Tag: Religion and Spirituality

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The Truth Is, by Phillip Hoyle

Sometimes we actually search for the truth. Sometimes we think we have found it. Sometimes we are sure it is eluding us. Sometimes we may confess we know nothing of the truth.

I’m sure I went to college to find out the truth. After working a few years, I went on to graduate school because I needed a change in my career. I went on to graduate seminary because in graduate school I discovered I’d rather work in churches than teach in a college. Churches provided greater opportunity for variety. That’s the truth; I valued variety over depth. Still, I got to teach, to study, to use professional time for research, to write, to make music, to encourage people. I was not interested to present any capital T Truth in sermons that people would try hard to believe. Rather, I sought to challenge people in their own best interest to think, to consider, and to commit themselves to a way of life guided by the wisdom of the ages as understood through a modern take on the worlds of reality and belief. To me that seemed close enough to the truth.

My take on ethics and morality was somehow personal and took into view the wisdom of my teachers beginning with the Bible, a positive view of the human body, an appreciation of diversity in human experience and values, a commitment to democracy, and a fascination with new ideas and consequences. The truth is that my commitments suited my ministry but did not make me an especially successful minister. Luckily, I got to work in larger congregations where I could pursue my greater interests.

So now some non-truth sermonic thoughts:

The Bible has no word for “The Truth.” It does like when people are “true”, but that has to do with how they act toward other people, not their adherence to some kind of doctrine. There are two important concepts, though, that have to be accounted for. First is a metaphor, “the word of God”, second an expression, “the apostolic tradition”. The word of God is the common religious territory of Jewish and Christian concern. It was spoken and eventually written. The writings were in Hebrew (gathered over several hundred years), Koine Greek (telling stories and advice that originated in Aramaic of the first century Common Era) and hopefully all retranslated into many newer languages by reliable witnesses. Christianity, in response to the demands of the non-Christian Emperor Constantine had to agree on their beliefs so they could be certified by the Roman Empire. Writing a creed had some benefit; it stopped some of the persecution from the outside. Sadly it also created the ability for Christians to begin persecuting one another over doctrinal matters, a practice that has not subsided since the third century Common Era. In all, orthodoxy has become a sad song for the church to sing. All the beautiful chants and motets, cantatas and oratorios, organs in chapels, churches, and cathedrals, all the sacred classical and popular instruments of Christians across the world over cannot create enough beauty to atone for the evil Christians have wreaked upon themselves and too often upon the rest of the world. And that’s the truth, but not the only truth.

Of course religions also create a lot of love, benevolence, and community as their members emulate the loving acts of the divine, when they live into the spirit rather than the law of their order. That also is the truth in the view of this sometime preacher. I choose to operate these days as a Christian, no matter what any other Christian may think of my life, behaviors, and beliefs. I chose to follow the simple-to-say although difficult-to-live ethic of Jesus, my religious teacher, who said: “Act toward others as you would have them act toward you. Love your enemies. Do good to those who would despitefully use you. Turn the other cheek. Forgive as you would like to be forgiven. As you have acted towards the simplest, neediest, helpless, unimportant, or despicable people, you have done it to me.” This kind of dynamism could change the world, but so far it has not done so. Few enough have even tried to follow such wisdom. And that’s the truth.

And this is the end of my little preach. Amen.

© 23 April 2018

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Backseat of the Car, by Phillip Hoyle

I recall all too clearly the opening lyric of a song from the mid 70s, one that had its origin in the Jesus Movement and made its way to Wichita, Kansas, where I worked in a church. Someone in the youth group had heard it and since it had only three or four chords picked it up and sang it to us while strumming his guitar. “I’m just sitting in the backseat…” Although I was appalled at it for both its musical and theological simplicity, I saw clearly why it appealed.

I could just picture the California newly saved young person sitting in the backseat toking while Jesus, his ever so polite chauffeur took him here and there in the spiritual fantasy that dominated his smoke-filled imagination. I wondered if the Jesus driving the car was wearing a uniform or a long white robe. And I wondered at the sanity of the person singing the song—not the young person in my youth group– but perhaps a generation of true believers who hopefully assumed that the good God would solve all their problems. Just believe, they asserted, and open the back door of the car.

Immediately upon hearing the song my mind went to a lyric written years before by Paul Evans of six girls complaining to the driver, “Keep your mind on your driving/Keep your hands on the wheel/Keep your snoopy eyes on the road ahead/We’re having fun sitting in the back seat/Kissing and a hugging with Fred.” We laughed as we kids sang that song from the backseat of the car. But the “I” who heard the gospel song sighed, “At least in the gospel ditty Jesus is in the front seat.” There was so much romanticizing of Christianity in those mid-20th century days when people were often urged to fall in love with God or with Jesus.

The little backseat song did nothing positive for me. I hated the simplistic melody that sounded like music in a TV ad for dish soap. Its cleverness seemed so juvenile. Now, my objection wasn’t in its attempt to communicate in a popular medium. Actually my objection was to its misappropriation of John Calvin’s doctrine of salvation by grace alone, and the lyric reminded me too much of the rather unattractive sermon I heard as a teenager from a cowboy preacher in which we were urged to make Jesus our Pardnuh. This song encouraged one to let Jesus, with whom the singer had a personal relationship, take the wheel. Why? So he could drive you to heaven? So you wouldn’t have to take responsibility for your life and decisions? It was just too sappy for me. I didn’t attack the song; the kids liked it and with all the social change underway churches were always interested when any kids wanted to go to church or church youth groups. Churches were in a great hurry to accommodate the culture. That’s not a bad program in a culture based on capitalism, a society given to popular advertising gimmicks, a religion offering some kind of salvation—I suppose. The problem is the basic one of all religious communication. It is based on metaphor. I though this song chose a flawed image—especially for teenagers. Had I said so out loud I would have been seen as hopeless for work in youth ministry. That didn’t worry me. I already knew I was or at least was little interested to continue with that job description.

© 6 March 2017

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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From the Pulpit by Phillip Hoyle

In the churches where I worshipped and worked, rants about homosexuality did not come from the pulpit but, rather, from the pew. In fact, the only homosexual statement I heard from the pulpit was a quote from an early 1950s semi-autobiographical novel, Go Tell It on the Mountain, by James Baldwin. The preacher made no allusion to Baldwin’s sexuality or any condemnation of the writer. He made no apology for using a quote from a literary best seller. What the preacher knew of Baldwin, I don’t know.

But there was a history in America, a tradition in Euro-American societies that made homosexuality more than a bad thing. Years of silence over the matter continued in the 20th century by sending homosexuals to counseling or to sanitariums. Folk who lived homosexual lives ran away to cities getting lost in urban concentration. Surely their condition was something foreign, out of the ordinary, and ‘here in our little Eden, will not be tolerated.’ Any change of public or even family perception of one’s sexuality caused folk to move away. Silence reigned.

Then the US saw the beginnings of the Civil Rights movements. With it came sensitivity training. The women’s movements, Black power movements, Gay Pride movements, and other liberation movements began to influence law making and law enforcement. They changed even the way the military went about its training and work.

Fears of these new powers fed the growth of conservative reactionary movements. Evangelical churches ended their lethargy and began focusing on influencing public life. They increasingly removed themselves from moderate and liberal denominations. For instance, many evangelicals left the United Presbyterian Church when that denomination’s Social Action committee helped fund Black woman radical Angela Davis’s defense in court. Then the same reactionaries rose up against what they saw as an attack on the modern American family. They wrote books on the way things were supposed to be. They were disturbed by their own children’s refusal to follow traditional ways. Their middle-class kids preferred to live with their spousal picks without the advantages of marriage. Someone had to pay. Very hurt, nice folk turned the accusing finger against gay males condemning them for trying to destroy the family with their gay agenda. Their vitriolic attack resulted in a split in public life.

While in college in the late 1960s I focused on reading about homosexual experience. Then I made my first adult friendship with another musician who was gay. Throughout the 70s I continued reading a rapidly expanding literature and minutely examined the nature of my own sexuality in which I was not really surprised to find a homosexual core. My self-consideration meant to create and maintain a balancing act of faith, morality, and ethics.

In 1968 the church denomination in which I worked voted to proclaim publically that gays and lesbians deserved the same civil rights as all other American citizens. I went to seminary a few years later. There I met more gays, fell in love with a man, read more about what churches were saying and doing, and costumed myself as a gay man when attending a minorities group at the seminary. I did so as a show of solidarity. Surely my actions were also a self-revelation of my own bisexuality.

As church clergy I started teaching my balancing act of faith, morality and ethics. My wife, children, and I were open and affirming of gays and lesbians. We welcomed gays and lesbians into our home. We travelled with two homosexuals to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. My studies embraced the issues. In one local congregation I led a seminar about human sexuality positing a bi-sexual norm for its consideration.

Finally I understood that I was going to live a homosexual life. My affairs with men pushed me into a much deeper understanding of myself. I was tired of church work. I didn’t know how to solve my domestic dilemma. I dropped out of church leadership and eventually of congregational life.

In my thirty-two years of ministry, I had observed a marked change in congregational attitudes toward homosexuality, particularly toward homosexual ministers. In fairness, I believe that lay attitudes didn’t so much change as they got expressed. In our denomination the discussion at times became vitriolic being attached to a larger fight for dominance between conservative and liberal factions.

I heard heated words: accusations of not being biblical, arguments arising from holiness code excerpts from Leviticus, assumptions that anyone involved in any homosexual activity must repent or go to hell, and so forth. Eventually I received messages from family members registering both their rejection of me while living in such a sinful life and prayers for my reconciliation and redemption. I had to receive them as truly hopeful but reject them as a path I might follow.

Early on in my ministry I realized I might get in trouble over homosexual issues in the church when I suggested to a man I really liked that he shouldn’t use anti-homosexual humor. I did so because he was using it among the men in the cast of a play we were producing for a Maundy Thursday service. The young man playing the Jesus role was homosexual. The man I criticized was playing Judas. There was the obligatory kiss. Perhaps my Judas was simply playing out his part or perhaps he was also secretly homosexual. I have no idea and say none of this as accusation. Both men were beautiful to me. I didn’t want the church member to be making the guest Jesus uncomfortable. I also realized that my non-public warning to the jokester might be just the kind of thing that I would pay for. Still, for the greater good of the play and of the persons involved, I suggested such humor was out of place.

I saw this kind of thing several times in my career. I tried to keep an even keel for the old ark of the church, one that didn’t alienate the more conservative but also made a place for the more liberal or, as some conservatives thought, the more sinful or worldly. I preached that the world and the world of the church was very large encompassing unimaginable diversity. I encouraged loving forbearance and acceptance of that diversity. I quietly preached such a doctrine for thirty-two years. Finally I had preached enough.

I have read and heard the anti-gay rhetoric. I have analyzed the pick-and-choose approach of scriptural proofs. I came to realize I had made different picks and choices of proofs to maintain a consistent logic in a commitment to the image of the creative and ultimately loving God. I declare myself a Christian, and although I’ve retired from the clergy and haven’t preached in a church for over fourteen years, I have one last sermon to preach. Listen.

Some folk seem to think that one cannot be Christian and gay. Well, I’m announcing from my pulpit that I am one such person, a gay Christian. There are thousands, tens of thousands others like me, who do not accept the rejecting authority of would-be representatives of the Truth. These accusers assume the role of the god in their communications of condemnation. Tens of thousands like me also reject the more subtle settlement of many churches that one can be homosexual but cannot live in that way. These judges condemn having sex with a person of the same sex even in a committed marriage, itself anathema in their view.

My pulpit announces the beauty and norm of gay marriage or any other loving, living arrangements. My pulpit announces the end of the holiness code like any self-respecting dispensationalist preacher should. My pulpit announces a new beginning of the ancient standards of love, felicity, and creativity in all human relationships. Oh well, lest this sermon go on too long, I’ll follow the advice of one preacher’s wife who told her husband when he was done, he should simply say “Amen” and sit down.

Amen.

© 2015

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Spirituality, by Gillian

“I don’t believe in God, but I miss him….” Julian Barnes

I haven’t believed in God since I decided, at the age of nine, that it was all hogwash; at least, in the way God was portrayed by the church. I did miss him, but believing is not something you can learn or force yourself to do. You either do or you don’t, and I didn’t. However, not believing left me with, as they say, a god-shaped hole. It was this, I suspect, which drove me, eventually, to begin to delve seriously into Spirituality, and so, a few years ago, to a group at the nearby Senior Center who were about to read, and discuss, Eckhart Tolle’s book, A New Earth.

OK. I know those of you who have been in this group for a while are sick of me droning on about Tolle, so feel free to groan loudly right now and get it over with.

(Pause for communal groan!)

But he became, via that group, my spiritual guide and leader. Not that his thoughts are original, as he would be the first to say, but he combines the best thoughts of the other main spiritual teachers from Buddha to Christ and many many more, and nets them out succinctly and in a language so easily understood. And, most valuable of all, he then proceeds to illustrate each point with everyday examples, and makes it clear how we can apply it to our own lives; our own inner selves.

At the first of these study-group meetings we were all asked to say what we hoped to get out of the group. I completely surprised myself by saying,

‘Peace for my soul.’

Where on earth had that come from? I had never spent very much time contemplating the condition of my soul. Not only did I not know it was not at peace, I most certainly did not know that I knew it. My, how we can astonish ourselves at times!

To cut a rambling story short, I have most definitely found that inner peace I needed via Tolle’s teachings and practices. Not to infer, lest you get the wrong idea, that my work is now done and I can relax. Oh, no no! Spirituality, like anything worth doing, requires endless effort and constant practice.

Let’s take just one aspect of the myriad facets of Spirituality; living in The Now. Tolle clearly thinks this is one of the biggies, as he devoted a whole book, The Power of Now, to the topic. Of course what it’s all about is keeping your mind and spirit in the present, not your body. Where else would a body find itself, after all? But somehow our minds, whisked away on thoughts, love to linger in the past or dash off into the future; and so we rob ourselves of the present. That voice in our heads drones on endlessly, reminding us of how much better things were before Mom and Dad divorced, Hubby left with that young chick, or the kids left home. Or piling on the guilt: if we’d been better parents Roger wouldn’t be an alcoholic, or Sally would not have run off with that complete delinquent. Or we trip off into the future on a sequence of what ifs. What if we lose our jobs, or that pain turns out to be cancer, or those damn Republicans take away our Social Security? Or we fall into the trap of coloring all future happenings with a rosy glow which reality can never live up to and we condemn ourselves to endless disappointment. Words chatter continuously in our heads. Tolle refers to it as the tapes playing over and over, though he’s rather dating himself there. I supposed a more up-to-date image might be u-tube videos constantly playing, but that didn’t feel quite right to me. Then it came to me. Of course! Streaming! That’s exactly what it is; words streaming endlessly across your mind and filling up your thoughts.

But, oh, the glorious peace, the blessed silence, when you can just turn that streaming off.

These days I rarely fall victim to that endless chatter, and if I do, I can usually recognize it and shut it off. The last time I remember really having to deal with it was when I treated my wrist to a compound fracture in a silly ping pong fall. I lay at St. Jo’s being prepped for surgery and the words were streaming and screaming. You knew you were wearing the wrong shoes but did you bother to change them? No! What an idiot. Why don’t you act like a grown-up? Didn’t you learn anything from when you broke your ankle? You’re a moron. And now what? We’re planning to go off on a camping trip soon but now you won’t be able to drive for who knows how long and Betsy won’t want to do all that driving herself and anyhow what sense does it make to go camping at all with broken wrist. A fine mess you’ve made of things. Why in hell didn’t you change your shoes……and round and round the voice goes, over and over and over.

Finally I recognized what was happening and applied the brake which Tolle recommends. A few deep breaths, relax, and ask yourself a very simple question. But what exactly is wrong this very moment, this exact current second tick of the clock? And almost invariably the answer is – nothing. Absolutely nothing. Yes, my wrist was hurting a bit, but that was it. All that angst was over whys and what-ifs of past and future. Keep yourself in the now, and there are no problems, no recriminations, no anger or guilt or fear. That one key question is one of the most healing things in my life.

At first this whole concept confused me. Other Spiritual teachers I read had the same concept, of living in The Now, but I didn’t quite get it. I have to live in this world. I have to plan when to take my car in for service and what to buy for the week’s groceries and what to write for Monday afternoon, and so what if I like to remember that wonderful beach in Mexico or think fondly of my mother in days long gone? Ah, Mr. Tolle to the rescue! Another question to ask myself. Am I in psychological time or clock time? Clock time has no emotional entanglements, it is purely for practical use. What time are we meeting for lunch? Psychological time is time that comes with all that baggage. Remembering Mom is fine, but not if the memories are accompanied by resentment, or guilt, or any of the multitudes of emotions we entangle ourselves with, drag them into the present, and ruin a perfectly peaceful Now.

Strangely, for me, Spirituality has provided all those things that I rejected when offered by the Church: angels and demons, Heaven and Hell, and, yes, God. None of these are in the form religion offers them, but they work for me in their re-creations. All of them are within me. They are me. And through spiritual practices I will get more in touch with those I need, and learn to minimize those I reject. Simply, I must believe in me; that me who is part of everything, as everything is part of me. And therein lies true peace. At least for me.

© January 2015

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Angels by Ricky

I don’t believe in angels, at least not androgynous beings with wings that one sees in classical religious paintings. I do believe in messengers from God and, in these contemporary times, those messengers we call “angels”. I have never knowingly seen one nor have I had anyone give me a message from God. The one time a voice in my head warned me that two boys riding on one bicycle would fall down into the path of my car, the warning did not pass through my ears first but went directly into my brain and did not resemble or feel like my thoughts.

I attribute that warning to either the Holy Ghost or to one of the boys’ Guardian Angel because, if it had been my brain’s analysis of the situation, I expect the warning: 1. would not have been repeated with more emphasis and, 2. with an explanation that was a statement of fact—not speculation. On the other hand, I don’t know if guardian angels exist as some believe, but the above incident leaves my mind open to the idea.

When one has received the Gift of the Holy Ghost the Holy Ghost will be one’s constant companion as long as one remains sufficiently righteous. Since the “voice” in my head was not mine, I can believe it was the Holy Ghost. I don’t even want to consider, “if not the Holy Ghost, who else is in here with me?” I’m pretty sure guardian angels would be external to my body. So perhaps it is some Heavenly spirit hiding out as it were–sort of like being in the closet. More likely than that, it could be my split personality—my 12-year old self lurking in the background and not yet fully integrated into one whole adult. I prefer the Holy Ghost version.

There are three kinds of angels. Not to be flippant, but two categories are good ones and bad ones. Good ones serve God and the bad ones serve not God but whatever name one calls the supernatural being who is opposed to most of what God wants. There are two subcategories within the good and bad categories. Now pay attention even though there is no test later.

The first subcategory is angels who are “Resurrected Beings” which are people already resurrected and now serving as messengers (angels) of God. Most Christian denominations believe that only Christ has been resurrected and that everyone else must wait until “the morning of the first resurrection” sometime in the future. [See KJV Mathew 27: 52-53 for the truth of “resurrected beings”.]

The second subcategory is angels who have “Spirit Bodies” which are those who have not yet been resurrected, or yet been born to receive their bodies, or are among the spirits cast out of Heaven during their rebellion against God and thus cannot have been resurrected yet. [KJV Revelations 12:7-9] Of these, the first two listed serve God and the spirits “cast out” serve the not God that you can name yourself.

If you are ever visited by an angel, how can you tell which type, good or bad, you are talking too? Apparently, angels have laws or rules they must obey. Just ask them to shake hands. If the angel is a resurrected being he will shake hands with you. If the angel is still in his spirit body, one serving God will refuse to shake hands while one serving “the one you must name” will shake hands but you will not feel his hand in yours. What could be simpler, assuming that being in the presence of an angel will not have reduced you to a quivering mass of protoplasm barely able to function let alone remaining rational?

The third of the three main categories of “angels” is where we humans have assigned angelic attributes or qualities to mortal men, women, and children. Hence, the popular phrase, “You are such an angel.” Many such mortals probably deserve the comparison at least until their “feet of clay” are uncovered and exposed to the world, if they are famous enough. Mother Theresa’s case comes to mind. Personally, I can overlook her shortcomings and remember her as serving God among the poor.

As I said at the beginning of this piece, I have no experience with actual angels that I consciously know of but, from what little of him that I do know, I view our group member, Pat Gourley, as an angel due to his work among the sick and dying. Florence Nightingale, Mary Martha Reid, Catharine Merrill, Anna Etheridge, Cornelia Hancock, Louisa May Alcott, Clara Barton, and Walt Whitman were also famous nurses working among the sick and dying. Pat has followed in the path of nursing “greats”. Surely, he deserves the mortal title of “angel” despite any flaws he may have. I am sure God will judge him kindly because, as Jesus said, “Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [KJV Mathew 25:40 – see verses 35-40 for the complete concept]

I believe many people engage in angelic-like behaviors at one time or another. As we go through life, let us all remember the words of King Mosiah from the Book of Mormon, “And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.” [Mosiah 2:17]

© 13 December 2014

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Angels and Archangels by Phillip E. Hoyle

Save me from angels! They’re too fiercesome. Why even in the ancient Hebrew book Tobit, young Tobias’s guardian angel Raphael carried a sword. That angel was no sentimental Europeanized childhood protector but rather the leader of the angelic host, the army that surrounded the throne of the great Lord, God of Israel. Raphael served the one that no one could look upon and live. And then someone said of me that I was an angel—this after I’d lost my lover Michael to an AIDS related cancer. Of course, somewhat like Raphael did with Tobias I walked with Michael on his way to test after test at Denver Health, accompanied him during his chemotherapy sessions, picked him up from the floor when he fell, helped him to the restroom, cleaned up after him, loved him mightily during his rapid decline in health. I also sat with him while he died. Many things actually. That seemed simple love proffered to a beloved, not something magical or mystical; simple love mixed with profound responsibility.

When Michael’s friend told someone I was an angel, I’m sure the man meant something very sentimental. But mythological? I don’t know. At the time I was in no mood to be either kind of angel. I was angry at my loss and all too aware that my late arrival in Michael’s life journey saved his closest friends many, many hours of care giving. I was not going to be consoled by anyone’s guilty feelings or sincere intentions. And besides, I knew my journey into this love and my imperfect execution of love’s demands. I knew myself all too well. Spare me the blather.

Now we’re talking mythology here, but it always seems to get mixed up with sentimentality. I abhor that! Still I don’t know how to get beyond it to something more constructive. It’s always easier to criticize than to create something new.

A couple of years later I again got called an angel this time after the HIV-related death of my Rafael. His Mexican mom told his Puerto Rican social worker that I had been his angel in his last months. I’m sure he had dramatized for her just what we had going—probably with too many details for her comfort. He insisted that she understand our love. The case manager told me what she expressed. Somehow since the ascription occurred cross-culturally and from a devout Roman Catholic person, I could more easily accept it being assigned to me. For her to say so was a breakthrough of acceptance, one I knew her dying son demanded of her. She was strong in her love and although she didn’t say it directly to me, she did convey it through a third-party, a way of communicating much more Mexican than American. I realized I did serve somehow as a messenger of the divine love, acceptance, and care to a young man who had meant no harm, who had experienced too little love, and who had broken too many Mexican taboos in his too short life. My love for him, whom I found somehow beautiful enough to assign godly terms, made me happy to provide the divine service however it was perceived and interpreted by others.

Our affair was in so many ways perfectly divine—even in the ancient Judeo-Christian sense with the fearful God who sent fearful angelic troops to announce to freaked out shepherds that they were to receive a great joy, one for all humankind! Whatever my role, whether angel or shepherd, I was finally pleased—oh so pleased—to be in the middle of such a divine drama.

Some months after Rafael’s death I told the man who had irked me with his angelic name calling that I would not care to meet another man named for an archangel—no more Michaels or Raphaels for me. He smiled and with an arched eyebrow and sly grin asked, “Well, what if his name was, say, Lucifer? Could that get your attention?”

“Probably,” I admitted.

© 15 December 2014

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot

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Spirituality by Ricky

In my opinion, there are five kinds of “spirituality”: spirituality of the first kind, spirituality of the second kind, spirituality of the third kind (not to be confused with the movie of a similar name), spirituality of the fourth kind, and spirituality of the fifth kind.

The first kind of spirituality I call Mysticism. Wikipedia defines mysticism as a multitude “…of distinctive practices, discourses, texts, institutions, traditions, and experiences aimed at human transformation, variously defined in different traditions.”

The second kind of spirituality I call Spiritualistism. I define this as people who believe they can talk to spirits with or without a human medium. This definition includes extreme “pot heads” and dopers.

The third kind of spirituality I call Hate Mongerism. These are the people who profess to follow a religion of love and peace, but preach intolerance, hatred and violence. A subcategory of Hate Mongerism is Demonism. These are preachers who demonize people that have a different culture, lifestyle, or belief system; but do not preach hatred towards those demonized.

The fourth kind of spirituality I call Spiritsulaity or just plain  Alcoholism. (Enough said about that.)

Spirituality of the fifth kind is what I have. (Hint: it is none of the above.)

© 26 January 2015

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Drifting by Pat Gourley

A secondary definition of “drifting” is to be driven into heaps by the wind. This particular definition reminds me of one of my favorite childhood experiences when growing up in Northern Indiana in what is called the Snow Belt. That of course was the several times a winter when we would get snowed in and be unable to get to school, a Catholic grade school about ten miles north of our farm.

I grew up on a farm on a rural country road in a part of Indiana that was the frequent beneficiary of snow squalls coming off the southern end of Lake Michigan. These squalls were often driven by strong winter winds out of the northwest that would gather moisture off the lake and dumped it right on us in the form of snow. The issue with getting truly snowbound often depended on whether or not there was significant drifting. When that occurred it would often take the county plows twenty-four to sometimes seventy-two hours to get us plowed out. We lived in the southern end of La Porte County, an Irish Catholic enclave, and plowing our little country lane was never a first priority it seemed.

This of course suited me, my brothers and sisters and cousins up and down the road just fine. Looking back on those years particularly grades one through eight when I was attending St. Peter Catholic grade school in La Porte I was not a very happy student, particularly after the fourth grade. I had this rather spontaneous and precocious, OK perhaps the adjective should be flamboyant, quality to my personality. For reasons I am now completely unaware of and perhaps was even oblivious to myself back then I learned it was best to tone it down a bit and you would fit in better. Better to drift along with the prevailing current than to turn around and try to swim upstream. I never went crazy though because I had a great mom and dad whose unconditional positive regard was always unflinching.

By the time I had reached eighth grade and my early teen years I was much more withdrawn though considered by my peers and teachers to be a serious young man perhaps headed to the priesthood and a pretty good student. Perhaps this was why in part I was chosen to play the role of Jesus in out eighth-grade Easter week play. We literally read from one of the gospels, not the most creative of productions. Which gospel it was escapes me but it was the Passion of Christ as it was played out in those tomes and dealt with the drama of holy week leading up of course to the crucifixion and resurrection.

For a little gay kid who would later be fascinated and tentatively drawn to the queer S/M subculture I was probably on some level disappointed that the crucifixion part was really skipped over as I recall. No loin clothes or whips for this little Jesus. It was a Catholic school remember and those Holy Cross nuns had no sense of humor or perhaps worse no realization of what sorts of nasty transgressions could really feel good, no sense of the erotic. Some of my best lines in the play though were after the resurrection. I got to be Jesus in large part because I was perceived to be the best little boy in the world.

That I was tormented with a reality that I was somehow very different from the other little boys was something I would have at the time guarded to my death. I do though remember thinking what a phony I was playing Jesus, being the big old sinner I was sure I was. Not that any sort of gay sex had remotely occurred for me yet. The biggest transgressions involved laying naked along the local river bank in the summer with several of my male siblings and cousins all of us sporting hard-ons and talking about how girls got pregnant. Believe me it was not the thought of a penis in a vagina that was doing the trick for me but the sight of other erect penises all within touching distance and what a magical phenomenon that was to behold!

Back to drifting. That really was how I was getting by in those years from fifth grade until my family moved up to Northern Illinois at age sixteen when my whole life changed for the better in ways unimaginable. Just drifting and allowing myself to be buffeted and intimidated by the strong winds that were the Catholic Church and its many minions and their truly perverted worldview. How ironic that it was that a couple of those same minions in the form of a commie-pinko nun and a queer male guidance counselor allowed me to stop being buffeted by the wind and instead to lunge headlong into the winds of change sweeping the whole country in the late 1960’s: something that proved to be much more soul quenching than just drifting along.

© July 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Magic by Ricky

No matter how hard we wish or dream or day-dream about the concept, “magic” does not exist. This is assuredly a very good thing because who among us is perfect enough to use such power wisely and judiciously. Certainly no one I know of or heard of. All people have thoughts and ideas of what they would do with the ability to utilize “magical” power. Some would attempt to do good deeds, some altruistic deeds, or to meet personal needs and to meet the needs of others. But also there would be those who abuse the potential magic offers by enriching themselves at the expense of others or to commit crimes against others or society at large. What if the Nazis, Stalin, homophobes, or even homosexuals had such power? Or worst yet religious leaders. How would you like to be a Methodist one minute and a Catholic (or some other religion) the next, always changing at random intervals as some religious fanatic uses his “magic”?  The result is chaos. Only in story books like Isaac Asimov’s Foundation, is there a “happy ending,” but still with the loss of “free will.”

No! No one can be trusted to wield such power. It would destroy our ability to choose our own destiny. I am the most perfect person I know, but I cannot even trust myself. If I cannot be trusted with such power, then no one should.

Stage magicians don’t have magic. They know only the “secrets” of sleight-of-hand, smoke, mirrors, and misdirection. They are the masters of illusion only.

Religious magic is usually referred to as “miracles”. While some reported miraculous events may be very hard, if not impossible, to believe, others are not so easily dismissed out of hand. While scientific analysis using knowledge gained over the centuries may explain the cause-and-effect relationship to certain mystical or miraculous occurrences which follow the laws of nature, there still remains the issue of the timing/occurrence of the miraculous event matching the recorded need at the precise moment. Undoubtedly, even those “coincidences” will be “scientifically” explained someday.

Too many coincidences indicate that some not understood “force” is at work. As the fictional character, Sherlock Holmes, said in Chapter Six of The Sign of Four, “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?” The problem for us today is to determine exactly “what is impossible.” If it is true that “whatever man can imagine, he can do,” then ultimately, is anything really impossible?

Perhaps there is some reality to the “power of belief” that has yet to be scientifically proven as legitimate and fact.

There is one area where “magic” is real—within the usage of language and music to convey a specific aura or feeling. One can describe a sunrise or sunset using words which accurately and literally express the scene being viewed with a dry and boring text. But alter the words used just a little and add music and the word “magical” describing how it made you feel — and the impact does indeed swell within one’s breast.

This then is the real realm of magic; taking common everyday occurrences in nature or life and giving them the power to influence our lives for better or worse.

© 26 August 2013

About the Author

I was born in June of 1948 in Los Angeles, living first in Lawndale and then in Redondo Beach. Just prior to turning 8 years old in 1956, I began living with my grandparents on their farm in Isanti County, Minnesota for two years during which time my parents divorced.

When united with my mother and stepfather two years later in 1958, I lived first at Emerald Bay and then at South Lake Tahoe, California, graduating from South Tahoe High School in 1966. After three tours of duty with the Air Force, I moved to Denver, Colorado where I lived with my wife and four children until her passing away from complications of breast cancer four days after the 9-11 terrorist attack.

I came out as a gay man in the summer of 2010. I find writing these memories to be therapeutic.

My story blog is TheTahoeBoy.Blogspot.com

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Shopping and Drinking by Pat Gourley

If by drinking we were referring to alcohol with this topic selection I was never much of an over-the-top imbiber despite my Irish heritage but I did enjoy a frequent vodka tonic and often found the buzz very enjoyable. It also made the company of some others in my social life much more tolerable when alcohol was part of the mix. Oh and of course would gay bar cruising have been at all feasible or at least remotely enjoyable without a few drinks under one’s belt?

Not being particularly adept at the art of semi-inebriated cruising is the reason I suppose I was attracted to the bathes. Though I would certainly on occasion go to the tubs having partaken of some hallucinogen or the other in the 1970’s my preference was to be totally sober. A state I found much more facilitating for lining up a good fuck or two.

I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in the past five or so years related to my pancreatic issues. These problems seemed to have started with several renegade gallstones that found their way into my main pancreatic duct. If you have never experienced it pancreatitis is something to be avoided at all costs. I have a niece who has experienced both several natural childbirths and bouts of pancreatitis and she is adamant that she would always take the childbirth over the pancreatitis if given the choice.

Having my gallbladder removed seemed to only partially address the issue, so blame stared to fall on the years of HIV meds I have been on. The choice there is pretty clear – learn to live with and adjust the meds or slowly cash it in. Since alcohol is the greatest of all pancreatic irritants that seemed a small sacrifice to make.

Two things about my lack of alcohol consumption though have surprised me. The first is how little I seem to miss it especially the further in the past it is. The second is I have come to realize how very little sense others are making after a few drinks. When I am around friends and they are drinking, and I am not, the whole scene often becomes nearly unbearable after a few hours. Were the conversations when I was drinking as boring and banal as these discussions now seem to be by about 9 PM and a couple bottles of wine later? What is pronounced with great gusto as profound after having had a couple drinks really isn’t as erudite as it might seem sober!

When it comes to shopping this falls into the category of “didn’t get that gay gene either” for me, sort of like Opera I guess. When I think of shopping I know that can apply to all sorts of stuff but clothes come to mind. I have never been much of a clothes’ horse as any one who knows me can attest and in part I blame the fact that I am really quite colorblind. Oh and I am quite a lazy fuck really and spending time searching for clothing that matches and in fashion falls into the category of watching paint dry.

These days comfort takes preference always and that means loose fitting shirts and pants with an elastic waistband. I haven’t worn a belt in years. My work life can happen in scrubs, the greatest medical invention of all time. I really only wear scrub pants everywhere, that is except when sleeping. I have slept nude since college. I learned the freedom and joy of nude sleeping from a straight college roommate my first year in the dorms when he would most mornings wake up having kicked off his covers and sporting a delightfully erect penis – good morning indeed.

Again thanks to years of HIV meds and the resulting metabolic syndrome I have an inordinate amount of belly fat. Before you say just put down the Ben and Jerry’s I would gladly point out my skinny face, extremities and less than bubbly butt. I am not really overweight at all it is just a distribution nightmare.

In an attempt to try and further weave in the element of impermanence to this piece I am going to delve into what was truly an existential crisis I had last week after reading a piece on global warming a Buddhist writer named Zhiwa Woodbury had posted on a great site called ECOBUDDHISM : http://www.ecobuddhism.org
Despite the snow in Denver in the middle of May, not a particularly unusual occurrence actually, a long list of really unassailable facts presented by Woodbury results in his final conclusion, which is that “the great anthropocentric dying is upon us – and our condition is terminal.”

After reading his piece I was nearly overcome with a sense of hopelessness. A very unusual feeling for me since I have been at least partially successful at incorporating that whole Buddhist theme that we really need to focus on the moment and that pondering the future or even sillier the past is really just a recipe for suffering.

I have for quite sometime believed that the human race is going to be a short lived evolutionary digression but that Gaia, life in some form, would persist until perhaps the sun burns itself out in a few more billion years. Part of what bummed me out so about the ECOBUDDHISM piece was his strong case for the whole show unraveling in just a few short decades perhaps while I am still alive. Again, still a strange reaction on my part especially in light of the fact that I have lived with HIV for more than 30 years now and much of the past 25 year spent working in an AIDS clinic. I have looked death in the face more times than I have cared to and somehow managed to keep my head above water throughout it all. I need to explore and write on this further so you can expect more tortured and twisted topic manipulation on my part as a form of psychotherapy at Story Telling.

I guess I just find it incredibly sad that this beautiful planet and our incredibly unlikely existence on it are so being disrespected. Perhaps that is the inescapable nature of being human at this stage of our evolution: if we only had a few more millennia to get our act together. There is plenty of blame to go around and I’ll accept my share. My personal, really rather pathetic response to the impending sixth great extinction seems to be turning down the thermostat, driving a fuel efficient car, walking whenever I can, recycling, oh, and of course less shopping.

May, 2014

About the Author

I was born in La Porte,
Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of
my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse,
gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an
extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.