Dead Air

Sorry for the lack of posts- I decided to take a few days away from computer, phone and my house. I was in Seattle for a week- last Wednesday to Tuesday. Ken joined me Friday. I didn’t check my email, facebook or, in fact, go online at all for 5 days. I worked on a poem, visited friends,  had a wonderful dinner out with my “family”, attended some Seattle Pride events, a great house barbecue where I made a wonderful new friend (HI MaryEllen!). In short, I just relaxed.

And I feel good.

If you’ve never taken an internet vacation, I’d highly recommend it. I’m deeply grateful that so many of you want to read what I write. I’m just glad I don’t feel bound or hindered by it. This site was created to be a fun, educational, insightful and helpful forum- with a healthy dose of perspective- from author and readers- thrown in. And so it is, still. Just another reason to not give in to the constant need for drama which can be addictive and anxiety-provoking.

The world will not go away. We, however, can for a time.

A Warning Shot Across The Bow….

Today I received in the mail (at my home address no less) an unsigned, unmarked theological terrorism note.

When I collected the mail, I looked through it all as usual, tossing the “immediately recyclable” pieces into the bin, and taking the personal correspondence, a catalog I like, and a bank statement to my desk. I had a birthday card from Calgary (Thanks, Nicole!) and this strange white envelope addressed to “Fr. Greg Smith”.  I was puzzled. I looked more closely at the envelope. My name and address beautifully written (in pencil) across the front of the envelope. No return address. Postmark: Omaha, Nebraska. The back flap was taped for extra security.

Now, when I receive anything marked “Fr.” or “Rev.”, I usually toss it straight into the bin. Experience has shown me that those are either a solicitation or an assumption about my political preference. For some reason, I didn’t do that today.

I grabbed the letter opener and slit the envelope open. Inside were four photocopied pages and a smaller slip of paper. I opened the pages. At the top was the heading “J.M.J.” Uh-oh. Every Catholic school child (at least of my generation and before) knows what that is. Although the protection and intercession of Jesus, Mary and Joseph may be very useful during an exam or for a term paper, it doesn’t bode well in correspondence.

I was right.

The pages were a photocopied story by a woman whose life and marriage (“like a fairy tale”) was founded in the Gospel and about her friend, a Lesbian, who was a “miserable” person and “really messed up” because she wanted to be with another woman. It went on to describe how the natural law was ordained by God and how same-sex attraction was going against “His will” and could only result in disaster and eternal tragedy….

Oh, God. And there was more. The pages had handwriting at the end, the same beautiful handwriting in pencil from the envelope.

“Like many great men before you, you have been given the opportunity to be a fine teacher of truth, if you use it for that. Your experiences were not intended to be a tool for the destruction of souls, but to lead them into truth and light because of it.”

And the little slip of paper had definitions of love from the Biblical Greek, and its correlation with the truth. Summary: “What is true simply remains true all the time and for everyone”, despite the different experiences of persons, and the Church is the only authority capable of that determination.

I threw it away. I thought “I don’t need to bring this patronizing, arrogant energy into my house.”

It was too late, I already had. I was fuming. So I went to the recycling bin, fished it out and read it again.

The letter was arrogant, it was naive, patronizing and theologically unsophisticated. It was judgment and intolerance disguised as concern. And I couldn’t allow the coward who wrote it to have the last word. And maybe I could change that nasty energy. It worked before. So here goes…..

Dear Anonymous,

I received your letter today and am puzzled by the tone. You imply that I do not know who I am, that I am misleading others, deceiving myself and on the way to becoming (if I haven’t already) a threat to society, christianity and general morality.

You did not sign your name, tell me anything about yourself or in any way invite me to dialog. That tells me you’re afraid. I want to invite you to step outside your fear of me, and be open to my experience. I am gay. I have known that for a very long time. I have spent a significant amount of time in self-reflection and prayer. I am also a licensed theologian, so please don’t insult my intelligence by quoting scripture, defining Greek or quoting popes and theologians out of context.

I would invite you to study the role of the “conscience” in the church as well as the “sensus fidelium”- both are important and fundamental concepts, conveniently forgotten by those who simply want to obey the rules and blindly do whatever they are told to avoid the threatening punishment of hell by a God who only cares about the rules. I happen to believe, as did Augustine, Catherine of Siena, Theresa of Avila and a host of other saints and authorities, that God is loving and generous and kind, and is interested in my personal experience and my desire to live authentically. This I believe I am doing. I pray every day, I live a reflected life, and I am not ashamed.

I understand your fear. It is the fear of difference. It is the fear of change. It is the fear of discomfort. It is the fear of being wrong. It’s the fear that your whole moral structure could be founded on something unstable. I understand your fear, and I recognize that you are speaking to me from that fear, not from a place of love or understanding. This position of fear is held by most people who refuse to listen to the experience of other persons, favoring instead principles, dogmas or laws. If you think carefully, you might remember that Jesus taught against that kind of blind obedience. You speak from fear and I understand that. But I also know that fear wants to perpetuate itself, so I must refuse to buy what you’re selling. My integrity demands it.

In closing, I will say this: You said that you will pray for me. I will also pray for you. Every day. And maybe one day you can sign your name so we can actually talk.

Sincerely,

D Gregory Smith, MA, STL

It’s My Party

So I’ll be 45 on Sunday- and I’m kinda freaking out.

Not to worry, it’s the good kind.

Frankly, I never expected to live this long. Don’t get me wrong, I’m delighted to be here. I’ve just done so many things to my life that should have ended in complete and utter disaster that I’m finding the event of my 45th birthday a bit surreal. I’ve survived serious illnesses, drug abuse, major depression, bad relationships, treating friends like shit, treating myself like shit, spiritual desolation and disappointments (to myself and others) too numerous to mention. I’ve poisoned my body, mind and heart. I’ve alienated people, let down colleagues and clients professionally and worked very hard to isolate myself out of embarrassment, shame and fear.

It didn’t work.

Today, I have a loving family who support me, a partner who brings me joy daily, friends who humble me with their love and support, work that’s fulfilling, and kids and dogs who love me without question. Despite everything I did to prevent it, my life is fantastic- and I can’t really explain it all. The only thing I know is that life is unstoppable, especially when it’s appreciated. And I’ve worked hard at that.

So I’ll continue to accept it and to live it. Gratefully. Every day. Maybe even for another 45 years….

And for all of you who’ve enriched my life by allowing me to be part of yours, thank you. I couldn’t have imagined it any better.

Positive and Partners Retreat

This weekend, Ken and I will be attending our third Rising Hope Retreat for HIV+ persons and their “partners” (widely interpreted as caregivers, sibling, parent, husband, wife, best friend, son, daughter, etc). To my knowledge, no other state does such a thing, and that’s too bad. It’s an incredible experience of witnessing relationships, gay and straight, and sharing the struggle to create and maintain relationships with other human beings in the face of HIV.

Ken and I are a sero-discordant couple: I’m Positive and he’s Not. Many of the HIV-related functions/causes we attend don’t recognize or even ask the question. In fact, Ken has said “I think people just assume I’m positive. That’s okay.”

Except that it’s not.

Recognition that HIV doesn’t have to be spread in a relationship is important. In fact, it’s probably one of the best sources of inspiration for others to have sex safely and responsibly; to create and maintain relationships that are life-giving and fulfilling despite serious issues, possible consequences and obstacles- not to mention HIV.

It can be done. It is being done. And Montana’s in the forefront of recognizing that. Who knew?

Sunday, Sunday

Today was exactly what I needed, which is great, because it’s exactly what I got. Funny how those things happen…

I’ve been stressing about life and the future and how it’s all going to play out or how it might play out and whether or not I can do anything to affect the outcome or whether I should be doing anything at all to make this go in any particular direction and how I want to live and where and whether I get to work and where does Ken’s career and mine diverge/converge quack quack quack….

Yeah, I know. It’s a multiplex in my head most of the time.

We took a drive this afternoon into Bridger Canyon and breathed pine-fresh air and saw tulips and budding willows and aspen and gradually my problems seemed of very little importance. The trees know when to bud, the flowers when to poke their little selves up out of the soil, the birds when to start building their nests… and so -somewhere- do I know exactly what to do and when to do it. I just have to breathe, trust myself and remember that I can’t do it wrong.

Thanks, mountains.

Grieving, Grooving and Growing

My latest Bilerico post…

Checking In

Things are slowly normalizing for me. I’ve stopped looking for Sars’ oxygen hose in the hallway- sleeping without the familiar sound of the oxygen machine outside my bedroom door, etc. Today I’m going to start thank you notes and finalize the headstone….

Thank you for all the messages of love and support. I’m very grateful for all of you.

I hope to get back to a regular writing schedule soon, but will post when I can. Till next time, here’s a pic of me and Ken before the funeral…

Greg and Ken

Health Update

With all the funeral stuff, I forgot to clue you in on the test results from last week: nothing. Everything back to normal. So either the prayers were powerful, God changed His/Her mind, or my stress reduced dramatically enough to slow down white cell production. we’ll check again in June.

Thanks for all the well-wishes and support~really appreciated.

Eulogy

Sars hated- okay I won’t say hated even though I said it- he strongly disliked the word “Reverend”.

“It comes from the Latin Reverendus”, he would say in that teaching voice he used-‘he who must be feared,’ not a fitting title for a minister of Jesus Christ. I like the title Father MUCH better. The word ‘father’ speaks of love, not fear.”

And that was Sars. He was loving, he was generous, he was witty, he was smart. He was intensely curious. He collected facts and quotes and songs and stories. He loved a good joke and turn of phrase. He loved being a priest, and he loved “Holy Mass.” He was NOT a housekeeper. I found myself wondering how he’d lived this long with some of his habits… He was protective and opinionated and gracious and probably the pickiest eater I’ve ever had the pleasure to cook for. He loved his family, he loved being Irish. He loved people. And they loved him back. Fiercely. He loved to tell stories and anecdotes about himself and others- and God forbid you get him in front of an audience that encouraged him- he would go on forever, and sometimes, especially in these last few months, he would pay the price for days afterward.

He loved so much. In other words, he was a father.

He was a father to me, adopting me, even though I have a fantastic father and family of my own- he and Vernie adopted them too, as he probably did many of you. He was my hometown pastor, visited me in Europe, wrote a lot of letters, asked my opinion about things, encouraged me, made me feel important. He stuck by me- even when he didn’t agree with me. He stuck by me when others did not. He gave me the keys to his and Vernie’s house, indeed, designating a room to be my own. I talked to him every week and then as his illnesses became more confining, every day. Finally, he took me in when times were hard and God seemed to know we both needed each other.

Like all fathers, he could drive his children crazy. We were about as far across the spectrum from each other politically as two people could be. We differed in our opinions and tastes. We had irritations, inconveniences and miscommunications. He could be stubborn and not want to do what the doctors told him- for one of the smartest men I’ve ever known he could play dumb superbly- like an innocent child, when he didn’t want to do what was recommended. I’m sure I drove him crazy, too.

But for all that, I never once doubted his love and care for me. I hope he never doubted mine.

That’s the love of a father. It’s not always perfect, but it’s always there.

I have a favorite Sars story. He had just moved in with Vernie to the house on N. Western, and the doorbell rang. On the front porch was a man who said, “I’m with the Seventh Day Adventists and I’d like to talk to you about Adventism.”

“I’d love to hear about it,” Sars said. “But first explain something to me. Why are you Seventh Day Adventists so slavish in your obedience to the Pope in Rome?”

“What?” said the man “We are not! I would never follow the Pope!”

“Now wait just a minute,” Sars said. “Not so fast. In 1582 Pope Gregory the thirteenth, with a stroke of his pen, eliminated from the calendar 11 days. Now if you weren’t so fastidious in following the Pope you’d be celebrating the Sabbath on Wednesday and Thursday, not Saturday and Sunday- so you are following the Pope.”

Needless to say, the poor man left rather quickly, very confused. “Poor soul,” Sars always said at the end of the story….

Sars’ favorite passage was John 16.27- “For the Father himself loves you.”

He believed it, he did his best to live it, and he died knowing it.

But more importantly, he made sure as best he could by word and example that we knew it too.

The love of God the Father is seen and felt in the love we all share for this man, Father Sarsfield OSullivan. It is in our stories, our tears, our laughter, and our fumbling attempts at loving.

The love of God is always there.

It’s always here in our hearts.

And so is Father Sars.

In The News

Sars’ obituary is up- took me forever to write it, but I think it worked well. You can find it here.

The Montana Standard also did a more in-depth community piece here. Yeah, that’s me in the middle-almost 20 years ago!

As for me, I’m doin’ alright. I’ve slept a bit, have a relatively easy day- my “type A” came out yesterday and got almost everything done, so I’m off for a run, then a haircut and off to Bozeman tonight for Ken and Men’s Group.

Thanks for the prayers and thoughts of support and love. they are deeply appreciated.

~Greg