The Agenda:

Testing the Premise: Are Gays a Threat to Our Children?

What the "Dutch Study" Really Says About Gay Couples

Federal Hate Crime Statistics: Why The Numbers Don't Add Up

Refuting Christianity Today

  Favorites:

Still Life At Sunset

Anderson Cooper and Scooter

Wandering, Wondering

The Aperture of Memory

Easter's Birthday

The First Time I Cussed

  Photo Essays:

The Anasazi Ruins of Chaco Canyon, New Mexico

Monsoons of 2004

Miracle Mile

Now Showing / Reflection on Hayden, Arizona

Year's End By The Bay
Friday, December 31, 2004

Updates lately are sparse for a very poor reason: I forgot to pack the laptop computer before Chris and I left for San Francisco, and it is painfully complicated to make updates to this site without it. And I have no hope of posting pictures, so a lot of stuff will just have to wait until we get back home next week.

San Francisco is being inundated with one of its Punishing Pacific Storms™ (that’s how they say it on television here). To those of us accustomed to monsoons or tornados or blizzards, these Punishing Pacific Storms™ seem rather mild in comparison. But that’s what happens when you spend too much time in a city filled with drama queens.

The rain is falling right now, just as the city prepares to bring on the New Year. The hillsides are lush and verdant, and the silver skies hang close like a low-ceilinged catacomb. Headlights shine against the wet pavement, and the overhead wires for the electric buses come together in the intersections in a tangled maze like postmodern lace overhanging the avenues. As buses pass, the wires sing and sparks fly from the wires and descend onto the wet pavement: electricity in the air.

This is a city made for walking. You can’t see anything any other way. When you walk, you see the small things that are unforgettable, and you understand why so many have been lured here. Café Trieste, where the beat poets congregated, is still simply going about its business of selling coffee with nary an historic plaque in sight. The Greek Orthodox cathedral sits quietly on a corner on Van Ness, its diminutive dollhouse stature barely noticed by the cars zooming by. Sure, the city’s famous landmarks are well chronicled in song, stories and movies, but its real beauty is in these details: the doorways and coffee shops, and neighborhood groceries that inhabit every corner, just like they used to do in every small town in America. San Francisco is not only America’s biggest small town, it is also America’s last.

On the Night Before Christmas
Saturday, December 25, 2004

It was on Christmas Eve many, many years ago, at Midnight Mass when Fr. Bill made the announcement that we all knew was coming: he would be leaving our parish to serve out his remaining years back at a parish that he helped to found many years earlier. We were sad to see this coming. His kindness was particularly appreciated by my family at the time of my father’s death, and nearly every one else in the parish had similar examples of his personal warmth and caritas over the previous eleven years. But we knew this opportunity was important for him, and we were happy for him that he would be able to retire at the parish that was his home for so many years. Nevertheless, we were sad to see him go, and we knew that his shoes would be very difficult to fill.

So please have pity on the poor guy who came along to serve as his replacement. If they had sent the Pope himself to serve as our pastor he would have fallen short in the eyes of our parish. But this guy had spent his entire career in academia. He was very intelligent, a highly learned man, but he had never pastored a church before, let alone one as rambunctious as ours. He had no people skills, no leadership skills, not even much in the way of administrative skills. It became obvious rather quickly, and his health started to deteriorate under the pressure. So he took some time off to recuperate, and eventually got an assignment at some college somewhere.

After a parade of substitute priests, a different one every Sunday, we eventually got another pastor. What an awful man. Arrogant, pompous, self-important, a man who fancied himself an intellectual. He knew everything and didn’t need any input from anyone. Some people can get by with arrogance, but only if they have something to back it up. But he was unbelievably shallow. Our beloved pipe organ, known throughout the county for its beautiful sound, fell silent in favor of electronic synthesizers and a Celtic flute playing new age nonsense. He once gave a sermon based on the movie, The Titanic. We had already gone through one intellectual, but this man was clearly a charlatan. Horrible.

He didn’t last long. He ran off and eloped with the church secretary.

So then, our parish was pastorless and rudderless. The parishioners endured another parade of substitute priests. They mean well and they try hard, but they’re strangers. Nobody knows them and they don’t know anybody in the church. They all just went through the motions.

But what made this worse was the Christmas season was coming around again, the annual highlight for a church named for St. Mary. This was also the season for far-flung relatives to gather at home and return to the church of their childhood. This was the season for the members of the church to gather and decorate it with dozens of trees and the historic nativity crèche that was made in 1896. This was the season for the choir to assemble and practice for the midnight mass. The parishioners made all of these preparations and everything was perfect and ready for Midnight Mass once again, except for one thing: there was no pastor. Midnight Mass would be celebrated by a stranger.

When Christmas Eve came around, we all gathered in the historic church that had endured so much. Normally, the place would be packed with standing room only, but the events of the past few years had taken its toll. This year the cold sanctuary was only about two-thirds full. People slowly tricked in, nodding silently to each other the way they do when they’ve know each other their whole lives. We sat and waited for Mass to begin.

Soon, the organ sounded it first notes of the opening hymn (it was wonderful to hear the pipe organ again!), we rose from our seats and turned to see who would be coming down the isle in the procession. First, the altar boys and girls carrying the crucifix and candles slowly made their way down the center of the church, followed by the lector with the Gospel book, then the deacon with the censer, then finally the priest. We saw him: a short, somewhat plump man of indeterminate age, a buck-toothed, monkish sort of man slowly waddling down the isle. At the last strains of Adeste Fideles came to a close, he reached the front of the church, and intoned the opening prayers. His voice was somewhat high-pitched and nasal, sounding rather pinched and strained, and his misshapen teeth gave him a very slight lisp. There was nothing impressive about this man whatsoever.

After the lector gave the readings and the deacon read from the gospel, the priest made his way to the pulpit for the sermon, and we settled in for a very long, long night.

But what we heard was amazing. He told an incredible Christmas story that barely mentioned Mary, Joseph, or a baby in a manger. He skipped right over it, apparently deeming it insignificant as an historical artifact. Instead, he told of a humble day when man held the divine and the Divine became man, when in a cosmic instant the Infinite touched the Finite, Time intersected Eternity, Creator and Created were one. He described that brief instant as if the earth’s axis shifted ever so slightly and nothing would ever be the same again. This simple man with the lisp spoke, and nearly two millennia of theology and philosophy gushed forth with a clarity that few could ever imagine.

Mystics meditate, preachers preach, teachers lecture and poets pour their hearts out. This man was all of these, and he was none of these. We were stunned. A hush fell over the old gothic church as his words continued, his voice dancing through the rafters and echoing through the vaults. He spoke slowly and simply, and with each sentence a vision of majestic love opened before us, dazzling us with its breadth and scope and with its profound implications for us on that very winter’s night in that cold church. I can barely remember what else he said, but I’ll never forget the visions of which he spoke. The dazzling images poured forth from the simple ornaments of his words, and each vision broke open before us in cosmic beauty with each carefully chosen word. He spoke with great economy, but the images that he painted were filled with grace, beauty, universality, and the profoundness of love, of the particular form of love that is self-sacrificing, a that love in which the self is utterly forgotten. His simple and pure words touched a world that is beyond words and beyond caring, and none of us had ever witnessed such a thing before.

After ten minutes, he was finished – Catholic sermons are typically brief. He continued with the rest of the Mass. At the end of the mass, he offered a few words of thanks for our hospitality, wished us a merry Christmas, gave the final blessing, and joined the procession back out to the back of the church.

Everyone gathered around him after Mass and peppered him with question: Who are you? Will you be our new pastor? Why won’t you please be our new pastor? He demurred at the idea – he was already assigned as an assistant to a parish near Columbus. We begged him to apply to the bishop, but he just stood there humbly, folding his hands in front of him. His misshapen teeth pushed his lips back into the most beautiful smile as he expressed confidence that we would soon have a very good pastor. We however did not share his confidence. We did not know that yes, indeed a new pastor would be announced the following week, and yes indeed he would return a boundless energy and optimism to the parish, that he would rebuild it spiritually and physically, embarking on a massive historic preservation campaign, and that yes he would be as beloved to the members of the parish as Fr. Bill had been. But this we did not know at the time. We only knew the joy of being in the presence of this simple, beautiful man, one who could describe God and his creation in a way nobody else ever did.

That night changed how I look at Christmas. I still love the trappings of Christmas – the tacky lights and decorations and the Christmas music – but I don’t worry so much about whether the dinner is perfect or the gifts are perfect or much of anything else. Instead, I now know that in some ways Christmas is just another day, and in other ways every day is Christmas. And in some ways, Christmas, whether it comes on that day or any other day, is a magical moment when the Infinite touches the Finite, Time intersects Eternity, Creator and Created are one, and in the power of that moment the world shifts again ever so slightly as it spins crazily on its axis.

Pass the Can!
Wednesday, December 22, 2004

When I was eleven, my dad decided that for Christmas we'd escape the cold Ohio winter and take a trip to Florida. We had a pop-up camper that he'd tow, and camping made the trip much less expensive. It was a very exciting idea to spend Christmas day on the beach.

Unfortunately, when the morning arrived for us to pack ourselves into the car, my mother, my brothers and I all came down with the flu. Dad was the only one healthy. The rest of us were up all night long throwing up and feeling generally miserable. When morning came, mom suggested that we delay our departure until everyone felt better, but Dad thought differently. "You can be sick in Florida just as easily as you can be sick in Ohio. We may as well go to Florida."

So off we went. Me and my two brothers were in the back seat, my parents were in the front, and the coffee can was passed around to whoever needed to hurl at any given moment. Whenever we came to a rest stop, dad pulled over and my parents emptied the coffee can in the restroom. Actually, dad did the emptying. Mom would have nothing to do with it. "It was your idea to leave; you empty the can!"

That was the inauspicious start of our 1972 Christmas vacation. I'm still haunted by the memory of standing in a drizzle holding the flashlight for Dad as he leveled the trailer for an overnight stop in Georgia. It's hard to hold the flashlight steady when you're undergoing dry heaves.

□■□■□

Chris and I are packing the car for our Christmas trip to San Francisco. His back is in pretty bad shape, so I'm doing all the loading and I'll probably have to do all the driving. I don't mind; I find driving relaxing, and we plan on taking the scenic route by way of Reno. I'm looking forward to it. Besides, I can handle just about anything as long as it doesn't involve coffee cans.

Skyrockets In Flight
Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Remember when you were young and you thought about your future? What was it going to be like?

Was it going to be like that day when you were in the back seat of the car as it raced down the highway, with the hot wind in your face and the seat stuck to your skin? Did they sing about your future on the car radio, in that song that they played over and over and over about afternoon delights while your parents read the billboards out loud? Were you eagerly awaiting your future with the anticipation of a summer's day at the lake?

Did you know where you were going? Or did you just go for the ride?

Dad did all of the driving. I stuck my hand out the window and held it flat like a wing. If I tilted it ever so slightly, my arm would rise and fall with the force of the wind. Dad said I should be an engineer because engineers made good money. Dad did all of the driving.

When you looked at your future, did you see your own kids in the back seat of the car, clamoring for ice cream as you eased into the Tasty-Freeze? In your future, did you let your arms fly in the wind?

Do you remember those days when everything was perfect, when the sun was so bright you couldn't hardly see and the cicadas buzzed and the lake was crowded and your skin was hot from the sun and your skin was dark because you never wore a shirt for three solid months and you prayed that summer would never end?

Me neither. Almost.

Jim Burroway / LookingForSam.com

1978
Monday, December 13, 2004

When I was very small, I couldn't wait for the first snow of the season. The Flexible Flyer stayed in the basement for too many snowless winters to suit me.

As I got older it snowed a lot more, and it became my job not only to shovel our sidewalks, but to shovel the walks of my grandmother, great-grandparents, and great-great-aunt, all of whom lived within a block from us. Not to mention old Mrs. Mayes across the street.

There were no snow blowers in those days.

I resolved to move to the sunbelt, where I wouldn't have to shovel it, drive in it, trudge through it, or kick it off of my boots before going into the house.

I miss the snow.

The snow is always whiter on the other side of the hill.

Christopher in Retrospect
Wednesday, December 8, 2004

It was fun seeing Chris' hometown of Ft. Stockton, way out among the oil fields and ranches of West Texas, where everything you know about Texas from television westerns is more or less true. Last Thanksgiving I sat down with Chris, his mother, and brother at the dining room table to look through the family photo albums. In the course of the evening, I learned the secret story of one enigmatic young man, a son of the West whose destiny was, shall we say, a little different from the rest of them.

His life of a glamorous grande dame-in-training started out on a remarkably ordinary path, considering the usual limitations of growing up in a conservative ranching community. The earliest lessons centered around what to wear. Here we see Chris receiving a few pointers from his ever-so-helpful older sister, thanks to a doll that she had that happened to be Chris' size. Already, you can see where his life is headed.
But of course, as is to be expected of any future boy-toy, his lessons on what to wear were soon augmented with lessons on what not to wear.
Fortunately, Ft. Stockton's finer purveyors of sartorial excellence offered the latest fashion sensibilities styled after the glamorous television game shows of the day. Yessiree, even in West Texas you could come out of J.C. Penney's looking every bit as suave and sophisticated as Merv Griffin or Wink Martindale.
Even while traveling to exotic locales, Chris learned the value of smartly tailored attire – and the importance of porters! Here, he is practicing his best bonny-Prince-Charles pose.
Of course, learning to make proper  hors-d'œurves was de rigueur.
And soon, being the life of the party was second-nature to him. The social milieu that was Chris' family provided the fertile training ground which would render him very well prepared for a glamorous life in Austin and San Francisco.
He quickly grew to be so suave, so debonair, so polished, with his hair just so and the proper outfit for every occasion. Sexxxy! So when Chris was finally able to strike out on his own and leave Ft. Stockton behind, he did so with style and verve, never looking back. Because some things are simply too frightening to ever experience again ---
And to think: Christopher's mom was surprised when he came out to her!

◄ November 2004
► January 2005

Flowing Like Water
Monday, December 6, 2004

Soon after I moved to Tucson in 1999, a coworker who moved here from Dallas with me remarked that every day is a beautiful day in Tucson. The seemingly endless supply of sunshine means that every morning promises another spectacular day. Rain is very rare here in the Sonoran desert, so rare that when it does occur, you are forced to see the desert with entirely different eyes. When the mountains are shrouded with mist and clouds, they present a mysterious face to what was otherwise so ordinary. They take on an extra layer of beauty that appears only with the mist and fog and clouds and rain. So even when it isn't sunny outside, it's still beautiful.

It rained last Saturday, with that kind of all-day soaking rain that is especially rare here. We've only had about three or so all-day slow soaking rains like Saturday's in the five years I've been here. I spent the better part of the afternoon at the University's Health Science Center library working on research, where I ensconced myself in a study kiosk near the large north-facing windows which offer a spectacular view of the Catalinas. Between trips to the copy room and leafing through professional journals, I took frequent breaks from my work to watch the mountains play hide-and-seek with the rain and the clouds. Another beautiful day.

Sunday was spent at Homer's Christmas party. He had a great turnout. Chris and I met Brian and Adam for the first time, spent time with Doug, and generally had a good time with Homer's mom, old friends and new acquaintances.

Thank you Homer for having us over. Here's your Christmas present you asked for.

It was nice to get out finally because I haven't been getting out much lately. This bronchitis is slowly getting better, but it's been stubborn and a damn nuisance. So instead of going out and socializing, I've buried myself into numerous projects that have been piling up, including the research that I was doing at the library. I could almost put in for three full-time jobs between my real job and the other projects I've been working on.

My research may result in starting another website. This one would not be a blog – I'd never have time to keep two blogs going, although it may have some blog-like elements to it. Whether I follow through with a second web site depends on how much material I have ready by February or March. If It doesn't warrant a full website, it may end up being an extension of this one. But I think having it under a separate domain would make the material easier to find rather than having it buried here.

Chris G / LookingForSam.com

We'll see. Like I said, it all depends on how much I get done. I've taken on Twister as my assistant, but as you can see he's about as helpful as Karen Walker – and just about as demure.