"Oh, God Just Made Gays So There'd Be Somebody to Walk His Dogs When He Got Tired of It"

I used to say that.  Really.  When friends or other people would ask why a loving Father in Heaven would make someone gay, I'd quip something like, "He needs somebody to clean all those mansions of His.  Isn't there something somewhere that talks about divine servants?"

It was sort of a joke, but it kind of made sense.  As a formerly active Mormon, I was familiar with the doctrine of celestial marriage between a man and a woman, and that such marriage was the key to inheriting the highest degree of glory (aka "all that the Father hath", etc.) in an eternal life after death.  I also knew as a gay man, that kind of marriage wasn't for me, and thus, as taught in the Doctrine and Covenants 132: 16-17, I could look forward to being "appointed [an] angel in heaven, which angels are ministering servants, to minister for those who are worthy of a far more, and an exceeding, and an eternal weight of glory."

So, OK. I wouldn't be worthy of Lifestyles of the Righteous and Glorified, but, apparently, I could look forward to ministering to their chores for eternity.  Too busy designing worlds, planning the cosmos, and rearing spirit children, the gods and their female counterparts wouldn't have time to walk the celestial dogs, let alone scoop up poop, and Heaven knows that sexless boys who can't (some might say won't) procreate would need something to do.  Sure, cherubim were placed east of Eden with flaming swords (sounds enticing and fabulous, right?), but it warn't that kind of sword play goin' on down yonder.  Thus, in my estimation of things eternal, the gays got security systems and doggie duty. 

I pictured we'd arrive outside the pearly gates, wishing we'd been given feather boas instead of wispy wings, and Versace's Black Leather Crocs instead of worn-out sandals from the DI.  We'd admire the movement of Raphael's ass against his short, blue tunics and the knotting of Michael's forearms when gripping marble pulpits.  We'd probably snicker at Gabriel's warbling little lisp, whistling when he'd read to us the rules and regs we'd need to know about walking God's dogs.

Rule # 37: Thou shalt never let Cerberus nose around in or drink from the lake of fire and brimstone, as it inflames his acid reflux.

Rule #206: Thou shalt never allow Anubis and Hecuba to mate, as this would cause a most undesirable mixing of bloodlines.

Rule #1013: Thou shalt always carry an extra baggy when walking behind Canis Major.  Thou wilt need it. There's a reason his name is Major.

I thought it'd be pretty ideal, taking Heaven's pack to the dog park, flirting with a seraph now and then while the hounds sniffed at cirrus clouds and wagged their tails at thunderbolts.  There'd be chats with  archcangels about politics, fashion and weather.  And, of course, we'd be bagging up the most pristine of poop.  

It would get old pretty quick, though.  Even in heaven, shit stinks.

I don't joke about the gays cleaning up after God anymore.  It wasn't every really that funny in the first place.  I don't know where we gay boys'll end up, but I do know this: what with the bigots and the bullies and the Boyd K's we have to deal with here, I think we've handled enough crap in this life.  I doubt a loving Heavenly Father will be handing us leashes or shovels after we've risen to the courts and cul-de-sacs above--He might just see fit to reward our earthly endeavors with boas or Versace crocs.

Children of God

from a Facebook Note, Sunday, September 20, 2009

I have rarely been able to recall my dreams since returning from my time in Pennsylvania four years ago, and I have been quite adamant about ignoring certain memories throughout my life, so I was quite shaken last night when a nasty little memory slipped itself into the silence of my sleep.

I'd had much difficulty in learning to trust, admire or even enjoy the company of the angry young man who had been assigned as my companion in the Provo Missionary Training Center (MTC) ; he didn't like me, either. We were two very different boys used to two very different worlds: I was the rule-keeping, conservative, worry-ridden district leader and he was the recklessly adventersome, girl-crazy, authority-bucking football star. This was the first time I'd ever been so closely affiliated with someone so athletic, hot-headed and competitive, and probably the first time he'd ever lived with anybody like me [read: gay]. We rarely saw eye to eye, and a series of arguments and other events quickly drove a massive wedge in our companionship, as well as tempting the other missionaries in our group to "take sides," thus creating a lot of dissonance within the group.

So, I dreamt last night of one evening in the Elder's dorm where we slept. It had been a particularly rough day for Elder Football and myself -- he was unhappy about reasons why we were late for lunch that day, etc., and I was upset that he hadn't been more empathetic toward other members of our district. I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed, and he was in the hall, doing stunts and showing off with other missionaries. I walked out of the bathroom and watched for a minute as he competed with another young man, jumping up the walls to see who could kick the highest brick. He lost. I said something snide and witty--my intent to undermine his masculinity, of course, and stroke my own male ego--and he got really angry.

I turned around to go to the room we shared with two other missionaries, and felt these massive arms pick me up from behind, hefting me toward the bathroom. I don't remember what he said, but I knew he was raging. I was kicking and yelling, trying to free myself from his grip. We drew a lot of attention, but I don't remember any of the other elders do anything but stand there and stare as my companion tried to throw me in a garbage can just inside the bathroom door. I kicked at the wall and elbowed him in the stomach and he finally dropped me on the tile floor, cursed a blue streak, and left me there in bruises and tears.

I cleaned up and went to bed, dreading what would happen when our roommates, the assistants to our leaders at the MTC, would leave the room to make sure lights were out. They told me not to worry (they'd just be down the hall and back in 15 minutes) and then left us alone in the room. I pressed myself as close to the wall as I possibly could, tense and afraid as I've ever been, listened to my companion breathe, trying not to breathe myself until they got back. I've never felt such shame, anger, fear, abuse or confusion in my life, before or since.

We were called out of class the next morning and sent to the District President's office. He interviewed us each separately: me first, and then my companion. I sat three offices away, cowering as the President yelled at my companion -- I was nervous I was gonna get it when we got back to the rooms that night. Thankfully, our companionship was dissolved, and he was assigned to a different district. I left for PA a few days later; he was to remain at the MTC for a few more weeks. I only saw him a few times during the rest of my service in PA, dreading the sight of him each time.

I learned a valuable lesson from that violent relationship about how I tolerate the way others treat me. Oprah says you teach people how to treat you, and I agree. I also learned that forgiveness for one who abuses power against a weaker victim does not equate a willingness to trust the abuser ever again. I don't feel hateful feelings toward that young man anymore, but I don't believe I'd ever trust him. His actions toward me just don't merit it. And that's ok.

I thought I'd made peace with the incident. So, yes, I was quite surprised when this memory popped up in a dream last night, bringing up many mixed emotions with it. I've examined many possibilities as to why my subconscious would bring this to the forefront, and the only thing I can find is this: There are current events in my life which leave me feeling I'm being carried away by a force stronger than myself, picked up from behind and thrown on the ground; or that I'm fighting something that tells me I'm garbage and trash and good-for-nothing. There are people and communities (even inside that monastic and religious place, the Missionary Training Center(s) of the LDS Church) who ridicule and condemn the choices I make when I believe the fruits of those choices will bring me peace and happiness. My seeking out my own happiness is not wrong. Neither is your search for yours. I will not wield my arms against yours trying to convince you I'm right, and I'm not going to undermine your beliefs by labeling you worthless or ignorant.

I won't be put in the trash ever again. I'm not garbage. Neither are you. We are all God's children.