Attraction
Sample ArticlesWhite Crane Journal #58 Fall 2003
Attraction
Sample ArticlesWhite Crane Journal #58 Fall 2003
Return to Table of Contents
Learn about White Crane Journal
Receive the full
issue in handsome magazine format:
Subscribe to White Crane
Journal by mail
Editor's Note: The Most Common Reminder by Toby Johnson
Two of Cups by Stevee Postman and Eric Ganther
Gay Intuition by Toby Johnson
We Recognize Each Other by Dr. Li
The Magick of Soul Mates by Christopher Penczak
Orgasm Everlasting by Daniel Helminiak
Through a Steam Room, Darkly: Sexuality, Cruising and Intimacy by Stephen Mo Hanan
Short Fiction: Fairy Tale by Martin K. Smith
Attraction to Gay Spirit Community by Patrick McNamara
Bodhisattva Watch: C.S. Lewis & the Great Dance Toby Johnson
Books Reviews: Damages by Bazhe reviewed by Steve LaVigne
Sex and Heaven: Catholics in Bed and Prayer by John Portmann reviewed by R.A. Horne
Open Your Mind, Open Your Life by Taro Gold reviewed by Toby Johnson
Shirt of Flame: The Secret Gay Art of War by Ko Imani reviewed by Toby Johnson
The Man Jesus Loved: Homoerotic Narratives from the New Testament by Theodore Jennings reviewed by R.A. Horne
Editor's Note: The Most Common Reminder by Toby Johnson
The most constant reminder to us of our homosexuality is being attracted to certain of the men we meet in the routine activities of our lives and seeking to recognize in them both reciprocal interest and a mutual experience of being attracted to other men. We look for gay men around us and are generally aware of them when we see them. And we look for men we find attractive in order, at least, to experience the joy of beholding male beauty. Indeed, we live in a web of desires, hopes, expectations, judgments, and self-judgments--all revolving around being attracted to other men.
One can relegate this experience to the purely biological and psychological. But it sometimes feels like there is so much more to it. It seems magical. How do we recognize each other? Is this telepathic? Are we seeing something in the others' auras? And what is the source of the joy we feel in beholding male beauty? It can seem to hint at something profound about the nature of consciousness itself. Is it inherent divinity we recognize in one another? And are we thereby reminded of our true spiritual nature? That's the subject matter of this issue of White Crane Journal.
You'll notice a touch of imagery from the Tarot. Divination oracles are based on the intuition that there is a complex interaction of patterns of meaning underlying experience. Gaydar itself is such an oracular phenomenon: it's about discovering patterns, and out of those patterns finding--and creating--spiritual destiny. In the following pages, there're some very interesting, as well as entertaining, pieces about that destiny. Christopher Penczak offers some wise advice about falling in love from his book Gay Witchcraft. Daniel Helminiak gives us a profoundly orthodox, and delightfully outrageous, analysis of Catholic doctrine to show that heaven just might be a never-ending orgasm. Patrick McNamara calls us to fulfill our gay attraction to one another by organizing the gay spirit movement. Mo Hanan reminds us of the power of exchanging glances. Marty Smith contributes a cute fairy tale with a marvelously gay and compassionate twist on the three wishes motif. We'll read about finding and giving true love, acting like a diva, and wrestling with angels. Bill Weintraub calls us to reconsider promiscuity. And there are lots of book reviews--all revealing a spiritual side of gay sexuality.
In 1963, after graduating from high school, I went off to novitiate in rural Wisconsin with the Brothers of Mary. One fall afternoon--to this day I remember the moment vividly!--I was assigned to help unload a truck parked behind the refectory. I went out to find a load of bushel baskets of apples being unloaded by a young man in blue jeans. He was about my age, of medium height and slender build, with close cropped blond hair and light blue eyes. Neither of us spoke (the novitiate practiced monastic silence), but our eyes met. Something ineffable passed between us, a recognition of mutuality. It is hardly exaggeration to say that his eyes glowed. My heart was filled with joy. And helping him unload the baskets was light work.
I knew that I saw into his soul and recognized kinship. I knew--in some very pious way--that we "loved one another." At the time, I understood that what I'd recognized was that he was also a seminarian, like me a young man with earnest intention and good will. I was not surprised when later it was announced we were having pie for dessert because the nearby Christian Brothers novitiate had sent over a gift of apples.
Of course, this was an experience of gaydar. The young Christian Brother was a homosexual, and I was a homosexual, though neither of us would have understood that then. We'd experienced something spiritual. For gaydar is about something deeper than just sexual attraction, and male beauty is about something more than just biological reproductive strategies.
With this issue, I am completing my seven year term as editor of White Crane Journal. The topic of Attraction seems an appropriate way to commemorate that first experience of mine of "gaydar," when I inchoately discovered the spiritual roots of the webs of recognition and attraction. My effort over these seven years has been to communicate this sense that being gay is more than just sexual, for it also reaches deep into the so-called "spiritual" roots of personality and of the soul.
"Gaydar" works both ways: it is not just receiving, it is also sending. For the sake of our own joy, and of the mutual joy of those around us, we should want those energies, those "vibes," radiating from us to be good vibes, loving vibes, vibes of pleasure and joy and beauty.
I am grateful to the subscribers to White Crane for giving me the opportunity to celebrate and spread our mutual good gay vibes these past seven years.
And I'm excited for Bo Young and Dan Vera who'll be taking over my job. They'll bring new enthusiasm and new vibes to this project in gay men's spirituality started some 14 years ago by Bob Barzan (another one-time seminarian with eyes that glowed). I pray the subscribers continue to support the next generation of White Crane Journal. And I pray you enjoy this issue.
Toby Johnson
Launched by your eyes in crystal ships, we waltz across warm water wine. Locked in an embrace that pilots our trip, love unfurls passion, hearts skip, we merge beneath waves and kiss time.
In the card two swans intertwine their necks aud drink from an inverted lotus showering them with love. Swans are traditional signs of persolial fulfillment through solitude, poetry, aud music. These sacred birds embody the beauty resulting from the trials of the ugly duckling. The swans have outgrown those awkward pains and driuk in the love energy flowing through their bodies that electrifies them in orgasmic ecstasy. The love energy passes into their unique emotional cups, splashes about happily, and pours out to feed new lotus blossoms. The new blossoms express what they are building together and inspire others to drink from love's cup as well. Even when we are not paying attention, the lotus-source of the universe endlessly showers the world with love. But when we are aware aud take the time to express our own beauty, love showers us and the special people in our lives with joy aud fulfillment.
Divinatory Meaning
Should the Two of Cups seduce your reading think of the times when you were deliriously in love. Did you pen wild love poems? Did you make love in secret hideaways? Maybe you found yourself carrying a tune for the first time in your life, or tingling as you gave or received flowers. Romantic love turns our ordinary lives topsy-turvy. When love appears in your cup, be thankful and consider how it will affect your current relationships. As much as possible, be respectful. Romantic love will unmoor you and blow you across the seas to new places. Are you sea worthy? If so, set sail lover. Many adventures await you.
Two of Cups from The Cosmic Tribe Tarot Deck by Stevee Postman and Eric Ganther.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
by Toby Johnson
The fact we share viewpoints, hold common opinions, and understand each other's humor is evidence of a gay cultural consciousness. Central to this consciousness are an openness to experience, a quest for adventure, and a flare for the unusual and the queer. But the details are less important than this sense of shared consciousness, the feeling that there's a mystical, "karmic" link connecting us.
As we're growing up, we train ourselves to have what society calls "women's intuition," that is, a sense of knowing things about the world and about other people. We often feel we need this kind of "second sight" in order to protect ourselves and our secret, even if as youngsters we don't quite know what the "secret" is. We likely find the idea of women's intuition appealing. We allow ourselves to experience this because we're not bound by gender roles like straight men. Real men, after all, don't have hunches. Men are supposed to "know" not to "have feelings" about things.
The most common manifestation of gay intuition is the phenomenon of gaydar. Of course, a lot of the talk about this is whimsical. It's a way to intimidate straight men by suggesting we can somehow "see" their sexual secrets. It's a way to dramatize our brotherhood by declaring we know the truth about each other. In some respects, gaydar is just projection and wishful thinking. Gay men see men they're attracted to and project mutual desire onto them. We see beauty, want it to be our beauty, and interpret it as a sign of shared homosexuality. But it's not always imaginary; most of the time, we're right.
Though gaydar is a frivolous notion, it absolutely dominates our lives. We spend far more time trying to figure out who else is gay around us than we actually spend having sex. Gaydar is the main way we experience our homosexuality moment by moment.
Gaydar seems to demonstrate two things. First, it suggests there is something so basic to homosexuality that it alters physical appearance; we're recognizable to people who know what to look for. This is certainly antithetical to the notion that homosexuality is a choice, for choices people make (like to be Catholic or to eat meat or not to own a television set) don't show in their visage. That we look gay (like people look male or female or look Negroid or Caucasoid) suggests it's something physical, natural--and very real.
Second, gaydar indicates the existence of something "supernatural," something like telepathy or clairvoyance. It is like reading other people's aura and discerning things about them that exist in their soul. Perhaps it demonstrates "karmic patterns," spiritual links between people. Our experience of gaydar shows us that people give off vibes, that we live in an environment of mind as well as of space.
All people receive vibes from other people (though not all people allow themselves to be aware of them). This isn't special to us as gay.
But we learn to be especially attuned to the vibes people put out. We get lots of practice. We look for other gay people in our surroundings--to cruise, to seek beauty to gaze upon delectably, and to gauge the degree of our personal safety. We learn to read people's vibes to know whom we can come out to, whom we should avoid, for whom we should affect a straight, non-threatening persona and whom we should invite for sex.
We learn to trust other gay people. It's not that straight people can't be trusted or, frankly, that all gay people can be trusted. Yet we feel confident that other gay people are likely to be conscientious and compassionate. At least we know they won't suddenly turn weird on us, as some straight people might if they realize we're gay. This vibe of trust is especially important in gay sexual recreation. Cruising sex partners requires us to trust our own intuition--and to trust other gay people's guilelessness. We learn through subtle intimations with whom we can connect.
The presence of an undetectable invader--like HIV or the panoply of STDs--in gay sexual space confounds this gay intuition of safety and danger. There has been such turmoil about things like safe sex training, disclosure of HIV status, "barebacking," and such a rift between positive and negative men, perhaps, because of the "jamming" to our gaydar.
We seek affirmation in the vibes of homosexuals of the past; we like the idea that famous men and women of history were gay. And we delight in knowing something intimate about them that other--straight--people don't know. We sometimes feel a curious pleasure when we tell straight people--who are often shocked--just which famous actors, writers, or historical figures were homosexual, as though we ourselves can thereby bask in their importance and legitimacy.
Finding other attractive gay people who resonate with trust-affirming gay vibes creates a sense of a magical world around us. Gay space is safe space, secret space, sacred space. Discovering our own homosexuality imbues the world with secrecy and magicalness.
We learn to look for signs: a hairpin dropped by another gay man to confirm our gaydar, synchronicities and coincidences, epiphanies from God. All these things tell us it's really OK to be gay and that we are beneficiaries of a special vocation that other people don't get.
The lives of those who've lived before us impart vibes that we pick up from the environment around us. This is the psychological ecology in which each of us lives and finds his place in the scheme of things. We figure out who we are by examining the things that interest us and carry meaning, the vibes we resonate with.
Our homosexuality is bigger than we are; it transcends our individual existence. It is a reality we participate in, a quality of God manifesting itself in the world. Studying our experience of homosexuality reveals why we're here at this particular moment in history and how playing these particular roles serves the evolution of consciousness.
Maybe the phenomenon that we call by the cutesy term gaydar is the real "cause" of homosexuality. It's not that gayness is caused by biology or genetics or conditioning--all things that have to do with personhood and individuality. Maybe it's that gayness is karmic and spiritual. After all, that's what we mean when we throw up our hands at all the scientific, psychological, and political wrangling about the causes of homosexuality and say, "It's just how God made me." Maybe the "reason" we're gay is that we're resonating to gay intuition, vibrating along the gay dimensions of the spirit field. Maybe these vibes come from the World Mind, Gaia, or planetary homeostasis telling the human race it's time to adjust population imperatives to the reality of life on an overcrowded, resource-exhausted planet.
That people give off vibes is a major insight into the nature of consciousness and that whole realm of phenomena called the supernatural which is the content of religion. It explains phenomena like ghosts and haunting; prophecy and clairvoyance, apparitions and miraculous healings; the power of prayer; afterlife, reincarnation and karma; mystical experience and the sacredness of places and events; the dispersion of myths and legends around the world; synchronicity, signs from God, bizarre and wondrous coincidences; fads and pop crazes; even UFOs and alien abductions--all the issues of religion, the paranormal and the supernatural.
For what we all actually are is, in Herman Hesse's words from the Prologue to Demian, "the always significant and remarkable point at which the world's phenomena intersect." We are the intersection of genetic, historical, geographical, political, cultural, and karmic patterns. How these patterns intersect--from our DNA to the karmic vibes we resonate with--determines our particular perspective on the greater reality. That variously individuated perspective gives rise to our individual egos. And the "greater reality" is metaphorized as the Mind of God.
The major content of gay intuition is the sense of being part of a specific group and being a specific kind of person. It takes some effort to accept this intuition, but once you've done it everything else makes sense. You see there's a secret homosexual slant to almost everything and you see you're one of the people with the homosexual slant because you can recognize it. And that's the point. You see things about life and love, religion and God that other people don't see precisely because of your gay perspective.
Excerpted from Toby Johnson's new book Gay Perspective: Things Our Homosexuality Tells Us about the Nature of God and the Universe (Alyson, 2003).
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Dr. Li
There are 6 billion people on this planet; approximately 3 billion are male and 3 billion are female. Of the 3 billion males, 10% or 300 million are gay males. Of the 300 million gay males, 10% or 30 million have the spiritual understanding that we share. That means there are 30 million beautiful brothers scattered about the planet who intuitively understand each other in the deep and spiritual way that we experience. I point this out to emphasize that we are not alone, that there are literally millions of us. We meet each other through a psychic power called "gaydar" in which souls recognize like souls.
What is it that we share? A quality of love that unites the physical, the emotional, the mental and the spiritual and transcends duality. This love has led me back to Unity Consciousness and then on to Divine Perfection Consciousness.
In Unity Consciousness, I see through the illusion of duality. There is no male or female, no life or death, no gay or straight, no opposites at all: it is all One. The hardest illusion to see through is the appearance of good and evil. While explaining the meaning of the term "forbidden fruit" to some Turkish friends, it struck me with great force that by eating from the apple that conveyed the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the archetypical man and woman were ejected from the Garden of Eden. In other words, as long as we distinguish between good and evil, we are wedded to the world of duality. When we see the world as the Indian saint Sri Ramakrishna described it ("The victim, the executioner and the block are one"), we enter Unity Consciousness. (I can understand how the victim and the executioner are one, but the block? Ramakrishna was really out there.)
Then we enter Divine Perfection Consciousness in which everything is seen as perfect. This is really a refinement of Unity Consciousness. Rather than judging and blaming people and events from our tiny, limited perception, we assume that everything before our eyes and ears is perfect and, if it does not seem to be so, it is because we are not seeing or hearing it correctly. How can bad things happen to good people when there is no good or bad? Living in our little minds, we do not know enough to know what is true justice, what is truly good, what is truth itself. Living in our big minds, we know everything.
We are 30 million strong. We are not alone.
Dr. Li is a pseudonym for a spiritually-oriented gay man who works abroad for the U.S. State Dept.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Christopher Penczak
People, gay and straight, talk a lot about finding their soul mate, but don't take the time to think about what that really means. "Soul mate" can have different connotations for different people, and the way you define it can indicate your healthy and unhealthy expectations in a romantic relationship.
Too often, people define a "soul mate" as "my other half. The person that contains the other half of my soul, like we were split before we were born, and spend the rest of our lives trying to find each other in the world. We are spiritually drawn to each other, and meant to be together." Sounds very romantic, but not very real. One of the first spiritual lessons to learn is that you are complete, just as you are. You need not do anything or be anybody. As a spirit with a body, you are prefect just as you are. Experiences can make things more or less enjoyable and satisfying on a personal level, but spiritually, you are complete. Trauma, abuse, illness, and emotional or mental difficulties may cause parts of you to feel less connected, rejected, and scattered and the healing journey asks you to recover your fragments and unify yourself--but no one contains half your soul.
A partner may complement your soul. A lover can resonate with you, but you shouldn't look to someone to complete you, for that places a lot of un-real expectations on your partner, even if they believe they are half of your soul. Subscribers to this system think the challenge is in the meeting, as if all life leads up to this dramatic, whirlwind romance. Events may fit together like a blockbuster movie, and once the lovers meet, problems disappear, like two pieces of a two-piece puzzle coming together. The pieces fit, puzzle solved, no more problems. Life doesn't work that way. Relationships are about partnership, balance, compromise, and these things need to be worked out through good-old-fashioned communication and expression. Magick doesn't whisk away the need to talk. Just because someone is intuitive or psychic, that doesn't mean he or she always knows what you are thinking and know when you are hurt and upset. Relationship is a journey together, side by side, not a puzzle. If you spend your walk looking to solve the puzzle and win the game, you miss the journey itself, which is the true reward.
Another definition of a soul mate is one who was your partner from a past life. Yes, those who we knew in other Earthwalks seem intimate and familiar to us, almost immediately, but you may have had many different mates from many different lives. And you can meet up with more than one in this life, or find a brand-new one in this life. All of them are not your "one and only" soul mate. If you do any work in this area, you may find that someone who is your parent now may have been your child in lives past. Siblings become lovers and vice versa. You may feel an intimate, soulful link to someone in this life, but that doesn't mean they are going to be your romantic partner here and now. I feel a definite bond to my mother, and we feel we are soul mates, traveling many lifetimes together and changing roles. We have always felt this way, even when we were Catholic. But I knew that in this life I had a partner waiting for me with whom I also felt an intimate past-life connection. There is not just one intimate connection in every life. Explore the possibilities.
The problem with these views of soul mates is that they paint very unrealistic portraits of love, romance, and a spiritual relationship. We feel that because we have a soul mate, that they know us so intimately, no problems should arise. They know what our souls want. Perhaps our souls do, but our personalities, and our egos, do not. We are all having a human experience, and the quest for this perfect, divine, and often dramatic love can blind us to the wonderful relationships all around us. Movies, books, and television paint this relationship not only as the ideal, but the expectation. When we don't have a romance like the ones we see on television, we feel somehow cheated. When we get the drama and things don't turn out happily ever after, we want to quit. No one tells us relationships are work. They are hard work. These media relationships are so great to us because we close the book, turn off the TV, or leave the theater at the end of the drama. We don't see the day-to-day life and problems.
True love can be an expected and desired part of your relationship, but you do not need the Hollywood dramatics and intrigue to follow it. Be real in your relationships.
I prefer the term "life mate," a partner for us in this lifetime, with no expectations or responsibilities from any other incarnation or role. Even if a life mate feels like we have known him or her forever, we must actively work to reestablish these connections and get to know each other all over again. It's like catching up with a friend you haven't seen in ages. It can be a wonderful, magical, and spiritual love, but not the fantasy people associate with the words "soul mate."
Think about your feeling on soul mates. Do you use the term? If so, what expectations do you bring with it? Have they helped or hindered your quest for love and romance? Knowing yourself is the key to magick.
Rose Life Mate Spell
This is a particularly powerful spell used to find your mate, your partner. Attempt it only when you are ready, and feel good about yourself.
1 red rose
1 vase
spring water
1 pinch of brown sugar
1 pinch of dragon's blood (a plant resin found at metaphysical shops)
¥ Create a sacred space. If you practice paganism, cast a circle. If not, you can meditate, pray or smudge the area with sage or incense.
Place the water in a chalice or glass. Meditate on water as the power of love. Drink from it. Take the water of the chalice, after taking a sip, and pour it into the vase.
¥ Add a pinch of brown sugar, for love and sweetness.
¥ Then add a pinch of dragon's blood, for power and passion.
¥ Take a freshly cut, live rose, and meditate with it. Feel your connection to the spirit of the rose. Join with its still living spirit. Pour out your feelings and emotions. Match the pure energy of love.
¥ Ask the gods of love and the rose energy to immediately "bring me the life mate that is correct and good for me, harming none. So mote it be!"
¥ Put the rose in the water and let it stay on your altar for a day or so, then let it dry up and keep the petals or whole rose in a safe, dry place.
If you are ready, and your mate is ready, you should come together in three to four months. With your mate, plant your petals in the ground after you've been together for five months. If you don't meet at this time, let it go and don't do another love spell for a year. Work on your relationship with yourself and enjoy life, then try again.
This is a powerful spell. Use it wisely. I met my husband through it. In my meditation during the spell, I was "told" by the Goddess that I would know him because he would give me a rose long before I ever thought of giving him one. On our first date, meeting through a personal ad and going out for coffee, my partner, Steve, gave me a rose as I walked him to his car. He nearly had to catch me as I almost passed out from the shock. We've been together ever since.
Love magick can be an act of transformation. We often have to kiss many "frogs" to find our prince or princess, but the first frog we must really kiss is our own self. We must transform ourselves through self-love and acceptance before we can ever find that ideal mate.
This piece was first presented as a reading at the annual gay literary convention Saints and Sinners, 2003, New Orleans Louisana. Adapted from Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe (Weiser 2003). Excerpted and submitted with permission from publisher.
Christopher Penczak is the author of several books, including Gay Witchcraft: Empowering the Tribe and The Inner Temple of Witchcraft book and Companion CD set (Llewellyn 2002). For more information on his work and classes, visit www.christopherpenczak.com.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
by Daniel Helminiak
(Editor's note: After reading the m.s. of Daniel's new book, I commented enthusiastically: In engaging, easy-to-read prose, Helminiak addresses the central work of religion and spirituality today: to tease out the rich meaning and significance behind the myths and doctrines that have come down to us in the great traditions without getting trapped in literalism and superstition, that is, to rearticulate religion so it makes sense--and makes sense especially to--and about--us lesbians and gay men who have been so influential in creating religion and yet who have been so victimized by it. In this collection of essays spanning his career as theologian, Scripture scholar, psychologist, and gay spiritual apologist, Helminiak shows how true Christianity is not at all inimical to modern GLTB/queer consciousness. The essays on heaven as everlasting orgasm and on the homosexual modeling of relations within the Blessed Trinity are delightfully provocative and downright queerly brilliant."
You can see why I chose this excerpt for inclusion in White Crane--TJ)
For one who believes in God, the endless longing of human sexual desire points ultimately to God. The theist understands the one, the true, the good, and the beautiful to be an expression of God. So the whole of the universe is God's good creation, and the ultimate desire of the human heart is the Creator-God of the Universe. So the theist can pray with Saint Augustine, "Lord, you have made us for yourself, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you." Sexual desire is somehow a longing for God.
Moreover, believers find hope in knowing that God made human love sexual--whereas angels, in contrast on the one hand, traditionally understood to be unembodied spirits, know no passion or physical arousal in their spiritual love; and other animals, on the other hand, have sex but do not make love and cannot savor the beauty and goodness of their sexual experiences. So believers continue to hope in the face of sexual frustration. They trust that somehow the good God, who in drawing the universe forward to its fulfillment, does heal the flaws, accidental or culpable, that foul their attempts to experience sexual integration and satisfaction. They believe that God at work in the universe does want them to have fulfilling sexual experiences.
Traditional Christianity affirms the Incarnation, the belief that the Eternal Son of God became human in Jesus Christ. This belief confirms the goodness of humanity: if humanity was good enough for God, it must, indeed, be good. Therefore, despite the overwhelming bulk of Christian practice, Christian doctrine must radically affirm that sex is good. Indeed, the Eternally-Begotten of God, Jesus Christ, as a real human being, certainly experienced sexual responses of one kind or another. In Jesus Christ, God became sexual. On the other hand, according to Christian belief, as exemplified in Christ and promised to all in the Holy Spirit, every human being is destined for divine glory. Humanity is to share in divinity--and this humanity includes sexuality. Thus, from both points of view--divine and human: God becomes human, and humans become divine--Christian belief insists that human sexuality is worthy of God.
Accordingly, a person's personal unity of body, psyche, and spirit and a loving couple's unity with each other are actually a growing participation in the very life and unity of God. Sexuality is geared not only to interpersonal human communion but also to human deification. Sexual encounters will have their ultimate fulfillment in human union with God.
So human lovers, sometimes frustrated in their sexual experiences with each other, may look forward to an ultimate fulfillment of their aching for each other. Their deepest longings will be satisfied. Their unity is to be like that of God, about which John 17:21-23 has Jesus say, "May they all be one; even as you, Father, are in me and I in you, may they also be in us... May they be one even as we are one, I in them and you in me, may they become perfectly one."
According to Christian belief, heavenly fulfillment in God is not merely spiritual. It involves more than the human spirit, for it depends on "resurrection of the body." Belief in resurrection of the body means that the human being, as such, body, psyche, and spirit, is to be restored and fulfilled. Accordingly, resurrection of the body implies not only some transformation of the human body but also some perfection of the human psyche. Christian belief affirms perfect human integration as the heavenly destiny of every human being. In heaven one's human spirit is to reach its ideal fulfillment through participation in divine knowledge and love. But because of the unity of the human person, the psyche and body must also be perfected. The human spirit could not reach its perfections apart from the perfection of the body and psyche, which support and sustain the human spirit. Human fulfillment depends on the harmonious integration of all three of these human factors. So Christian faith expects full human integration--according to the model of Jesus: resurrected from the dead, united with God, and living as human in a glorified body.
Christian resurrection means perfection of all three: human body, psyche, and spirit. Specific focus on sexuality highlights another implication of this belief. Full actuation of the human body and psyche along with perfect integration of the human spirit would be nothing other than eternal orgasm. Then heaven would be an on-going sharing in divinity, which would entail ever fuller spiritual fulfillment, which, in turn, would entail never ending arousal and actuation of the body and psyche--a continuous experience of peak "turn on." Heaven could be conceived as making love with God and in God with everyone else and with the whole universe--all at the peak of never-ending arousal, eternally.
Such graphic sexual imagery is actually very Christian. Ephesians 5:23-32, for example, compares the Christian's union with Christ to the marital union of husband and wife. And a long-standing, though prudish, Christian tradition--almost despite itself--insisted on reading the Bible's Canticle of Canticles, a blatantly obvious love poem, as a spiritual meditation on the soul's love for God.
Admittedly, that conception of eternal orgasm is somewhat fanciful, but it has its validity. It is fanciful because it presumes that a resurrected body would still function as human bodies now do. But Jesus himself said that in the resurrection there would be no marrying and taking in marriage and all would become like the angels (Matthew 21:23-32; Mark 12:18-27; Luke 20:27-38). However, his point was merely to insist on the resurrection, not really to explain its mode, for he was refuting a counter-argument whose absurd core was an elaborate tale of multiple marriages. So Jesus' teaching does not eliminate the possibility of orgasm in heaven.
This conception also has its validity because it merely insists on the happy and wholesome actuation of the human body and psyche in heaven. And the experience of sexual arousal and orgasm is as valid an example of such actuation as any other one could present. Indeed, among all the biological and psychic functions, because of its radically out-going nature, sexuality seems unique in its ability to express the spiritual dynamism within the human--and hence to express union with the divine.
Concern for union with God envisages earthly sexual experience as some anticipation of human fulfillment in heaven, and in heavenly fulfillment it sees the continuation and perfection of our sexual experience on earth. Because of the unbounded reach of human spirit and in light of belief in union with God, the on-going integration of sexuality and spirituality must be seen as a process of deification.
Whereas a former Western era saw sexuality as opposed to spirituality, contemporary understanding insists that the two move hand in hand. Thus, a consideration of human sexuality provides the ideal example of human integration and shows that human integration is the sum and substance of spiritual integration. By its very nature, the human is spiritual, so in humans sexuality powers and expresses spirituality.
The human spiritual capacity emerges from its psychic and organic underpinnings. Human spirit can soar in its open-ended embrace of the universe only if the body and the psyche support it. By their very natures, the biological dimension of human sexuality is out-going, and the psychic dimension is bonding. They anticipate and foster the open-ended outreach of the human spirit and the attainment of the unity of all things that is its goal. When sexuality is the focus and human genuineness or authenticity rules the field, the human body, psyche, and spirit all move in one direction. Body and psyche instigate and support the ever self-transcending extraversion of the human spirit. Orgasm and romance sustain human caring. Interpersonal sexual sharing is spiritual communion. Human spiritual communion points to a fulfillment in what believers call "God."
This article in slightly different form appears in Daniel Helminiak's forthcoming collection of essays titled Queer Quest: Gay Identity and Spiritual Growth.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Through a Steam Room, Darkly: Sexuality, Cruising and IntimacyStephen Mo Hanan
My last boyfriend, "G" (not his real initial) didn't enjoy making or sustaining eye contact. Eventually I couldn't help asking him why he always averted his gaze when I looked him in the eye. "Too much intimacy," he replied, his jokey tone not entirely masking his truthfulness. Locking eyes with someone is an infallible way of flushing secrets from the psyche, or noting their absence. "We've been sleeping together for seven months and you're bothered by intimacy?" I said. Shortly afterwards we broke up.
His evasive glance, of course, was only a symptom of our disharmony, but one fraught with significance for me. I happen to be an eye contact junkie. Even (or especially) in a large city where people tend to avoid one another's gaze, it is marvelous how much ease, trust and affection can be generated by reciprocally offering the fully present eye. Such an encounter may be fleeting or prolonged, chaste, ambiguous, or blatantly sexual, but it always boosts vitality.
I think I inherited this penchant from my maternal grandfather, who died when I was three. I have only a dim memory of a bedridden man with a long white beard and yellow fingernails (from years of pipe-smoking), but my childhood was filled with the reminiscences of relatives whose lives had been enriched by his high spirits and prankish good humor. Not long ago an older cousin told me a story I'd never heard before: as a ten-year old he was walking through downtown Washington with my grandfather, and was struck by the old man's custom of saying hello to everyone they passed. "Grandpa," my cousin asked, "do you know all these people?" The answer, of course, was No. "Then why do you say hello to them?" My grandfather replied, "Because God made them all. He loves them and so do I."
With genes like that, it's no wonder that I was exasperated by a lover given to gaze aversion. Indeed, true soul kinship was so lacking in the relationship, I realized that I was staying in it only out of fear that I might not find another. Given my prior history, this fear was certainly plausible (in thirty years of "out" adulthood before meeting "G" I'd had reliable squeezes for a total of six months--6 out of 360), but at the same time I knew it was a lousy reason to stay with someone. Gearing up to call it quits took a few weeks, but I've regretted only the necessity, never the decision.
But I also regret that once again I'm single. My experience with "G" convinced me that a deeply flawed relationship is no better than none, but our first happy months together reminded me that I like having a boyfriend a whole lot more than not having one. So now I spend a lot of time thinking about sex, and looking for intimate contact that includes sex but also fosters communication and well-being on a deeper level. This is where eye contact comes in, as distinct from the institution of Anonymous Sex. I have indulged in the latter (usually in desperation) and wouldn't presume to moralize about it, but I just don't enjoy it. My very first time in a gay bathhouse (in the dim and distant Seventies) I was amazed to encounter someone who reached for my dick before he had even greeted me, and the passage of time has made that custom more familiar but no less peculiar, like so many other contemporary rituals of cruising. Call me corny, but the first non-verbal thing I want to do with an attractive man is hug and kiss him; the last also, and gaze and gaze.
But the eye can also betray, especially when divorced from the heart. The Bible says as much, but I've learned it more readily at the gym (which is after all a sort of secular Bible for gay men). The locker room is where I discovered Hanan's Law of Gross Obstruction, which states that whenever you are checking someone out at a distance, especially when they are about to remove a strategic article of clothing, anyone who steps between you and the object of your interest will invariably be less attractive than the person they've blocked. I've learned that my grandfather's custom of offering a friendly greeting to all God's children can be read as a threat when the children are in their birthday suits. I've learned that silence can have weight, particularly when observed in a steam room full of towel-clad men with the same thought in their minds but mostly furtiveness in their eyes.
My gym's steam room is at one end of a long corridor lined with shower stalls. The stalls are walled to a height of five and a half feet, obliging the shortest of us to create a spontaneous choreography of heads popping up on tiptoe for a better view. Each stall has an opening about eighteen inches wide, and men reveal perhaps more than they intend about themselves as they pass along the route. Some walk comfortably along without a glance into the narrow openings; others do the same but with a severe gait, tense with denial, and the occasional stolen peek. Some slow down for a glimpse of every available naked body, usually starting at crotch level and tilting upwards from there if sufficiently inspired. A small minority looks at faces first. Interest or disinterest registers immediately and conclusively, as the pace either slackens or proceeds. I know just how it's done.
Once inside the steam room, body language becomes more elaborate. Sometimes acquaintances find each other (or enter together) and chat away in English, Spanish, Russian or Korean as if they were in a social environment of no special consequence, often to the annoyance of the less conversational. Some walk in, quickly check out the goods and go right back out the door. Window shoppers, I call them. Some sit on the two tiers of benches or stand along the opposite wall, eyes fixed firmly ahead until their heads snap toward the sound of the opening door. Others shift their gaze jumpily from point to point like nervous hens. It is the perfect manifestation of what a friend once described as, "Everybody's looking at everybody but nobody's looking at anybody." Of course, when the steam is at full force, bodies are reduced to ghostly silhouettes, like Ginger Rogers' legs sporadically glimpsed in the unswirling of a diaphanous gown. And many a fixed decision is made on the strength of no more than that silhouette.
When eye contact occurs between strangers in this environment, it is seldom casual or friendly. I once met the gaze of a fellow who'd been staring at me (actually, a gaze and a stare are very different things). As nonsexual benevolence (the Namaste Look) began to warm my expression, his grew correspondingly fearful and cold, till he not only looked away but walked away. I was offering both more and less than he was angling for. We all know that accidental eye contact, if not immediately broken, can be disarmed by offering a brusque nod of the head, while earnestly compressing the lips in a silent grunt, creating an acceptably butch veneer. Straight guys are highly susceptible to reassurance of this kind; gay guys may be more wary. The more anxious an occupant is to get some nookie, the less attention he will pay to anyone who doesn't immediately ring his bell. As Ram Dass says, if you're walking down the street looking for a loaf of bread you don't see the hardware stores, and if you want a hammer you don't notice the bakery.
Speaking of tools, penises, of course, have a language all their own, to which their towel-wrapped proprietors may permit visual access, sometimes indiscriminate, sometimes as selective as a Masonic rite. (Woe to the interloper!) You'd think that anyone with the chutzpah to flaunt his erection publicly would not disdain attention, but think again. A steam room differs from an orgy in that anyone can get in, but not everyone is welcome. Sometimes a pair or a threesome will be so fixated on each other that they disregard the presence of others in graphic displays of mutual interest. Naturally this obliges those not involved to be voyeurs (voluntary or not), or pretend to be invisible. Though present they are simply ignored, and yet when a creak and whomp of the door signals a newcomer the delinquent towels snap soggily into place with the mortified haste of French farce. Rarely does a sense of joy surface through the grim determination.
Many's the time in that room I've thought of asking, "Is there a rule here against saying Hello to someone unless you're cruising him?" but I always check the impulse. It would be like farting in church. Nevertheless, it breaks my heart to see so many of my gay brothers denying their common humanity in the name of, what? Maidenly reserve? Doubtful. Fear of rejection? More likely. Disinterest? Distaste? Downright repugnance? Often true. There are men in that gym I've encountered regularly for years who walk past me (and not only me) as if I were invisible, and even when we find ourselves at adjoining lockers make a point of ignoring my presence. The moment I enter the steam room they will predictably leave, and I guess I'll never learn why. For the most part I find such men utterly undesirable, owing not to their looks but their attitude, and I often wonder what qualities they might be projecting onto me, the cheerful nuisance who refuses to pretend not to have seen them. But the fact that occasionally such men, despite their coldness, strike me as hot is undeniable testimony to the power of surface to generate sexual allure.
God knows inner beauty has its place, ah yes! It keeps relationships going whenever the fires of sexual passion dim, but by itself doesn't kindle them. This is the cruel paradox with which all sexually active humans are eventually confronted. It may be one reason why gyms, cosmetics and fashion generate so much more revenue than self-help courses. If I'm in the market for a mate, a person who pleases my eye will nab my interest, even if it fades with closer knowledge. What riches may lie beneath an unattractive surface I will discover only if the context shifts. Allure can steer us to the worst people, as its absence can deter us from the best ones, and the latter instance is by far the harder to overcome, at least where sex is concerned.
I make no claim to exemplary conduct in this area. There are boundaries of age and bulk beyond which I do not lust (feel free to guess the direction), however kindly my disposition or affable my greeting. More to the point, I have never met anyone who found that exposure to a person's admirable qualities reversed an initial non-sexual response. Celibacy may be undertaken by priests of so many religions not merely out of erotic squeamishness but to train their receptors. If peoples' exteriors have no hold over me, I'm that much more likely to focus on what dwells within. If I have a little child's indifference to sex appeal, I may have greater access to the Kingdom of Heaven.
But who wants Heaven at that price? In the extraordinary film "Russian Ark" one visitor to a great museum asks another, "Are you interested in Beauty or merely its representation?" This intriguing koan of a question makes us wonder where is that Beauty that precedes representation, and how is it to be apprehended? By the Soul, no doubt, but who can report of the Soul other than through the medium of the Body? Even the most ethereal of sages must speak, write or otherwise signal through physical reality in order to communicate. Conversely, even the sleaziest steam room slut is ultimately searching for the wholeness that a glimpse of transcendant Beauty can bring.
"Undrape!" Walt Whitman demands of his reader. "I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,/And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away." Surely literal nakedness isn't the point, any more than X-ray vision. Faced with the flimsy terrycloth of the steam room, he would probably say the same, for I suspect he would recognize the place for what it truly is: a cruisy microcosm of the wider world, where fear can compel us to hide what is most beautiful in ourselves, while desire bids us hope it will nevertheless be seen.
Stephen Mo Hanan lives in New York City. His email address is mohanan@aol.com.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Martin K. Smith
One April evening, Jeff Greene went over to Holland Printing to see Chuck McDonough, the guy he'd been dating about four months. Chuck was a big fellow, solid and broad-shouldered, with dark shaggy hair, close-cropped beard--"and eyes, God, the most beautiful eyes, the color of milk chocolate," Jeff told friends. "He's hard to get to know because he's real quiet; but when he does say something it's, like, way out-of-left-field funny. You think 'Wow, where'd that come from?' "
He found Chuck on the loading dock in a circle of co-workers: Steve and Tommy Russo and Aaron Delong. They were just going for a few beers. Chuck presented Jeff in a most basic introduction--"this is Jeff Greene"--without any qualifier such as 'lover', 'date' or 'friend'. The others greeted Jeff easily, as if they knew anyway which adjective applied; and invited him along.
Jeff claimed a seat next to Chuck in the booth. Chuck's blue uniform shirt had its sleeves rolled up above strong forearms and was unbuttoned at the throat, enticing with a glimpse of hirsute chest. Jeff grinned and copped a feel beneath the table, receiving only a slight sidelong glance in response. "Had lunch with Mom today, she says to say Hi. Look what she gave me this time." He brought forth a small box, of rare inlaid wood ornately lacquered. "It's a Chinese puzzle box. It opens by some kind of secret catch; we couldn't find it. She buys, like, whole U-hauls of stuff for her antique shop," he told the others, "and always gives me something because she says it brings her luck. But it's always weird little things like this, that I never know what to do with, you know? I said 'Thanks Mom, I needed something to keep condoms in.' "
Steve laughed, staccato like a terrier barking. "What'd she say?"
"She just laughed. She doesn't care, she's used to me by now."
"More so than I am," Chuck told his friends.
"Don't worry, I'll get you up to speed," Jeff reassured him. Steve laughed again. Jeff reached for another feel, but Chuck's hand intercepted his and set it aside.
"You can't open it?" Aaron asked, passing the box to the Russos. "Maybe there's some genie in there. A evil genie. Big badass with a scimitar, saying 'I ain't callin' nobody Master'."
"Shaft in a turban," Chuck smiled. "I can see that. He'd make you grant him three wishes: Vanessa Williams, Vanessa Williams and Vanessa Williams. And center-court tickets to the Knicks."
"That's four wishes," said Tommy, inspecting the box.
"Guy's got a fucking scimitar--you gonna argue with him?" his brother replied
Chuck went to the mens' room before they left. Steve watched him go, then grinned at Jeff. "You like him, huh."
"Yeah I do. He's a sweetheart."
"That's good," said Tommy. "That's good. He's been needing somebody."
Jeff's housemates were out of town, so he and Chuck returned to his apartment. They usually went to Chuck's, since the housemates didn't like Jeff bringing guys home. Chuck had even given Jeff spare keys the previous week. They'd had dinner at a little Spanish restaurant way up Broadway, sat shoulder to shoulder on the subway home nudging and flirting; rented an old movie, lost interest in it, and enjoyed instead a long, slow, satisfying fuck, lit by the pale glow of old black and white images; followed by a night of sleep in each others' arms. Waking the next morning before the alarm went off, they'd done it again: an impromptu, quick, passionate, laugh-out-loud-fun fuck. Just before they left, Chuck had brought out the keys. He took Jeff's hand, placed them within, and closed it. "Until we can get our own place," he said. Jeff, seeing the look in the chocolate-brown eyes, hugged him tight; until Chuck remarked in his dry way, "If you keep this up we'll have to go back to bed. Not that I'd mind; but it might make us late for work."
Jeff hung up his jacket, setting the puzzle-box aside. "Was something bothering you back there?" he asked. "You kept giving me the evil eye, like, 'Do I know you?' "
Chuck sat down with a wary look, answering after a moment. "You took me kind of by surprise, coming by."
"Because I almost felt like you didn't want me there."
"It wasn't that. I wasÉ.I've never brought anybody I was seeing to meet my friends before. I wasn't sure how they'd react."
"He was afraid you'd flame all over him in front of his straight buddies," said a silvery voice. "Miss Thing wants so much to be One Of The Boys."
They stared. A Fairy was seated on the lid of the open box.
He--it seemed to be male--had pointed ears, silver hair, an almost-human face, and shimmering opalescent wings. He wore a tunic of satinlike material. He sat in a coy showgirl pose, one leg drawn up over the other. "Look at you boys, gaping like a pair of blow-up love dolls. Like you've never seen one of us before."
"We haven't," Chuck said. The fairy waved a dismissive limp wrist. "Well, get over it, honey, 'cause Here I Am."
"How did you get here? Why were you in the box?" Chuck persisted.
"Well; once upon a time--of course--there was this tacky old queen who decided he wanted a fairy servant, so he went to Tangier and blew Aleister Crowley in exchange for the incantation. He incantated and got Me, and bound me to the box. Then, wouldn't you know, he dropped dead of a stroke, leaving me to hibernate until Gorgeous Blond Hunk here accidentally found the catch, and I was Free At Last. I feel like such a debutante!" He whirled round, appearing in a flamboyant prom dress and corsage.
Jeff was entirely amazed. "Oh my God. Are you real? Why are you here?"
The fairy rolled his eyes. "Am I real. Duh. I'm here to grant you wishes, honey, because you released me. Am I real, he asks. Wish for something, and see what happens."
"A wish??"
"Yes, dear, a Wish. Like, 'I wish I was rich and famous and on the cover of People, I wish I had a 12-inch schlong to impress the boys, I wish I had a harem of hot young things from the A & F Quarterly,' Whatever."
Jeff found himself drawing a complete blank. When that happened, he usually just said the first thing that came to mind. "I still wish I knew what was bugging you there at the bar."
Chuck exclaimed "Wait a--"
(--but suddenly Jeff did know. Chuck did want to be One Of The Boys, and not A Fag, as too many schoolyard bullies had vilified him. He wanted to be everything A Fag was not: calm, strong, skilled, reliable, as straight a gay man as could be; so that The Guys, Steve and Tommy and Aaron for instance, would accept him into their circles without fear or favor. Now here came Jeff, whom he loved but who nonetheless had a flicker of the Flamer about him: enthusing, hugging, copping feels, exclaiming "Oh my God" like some Chelsea twink. What would The Guys think of him? What would they think of Chuck, being thus flamed over?)
"--minute!"
Jeff gaped. "They didn't think anything--they like you! You know what Tommy said while you were in the head? Steve asked if I liked you and I said Yes, and Tommy said 'That's great, he's been needing someone.' " He laughed in surprise. "That's all you were worried about; you were afraid I'd embarrass you?"
"Internalized homophobia, dear," said the fairy. "Some boys are just full of it."
Chuck glared at the creature. "Who died and made you therapist? And speaking of flamers, why are you acting like one? I may not know much about your kind, but I never heard of your kind acting like our kind."
"Questions, questions, questions. Do I look like an encyclopedia?" For a moment, he did. "The spell that brings us to this plane makes us mirror whoever summoned us; who in my case, like I said, was a tacky, sleazy, flamy old queen. And we like to mess with your little mortal minds; it's our hobby. Push your buttons and all. And since flaming gives you absolute hissyfits; wellÉ." The fairy smiled and batted his eyes. "But this is so boring. Boring, boring, boring! Come on, honey, let's make some wishes," he told Jeff. He manifested a golden pencil, almost as large as himself, and a silver notebook labeled 'Shopping List', and stood as if ready to take dictation.
Chuck rose, placing a hand on Jeff's shoulder. His grip was tense and strong. "Can we talk privately for a minute?"
The phrase put Jeff on the defensive. Whenever his father had said "We need to talk privately" it had meant trouble, usually trouble for which Jeff's older siblings had framed him. He followed Chuck reluctantly.
Chuck closed the bedroom door. "Do you realize what you've got?" he half-whispered. "You've got a tiger by the tail. Or like a nuke with a hair trigger. That thing out there's going to grant you anything in the world you wish for. Anything. You see what kind of total power that gives you?"
"All I did was ask what was bothering you. It's not like I nuked you or turned you into a frog or something."
"And I was gonna tell you, if Stinkerbelle there hadn't interrupted. Instead you said 'I wish I knew what your problem was,' and bam!--the two of you had ripped my mind open and rummaged around in it. You see the danger? You'll be talking and say off the top of your head 'I wish something-or-other.' 'I wish I had a BMW', and bam, you'll have one; with no place to park it and no way to explain to anyone where it came from. Or 'I wish So-and-so'd drop dead.' And they would."
Jeff began to retort "How about I wish you weren't embarrassed by me with your friends?" But no sooner had he said the first few words when Chuck leapt forward and clasped a powerful hand over his mouth. Jeff had never seen him move so fast, or to such aggressive purpose. Jeff was mad: the hand-over-mouth trick had been a favorite tactic of his big brothers in childhood combat. He fought free. "What the fuck're you doing??" he glared.
"Trying to keep you from making a mistake."
"I can keep myself out of mistakes. And I'm not your punching bag either." He yanked open the door; and stopped dead. "Oh my God, look at this."
The fairy had amused himself in their absence by manifesting some life-size, 3-D, star-studded gay porn: Brad Pitt and Keanu Reeves sixty-nining, with enthusiasm. He had outfitted himself in movie-director drag: beret, jodhpurs, cigarette holder and megaphone. His canvas chair bore the name 'Cecil B. DemOff.' At their entrance he waved a hand, and the erotica vanished. "My, that was a quickie. A pair of sixty-second men. How about wishing for more stamina, hon? Or are you afraid you'll fuck Grumpleicious here to death?"
"Great--now he thinks he's Dr. Ruth," Chuck muttered.
The fairy promptly became Dr. Ruth. "Unt vat's wrong mit vishing for Goot Sex?" she twinkled. He un-transformed. "Or anything else, for that matter?"
"Be careful what you wish for, you might get it," Chuck replied, looking from the fairy to Jeff.
"I know that," Jeff said. "I'm not stupid. Even though I'm blond and say 'Oh my God'--but you do too sometimes, I've heard you. So even though you think I'm a stupid twink I'm not, and I'm not gonna make some stupid wish that'll blow up the world or whatever. So just calm down, okay? You're being almost psycho about this. What is your problem?"
"Don't you wish you knew?" the fairy said coyly.
"Well, yeah; I mean--"
(and suddenly, bam!--he knew Chuck's 'problem', or rather, the whole interwoven knot of problems. Depression, self-doubt, loneliness, isolation; repressed anger, repressed fear, repressed heartbreak, doubly repressed joy--"more repression than a banana republic," Chuck once told a therapist. Fear of failure, fear of rejection, fear of being bullied and being helpless to fight back; fear of making a fool of himself, or worse, being manipulated and forced to make a public fool of himself, to the disgust and rejection of everyone witnessing--like in old sitcoms such as "Bewitched," where magic brought endless humiliating embarrassments down on the hapless, helpless Darrens. "A whole garden of neuroses," Chuck told the therapist--all in the fierce light of a piercing, unsparing, unforgiving, perfectionist self-awarenessÉ)
Jeff saw in Chuck's eyes, just for a second, a look of mortal horror. Then the eyes turned to stone. Chuck rose and went into the kitchen. When he came out he had a flyswatter in his hand, and fairycide clearly on his mind. "Ohmigod," the fairy said, taking wing. "Chill, Miss Thing, chill!" He waved a hand. Chuck froze in mid-swat.
Jeff had leapt to his feet. He seized Chuck by the arms, and felt them hard and cold as ice. Chuck's face was as blankly nonhuman as a department-store mannequin. He had chilled--or rather, had been chilled. Jeff looked wildly for the fairy, and found him sitting on a lintel, safely out of reach. "Let him go!"
He felt the ice turn back to flesh beneath his hands. He looked into eyes of fury, and behind fury the mortal horror again. He tried to think what to say. "Stop it, you'll break something!" was all he could come up with.
"I'll break his widdle head, is what I'll break. Whatever it takes to make him quit fucking around in my mind. And if I'm not faggy enough for him, tough fucking shit. He can go grant wishes to goddamn Harvey fucking Fierstein or somebody." He wrenched himself from Jeff's grasp. He took a deep breath. Jeff could see he was trembling. "You two need to settle this yourselves. I need to be somewhere safely away."
He picked up Jeff's key ring from the counter, and removed the keys to his own apartment. Then he took up his coat and went out, quietly closing the door.
Jeff gaped for a minute. He yanked open the door and hung over the banister. He said something, tried to say "Wait!" and "Chuck!" in the same breath, producing only a yelp.
Chuck's dry deadpan voice receded below. "Wish for whatever the hell you want, just leave me out of it."
Jeff sank into the armchair. "What the fuck?É."
The fairy had returned to his seat on the box. He had conjured up a little bar cart and mixed himself a brightly colored cocktail, complete with paper umbrella. "You had a fight, and he walked out. So?"
"He took his keys back."
"So maybe you're a Single Guy again. Got your little black book updated?"
"Shut up, that's not what I wanted. I didn't want him to leave."
""What do you want, honey?"
Jeff was not going to make the same mistake a third time. "Wait, I have to thinkÉ.First I want--I wish I understood why he freaked out and left--"
(--and bam!)
(Each time was like the Disneyland ride where they pretend to shrink everyone and tour them through the subatomic world; only this trip had no happy smiling molecules and benevolent lab-coated scientists. There was only Chuck's mind: thoughts, feelings, fears, problems, sorrows; childhood, adolescenceÉ)
(Father disgusted and condemning because Chuck's not the hero jock all-American boy Dad wanted for a son. Mother worrying and whining at Chuck because he can't seem to make his dad happy like she mistakenly thinks she can. Elder sister, despising the little brother who edged her from her place as center of the family universe, squashing him with a sibling's intimate tailor-made sadism. Punished and humiliated if he fights back, punished and humiliated if he cries; so retreat into silence as the only way to survive.)
(Eighth grade, English class, everyone assigned to keep a journal. He writes often about other boys, fascinated by the various ways puberty is changing their bodies, not yet realizing what this fascination means. One night his sister steals it from his room, and reads the passages aloud to his parents. They demand him to come to the living room. Father's cruel hand throws him into a chair. His mind, his very heart, ripped open; and disgust, horror, condemnation, contempt poured in like toxic acid. Lying in bed that night, hearing the ocean, wishing a tidal wave would come drown him.)
(Time telescopes forward. College, some grad school, various jobs: adulthood. Various tricks, various boyfriends. Then Jeff: blond, green eyes, smile of pure joy, body wonderfully muscled from his profession of masseur; bright, warm, confident, outgoing; who seemed to like him regardless of his depression and distrust. Seemed to--until that Thing, that Fairy, that flaming, taunting Thing with supernormal powers more destructive than any tidal wave, appears, and Jeff impulsively says "I wish I knew what your problem was"--bam! Chuck's mind, his heart are ripped open, gawked at with the cluelessness of tourists on a Disneyland ride. Twice. Chuck's warnings ignored--Jeff's too thrilled by his new plaything to see or care. Horror. Betrayal. Heartbreak. Rage, despair. Get away, out of here, out of his grasp, safely away. One mute gesture: take back the keys.)
(Hurrying along East 13th. Almost home, almost safe--unless the next wish tears him out, turns him into a monsterÉ)
The fairy's voice snapped Jeff back. "Honey, can you say 'melodrama'? 'Despair! Horror! Flaming! Woe is me, boo-hoo!' Neuroses out the ass. Let him keep his keys, you're better off." The cocktail glass became a microphone, and the fairy's tunic a Diva's gown. He did a chorus of Gloria Gaynor's I Will Survive. A disco ball spun above his head, then became another cocktail.
"Shut up," Jeff repeated. "I don't care. She stole his journal, and read it to his parents? My God, what a bitch! No wonder he never talks about them. And shit--now I've done the same thing, kind of. After I told him I wouldn't, too. Shit! Okay. I wishÉI wish I knew what to say to him, to tell him I'm sorry and I won't--I'll listen to him."
The fairy said nothing. He sat on the rim of the box, buffing his nails. After a long pause, Jeff said "Hey."
"Yes,gorgeous?"
"I made another wish."
"And?"
"And, aren't you going to grant it?"
"It's number four, honey. You only get three."
"What??"
"Three wishes, child, that's all anyone ever gets."
"Why didn't you tell me before??"
The fairy rolled his eyes again. "Oh please. It's the standard contract, it's in all the fairy tales. What did you read growing up--Blueboy?"
Jeff leapt up and paced round the chair. "What am I supposed to do then?"
"Don't look at me, I'm not Dear Abby."
"You got me into this. You conned me into going into his mind and freaking him out."
"Child, I told you, that's what we do. We play with your weaknesses, push your buttons and see how much we can mess with your heads. We're immortal, we have to amuse ourselves somehow. I played with him being all sensitive and private and internalized-homophobic; and you being an excitable twinkie with the attention span of a puppy--"
Jeff grabbed the flyswatter. "Oh shit," said the fairy, and vanished.
He did not reappear. Jeff tried closing and opening the box; even tried to find and dismantle the secret catch. Nothing worked. He was alone in the apartment, at a loss.
He called Chuck's number, heard the dry detached voice of Chuck's answering machine. "Hi, it's me," he said. "Look--can we talk? I'm really sorryÉI'll be home. Call me." He waited all evening, leaping at the phone every time it rang. Various friends wanted him to go out, various strangers wanted to sell him things; but Chuck did not reply.
Saturday morning he called, and again got only the machine. Saturday evening, Sunday morning and Sunday evening he called, heard the impersonal "Please leave a message", and hung up in frustration. "Chuck, don't do this to me," he said aloud. "Where the hell are you?"
Monday morning he had some free time, so hurried over to Holland Printing. Coming up the alley he saw Steve and Aaron in conversation on the dock. When they saw him, they stopped talking. Through the open door behind them he could hear the clatter of presses. He thought he faintly heard Chuck's voice.
"Is Chuck here?"
Steve and Aaron seemed to exchange a glance. Steve answered. "Nah, he's out makin' deliveries."
"Oh." Jeff paused. "I thought your brother was the delivery guy."
"We got real busy and had to send Chuck out too. We'll tell him you were here."
They stood looking down from the steps. He sensed them closing a circle against him; a protective circle round Chuck, their friend, whom they cared for.
The afternoon's bookings gave Jeff a string of his least favorite clients, all either late, rude, lecherous, or smelly. Jeff thought of Chuck's body and its particular scent: subtle and not unpleasant; soap, deodorant, paper and printer's ink, hard work and exercise. He thought of long, slow, smiling, satisfying sex in the flickering light of an unwatched movie. He thought of the previous week, one lunchtime, when he'd taken the keys and let himself into Chuck's apartment for a nap in Chuck's bed, falling asleep in his lover's scent.
On impulse he went for dinner to the little Spanish restaurant. Chuck was not there, of course. Jeff sat alone and picked at his food. The subway platforms and trains seemed empty coming back, the ride lonely and long.
He walked down First Avenue from the station. Crossing 13th he looked east; and far off beneath a streetlight he saw a familiar figure in a familiar coat, hunched against the cold. He ran.
Chuck turned round slowly as Jeff came panting up. Jeff was trying to think of all the thousand things he wished to say, and drew a blank. "I'm sorry," was all he could come up with.
Chuck asked "Where's your little friend?"
"He's gone, you're safe. He only gave me three wishes, then he left. Totally blew me off, never came back."
"What was the third wish?"
"That I'd know why you got mad and left."
"And what did he tell you?" Chuck's voice was quiet, his face wary in the lamplight.
"He showed me. About your parents bullying you all the time and your sister stealing your journal; and like, how you got to be who you are. Why you were mad I wouldn't listen and scared I was going to change you weirdly. So like I said--just, I'm sorry."
Chuck lowered his head a moment. He took a breath, but said nothing.
"Then I wished I could get to you and undo how I'd fucked things up, you know. He just sat there. I said 'Aren't you going to grant it?' And he said 'Tough shit, you only get three.' So I tried to swat him, and he vanished."
"He would, the little shit."
"What happened to you? I've been calling all weekend."
"I got the messages. Tommy and I went to Atlantic City. We got very drunk and very stoned, and I won $2.50 from a slot machine. One of Donald Trump's, I'm glad to say."
As if by instinct they had turned, heading for Chuck's place. There were so many things Jeff wished he could tell. I thought I'd lost you. I do like you. Your body, your dick, your scent. I slept in your bed once for it. (But that might get you mad, that I was there without you knowing.) Regardless of you being depressed or whatever. That's especially when I want to be with you, for you. Not just for the sex, but for you. "There's so much stuff I wish I could tell you."
"Why can't you? You don't need fairies."
"I don't know where to start."
"Maybe at the beginning?"
"Don't tease me. Whenever I've got important stuff to say I start babbling."
"You don't babble." Chuck pulled out keys, unlocked the street door. "I don't think of you as a twink--you've got too much sense. People with common sense don't babble." He started up the stairs.
"Lemme ask you something: if you'd had the wishes, what would you have wanted?"
"Weird as it's gonna sound, I've actually thought about it, even before this. What would I do with three wishes. There's the usual stuff: you know, no more war, no more gay-bashing, no more Republicans--though that third wish would probably cover the first two. But remember the genie-in-a-bottle story? How mad the genie was when he got out? He was going to kill the guy who found him, just out of rage. And if I'd been trapped in a bottle that long; or a Chinese box--" He stopped suddenly, in a listening stance. There were faint noises coming from behind his apartment door.
Jeff felt the large strong hand gripping his shoulder. Chuck spoke in a tiny whisper. "Flatten up against the wall on that side of the door. I'll open the locks from this side, they're really quiet, and kick the door open."
Jeff was aghast. "What if they've got a gun??"
"Listen: they aren't burglar noises, they're sex noises. Somebody's screwing in there."
Chuck, with tense determined face, pressing up against the wall. Burly arm reaching, strong hand slowly turning one key, then another, then the knob. Crash!--booted foot kicking open the door. Chuck in the doorway, in a flash faster than visible motion, low to the floor in a spiderlike crouch. Then he rose, with a look of astonishment and anger, motioning Jeff to his side.
The tiny flat framed another vision of Hollywood homoerotics. This time it was a three-way: Alec Baldwin and Kevin Costner lustily plugging Leonardo diCaprio, fore and aft. A little winged figure sat in a little director's chair atop the dresser. "Oh hell, just when I was going to do the cum shot," said the fairy. The vision faded. "But my, such a butch entrance! So N.Y.P.D.!"
Chuck stood before the dresser and pointed to the open door. "Out," he said. His voice compressed an entire treatise on fury into the single word.
"What are you doing here??" Jeff demanded.
The fairy appeared in sackcloth and ashes--albeit very sleek and fashionable sackcloth, as though conceived by top designers of Milan. "I'm here because, because, I got just the worst, longest, godawfulest bitching out from Queen Mab that you can possibly imagine. Honey, that girl chewed on me like she was a soap star and I was a piece of scenery. Blah blah blah--'You didn't tell him beforehand he only gets three wishes?' Blah blah blah--"It doesn't count if you say I wish, the mortal has to say it himself!' And so on; and on and on. So, to make a way too long story short, your second wish didn't count, and I have to grant you one more."
"Jesus H. Christ on a crutch," Chuck muttered. "Too bad she didn't tell you to quit being such a goddamned flamer."
"Oh, come on, honey, get in touch with your inner queen."
"Fuck my inner queen." Chuck began opening kitchen cabinets. "Do I have any Raid?"
"Look, child, I told you: I'm the way I am because of how I was called up. I was incantated into this plane by a Flaming Old Queen; and until I grant Gorgeous Blond Hunk here his last wish, I'm still bound by the F.O.Q.'s spell."
"Is the wish transferable?" Jeff demanded. Chuck stopped and stared at him. "Because I want Chuck to have it this time."
"Sorry, dear, no; you have to say the Magic Word all by yourself. But, but, it can be his wish you say."
"That's what I want then." He turned to Chuck. "What do you wish for? Here's your chance."
Chuck came to stand by Jeff's side. "I wish that whatever spells are binding you be broken, so you can go free."
Jeff repeated the words. Instantly the fairy transformed into what was presumably his true appearance: a glowing, pulsing, myriad-hued entity floating in midair, illumining their faces and the apartment. It looked rather like a crystalline lattice of energy fields, and like a giant snowflake, and like a tiny nebula, and like a really cool special effect. It washed a wave of gratitude through them, and warped out of sight.
They sat on the bed. Jeff noticed that Chuck's hands were trembling. He covered them with his own. "It was stupid," Chuck was saying. "What if it had been burglars, and they did have a gun? This is New York; I can imagine burglars whose kick is to screw in apartments they rob."
"It wasn't, and they didn't. And you were absolutely amazing. If you'd said 'Police! Freeze!' I'd have totally believed you, if I was a burglar."
"I was furious, is what I was. This is where I live. I don't like people invading my space." He fell silent.
"I know. I found out. And I didn't need to find out the way I did--by, like, ripping your mind open. I already knew it, from the way you are, from how people like Tommy and them care about you. How you wished him free, and not anything for yourself. That's what your first wish would've been, wouldn't it? Even though he might've disappeared and not even given you the others. See?--I'm babbling."
Chuck rose. He went to the dresser, opened a drawer, and brought out the spare keys. He placed them in Jeff's hand, gently closing it round them.
After a quiet moment, he spoke again. "I'd like to've seen that money shot." He gestured at where the erotic vision had stood. "You suppose diCaprio's really that big, or was it just our little fiend's wishful thinking?"
"We can find out--there's a movie where he shows it. I don't know what it's called, but he plays some famous gay poet."
"Rimbaud. I know the one you mean. He plays Rimbaud to William Hurt's Verlaine. And he gets naked?"
"My friend said soÉYou want to rent it?"
Chuck quietly smiled. "We could do that."
They found the film in question. It was not very interesting, and the glimpse of diCaprio's privates was uselessly brief and blurred; so they enjoyed instead a long, slow, comfortable, satisfying fuck, and fell asleep in each other's arms.
Marty Smith lives in North Carolina.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Attraction to Gay Spirit CommunityPatrick McNamara
The world is abuzz with spirituality. To some, spirituality represents the longing for connectionÉfor others it is a yearning for purpose and meaning in their lives. It is being flashed onto magazine covers to sell copy, placed in book titles and in ads to catch the reader's eye. Spirituality was even touted as one of the key benefits of a recent gay-porn video! Can we become enlightened by watching two men have sex on a screen? Well, there are many roads to enlightenment.
What attracts gay men to a deeper, solid connected spirituality? What attracts men to gay men's gatherings or workshops or books or retreat centers...or to heart circles, sacred intimate groups, outdoors groups, faerie gatherings, leather groups, MCC, traditional denominational groups or Manifest Love...and how do these "spiritual communities" grow and expand? What part will we play in the spiritualization of the mainstream gay culture? Can we bring the depth, integrity, soul connection, respect, caring and presence from our gay spiritual communities and offerings to the wider gay culture? How can the depth of connection that many of us experience (and offer to others) be attractive enough to become the norm in the gay community?
In my view, attraction to gay community and "gay spirituality" is another manifestation of the Great Mystery. It happens through chance meetings and synchronicities as one walks along one's spiritual path. "When the student is ready, the teacher appears."
Spirituality means something different to everyone, yet there is an underlying essence that flows through the many forms of spirituality and religion. Some call the essence: life-giving, energetic or vibrational-others call it a feeling or sixth sense.
From a marketing and business perspective, those of us facilitating workshops, groups, gatherings or retreat centers can work with the life-giving essence of our community or business to attract others. Clarity of purpose and identity, often crafted in strategic planning sessions, contributes to the resonance of a group's energy. If the core energy of a community is solid, aligned and clear then that community will be more attractive to others. The love and connections between the men at the core and within the community also act as a magnet to draw people to it. This energy is characterized as creative, expansive, electrifying and connecting. It too is part of the Great Mystery and we co-create with it in our community-building and business ventures as we live out our life purpose. Are we conscious that we are part of something larger?
I wonder what would happen if both those of us facilitating gay spiritual community and the luminaries of the gay spirit movement were to gather together and learn about each other, share our work and dialogue about the deeper purpose in what we do. I wonder what would happen if we were to dream together our common visions and discovered where our dreams intersect? I wonder what collaborations might come out of such a gathering?
Could we tap into a larger, shared purpose for our work? Could we, together, define our movement and then claim our place loud and clear in gay media to make our communities and spiritual-growth offerings more accessible and visible to the wider gay community? It is our responsibility to do so.
The current gay spiritual culture is relatively invisible in the mainstream gay world. There are many more gay men hungering for spirituality and healing than know we exist. The bar culture, although decreasing in popularity, is so strong and so effective in delivering what men want when they want it that more spiritual or constructive options get less attention in the gay press and in gay social circles. If more men were at least aware of other options, that would be a first step in giving them more positive choices.
In the context of the wider GLBTQ community, we in the gay spirit movement, are at the forefront of personal and social transformation. The spiritual and personal growth that we experience and offer to others is making a difference in the lives of gay men. It is helping men appreciate their strengths, live authentically, take responsibility for themselves and connect deeply with each other. We are helping men fulfill their yearning for increased connection, authenticity, meaning, sincerity, caring, respect and depth of relationship.
If we come together and build a strong, solid, resonant core--as leaders in the gay spiritual community--will we attract more men to our circles? Through collaboration, can we find ways to be more visible and accessible to the mainstream gay community? Can we find a way to satisfy the yearning and hunger for "the deeper, caring and compassionate atmosphere so many gay men seek?"
If you are attracted to the concept of transforming gay culture, please contact Patrick Mc Namara at patrick@gayspiritculture.org. And/or check out the website at gayspiritculture.org
Patrick Mc Namara is coordinator of the Gay Spirit Culture Project, Co-convenor of the Spiritual Caucus at the United Nations and Co-owner of Appreciative Inquiry Consulting. He holds an MBA in marketing and strategy from the Kellogg School and has lived in spiritual community at Findhorn, Scotland, Santa Fe, NM and Lily Dale, NY.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
C.S. Lewis was an influential voice in modern Christianity. He was a classical "Oxford don" who wrote pedantic studies of medieval literature. He also wrote the Narnia children's stories--for which, curiously, he may be best known. He wrote several fantasy, "mystical sci-fi," novels. Perelandra is a parable about the nature of "original sin" and mystical consciousness; it tells of a Bristish college professor who is whisked off by angelic-like beings to act as "God"'s spokesman when the Adam and Eve of Venus, "Perelandra" in their language, are being tempted by the devil--who appears in the form of an Earth scientist and technocrat. It is a beautiful tale of the conquest of goodness. Most interestingly, Lewis devises a mythic cosmology of light beings and guardians spirits; Earth mythologies, he proposes, are erroneous attempts to grasp this cosmology.
As we know from the play and movie, Shadowlands, C.S. Lewis was a "bachelor," living with his brother most of his life, living as a sort of celibate cleric of academe. He certainly wasn't a modern gay man, but he was one of us, I think.
In his mystical fiction, he spoke raptuously about a transcendent vision of the whole cosmos as a living being textured of light and energy, far beyond the naive personal God of popular Christianity. From him comes the sentence: "Wel ive in an environment of mind as wwell as of space."
Here's a brief excerpt from Perelandra:
All that is made seems planless to the darkened mind, because there are more plans than it looked for. In these seas there are islands where the hairs of the turf are so fine and so closely woven together that unless a man looked long at them he would see neither hairs nor weaving at all, but only the same and the flat. So with the Great Dance. Set your eyes on one movement and it will lead you through all patterns and it will seem to you the master movement. But the seeming will be true. Let no mouth open to gainsay it. There seems no plan because it is all plan there seems no centre because it is all centre. Blessed be He!"
"Yet this seeming also is the end and final cause for which He spreads out Time so long and Heaven so deep; lest if we never met the dark, and the road that leads nowhither, and the question to which no answer is imaginable, we should have in our minds no likeness of the Abyss of the Father, into which if a creature drop down his thoughts for ever he shall hear no echo return to him. Blessed, blessed, blessed be He!"
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Buddhist monks in long robes drumming handdrums chanting
na mu myo ho renge kyo
carrying banners for peace as their pilgrimage
leads them through another small-town square
and the townfolk gather to stare at them
with amazement and confusion
as if they were alien beings from a distant shining planet
and a cashier sees them through the window
over the rows of carton cigarettes
and shakes her head with disgust and says
if those assholes had jobs they wouldn't have time for all this shit
as if the job of peace were not important
as if the job of prayer were not what holds this world together
Darrell Grizzle
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Books
by Bazhe
iUniverse, Inc., 402 pages, $21.95
Reviewed by Steven LaVigne
Bazhe's memoir, Damages, arrived in the mail this past January, but, I only browsed the beginning chapters before early March when my father succumbed to cancer. I read most of it on the way to and from his funeral, so my feelings about this book may be affected by that experience.
If one were to judge by the handsome cover photo, we'd never guess that Bazhe has a vivid talent for powerhouse storytelling and Damages is a remarkable, compelling read. Now a U.S. citizen, he is the adopted child of a Macedonian military man and political leader under General Tito. When his father dies, he returns to this homeland, only to learn that his mother is suffering from inoperable colon cancer. He arranges to care for her, leaving behind his lover in New Jersey. During this period, he connects with his birth mother and relates to her the hardships and abuse he faced growing up a child of privilege.
Like Christina Crawford's revelations of a Hollywood child who suffered abuse in her book, Mommie Dearest, Bazhe reveals that repressions and phobias (he has a fear of butterflies) he faced as a gay child aren't so different in Eastern Europe than they are in any other part of the world. (Were a great convention of gay men held somewhere, we'd learn that we all share many of the same experiences.)
The beginning of Bazhe's saga is background material, and he finally reveals himself as a gay man for the first time on page 64. I enjoyed reading about his insecurities, and I share similar traits. He bites his nails as do I. He was a loner in elementary and high school, as was I, and gravitated toward British and American classics. (I'm looking forward to reacquainting myself with Melville's short stories based on Bazhe's appreciation for them.)
As Damages continues however, with one word chapter titles like "Father," "Mother," "Connection," "Phobia," "Mila," "Childhood," "Army," "College," "Istanboul," "Happiness," "Psycho," "America," and "Orphan," he reveals horribly realistic experiences that had to be lived. No one could have made this up. Following his lonely childhood and schooling, he joined the Yugoslav Army, where he had his first gay encounter, followed by expulsion from the College of National Security when he displayed a little self-expression. In Turkey, a wealthy married man convinced him to live in drag, while he learned, upon his arrival in the United States, that this isn't necessarily the land of the free or the home of the brave.
Bazhe offers foreign perspectives and viewpoints toward the standard American citizen and his commentary on the political and economic history of his homeland goes far too deep to relate in so short a space. While Bazhe has occasional trouble with syntax, nothing can overshadow the final thought from his dying mother, who tells him "to live life and not let life live you."
Damages was, for me, an important and personal book, because it helped me through a very personal situation. My hope is that it can work a similar magic on you.
Steve LaVigne regularly reviews books for White Crane Journal.
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Sex and Heaven: Catholics in Bed and Prayer
by John Portmann
Palgrave Macmillan, $24.95
Reviewed by R. A. Home
If we must classify Sex and Heaven by John Portmann one appropriate rubric might be "Queer Studies," but this volume surely is a very exceptionally queer study. This book is knowledgeable, perceptive--and, surprise--well-written (the author's Yale and Cambridge education shows).
This book delivers. The first third is indeed about sex and Heaven, more in fact, sex in Heaven. Yes, we will be all there in Heaven. Some of us, as in life, tall, some short. And our differing personalities (but no envy)--sort of laundered. The laundering I fear might make for a most dull place. An endless ocean cruiseship with all one's fellow passengers lobectomized. The old spiritual notwithstanding, we won't all be white in the heavenly light. Will there be slavery there? Is an affirmative action program in place? Yes, Portmann actually asks these questions. All you wanted to know about Heaven and never dared to ask. Questions you never thought of asking. But very few answers. Portmann subjects the inscrutable, the idea of Heaven, to strict and penetrating scrutiny. The result is like a trailer park after a tornado.
As for the all important question, who gets aboard and who is left standing on the dock (worse, goes to Hell), Portmann suggests the varsity team as an analogue (later the country club). Now who but a Yalie would think of that? There is a chapter on "The Sex We Don't Have"; that's important with respect to the question of who does and doesn't get in. From all this the author extracts one central generalization. Historically the church, primarily the Roman Catholic Church (he also examines Islam--plenty of sex in their Paradise--and Judaism), has become totally preoccupied with sex to the exclusion of all else--including theology, not to mention the Scriptures. These days, according to Catholic teaching, it seems, correct sexual preference is far more important than correct religious views or even good acts for getting into Heaven. Heresy--blasphemy even--are overlooked but gay love, never, never, never.
Another third of the book, more than is necessary I feel, deals with the relationship between Roman Catholics and Jews (Protestants get relatively little attention). Once, closely following The Gospels, the Vatican condemned Jews as Christ-killers. But there has been a drift away from Scripture. From censoring the Oberammergau Passion Play--out of deference to Judaism--to ceasing to convert Jews, the Church has moved to letting non-Christians, but not non-heterosexuals, into Heaven. And so, the author concludes, a straight Jew has a much better chance of getting into Heaven than a gay Roman Catholic.
In my own opinion, the Gospels are the foundation of Christianity. The Faith cannot exist without them. If the Roman Catholic Church, or any other church, drifts away from The Gospels it will cease to be a Christian church. Ridiculous? Unbelievable? Portmann writes (p. 115). "I have not considered whether...leaving Christ behind might benefit the Catholic Church. True, demoting Jesus would simplify relationships with non-Christians enormously..." This is not the only way Rome has drifted away from original Christianity--think of the Mary cult in the Middle Ages.
Is such a drift reflected in this book? Aquinas, Augustine, and St. Paul are cited frequently, but the Gospels sparsely. At first, with his devastating questions the author appears to be an iconoclast. And so offers few answers. The reader asks himself, "What, if anything, does this guy believe?" Deep in the book we begin to see. He is (as he told us on the first page) a Roman Catholic. But certainly not another lapsed Catholic. Portmann is a very knowledgeable and intelligent Catholic. He know the details; and he knows the big picture. His insight into the manifold problems facing his church could hardly be more clear for a layman. What at first appears to be some kind of an attack on Rome, the reader slowly discovers, is in fact a clever apologia for the Church.
In the conclusion to this book, the author writes, "Heaven is what I'd focus on if doctors told me I had only one more year to live... I would attend Mass daily and pray the rosary." But, characteristically Roman Catholic, he makes no mention of reading the Gospels. All his questions are answered there. Jesus loves us all, I believe, and He will save us if we let Him. Dante placed the fallen Satan at the very center of Hell at the exact point in all the universe most removed from Jesus' Throne.
If I may add to one of the author's major points, not only has Rome (and many Protestant "Christian" sects as well) replaced theology with a sick preoccupation with sex, over the centuries the historical churches have equated sex with sin and sin with sex. Something which Jesus, whose sexual views were extraordinarily liberal for the prejudiced and violent times in which He lived, never did. Nothing is more removed from the teachings of Jesus, from the Eleventh Commandment that Jesus gave His disciples and us, than homophobia. Cocksucking will not be a bar to Heaven. Homophobia will.
R. A. Horne lives in Boston. He is currently completing a novelized version of the life of Jesus and St. John titled Were You There?
Back to Issue #58 Table of Contents
Open Your Mind, Open Your Life: A Book of Eastern Wisdom
by Taro Gold
Andrews McMeel Pub, 101 pgs, HB, $9.95
Reviewed by Toby Johnson
"Thought shapes reality . . . Happiness shapes thought . . . Openness manifests happiness." So states the brief introductory paragraphs to this sweet little book of quotations from the Eastern wisdom traditions. The author poses the central question: how to open our lives to the inherent joy that flows through us simply because we're alive and life itself is joy that runs like spring water through open earth. The answer, he suggests--impressionistic at best, of course--can be found by contemplating the wisdom that comes down to us in the religious (especially the Eastern religious) traditions in aphorisms, brief tales, and koan-like sayings.
Open Your Mind is a short little book, of beautiful composition and design, featuring such statements of wisdom highlighted on pages emblazoned with lovely and intensely colored Japanese and Chinese motifs and backgrounds. Many of the sayings are appropriately familiar: Gandhi, Confucius, or Buddha said . . . Some of them seem to be original to the author, Taro Gold, especially those that summarize so