Sex, Lies, and Videotape

You do not have to be good, (Saint) Mary Oliver reassures us in her iconic poem, Wild Geese. You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
You only—that single word carries the weight of our lives, our life work, our love. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

As if it were an easy task, a simple thing to merely choose to be real, to be vulnerable, to let your soft animal self seek that which brings comfort, love, joy, holiness. This world in which we live, however, does not let us only love what we love; it creates barriers of shame, barbed wire fences of conformity, so that in order to love what we love freely, in order to be shameless in how our bodies come together with others, we must first dismantle all of the barriers society, culture, and the church puts up to keep us in our place, to weigh us down with guilt, to make us behave. There are so many layers to tear off of our bodies in order to find out who we really are.

First, of course, there’s the layer of compulsory heterosexuality. Often, for those of us who are queer, we get immediately re-routed onto the gay or straight track. This completely ignores the wonderful and beautiful reality that our sexuality does not run on a single track but rather there is a diversity of who and how we love. Very few of us fall into the narrowly defined three main categories of straight, gay, lesbian. For most of us, myself included, sexual attraction and desire, even, perhaps, romantic love, are not projected on to one gender; rather all sorts of things come into play: energy, intelligence, humor, kindness, compassion. I like to say I am a sapiosexual—someone who is attracted to smart people. J

Even beyond the gender of who we desire, our sexuality becomes more complex: a straight man who likes to “cross dress,” a married heterosexual couple who invites a third person into their relationship, a woman who is a ”top” in the BDSM community, a man who is submissive. Just think of the glorious diversity of our bodies, our sexualities, our ways of expressing the holy through our sexual activities!  And just think what particular flavor you bring to the arena of safe, sane sex between consenting adults!

And have you ever felt shame for what you desire? Have you ever thought you were the only one? Have you ever shared your sexual fantasies with your lover or were you afraid they would reject you, or worse, laugh? Most of us have been taught very well society’s lesson that there is a proscribed way to be sexual and to do otherwise is to be deviant, perverted, just plain weird. In fact you do have to crawl across the desert 100 miles repenting and telling the soft animal of your body to ignore what it loves.

That’s why I’m always so grateful to see what’s hidden in our common humanity suddenly brought out into the open in glorious Technicolor on the big screen. The title of this post, Sex, Lies and Videotape, is an early attempt to show the vulnerabilities and particularities of the lives we live when no one’s looking, but there are three, more recent films, that I like to lift up as exposing our humanities, celebrating our sexualities, reveling in our quirkiness, and finding the holy in our embodied lives.

The first one is Secretary, (2002) starring James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal. In this movie, Gyllenhaal plays an awkward young woman (Lee Holloway) who struggles to find her power. Recently released from an inpatient facility after she was discovered cutting herself, she lands her first job as secretary to the lawyer, (ironically named Mr. Grey) played by James Spader. Grey is hiding a secret: he finds pleasure, the sacred, connection in being a dominant man in sex. He always slips up, and then hates himself, and tries to go back to the straight and narrow. Holloway has never been in a relationship, is meek, and naturally submissive. Ultimately, the relationship between the two crosses the line from employer/employee to a dominant/submissive sexual relationship. Ironically, it is Maggie’s character, Lee, who has the strength and courage to acknowledge this is real and it is good; indeed, being submissive is how she finds her power. It’s an R rated movie, no nudity, but definitely shows some sexual scenes that are about dominant/submissive relationships.

The second movie is Shortbus (2006) and is about  a group of New Yorkers who go to a sexual salon to try to find love, meaning, connection. All flavors—or many, anyway—are represented here, from gay men to lesbians to a married straight woman who has never had an orgasm, to the drag queen host, Justin Bond, who hosts the sexual salon nightly in his home. This movie is EXTREMELY SEXUALLY GRAPHIC. I mean VERY, VERY SEXUALLY GRAPHIC. It is unrated and the sex is real, not simulated, and nothing is left to the imagination. And it is not pornographic--at least, not in my mind. There is a very poignant plot in this film that follows the lives of people we see on the street everyday, as they seek to find ways to meaningfully connect with others, to know themselves truly, and to just find grace. In case you didn’t catch this point, SHORTBUS IS VERY, VERY SEXUALLY GRAPHIC.  The opening montage is the most intense scene, if you can make it through that, you’ll be fine. The story is the important thing, and the fact that it is shared from a naked, vulnerable point of view.

And finally, the one I love most: Lars and the Real Girl (2007.) In this charming movie, Ryan Gosling plays Lars, a young man who has severe social anxiety. He and his older brother were raised by their dad after their mom died giving birth to Lars.  The older brother left as soon as he could, and got married, leaving Lars to be raised by his very sad, very grief-stricken father. Now the father has died, the brother and his pregnant wife move back, and Lars moves to the garage. He is shy and awkward, and isolates himself, going only to work and church. But that all changes when he orders a life-size, life-like (and anatomically correct) doll on the internet. She arrives in a box, he tells his brother and sister-in-law he has a friend and then brings in Bianca. The doctor (who is also a psychologist in this small town) tells the brother that Lars is delusional; that Bianca is a real girl to him and suggests they go along with it, that clearly he needed to work something out. The film revolves around the way his brother and sister-in-law come to terms with this odd relationship, how they rally the whole town, including Lars’ church, to accept Bianca into the life of the town. They do so spectacularly! Soon Bianca has a job, volunteers at the library and sports a new hair cut. What I love about this film is that it just exposes our humanity. Lars’ brother’s first impulse was to say that Lars should be institutionalized. He wanted this aberration hidden away, he was afraid people would laugh at Lars—and him. But they went along with it, they all went along with it. They celebrated Lars unique relationship and welcomed Bianca into the community and in letting Bianca be a real girl, they let Lars be real, too.

You do not have to be good.(Saint) Mary soothes us with these words. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. She goes on to say, Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

What would happen if we could be real—if only with ourselves at first. If we could stop rejecting or ridiculing someone’s sexual desires merely because they aren’t ours, or we don’t understand. If we could allow the soft animal of our bodies to love what they love without judgment, fear, or shame. We are so wonderfully diverse. That’s something to celebrate, not hide. That’s coming home to our own unique place in this world.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

(Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver)

"The measuring stick of holiness or whole-iness would not be a pre-set, culture defined tiny prison of relationship but what brought wholeness, love, strength and the Divine into a deeper union with each person." --Nori Rost, from doctoral thesis

I finally chose this because it was the most gender-ambigious

My, my, my! Just try using google images to find an image that represents sacred sexuality and you'll be amazed at the vast amount of interpretations of that phrase. But there I was, tonight, looking for just such an image because I am joining with a group of fellow UU bloggers-- laity and ministers alike-- in blogging on sexuality this month. Or more accurately, to use the tagline we came up with, sexUUality. (Next on my to do list: figure out tagging on blogs; see below to see if I've been successful.)
 Further, I must confess that I am at least partially responsible for this. A few months ago one of the main bloggers in this UU Bloggers group posted that she was thinking of writing about sex and what did others think and should she have someone proof her post. I, brashly, impulsively suggested we all blog about sex at a set time in solidarity with one another! (Note: sometimes brash, impulsivity works, sometimes it doesn't. Like when I brashly, impulsively chose vegetarian over meat based diet for the UUMA Institute I just attended. Fortunately my friend and colleague,Gretchen Haley, was able to secure a meat-based meal ticket on day two, or I'm not sure I could have survived.)
At any rate, we chose the rather obvious month of February, due to Valentine's Day, and life went merrily along until it was, well, February, and now, the week of V-Day, and so here I am, devoting this week to talking about sex-- but not in some prurient or brutish way; I want to begin a conversation with you, my ten faithful readers, the other bloggers, and myself about how healthy, sacred sexuality can appear in our lives, through the different phases of our lives: single, coupled, exploring; in times of wild passion, aching desire, or deep rest. I want to include our bodies and our hearts and our spirits in this conversation as well. I want to talk about when our passions deepen our understanding of who we are and how we love, and when our passions seem to betray us, leaving us vulnerable to pain.
And here's good news for you, readers! Because I love to talk about sex so much (this is really true) I'm going to write not one, but two, or three, or maybe even four blogs this week!! Prepare to be scandalized. I'm for sure going to write about this book I'm starting to read tonight

The first sentence of this synopsis just about sums up the story of my life!

Written in 1932, this inside cover promises the reader (me) that "Mr. Clark has told, with feeling and genuine understanding, the story of a reckless girl whose natural chastity carries her through searing experiences to safety and happiness."


But wait! There's more! I will also be including a chapter from my doctoral thesis (from which the above quote is taken) that explores the theology of sexuality and spirituality, the intersections of

Ecclesiology, gender, and sex. That will be fairly academic-- and it's like over 20 pages long (double-spaced) but I think it has some good stuff in it. I want to write a bit about the sacredness of our bodies and our embodied experience. 

Then it occurred to me that maybe one of my ten faithful readers might have something they'd like to read about sex-- a question, or idea-- that they would like for me to expound upon and so I wanted to start this hot and heavy week with an invitation to you. If there's an aspect of sex, sexuality, sex and the sacred, embodiment, etc. that you would like for me to reflect upon, then please feel free to message me privately, or in the comments below, or email me and I will do my best (if appropriate, remember we're not teenagers here) to respond publicly in this blog this week.

“The antidote to exhaustion is not necessarily rest; the antidote to exhaustion is wholeheartedness.” – a response by Benedictine brother David Steindl-Rast to poet David Whyte, quoted in a sermon by Rev. Jennifer Ryu at the UUMA Center Institute for Excellence in Ministry

Photo credit: Michael Piazza

I spent this past week on the rugged Central Coast of California, in Monterey.  Around 500 UU ministers gathered there to attend the Institute for Excellence in Ministry, a week-long program of worship, workshops, and welcome rest. This is the third Institute I’ve attended and perhaps the best.

While there, in addition to attending the seminar on Preaching and Worship, facilitated by a friend and former colleague, Rev. Michael Piazza, now a United Church of Christ minister with the Center for Progressive Renewal, I also enjoyed the beautiful coast in the free time the conference planners thoughtfully included. I ran three days along the shore; the ocean’s crashing waves providing the sound track to my runs, with an occasional descant belted out by seagulls. There is so much oxygen at sea level, it felt glorious to run in the warm air; the sea salt mixed with my sweat, stinging my eyes, but I didn’t care. I just squinted a little and kept on running.

Another wonderful opportunity I had to visit the Butterfly Pavilion where the Monarch butterflies overwinter.  Pacific Grove, where I  stayed, is one of a handful of places in California where the Monarchs migrate as winter approaches. Although the Monarch butterflies are ubiquitous in the U.S and even as far north as Canada, they can’t survive the freezing temperatures and so, when the days get shorter and colder, they migrate. Generally, those east of the Rockies spend the winters in the high mountains of central Mexico, while those west of the Rockies come to California’s Central Coast.

It’s an amazing phenomenon in many ways: while traveling to their winter homes, they can fly as much as 200 miles a day, and take several months to arrive.  Astonishingly, the life span of the adult Monarch butterfly is only 2-4 weeks, so they live long enough to mate and lay the eggs for the next generation before dying. Unlike other migratory animals, then, the Monarch migrates to a sanctuary it has never seen; in fact several generations of Monarchs have been born as larvae, transformed into butterflies, and died before the ones I saw ever made to the safety of the eucalyptus, Monterey pine and Monterey cypress trees that provide shelter and food.

On my list of things to do before I’m 60, seeing the Monarch butterflies in their overwintering home was high on the list; imagine my delight when I discovered their winter habitat was only a mile from the hotel where I was staying! On our free time on Wednesday, my friend and colleague, Gretchen Haley, and I hiked to the Pavilion along a green trail with beautiful trees providing a dramatic, welcoming archway for us. Once there, we discovered the Pavilion was a simple path, open and free to the public, that wended its way through trees and bushes and there, halfway down the path, thousands upon thousands of Monarch butterflies flew in the air above us or clustered on trees so thickly they looked like a rich harvest of autumn leaves about to be unleashed upon the earth.

It was a cool, overcast afternoon, and so the monarchs kept close to the warmth and shelter of the trees but they were still amazing and marvelous to behold. I thought about their lives, their dedication to living in what is essentially a perpetual migration, laying eggs, before dying, the eggs hatching into larvae that become adorable caterpillars before that final transformation into the regal Monarch butterfly who would continue the cycle again. And I wondered how it felt, to be a part of the generations that got to gather together in the thousands, seeing their beauty reflected, as in a multi-faceted mirror of nature, in the wings and eyes and antennae of their brothers and sisters. I wondered how it would feel to be the a part of the generation that  leaves, finally, in the spring, going to far flung places across the nation to share their beauty with us.

Opening Worship Service at Institute for Excellence in Ministry

I thought of my own congregation of ministers just a mile down the road, and how it felt to be a part of the generation that comes together, that sees the peculiar beauty of what it means to be a minister reflected in the eyes and faces of my kindred folk who talk in the language of memorials and budgets, of baby naming and difficult divorces, of shepherding and exhorting.  It underscored for me the need for ministers to gather as a whole.

This was reflected in the powerful worship sessions where we ministers could sit in the congregation and be ministered to, rather than have to be the ones up on the chancel.  It gave ministers who love to sing a chance to join the 100 voice choir, directed by Jason Shelton, and to blend their voices with others in music that they didn’t choose, didn’t prepare, and wouldn’t be speaking after. There were chaplains available to minister to ministers seeking solace, or wisdom, or the presence we give out so freely in our own home congregations or hospitals or navy battalions and the scores of other places where we would scatter at the end of the week, leaving the familiarity and comfort of our shared experience in this mystical, beautiful place.

This business of perpetual migrating sounds exhausting, but there is a wholeheartedness in it as the beautiful butterflies do simply what they are called to do, and don’t worry about the rest. I guess that is where wholeheartedness is found in ministry-- which can also be an exhausting undertaking at times—in doing simply what we are called to do, in being in the moment whether in shared fellowship with other ministers, in our places of ministry, in our homes with our families, in the migratory rhythms of our lives.

And perhaps that is what we all need to do: stop seeking an antidote to exhaustion—whether in the form of more caffeine, or self medication, or other ways we try to numb ourselves—and instead to seek where we are called to be, in this moment, in this generation, in this mystery.

...and the road still stretching on

It all started with a “friend request” on Facebook, followed by an invitation to join a group by my new friend. The group: Class of 1980, Highland Park High School. Suddenly unnerved, I did the math to discover that—holy cats!!!—this year is my 35^th anniversary of graduating from high school! How could that even be possible? Thirty-five years? That’s enough to make me a grown up!

I joined the group, then scanned the names and pictures of the other 98 folks who have already joined; most names I recalled, and for several, I was able to fill in more details, such as classes we shared and if we had been friends then. There were a few who I knew some current details about, having found each other on facebook previously, but for most, only the names were recognizable, and I wondered: How did their lives turn out, so far? Are they happy? Are they fulfilled? Do their hearts ache with regret?

HPHS Graduation, May, 1980

What shiny future did their hearts behold as they marched across that stage in their red cap and gowns that day in late May, 1980. I remember sitting on the folding chairs on the grass of the football field, as our speaker, a local successful business person (and HPHS alum) extolled the virtues of hard work and keen focus as the way to success. All of us could be successful, he said, adding, “I’m saying this to each of you: to those of you who are just barely squeaking by and to those of you who are graduating with honors.” My mind flashed back to the tumultuous senior year I had had, living in Manhattan, KS, a town 50 miles away, having only a single class at first hour (US Government) followed by a full time job, then a part time job. I thought of the many mornings I overslept and called in for myself until finally, two weeks before graduation, my school counselor put me on probation. “If you miss another day, he told me, you will not graduate, and you will have to go to summer school.”

Remarkably, I made it through the rest of the two weeks with no further absences and now was seated there on the sunny day, with the green cord on my shoulders signifying my high GPA. I turned to the girl next to me and whispered, “I did both! I barely made it with honors!” But beyond that gleeful realization,  I didn’t have a clue as to what would happen next; looking at those pictures on fb, I wondered if any of us did.

I thought about my new group last night as I listened to poet David Whyte speak at Colorado College. David is a premier poet and uses  poetry (his own and others) to talk about our lives and our world. Last night was the 5^th time I had seen him and his topic was on Pilgrimages in our lives. He spoke of pilgrimage as an on-going journey, as in his poem Santiago (- David Whyte
from Pilgrim©2012 Many Rivers Press )

Santiago

The road seen, then not seen, the hillside
hiding then revealing the way you should take,
the road dropping away from you as if leaving you
to walk on thin air, then catching you, holding you up,
when you thought you would fall,
and the way forward always in the end
the way that you followed, the way that carried you
into your future, that brought you to this place,
no matter that it sometimes took your promise from you,
no matter that it had to break your heart along the way:
the sense of having walked from far inside yourself
out into the revelation, to have risked yourself
for something that seemed to stand both inside you
and far beyond you, that called you back
to the only road in the end you could follow, walking
as you did, in your rags of love and speaking in the voice
that by night became a prayer for safe arrival,
so that one day you realized that what you wanted
had already happened long ago and in the dwelling place
you had lived in before you began,
and that every step along the way, you had carried
the heart and the mind and the promise
that first set you off and drew you on and that you were
more marvelous in your simple wish to find a way
than the gilded roofs of any destination you could reach:
as if, all along, you had thought the end point might be a city
with golden towers, and cheering crowds,
and turning the corner at what you thought was athe end
of the road, you found just a simple reflection,
and a clear revelation beneath the face looking back
and beneath it another invitation, all in one glimpse:
like a person and a place you had sought forever,
like a broad field of freedom that beckoned you beyond;
like another life, and the road still stretching on.

It seems pilgrimage is a theme I’m meant to explore in my own life now, with the talk by David Whyte, the fb page that beckons me to consider the path taken, the path not taken, the way the path has shaped me, the way I have shaped the path. David spoke a lot about the Camino de Santiago —an ancient Catholic pilgrimage, though now modern day ecumenical one, that goes for roughly 500 miles over a variety of routes from France, Portugal, and other parts of Spain. It is a 5-7 week journey during which you walk by day and rest in inns or hostels at night; not quite as wild as Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, but similar.
As luck would have it, I’m currently reading a book called, Pilgrimage, from Humbled to Healed by Sonia Choquette, that details her own experience of walking the Camino de Santiago, as a means of dealing with unexpected, multiple losses in her life and the resulting emotional chaos.
What would it mean to take on such an intentional pilgrimage? To take on an arduous journey through the French Pyrenees mountains? Or, like Cheryl Strayed, to travel alone on a trail that was 1000 miles long? What could you learn of yourself and the world around you? What would you see inside yourself, the shadows in bas relief to the vista of mountain, and trail, and town, and sea?
And what if we didn’t need to spend thousands of dollars in order to go on a pilgrimage? What if we needed only to step outside our door with a new intentionality, with the commitment to pay attention to our own path, to see what we need to see, to learn what we need to learn?
David Whyte said the first step in any pilgrimage is to be willing to give up the conversation you’ve been having with yourself. To start a new conversation with the horizon that takes off the blinders of status quo, that steps out of the deeply imbedded ruts of familiarity and complacency. He said that a pilgrimage begins when we stand where we are, and raise our eyes to a horizon not quite seen—the path itself keeps us from seeing where it might, ultimately, lead.

Camino de Santiago, Day 2: Descending from the Pyrenees

I wonder how my life would have been different if, at my high school graduation, just a couple weeks shy of my 18^th birthday, I would have understood that I could choose to change the conversation I had been having with myself and with my world for as long as I could remember? What would have changed if, during key moments in my life—the death of my father and nephew, the advent of AIDS and all it took from me, the birth of my son, the expanding of my understanding through higher education, the death of my brother, the highs, the lows, the times of great joy, the times of great devastation, the times of deep uncertainty—I had taken just a moment to lift my eyes from that mile marker and dared to look out again, at an ever-changing horizon, to see if it was time to deepen the conversation or to change it? Who knows where I would be?
That I am here, in this place, in this time, is a great fortune to me and I can only surmise, looking back, that I sometimes did intuitively change the conversation, change the path, let the path change me. And I know, as I now eagerly look forward to my 35^th high school reunion, that there is no there, at the end of any great pilgrimage—whether undertaken on a well worn path travelled by millions before you, or simply trod on the singular trail that holds your life—there is only the next step, the new way of moving forward.
David Whyte mentioned that there is a place that takes an additional three days hike from the “destination” of the Camino de Santiago. It’s called Finnisterre and it is at the edge of the sea. Those who choose to journey on to this place, complete three rituals once they arrive: the eating of a scallop (the emblem of the pilgrimage), the burning of something you brought along (usually letters, cards) and the leaving behind of something that had been on the journey with you.
I think these, too, are great additions to our individual pilgrimages: the eating of a food that symbolized the way, the burning of letters and words that no longer have a place in your life, and the letting go of something that held you in good stead but is no longer needed; or is reminiscent of the old conversation, when now you need to start a new one. Powerful reminders that what we once thought we couldn’t live without, can be let go, and we will find a new way to go forward into the next chapter, the new invitation, the field of freedom that will always beckon us on.

Finisterre

The road in the end taking the path the sun had taken,
into the western sea, and the moon rising behind you
as you stood where ground turned to ocean: no way
to your future now but the way your shadow could take,
walking before you across water, going where shadows go,
no way to make sense of a world that wouldn't let you pass
except to call an end to the way you had come,
to take out each frayed letter you brought
and light their illumined corners, and to read
them as they drifted through the western light;
to empty your bags; to sort this and to leave that;
to promise what you needed to promise all along,
and to abandon the shoes that had brought you here
right at the water's edge, not because you had given up
but because now, you would find a different way to tread,
and because, through it all, part of you could still walk on,
no matter how, over the waves.

- David Whyte
fromPilgrim
©2012 Many Rivers Press 

A boot left at Finisterre