NOTE: This post concerns my custody struggles over time with Susanna. I would prefer she not read this, but I will not be silenced by fear that she could. My blog is public, but Susanna does not subscribe to it or visit it, so unless someone shows it to her, she won’t see it. Please don’t show it to her.

I got no time to be small
David R. Weiss

Some of you know I was dismayed this past week when my ex-wife claimed the power to unilaterally erase a weekend my daughter was supposed to spend with me. Then, after appealing to Susanna’s guardian ad litem to stop this nonsense, I was further crushed when—pressured by my ex’s attorney—the GAL reluctantly confirmed that she probably had the power to cancel placement. Just like that.

Yesterday after lunch I received his e-mail the same way you receive a kick in the gut: with the wind knocked out of me. I sat in the library at Valparaiso University where I had just finished spending two days empowering students … feeling overwhelmed at my own powerlessness and unable to catch my breath.

On the long seven-hour drive home I wept when I spoke to Margaret on the phone. I sobbed and screamed in anguish when I talked to my son, Ben.

But this afternoon, while watching 42, the story of Jackie Robinson, right there in the theater, I remembered something very important: I got no time for being small.

So, I’m going to come clean, and then I’m going to move forward with full force.

I live under a custody order that is insane. I lived the last three years of a nine-year marriage with a violent spouse. Now, fourteen years later, while my ex-wife can no longer hit me (though I suspect she wishes she still could) she is empowered through the custody order to be almost as abusive as she wants to my placement time. And let me just note this twisted irony: the main architect of this custody order is a lesbian judge. She’s made my life as a father a living hell while I work like hell to make her life as a lesbian easier. Go figure.

Here’s what happened to this weekend. (Now this is a little complicated, but you can’t begin to fathom the madness that hovers over my life unless you try to follow this.)

Susanna plays violin in the Wisconsin Youth Symphony Orchestra (WYSO). They rehearse almost every Saturday morning during the school year and have three concerts each year. She can only miss a couple rehearsals in each concert cycle. I plan her school year placement schedule with me around her WYSO schedule (as well as a host of other constraints placed on me by the custody order). From mid-March to mid-May she would miss two rehearsals (her limit) to be with me and the rest of her family in St. Paul.

However, unbeknownst to me, the spring break tour by Susanna’s high school orchestra (which is distinct from WYSO) was going to force her to miss a third rehearsal in late March. Under the custody order, if that happens, I’m required to move one of my Minnesota weekends into a hotel room in Madison, Wisconsin so that Susanna doesn’t exceed her limit of absences. That’s odious, to say the least. Because the order already requires me to spend one of my nine school year weekends in a hotel room in Madison. And because whenever I have to do this, the order also implicitly encourages Susanna to sleep at her mom’s while Margaret and I (and anyone else who comes along) stay at the hotel. And because it practically goes out of its way to insure that this domino-effect triggering a second required hotel weekend will happen sooner or later. And this spring it did.

But it gets worse, because Susanna’s mom knew this was likely to happen since last December when (at a parents meeting for the orchestra tour) she saw the first tentative schedule for this year’s tour. For my part, the orchestra teacher had provided me the itinerary from the last tour and I had used it to make out my placement schedule for the coming school year back in June 2012 (a deadline imposed by the order). By that itinerary Susanna had a good 4-hour buffer between rehearsal and load time. So for three months Susanna’s mom knew this domino-effect was likely going to happen. But she never told me. With even two weeks advance notice I could have rearranged the spring placement schedule to accommodate the early tour departure. Instead, she chose to inform me of the departure time two hours after the bus left (and while I was in Uganda).

But it gets worse. Because I actually resolved the domino-effect dilemma. I contacted WYSO directly and learned that they have a “special consideration” clause in the attendance policy for absences related to school music involvement—and her missed rehearsal due to the spring break tour would not count toward her two allowed absences. Both Minnesota weekends could happen as planned. So everything was coming together after all. And this is where things fell apart.

I expected Susanna’s mom to be angry that I managed to “save” both Minnesota placements. I just didn’t realize how easily she could undo everything. I sent her a civil, measured email letting her know I had resolved the problem. At the end of my message, I made a small request. That request cost me the weekend.

These are the words—verbatim—that cost me this weekend with Susanna:

In the interest of resolving issues like this more easily in the future, I request that whenever possible you alert me as soon as you see a potential conflict rather than after it has taken place. I had a phone conversation with Chad Whalley last June (in which he clearly indicated a 4 p.m. departure—a ballpark figure that even had it varied by 4 hours would’ve still allowed for a partial WYSO practice) and made my placement schedule out based on that information. I can’t find anything in any of the orchestra trip e-mails that I received that ever announced a exact departure time, so I had no way of knowing that a WYSO absence—with rippling effects—might happen. You seem to have been aware of this—at least as a possibility—since last December. Had you shared that information with me back then, I could have taken proactive steps to clarify the time and resolve any conflict in advance—including perhaps using the March 15-17 weekend as a placement weekend, since I had already made plans to be in town then. I don’t expect you to solve these problems for me, but I do ask that you alert me to them when you see them coming so that I can work to solve them in a more timely fashion. Thanks.

But there is a clause in the custody order that empowers Susanna’s mom to ignore any communication from me that she regards as extraneous or inflammatory. And she decided that this small request for better communication in the future was unnecessary and inflammatory. And under the insanity of the order, she can then not only ignore the communication, she can also cancel—erase forever—any placement time discussed in the message. And that’s what she did.

Who gets to decide what counts as extraneous or inflammatory? Susanna’s mom does. You see, she has a history of hitting me. She has a decade-long history of making unjustified unilateral decisions to deny me time with Susanna (despite my having “joint custody”). All I ever fought back with was words—impassioned words, but never abusive or disrespectful ones. But since 2010 the judge thinks she should not even have to listen to words like those above—words aimed at preventing future conflicts. And so the judge authorized her to act abusively in response to any slips by me. Had I re-read the 2010 order before writing my email, maybe I would have left the extra request out. Or sent it n a separate message. But I was just interested in trying to lay groundwork for a better process next time. And for that, both Susanna and I lost the weekend.

This is the guardian ad litem’s exact discussion of the “offending” paragraph above: “While I have looked for a way this does not violate the Order, I cannot say there isn’t a violation of the Order, at least on a technical basis. Therefore, according to the terms of the Order, Ms. Yaeger is authorized to ignore the request.” What a sack of shit. Done deal. Time evaporated. Lost forever.

This is the madness of my life as a father. And on Friday it crushed me. And I felt powerless. Numb. In fleeting moments I wished I were dead. I have lived this nightmare not just this once but dozens of times over the past fourteen years. It is enough to make anyone feel horribly small.

But this afternoon Jackie Robinson, aided by a couple of queer youth, reminded me that I got no time to be small.

Traveling in Uganda last month a whole host of LGBTQ persons were glad and grateful to meet me. Several of them voiced deep appreciation for books that I left with them. But I did far more listening than talking in Uganda. I went there to listen, not to talk. On the other hand, I went to Valparaiso University to talk. And I talked well. My Thursday evening presentation was good. I was distracted in my preparation for the Valpo events by the unfolding custody nightmare, and I felt a bit rough around the edges, though I doubt anyone but me thought that.

But on Friday morning, at the very moments when powers and principalities up in Madison were shredding my weekend time with Susanna—I can see this on the time-stamped emails between Connie’s attorney and the guardian ad litem, running from 10:44 a.m. to 12:29 p.m.—I was giving a virtuoso presentation of sexual ethics and Christian-Queer identities. I was bearing gospel to young people at Valpo just a few years older than Susanna while the goodness of my time with her as her father was made a mockery of by a pair of attorneys two states away.

These are words that saved me. Michael, from Valpo’s Alliance (the student organization that hosted me) told me on Thursday night that my presentation was “exactly what we needed here.” He went on about how powerful and important my words were. On Friday morning after my second talk, he reiterated everything again (now in vocal italics), “I know I said this last night, but I need to tell you again …” This afternoon, shortly before heading out to see the movie, Erica, another of my Alliance student hosts sent me a short Facebook message that concluded, “Thank you so much for the beautiful work that you do.”

I went to Valpo to talk—and I could feel the goodness of my words within me even as they brought good news to others. But the words I heard, from a number of students but especially from Michael and Erica, also brought gospel to me on a weekend when good news seemed far from my reality.

I thought 42 was a good movie. But I’m not really in a position to critique it very closely. Because as I watched Jackie Robinson face down injustice after injustice, one cruel humiliation followed by another—but balanced by superlative performances on the field—I was also busy remembering what Michael and Erica told me. And I was realizing that I got no time to be small.

On my own “ball field” I’ve had my share of superlative performances. Hell, on Friday morning in the President’s Boardroom in the library, I singled to first and then stole my way to second, third, and straight on home.

I am not happy at what Wisconsin Family Court has done to my family. I am not at peace with the time lost. (And by now that lost time, whether erased by Connie’s contempt or by the court’s callous indifference, is measured in a tally that runs weeks, perhaps months, of priceless childhood memories never to be made.) It sucks. And it hurts.

But I have gifts and the world has needs, and I find deep joy where they cross. And one day, I believe that crossing will include Susanna more often than it does now. And even when I feel kicked in the gut, I am grateful to be reminded that my words are important and my work is beautiful, AND I GOT NO TIME TO BE SMALL.

David R. Weiss is the author of To the Tune of a Welcoming God: Lyrical reflections on sexuality, spirituality and the wideness of God’s welcome (2008, Langdon Street Press). A theologian, writer, poet and hymnist committed to doing “public theology” around issues of sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace, David lives in St. Paul, Minnesota and is a self-employed speaker and writer on the intersection of sexuality & spirituality. You can reach him at drw59@comcast.net and read more at http://www.tothetune.com. 

This week marks the 16th anniversary of Ellen’s coming out. Two weeks later her character followed suit on prime-time TV.  This column, written for that occasion, was my “audition” column for The Observer, the Notre Dame student newspaper. It won me a regular column where, during my last year of graduate school I got to practice writing “public theology” every two weeks.  Because this column was written only for my application, it never appeared in print until a decade later when it was included in my book. So, today, an encore column to honor Ellen …

“The outing of Ellen: why all the fuss?”
David R. Weiss
April 30, 1997

Just a few hours from now the seismic culture counters will go haywire as the first lead character in a prime-time TV series comes out of the closet in homes all across America. Needless to say, there’s been a bit of a fuss made over this. Some folks plan to boycott the show, the advertisers, even the station; at least one ABC affiliate has declined to air the episode. Many who have welcomed Ellen into their living room quite readily over the past few years will now feel compelled to turn off this woman whose no longer hidden life so turns them off. Others hail this episode as a liberating event, and not just for gays and lesbians. There are plans to celebrate with “Ellen” parties, champagne toasts, and doubtless much more.

I must confess I’m not an Ellen devotee. I have seen an episode or two, but I was never captivated by the subtle charm of the show; and, judging from its relatively mediocre ratings, neither have many others. So, why all the fuss? Is there really something so significant in a somewhat nerdy, somewhat funny, but all in all rather ordinary woman declaring herself lesbian on national TV? I say, yes, precisely because of that last sentence.

Most of us, myself included, have been raised with rather demonized notions of homosexuals. Perverts, queers, effeminate, butch, dyke, intrinsically disordered–and a host of other appellations that would be starred out in this newspaper. They’re the sort of folks that send shivers up your spine and make your stomach feel queasy.  Like the recent photo in the South Bend Tribune of a cow with two faces emerging side by side from the same head. Homosexuals are NOT normal.

Please let us believe that.

If you want to put a lesbian on prime-time TV, at least make her butch, put her on a bike (preferably a Harley), and dress her in leather and chains. But don’t suggest that being lesbian (or gay) is so . . . almost boringly normal. I mean, Ellen, aside from whatever she does between the sheets (or in her own imagination) seems just too much like me to write off as “intrinsically disordered” or “unnatural.” Her days, her life, are filled with all the same foibles that mark my own. The jams she gets herself into are not all that different from the corners I’ve painted myself into from time to time. And the simple fact that most viewers have seemed not to notice her (until now) is also a bit like my own experience in the world.

So maybe, just maybe, the fuss over Ellen’s outing is driven less by the fact that she’s lesbian than by the concern that she isn’t “lesbian” enough to reinforce our own stereotypes of how different and revolting lesbians ought to appear. Maybe there’s something in Ellen’s ordinariness that calls into question—and at a level hard to defend against—the familiar labels that have always worked to keep homosexuals in their place in our minds.

I may or may not watch Ellen tonight. I imagine I’ll jump on the cultural bandwagon—although I’ll watch it on tape after bedtime stories with my son are over (not that he wouldn’t be allowed to watch it himself, but right now he’s far more taken with the adventures of our current bedtime tale, “Maniac Magee,” than Ellen). But I don’t expect any big surprises myself. Homosexuals became human for me sometime ago. Maybe it was Dale’s wry humor; or Dick’s ability to imitate Kermit the Frog (or his inability to laugh in any other way than like a Canadian goose); or Kathi’s uncommon passion for poetry and literature; or Ken’s inability to leave the soap bar somewhere so that the shower spray didn’t melt it away. In any case, I’ve had too many gay and lesbian friends who have been at once so uniquely and ordinarily human that my capacity to consider their sex lives “intrinsically disordered” withered a long time back.

Sure, some folks will respond by saying that I’m confusing apples with oranges, sinners with sins. That you can’t argue from the ordinariness of the rest of their lives to justify their sexual desires and actions. Fair enough. But, at the very least, that ordinariness humanizes them. It suggests that they deserve neither our demonized fears nor our patronizing pity: they deserve our company, our respect, and our ears to hear from them who they are. That’s a conversation yet to happen on much of this campus and throughout much of this country. If a somewhat nerdy, somewhat funny, lead character on a prime time TV show nudges us in that direction, well, then I’ll tune in for that. The Spirit blows where the Spirit wills; Ellen wouldn’t be the first woman of questionable cultural standing to become part of God’s divine whimsy. And I don’t imagine she’ll be the last. Happy viewing!

__________

David R. Weiss is the author of To the Tune of a Welcoming God: Lyrical reflections on sexuality, spirituality and the wideness of God’s welcome (2008, Langdon Street Press). He and Margaret have a blended family of five children, five grandchildren, and assorted animals that approximate a peaceable kingdom. A theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, David is committed to doing “public theology” around issues of sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace. He lives in St. Paul and speaks on college campuses and at church and community events. Reach him at drw59@comcast.net. Read more at http://www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.”

On Leaving this Land (for the time being)
David R. Weiss, April 2, 2013

After Easter chapel ended there was a line of people hoping to catch my ear. It was probably the least comfortable moment of my trip. Not in a bad way, but in an honest way. Four people, four stories of deep need. Quite beyond my capacity to respond to in any adequate way. Uganda is the “Pearl of Africa,” and amid the jarring living conditions of so many it does offer frequent and consistent glimpses of breathtaking beauty. But there are so many for whom the pearl that is Uganda has not been kind or fair. And in that moment I felt like Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar, when he cries out, “There’s too many of you – don’t push me. There’s too little of me – don’t crowd me. Heal yourselves!”

A better man would’ve not felt so claustrophobic in the face of so much need, but I’m not yet that better man. Or, as Luther said, simul justus et peccator, at once saint and sinner. One moment I am the man speaking good new in the temple, the next I am cowering inside because I don’t see how there can possibly be enough loaves and fish to feed this crowd. Maybe next time I’ll know how to multiply the little there is into … enough … and then into abundance. But not yet this Easter.

Moses and I departed from the Centre on what seemed like a frivolous affair, but such are the contradictions that carry life forward. Rita, who hails from North Dakota and whom I was linked to via Robbyn, a mutual friend who hails from St. Paul, treated me to Indian food on Tuesday night. Tonight, leaving behind the teeming need at the Centre, we would both join Rita at an upscale, though far from exclusive Chinese restaurant. And we’d go Dutch. Fair to those at the Centre? Hardly. But a bid to help Moses meet the teeming need in his own life. Having lost his steady supply of work in the field of social research (most often assessing the effectiveness of public health campaigns) as a result of being outed as an Ally, Moses’ and his family are increasingly close to a day-to-day existence themselves.

Everyone’s needs cry out to me, and I owe everyone here more than I can possibly pay, but I owe Moses most of all. Hired “simply” to drive me around, he has also served as an almanac of Ugandan life and culture, a broker of conversations with activists, a treasure trove of insight and perspective into the LGBT community and issues here, a fellow father-husband-dreamer for justice, and a friend. So I asked if he and I could join Rita for a second meal with a soft but sure agenda, to see whether Rita, with her NGO connections here, might connect Moses to some income again. So alongside treating Moses to his first-ever Chinese cuisine and teaching him to use chopsticks (his competence outpaced mine in minutes) we recounted our week to Rita and then segued into a conversation about Moses’ skills and experience and whether and where they might intersect with Rita’s programs or her network of connections. No deals were made, but seeds were planted, contact information exchanged, ideas explored, live opportunities even mentioned. Time will tell where exactly it leads, but for now the path at least looks like hope.

Sunday night: where did the time fly? Suddenly packing looms as an unwelcome task after a long day. Of course, I’m ready to go home. I have a full life back in Minnesota, and I enjoy it there. I’ll be glad to be back. But maybe just one more day or one more week would be nice. I was just getting warmed up. Just making connections. Just beginning. So I packed my bags with reluctant eagerness.

At breakfast this morning I saw a new face at the Guesthouse. We’re pretty empty right now, and I’d heard a new voice moving her things into the room next to mine last night as I packed. So, stifling my introverted self, I brought my glass of juice over and joined her. After introductions and noting the irony that her first day here is my last, I cautiously explained the mission that brought me to Kampala. She was enthusiastic in her affirmation. I asked, in turn, “What brought you here?” “Well, I’m the buyer for this region of Africa for ‘Ten Thousand Villages’ – have you heard of them?” OMG. Heard of them? My daughter Susanna and I volunteer for them in St. Paul. Small world. Melissa, the buyer, knew some of the staff at the St. Paul store. She is here now to meet in person with some of the artisans and organizations she purchases from. I mentioned the Women’s Empowerment Project at Bishop Christopher’s Centre to her and I got a business card to pass on to Agnes, Moses’ friend who is a local craft vendor. I came here to open doors for Wingspan, but it’s also a big world, and if I can open a door for someone else, that’s good, too.

I had my final conversation with Bishop Christopher Monday morning at the Centre. I gave him Melissa’s contact information so he could pass it on to their Women’s Project coordinator. She’ll be in Kampala all week so hopefully a connection can happen. We discussed the many opportunities (and challenges) that sit before Centre. I need to review my notes and then share those thoughts first with Wingspan, but I can mention several themes.

(1) There is more to do than there are funds to make things doable. How – and how much – Wingspan can help will be a big conversation for the rest of the folks on the Uganda Team when I return. But there is no lack of energy, leadership, passion, or presence of Spirit at the Centre.

(2) One need that may be of particular interest to us is their chapel program. They would welcome worship resources (I left two copies of my CD and several copies of my lyrics with them). Financially they need support to allow them to do more outreach and pastoral care to those linked to the linked who are absent. And they need funds to provide subsidy for transport to those who come from a distance to worship there. For many who need the chapel’s spiritual support, the choice is between a meal or a bus ride. To date the bishop offers what he can out of his own pocket. He told me on Monday morning that St. Paul-Reformation’s $300 gift carried by me on this trip will be designated for chapel work.

(3) The bishop continues to dream about a “safe house” – as he puts it a hospitality house or hostel. At times in Uganda’s recent past the military had “safe houses” where dissidents got disappeared, so for many the phrase “safe house” connotes anything but safety. And he anticipates that others would say retort that Uganda is already “safe” for everyone – the same way many churches respond that LGBT people are already welcome, why do we need to say it out loud? A hospitality house or hostel could offer moments of sanctuary to activists whose safety is occasionally in danger. For a Centre that lives on funding week-to-week, this is a still just a day dream, but it’s Easter, and maybe a new day is about to dawn.

(4) Tomorrow is often on the bishop’s mind. What’s next? What does the future hold? Two things stand out here: youth and sustainability. The bishop’s work as an Ally began in a calling to raise a single voice: his. But over the past decade the Centre has aimed to take that single voice, that spark of passion, and gather it with other voices and other sparks, to create a movement with staying power. From the perspective of his eighty years, even my fifty-three counts as youth. But around the Centre several of the staff are in their late twenties or early thirties. And that clearly delights the bishop. The other thing he mentions repeatedly is sustainability. In a country where many people live on just a few dollars a day, sustainability is a real challenge. The Centre may never exist apart from outside donors. But one reason that economic empowerment is a priority in the programs is because, as you help people become self-sufficient, you help them reach a position where they can give back to the Centre. The bishop isn’t interested in charity, although he knows that in the short term that’s probably the best word for the aid that comes his way. What he really hopes for, though, is partners in the pursuit of justice, fellow workers in the kingdom of God, a community of midwives working to birth a world where welcome and opportunity are truly part of the common-wealth.

Wrapping up. My last conversation was with Andrew, the programs manager at the Centre. His story deserves more attention than my brain can offer now. (I’m finishing this post up in the Amsterdam airport, on too little sleep and with a throbbing crick in my neck from the little sleep I got on the last flight.) For now, I’ll say this. At twenty-seven Andrew is about six months older than my own son, Ben. Like Ben, Andrew is diligent and takes pride in his work. He knows what he’s doing, and he does it well. Still, it was humbling to know that many of the logistics for this trip rested in hands so relatively young. Andrew is a nephew to the bishop, and for some years offered his technological expertise and typing skills to the bishop as a volunteer. Eventually his own life experiences ignited a fierce passion as an Ally, and today his commitment to the Centre – and to its future – is remarkable. He is the bishop’s right hand. And a hand that is steady and sure.

One side note, if you’ve followed my blog from “First Flight” twelve days ago, you know that I brought a few simple gifts for Andrew and his young daughter. In our closing conversation he returned to those gifts, telling me how again last night he said to his wife, “Over the last three I’ve arranged for so many people to come visit the bishop and see the Centre, but until David, no one ever brought a gift for me of my child. This man is special.” Well, this man (me) is both a father and a grandfather, so I can’t take extra credit for seeing the value of children, but I will take credit for honoring the gifts of a person too easily overlooked. I’ve been that person, too. And I knew that as we (Wingspan, St. Paul-Reformation, and other partners as yet unseen) move forward in supporting the bishop’s work, we’re really supporting the work of a movement, not just a person. And Andrew is one of the faces of that movement tomorrow – and already one of the shapers of that movement today. Our work together is only beginning, and those simple gifts made it a good beginning in deed.

Leaving the Centre, Moses took me out to see where he stays in Kampala, a two-room 300 square foot apartment. It’s a brick and plaster duplex; his landlord has a 600 square foot apartment on the other side. He pays $100 per month, utilities included. It’s nicer that most of the homes I’ve seen in the poor neighborhoods: small, simple, clean. His kitchen is a small gas cook stove, used mostly to boil water for tea, a small three-shelf assortment of plates and cups, a dorm-sized refrigerator hosting a small tv, and a few staples: bread, margarine, jam, and sugar. It’s humble by any stretch of my imagination. Even reminding myself, as he does, that his goal, when he’s in Kampala, is to work and send as much money as possible to his family in Mbale. But sitting in his apartment, toasting our friendship with Mango juice, I realize that we both are wealthy. Family that love us (and that we love), dreams that we chase because they are worthy, other lives that we honor because they have dignity, and a God who opened pathways to a friendship that will last a lifetime. Kings have had less.

To the airport. One last errand. One of the activists I met last Thursday, Jay, a transman briefly profiled in “Company of Angels” (March 29) had e-mailed me hoping to at least say a word of farewell in person on my way out of town. Since meeting last week he has read all my Uganda blogs and plunged into the book I gave him. So I call him and put Moses on the phone and let the two of them identify a rendezvous on our way through town to the airport. It’s a gas station. Jay has used some of the small money I gave him last week to pick up a few diapers to send to some of his members in a rural area. After we say goodbye he’ll put the small package on a taxi-bus out to one of the villages.

I have a final gift for him. His last e-mail mentioned that part of his Easter day was spent listening to gospel music. So I bring my last CD to him as a parting gift. It brings him almost to tears. Like many of the LGBT activists (and LGBT non-activists), they’ve managed against enormous odds to claim the love of God despite all the rhetoric posed against them. But they have not experienced the gift of a book or songs that allow them to see that their stubborn claim is more than just a gut feeling – that it is also the very heart of the biblical story. In my words Jay is beginning to see that his gut feelings about God’s unconditional love have roots in the story taken away from him by the church, now returned to him by a long-haired bearded man born on Christmas Day. Sweet irony.

He tells me that he will share this – along with my book – with his members. In fact, some of them had already expressed the hope they might meet with me before I go. Our eyes meet, and together we say: “Next time.” A hug that seals this hope, and Moses and I are off.

An hour and a half later we reach the airport. We’ve driven much of the way in silence, savoring the ten days we’ve had together and dreading the final goodbye. It happens so quickly. Hello. Day after day of grace. Goodbye. But each of us is a new creation. Ambassador for Christ from one culture and one continent to another. I don’t say it out loud, but as he walks away, I think of the distance we have crossed to reached this place, and I borrow a phrase from Star Trek to send a final blessing chasing after him: Live long and proper, my friend. Live long and prosper. And may the justice of our God wrap all the world, so big, so small, in welcome.

Good-bye from Amsterdam. Next stop: St. Paul … and Margaret. Thanks be to God.

__________

David R. Weiss is the author of To the Tune of a Welcoming God: Lyrical reflections on sexuality, spirituality and the wideness of God’s welcome (2008, Langdon Street Press). He and Margaret have a blended family of five children, five grandchildren, and assorted animals that approximate a peaceable kingdom. A theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, David is committed to doing “public theology” around issues of sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace. He lives in St. Paul and speaks on college campuses and at church and community events. Reach him at drw59@comcast.net. Read more at http://www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.”

Easter in Kampala
David R. Weiss, April 1, 2013

Saturday night brought a torrential downpour to Kampala. It’s the beginning of the rainy season here, and it thankfully delayed its coming until just before my departure. My roof (like most roofs here) is corrugated steel. Which means that torrential is a uniquely aural experience, serenaded by a thousand drumbeats every second. You feel the rain. It also brought a “Western slip” (like a Freudian slip, when you have a Western thought that is almost grotesquely out of context).

After a long day out and about, followed by a soothing and cleansing shower, the rain drumming away above me as I dried myself off, I thought, “Gosh but I’m glad we beat the rain. Wouldn’t want to be racing up to my room in this.” And then, “Oh. But for at least half a million people in this city there is no beating the rain. Pavement is reserved for main thoroughfares here. The VAST majority of residential roads are dirt. And even “dirt road” is a wishful euphemism. They’re more accurately imaged as dried riverbeds used as roads in between the rains. I can’t imagine what the poor neighborhoods look like during a downpour. Kampala is built on hills, and the neighborhoods are a maze of twists and turns, but also ups and downs. This rain won’t “run off”; it will make a muddy white(red)water rapids. I was still grateful to be dry, but keenly aware of all who were not.

I slept early and long Saturday night. Easter morning dawned with drizzle. The Guesthouse was mostly deserted for the holy-day weekend. Moses came by to collect me and we headed over to join the Bishop for morning worship.

Bishop Christopher retired in the late 1990’s (’98, I think) and had his Ally epiphany not longer after that. Unfortunately his Church – the Church of Uganda (Anglican) – didn’t have the same epiphany and the bishop has paid dearly for being “off message.” His pension has been suspended by the church and he’s not allowed to preside at official church ceremonies. The church has even requested that he not allow people to address him as “Bishop,” any longer. But in his heart (and in God’s heart, no doubt) he remains a bishop, and his deep purple clergy shirt with white collar are a quiet reminder that he will not allow be invisible in this church. He tells me, “David, it would be like telling children to no longer call their father ‘father.’ I have confirmed so many and they know me as a bishop. I am no less to them today.”

So he worships regularly at St. Andrew’s Church, just a half-mile from his home. It’s his home congregation. Some in the congregation are respectful and appreciative of his work, though few will publically say so; to be seen too close to the bishop can set you back in both church and society here. Others tolerate his presence with respectful disdain. It’s hard to be openly contemptuous of a small stout eighty year-old man.

St. Andrew’s is a thriving congregation. Our service was the third of four scheduled for Easter. We had 400 people, and by all accounts the 7:30 and 9:30 services had been equally packed. The first is in English, the second in Luganda, ours in English again, not sure about the 4 p.m. one. Our service began with a familiar hymn: “Jesus Christ is risen today.” The whole service was a mix of stately (or staid) church music familiar to me from my youth interwoven with praise songs with lyrics projected a big screen up front. I’m not sure how long that’s been the case, but the praise aspect (almost Pentecostal energy) of these songs seems to fit the personality of the people better than the older and slower Anglican hymns. Not sure the theology serves them better though.

Still, it was a warm vibrant worship. A children’s blessing (an annual Easter event) that brought a close to a hundred children up front to “Marching in the Light of God.” I don’t know what the future holds for this church or these children, some of whom will no doubt grow up to be gay, but I felt honored to raise my hand in blessing in between those of Moses on my left and Bishop Christopher on my right. We were a trinity of subversive blessing; humble and gracious.

After the service, which ran almost exactly two hours, we drove back to the bishop’s residence for Easter dinner. He and Mary live in a spacious home. Hardly luxurious in its furnishings, but with eight children (all grown now), it is well-used. The living room is a large square room and has a variety of sofas and easy chairs to seat fifteen. Moses and I waited there, visiting briefly with the variety of family and friends who wandered through. Easter Monday is an informal holiday in Uganda so Easter weekend becomes gathering time not unlike Thanksgiving for us. And three or four of the bishop’s children gathered with us.

While we waited for the meal we could see cars pulling up and potluck dishes carried to the back door. The aromas of multiple foods teased us, but it was a full hour before the curtain was pulled back, a table prayer said, and Moses and I were sent through the feast line first. Aside from mashed bananas, there was nothing unfamiliar to me. Cole slaw, avocado slices, beans, rice, potato/egg salad, and an African flat bread. All home-made, all delicious. Best of all, to be surrounded by family, including six grandchildren overlapping some of the ages of my own. Family is different everywhere, but family is also the same. And the two and a half hours I spent with the Senyonjo family on Easter felt like home to me.

I had told the bishop when we arrived that I had some gifts to share and he said, let’s wait until after the meal so the children and grandchildren can see, too. So, after a light and fresh fruit cocktail for dessert I made presentation after presentation. Several copies of my book; one to stay in the Centre library others to be passed on to potential allies in this work. Two copies of my CD of welcoming hymns along with lyric sheets. Icons featuring multicultural images. At this point the bishop asked Mary to join him. Two framed photos: one of St. Paul-Reformation as a sign of our partnership; one of our “We have heard that God is with you” banner as a sign of our solidarity. Then the three signed cards and the $300 love offering.

Finally, I said, “And Mary, we also have a gift for you, because we know it is not easy to married to a man like this.” Smiles and laughter all around. She began to protest, but I continued, “No, I know this, because I do some of the work back in Minnesota, and I know it is not always an easy thing to be my life partner, but I also know that Margaret’s love for me is a priceless gift to what I do, and we know that the bishop treasures your support in his work.” The bishop loudly confirmed this, and then Mary opened the box with a sigh of astonished delight. The necklace, crafted by Lisa Mathieson, was a huge hit, with both children and grandchildren eager to see it.

I know the bishop’s work has been a stress on his family. Although they are all supportive of him, when your father receives death threats and plenty of bad press, it has to take a toll. So I think he was very pleased to let me join their family for this meal, and to allow his family to see in these gifts and in my grateful presence the testament of those who honor, support, and treasure his work from afar. After this we assembled outside for a bit of a ragtag family photo. We gathered as many as could be corralled, I was placed next to the bishop, and Moses and two of the bishop’s sons snapped pictures to capture the occasion.

Then, around 4:30 p.m. we walked two houses down to where the Centre is located and set up for the afternoon chapel service. People come by foot or by bus from a range of places, so 4:30 to a little past 5:00 is gathering time. By 5:15 we began, fifteen of us. Using thin paperbound Ugandan Anglican liturgies and songbooks, with extras photocopied and stapled, we were a small band struggling to carry a tune, struggling (some at least) to carry faith, and yet, as they say in Latin America, we were, each one of us, Presente!

Dennis, a gay man in his thirties whom the Centre helped complete his education to qualify as a teacher, serves as the volunteer chaplain. The bishop helped Dennis guide us through the service of evening prayer, mentoring Dennis to become a worship leader. At eighty the bishop has plenty of spark, but he is actively looking to position leaders at the Centre so that the work has fresh sparks as well. We sing (sort of), pray (deeply), and listen to the bishop’s reflections on 1 Corinthians 13. At the end, I’m invited up to say a word.

I tell them how honored I am to be with them on Easter, this festival of transformation and hope. I explain that I met the bishop several years ago. That Wingspan has helped fund his work the past several years. That the bishop and I have crossed paths four times now in America, and that Wingspan felt it was time for someone to cross paths with the bishop here in Uganda, and that I was chosen for this honor. I offer greetings on behalf of all who sent me. And, speaking directly to those gathered in this garage … not much larger than an empty tomb … I salute their courage and encourage their faith. They clap. I hope for all of us, but I am least deserving of applause. But it is good. So good. Christ is risen. In kampala, we are risen indeed.

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David R. Weiss is the author of To the Tune of a Welcoming God: Lyrical reflections on sexuality, spirituality and the wideness of God’s welcome (2008, Langdon Street Press). He and Margaret have a blended family of five children, five grandchildren, and assorted animals that approximate a peaceable kingdom. A theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, David is committed to doing “public theology” around issues of sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace. He lives in St. Paul and speaks on college campuses and at church and community events. Reach him at drw59@comcast.net. Read more at http://www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.”