Sacramental Mimosas

                Sunday morning has become a place of inner conflict.  It is the time where I am forced to make my most conscious decision to not return yet to service.  It’s comfortable; I’m well liked; I know the routine and so on because it is far too easy to fall back in the motions and avoid missing the real journey. 

                Luckily, I had a good excuse by being invited to brunch.  It’s what all the sophisticated “heathens” do on Sunday mornings apparently.  I love it.  It’s a time of laughter and good food coupled with mimosas or the like.  So this is my Sunday morning habit now and I find myself with those realistically unwelcomed in the doors of the church.

Church had become a place to “cure” my worldliness, yet brunch would begin to cure my religion.  In a strange way, it became a better remembrance of the Gospel.  Put better than I could, Micah J. Murray writes:

“When we criticize the Church, please know that we aren’t ashamed of the Gospel.  We are probably just beginning to glimpse what the Gospel really is, and it’s better news than we had ever dreamed. So when we see a stale, moralistic religion marketed as the Gospel, strangled in tradition and politics, our hearts ache. We remember all too clearly the bondage of that false Gospel. And we are so desperately thirsty for the real one.” \

I could not help but remember the Gospel, while taking part of this makeshift “love feast” I found myself a part of.  Taking a step out of organized religion, I found myself with the time to actually live life with these people I now brunched with.  I allowed myself to get close enough to see their faults, brokenness and ultimately what made them lovely.  Yet as beautiful as this realization was, I found myself staring at myself and realized I thought I was morally superior in some way.  Hearing the subtle cultural droning of “us and them” over the years had found root in me no matter how much I wanted to reject the notion.  I found myself in shame taking a sip here or there of my sacramental mimosa trying to reject this Pharisee deep in myself.

           Sip after sip of this unorthodox Eucharist reminded me of the Christ who lived for the “them” and was rejected by us, killed by us, died for us, and rose giving us a new humanity.  It felt a near experience to the early church of misfits—especially when I had my fill of this bottomless mimosa.  It was here that I was beginning to understand that this journey I had set out to undertake was perhaps not about finding myself but perhaps coming to the end of myself again to find what who always there and how to truly love.

A Mansplainer’s Short Guide to Purity Culture

                Tossing and turning, my poor roommate could not sleep.  Loud giggles and sappy talk rang from down the hall.  At 1 AM frustration mustered as he knew, he had to be up in just a few hours to go open at Starbucks.  He mustered himself to action and walked down the hall.

                “Hey man, I can hear you from my room. Can you talk quieter bro? Thanks dude.”

A little huff and roll of the eyes and my other roommate put headphones in and continued to talk to his girlfriend, “Sorry about that baby. What were you saying?”  Things seem to perhaps get a couple notches quieter and the roomy was able to get a little bit of sleep.

                In most cases that would have been the end of the story, but the next evening roommate gets a knock on his door from the one he confronted the night before:

            Roomy 1: “Hey man, can we talk?”

            Roomy 2: “Sure brah, what’s up?”

R1: “So last night when I was skyping my girlfriend, she saw you in your underwear.  That could really cause her to stumble you know.  It was inappropriate and you should have been more aware of protecting her purity.  Can you be more aware in the future?”

R2: “(Um W.T.F.) Uh sure dude…”

            R1: “Thanks bro.”

I guess sometimes we deal with conflict short and sweet in the apartment.

                Though seemingly trite, this anecdote points to a rather amusing or annoying byproduct of people still entrenched deep in purity culture.  In my best mansplaining, purity culture is the extreme fear of lust to the point where it illogically reverses victim and objectifier, places guilt upon innocence and freedom, compares women to chocolate cake, and makes men into mindless sex machines.  Outside the mindset of purity culture, this scene would have simply been a matter of noise; however, overinflated theology intervenes*

*An old professor gives the object lesson of a balloon, when part of the balloon is pressed in too hard, the rest of the balloon must conform to compensate.

Now to dissect the scenario:

                It was 1 AM.  In a young professional world, we need our sleep especially the poor baristas who have to be up extra early to make our coffee.  Common sense and courtesy dictates this is not the time to be shouting adolescent worthy saps to your girlfriend.

                Bringing someone via skype into a shared space is the responsibility of the person skyping.  There should really be some ethical discussion on digital invasion.  I am surprised youth and college pastors aren’t lining up to talk about the dangers of such digital voyeurism…

                At 1 AM it is perfectly reasonable to walk about one’s home in skivvies.  In fact, it is perfectly reasonable for anyone to do so in their private space at any time of day.

                Purity culture has usurped the stumbling passages out of their original context.  We should note things like food sacrificed to idols *cough cough* Monsanto as true evils to worry about.

                In all reality, the girlfriend probably saw the roommates pale gingered skin and thought to herself “As if!” before promptly dismissing the occasion.

                So on and so forth…

                Purity culture has missed the focus of the way Jesus was teaching us to follow.  So I’ll contribute my voice to the elevation of the conversation.  The way we should follow focuses on viewing every person simply as a human being.  It is the reclamation of our humanity.  It is recognizing that every person has been marked with the image of God.  In each person there resides dignity and worth and beauty.  The thrust of Jesus’ teaching ultimately is that lust falls short of recognizing these qualities that should be looked for and valued instead.  The faith community ought to be speaking to our renewal as people rather than reverting to legalistic attempt at sin management.  There is much to be said, but this is my small audible whisper into the conversation.

Therefore as a mansplainer, I am against purity culture because I want to be able to run around my home in my skivvies whenever I choose to.  (But really because I want to validate the real beauty, dignity, and worth of each person.)

Rubber and Leather and Bears Oh My!

 Trigger Warning: If you have a trigger, don’t read.

            Suddenly, I found myself where no good Moody alum could have ever imagined.  As I joined the stream of people strolling around downtown, I noticed out of the corner of my eye a foretaste of what I had agreed to get myself into.  Amongst the crowd I picked out old men donning leather vests.  I saw a young man wearing a bright lime rubber muscle shirt.  Across the sidewalk were some burly biker men getting ready to “bear” their chests.  And there I was, walking to the same place with them.

            Memorial Day weekend in Chicago not only marks the supposed beginning of summer in the city, but also when the city houses the annual International Mister Leather conference.  I would never had any natural desire to attend such a conference, but last year befriended a self-proclaimed kinkster.  So I decided to take the opportunity to walk a mile in his high laced leather boots—without having to actually participate.  How can you really ever attempt to love someone well without ever getting to know who they are?

                I met my friend Miguel outside of the Marriott.  We had to sign waivers to go into the marketplace.  I grew anxious not with what I might see, but more of what I would have to confront within myself.  I had already cast so much judgment.  I was among probably the most demonized and vilified people already amongst the marginalized…from the way I had been indoctrinated.

                We walked into the marketplace.  The shock factor wore off quicker than I thought it would—the smell however did not.  It was at least twenty times worse than a dirty hipster bar on a Friday night.  The entire room was rank with raunch.  Some people had not showered in ages in preparation (though my director says this can also be the product of a prolonged drug high.)  This reek was mixed with leather, rubber, and the slight aroma of urine.  I found myself taking refuge in the cologne I applied before leaving.

                In the market there were a lot of different things for sale.  Mostly leather of course.  Leather is supposed to bring about this hypermasculinity by wearing it.  It gives off that bad boy persona.  It also feels cool and keeps one warm in the cold weather.  In afterthought, I could see myself looking pretty good in some leather.  Next, there was a lot of rubber gear on sale.  It has two roots.  Rubber can be a reaction to the HIV epidemic where latex barriers really emerged into the scene.  Rubber in this way is the maximizing of latex.  It also has this smooth feel almost like it is a second skin, like one is putting on a different persona—like a superhero (or villain.)  It smells like a tire and this is supposedly important for some reason.  Beyond this were toys (I won’t say more,) instruments for whipping, spanking, restraint and oh electrostimulation (which is actually kind of cool.)  Electrostimulation sends a very small electric current through one’s body such that they could transmit it to another person/object. 

                The people watching though proved far more interesting than the merchandise displays.  There were massively built men wearing leather harnesses.  They also had a tendency to smell the worst.  There were men in leather vests and chaps wandering around.  Younger guys had neon displays of skin tight rubber on.  Most people had on regular dress though.  There was a spot where people could whip each other (gently.)  There were also tables where you could get tied up if you wanted.  One guy was completely restrained with stuff wrapped covering his entire body but his face.  There were also people with handcuffs, collars, gags, restraints, etc. being walked around the market.  Interestingly, I saw one Asian boy who had come to my old small group for a time.  I meant to say hi but he was a little tied up at the moment.  So it goes…

                The only thing to truly make me uncomfortable was the doggies.  These were guys dressed in leather dog masks that would cover their faces.  They had collars with chains attached.  Some had tails put in.  They represent the epitome of submission.  Sometimes they get chained up, put in cages, and well knick-knack, paddywack, give the dog a bone.  On a lighter note, they would play fetch and really just wanted people to pet them.  Miguel pet a doggie, but I just couldn’t bring myself to.  I had a week of nightmares about them.

                My friend texted me that he was out in the lobby, so Miguel and I went to say hi.  He was decked out in his super tight rubber pants.  He showed me this thing he bought.  I smiled and nodded, “Oh it’s shiny.”  I gave him a hug as he left appreciating that I had sucked it up and attempted to better understand his world.  Then Miguel and I left to grab a drink and breath fresher air.

                In retrospect, I’m glad I attended IML.  It challenged my preconceptions about people that I’m ashamed to admit I had.  Sadly the most striking thing at the time was how nice and friendly everyone at the conference was—I had not expected them to be.  People were generally socialable.  If it was a tight squeeze, people were polite and apologetic.  It was not that forced nicety either that I had been used to.  People were hospitable because they chose to be, not because it was expect of them.  It felt genuine.  They even reminded people of their golden rule: if I can’t do it to you, you can’t do it to me.

                My friend explained to me that there is a sense of community within the fetish subculture.  In the evangelical culture, it has become such a buzzword that the meaning of it seems almost lost.  He told me about participating in Rubbersgiving with friends.  Whenever he travels, he knows he can find a place to stay.  There is a great deal of hospitality in the subculture.  People treat each other well.  There is no need to worry about theft when hosting people…someone might end up in a sleep sack though.  So it goes…  For me, it is a model of organic community, which is a sad irony for me.  A small jaded edge in me wonders why evangelical culture so obsessed with the concept of community can often struggle so hard to create authentic hospitality without it feeling manufactured.

                The prevailing assumption is probably that those in the fetish community must have had some sort of childhood trauma which somehow manifested into these desires.  While that may be true for a minority, one cannot apply this thought generally.  IML was not an extension of rape culture—in fact in many ways it was the opposite.  Everyone sets their own limits and boundaries.  Nothing can be done to someone without their permission and must stop when asked.  In many ways this sense of control would be extremely empowering to someone who had experienced trauma.  I also learned that in many cases the dominant and submissive end up switching roles.  In this way, it could be said that this is a better model of submission between partners than perhaps what Driscollism perpetuates.  There is still a lot I don't understand and probably never will, but I'm at least better educated now. 

Finally, I moved further in my journey of confronting my own judgmentalism.  I learned that I care too much about how people perceive me and more importantly how they might perceive people I might associate with.  In my doggie nightmares, I am more concerned with social stigma than the actual doggie.  My friend and I move into a bourgie neighborhood where I get invited to fancy dinner parties by my neighbors (who doesn’t dream about being rich.)  My friend wants to get a dog for our apartment.  I tell him I’m fine with it as long as he’s the one who takes care of it the most.  I go out to a dinner party and when I come back I find that he has gotten an IML doggie and keeps it chained out front.  Immediately I become a social outcast and none of the neighbors will speak to me and of course no more dinner parties.  In my dream I go and yell at my friend, “Damn it! Why didn’t you get a pomsky!” At this point, I wake up.  I guess I still have a lot of growing to do...

Tribal Backlash

                I thought I might have a couple weeks head start of not attending services before anyone in my old tribe really took notice to my absence.  In my far romanticized imagination of this journey, I pictured myself packing my things and sneaking out of the village late at night and by the time anyone noticed I’d be on my journey already.  I believe that’s how the archetype of this narrative goes.  Regardless, I knew if I announced my intentions, I might never end up going through with them.

                I’ve never been good at having perfect attendance at service.  (Although, I had been going over a month straight with no skips and want a cookie or at least a sticker.)  Some days that alarm is just too easy to turn off, so I figured I might get away with playing that card.  Nevertheless, I made premeditated brunch plans with friends—more so a reason to not go back out of comfort and who doesn’t love mimosas and less so an excuse to give all that would ask.

                Anyways, brunch falls through because my friend drank too much the night before and left his phone in his sister’s car, so it goes…  We still meet up later in the afternoon to check out a conference (more on that later) and end up going for drinks after.  In my apparent evening of debauchery, I stopped by this bourgie lounge bar my friend used to work at for a Manhattan.  Then, we went to a wine party where surprise I had a glass of wine, ate frozen bananas, and watched Arrested Development.  On our way to get food, my friend had to pee and the closest place was this trashy dive bar The Lucky Horseshoe.  Now I didn’t really want to go, but after finding out they had Miller Lite for a dollar I got talked into stopping in for a beer.  At the same time, a member of the old tribe texts me wanting to meet up with us.  Begrudgingly, I tell her where we are, knowing repercussions will come.

                Reader, I should give you a little backdrop to the Lucky Horseshoe.  It is this little trashy dive bar at the south end of the Boystown strip known for having go-go boys.  I learned that it was actually quite well lit and boring on the inside.  I first discovered it because it was right next to this sandwich place I would go when I lived in the neighborhood.  One night, my friend Emily and I had decided to reclaim the nostalgia of our adolescence by attempting to learn how to play hacky sack on the corner of this key store which we had dubbed “The Stoop” and claimed as our own piece of property in the neighborhood.  It was a futile attempt with repeated failure until suddenly we befriend this guy who came to rescue us from public embarrassment by becoming our hacky sack sensei.  He became the happiest go lucky friend I had.  He would smoke Black and Milds all the time (which were not laced with marijuana,) tried to much failure to teach me to juggle, and always had a joke to tell.  After several visits to the costume store, I came to realize he was a go-go boy at the Horseshoe—by this point I didn’t even really think much of it.

                The second go-go boy I befriended I met because I bummed a cigarette from him on my way to the train one evening.  (I'm working on quitting now, so I'll need a new way to meet strangers.)  I came to find out he played pokemon and was super pumped that I had someone who could trade me a Bulbasaur, so we hung out a few times and I got all the pokemon I could ever want.

                The third was actually my friend's brother, who I saw whilst walking down the strip one day.  There in the window was my friend per say (same nose,) if he was taller and ripped (and he’ll hate me for saying that.)  His brother danced to make some extra easy money to pay his way through school and take care of his kid.  Though it can be quite the banal job amongst a crass group of people, he and I both came to the conclusion that you just do what you have to do sometimes.

                Back to the present, my friend meets us at the bar with an accompanied look of disgust that never left her face the entire night.  He and I greeted her and worked on finishing our beers.  We were surprisingly comfortable there in the bar.  Perhaps we had come to the radical notion that go-go boys are people too.  The dancers all had shorts on though they were cut to be short shorts obviously.  It doesn’t take much skill to dance go-go style either.  I could do it.  You just have to sway your hips back and forth.  I catch a dancers eye and at this point, it turns out I know four go-go boys.  I had met this kid Jared about a year prior while out with friends.  He had just come to the city from Podunk Town, Wyoming eager to pursue an education in dance.  When he finished his set he came down off the table and I caught up with him while empathizing that the field experience he was getting did not meet the ambitions he had.

                After we finished our drinks, we head out to get some food.  Miguel and his friend lead the way, while she and I are in the back.  There away from the safety of my friends she lets me have it: 

“Why would you go to a bar like that?!”

Well my friend really had to pee and you know how he is when he drinks.

“You weren’t at church today!” (I personally would call it service, but that’s just my ecclesiology.)

My friend and I were supposed to have brunch.

“Looks like you’re on quite the downward spiral.  When’s the last time you even read the Bible?”

(Not snarky) Actually, yesterday for a good part of the evening along with reading Buechner and Brueggemann as well.  You would like them.

When I switched to drinking water at dinner, I was told I shouldn’t have drank so much that I had to have water this early.  So on and so forth.

I really wasn’t sure what to do at this point.  I figured my salvation wouldn’t be questioned for at least a couple more weeks.  I guess she was the first whistle blower to my apostasy, though I wasn’t really sure what I was apostating from or if I even wanted to go back. 

                But it was here in this experience that perhaps for the first time I could relate to the Messiah and his disciples encountering the Pharisees on the Sabbath.  I mean he would’ve had friends like these.  When God came incarnate he planted his flag in solidarity with the other.  I was not really upset about the whole incident more so as caught off guard.  Strangely, I felt this peace about it—that in my acts of sacrilege, I was somehow journeying towards something sacred. 

First Steps

                The first sentence is the hardest to write.  Perhaps in the same way, the first steps of a journey are the hardest to take.  The path ahead is just unclear as the blank page.  Yet, here I am trying to start both.

            I became entrenched in my religious routine for so long that it is starting to grow numb.  I grew up in the church, I went to a Bible college, I got a degree in theology, and then I went straight to being heavily involved in the church again.  I am far too comfortable in this little village of mine.

            Yet, at the same time the skills I learned from Bible school—to think well—never went to waste and as I continued to think, I seemed to grow in disillusionment and cynicism.  As I began to step outside of my bubble and read different things and meet different people and truly experience the culture war between the churched and unchurched, I felt this detachment grow.

            My theology evolved, my politics shifted, my views on race, women, and sexuality were met by living anecdote after anecdote.  I may have moved left along the spectrum, but felt my love for Jesus grow day by day.  I woke up every morning and questioned the Gospel and if I could still believe it to be true and fell asleep each night clinging to its relevance to my life.  I was not yet a heretic.

            These things were not the breaking point for me, but rather ones that created the foundations for this catalyst.  I never intended for this all to happen.  I was in my routine as normal for a Tuesday—going to work, going home, meeting up with people from church—when it all shifted.  I was turning the corner and serendipitously ran into a couple friends.  They invited me to join them for a couple drinks.  I in turn returned the favor and invited them to join us for dinner.

            I expected it to all go well.  I expected my religious “family” to love them well.  It didn’t seem like a hard task, they were quite easy for me to love.  Instead they were met with niceties, smiles and small talk, but it was clear that they were not a part of the tribe—sadly clearer to them than it was to the churched.  My heart broke.  Was this not the whole intent of our trying to cultivate community together—that we might love well trying to live the way Jesus intended?  We talked about it every week.  We taught that people needed desperately to belong.  Yet they did not and if they did not then neither did I.

            After we left, my friends spoke of their lack of belonging, which felt strange as they had always shown me great acceptance and hospitality.  We went back to their apartment and continued to hang out.  One went to bed and my friend Josh and I ended up on the balcony.  It was one of those sacred times where you stare out at the city around you, feel the coolness of night, and talk about life when you are only half awake.  We smoked a copious amount of cigarettes as we talked about love, truth, beauty, God, Jesus and ultimately the journeys we both needed to undertake.

            He turns to me at one point and says, “You know you’re a bohemian.”  I laughed a little, but realized it was true.  These conversations with Josh always awakened a stirring within me that was turning into a screaming.  He talked about how he longed to travel—but alone.  I asked if that would get lonely, but he said that you meet people along the way.  We talked about my fears of leaving the world that had grown so comfortable and he told me if I never took the journey I would never become everything I was meant to be and would always regret it.  And so, I decided I would leave.

            Now, I am starting this journey and for the time being it will be what I write about.  I have decided to follow Jesus even though he has led me outside of the church with walls for a time.  I am entering my liminal place—my edge of chaos.  It’s scary and lonely to start this pilgrimage because I do not know where it will go.  My comfort seeking self hopes it is a short journey and quickly comes full circle.  Another part of me fears that I may not come back.  I am not running away.  I have not turned from the Gospel.  I have not fallen into grievous sins.  But I still have to go.  I have to spend some time planting my flag in solidarity with the other.  I have to find those who love Jesus, but do not go to the walled church—a flock of black sheep if they are out there.  I hope to find my philosophical gypsies and bohemians and discover my Butterfly Circus.

            In my head, I’ve romanticized this to a very Tolkien like journey--Bilbo leaving the Shire.  I am comforted by Tolkien's words, “Not all who wander are lost.” And now I take my first steps out of comfort to wander.