray for her differently. It became rare that I would pray for her salvation, or healing, instead I spent my time crying out to God to give me patience; give me love. I never really like going on walks with her, at time she would try to hold my hand, or take my arm, and I just found it more than awkward.
Walking was worse in the winter. I could side across the ice with no problem. But that frightened her, it took her much time to walk down the side walk. I didn’t like always being told to slow down; ordered not to slide. I was doing okay.
This morning started before the walk to church. I was in my room, reading the Bible when she came in interrupting. I answered her questions quickly, just hoping she would leave. And she would leave, and come back too. She could tell I was being short with her. She didn’t like it. As she left I had to question what had I done. There I was, putting my alone time, this ritual up as a blockade. I made it more important than the second greatest commandment, Love people.
Maybe walking to Church was a bad idea. Anyhow, the whole way there I was dreading it. I didn’t like her coming to Church with me. Often times she would go with my mom or my sister, but my mom was working, and my sister out of town. I remembered the times before, having her at church, trying to distance my self from her, mostly from her touch. But I was struck by the familiarity of it all, confronted by something not only which I read, but that I wrote In a fictional story “I hate it, I hate how the church is today. I wish it could be a place where people might go and really feel God's presence, and feel loved. I wish it were a place of selfless people first there to serve God, then others. I wish God was real to the people at church… I'm sorry, I shouldn't of done that this morning, I mean... it was stupid of me. I knew it was what they were thinking… can't believe I did that.” and “No, God wasn't at church! Even you became less caring there, and more concerned about what others were thinking.” And I believe that must be how she felt coming to church with me those days.
I wish I could say today was better, different from those times in the past, but it wasn’t. If anything it was worse, I was aware that being in Church was maybe, if anything a reason to be more caring, and most definitely not less. I was aware I didn’t need to care about what others thought. I had read the story of becoming less caring at Church, and I certainly didn’t want anything to do with that. Yet I hate being told what to do. I didn’t stand during worship, and when she told me to stand I wanted to so much less. I sat struggling with this idea of love, and just wanting it to be easy. She would place he hand on my arm, or my leg, and I would sit uncomfortably until I could take it no longer. I had to move. I would search for a reason, like taking off my coat, but I could only take off my coat once. I struggled with this, not even knowing why it bothered me so much. But it angered me, tore me to pieces; kept me on the verge of tears. Then, when I did decide to stand, placing my hands on the pew in front of me, it was only moments before her hand was on mine. I tried to be okay with it, acting like nothing happened. But I hated it, I couldn’t stand it. I removed my hand, and though she tried to hold it I refused. I sat back down, trying to get as far away from her as possible. When I got home I wrote but four short lines in my journal. “God I failed at church… why is that? When reading my Bible, while at Church, I have no patience for her, no allotment for her awkwardness.” I wasn’t sure of what allotment meant, but it was the best word I could come up with. I asked for God’s forgiveness, I had failed indeed. Then I read the end of the story I had written; the part with the trip to church, the climax, the conclusion. But I started far enough before that, so I was distracted my mind put to ease rather than sent on a guilt trip.
We all make mistakes. We are all called to grace, and I am thankful for that grace. Tonight I went to another church. Before communion this was read: “My dear children, I write this to you so that you will not sin. But if anybody does sin, we have one who speaks to the Father in our defense—Jesus Christ, the Righteous One. He is the atoning sacrifice for our sins, and not only for ours but also for the sins of the whole world.” I was so happy for this grace so thankful for what God had done so ready to partake in communion. I was so aware of my short comings that I was so ready to accept the help, to accept grace. I just can’t make it on my own.