But for how long must we cry?

It is not supposed to be like this. One should not be crying when one is trying to talk. It is so damned difficult to speak with spasms in the throat, with tears running down the face, with the awareness of the strained, yet awkward empathy of the listener.

But one can still write and cry. One can “touch type.” Only don’t let the tears drip down between the keys.

In the past three days, there have been tears.

And to meet new people. To be asked to tell your story in the new-comer’s group. How did your spiritual journey evolve to the point you found this church? And how can I not tell that story for me, without telling of the struggle with my identity? For the story of my struggle with identity and with my spiritual journey are hopelessly intertwined.

And the crying started last Friday evening. I had not been to this particular congregation in about a year. But I have watched their web site. And on Friday evening, this past, they were showing a documentary. A story. Barbara and Tibby: A Love Story in the Face of Hate.

The story of a lesbian couple of 39 plus years. Living in Virginia, USA. Compelled to leave their home and move to another state. For the priesthood of the misogynic patriarchy, acting on behalf of the intolerant majority, snuck a hateful, mean-spirited law through the legislative process that renders any “contract” between same-sex individuals null and void if that contract attempts to identify any “benefit” that would normally be applicable to a heterosexual marriage. One of the partners in this documentary has significant health issues. And thus anything with durable power-of-attorney, property, medical visitation, right to survivorship, child custody, inheritance and on and on is in jeopardy for them and all others in similar situations. Virginia is not for lovers!

In the discussion following, I couldn’t help it. The tears were uncontrollable. Why must God’s children, in the name of the representation of His Son, “Christianity,” exhibit such mean-spirited hate?

The KinShip Region 2 Formal Dinner was this past Saturday night. Somehow I found myself seated next to an incredibly amazing young man. And he told me his story. As I watched his eyes, his face, that devilish shy-like smile that would occasionally spring forth, watched the animation in his beautiful soft hands, his story was a story of intrigue. He is from Eastern Europe, and landed in the United States, sponsored by a Christian charitable organization, with a new duty station in a wacko-fundamental rural county of Virginia. His voice dropped so low, so filled with passion. His shock, his confusion as he described how his world was now turned upside down. What he thought were Christian values of Adventism in Eastern Europe were now juxtapositioned into bigotry and hatred by the Christians of that rural Virginia county. What was a non-issue in Eastern Europe was hypocritical dogma in Virginia. The culture shock was near overwhelming to him.

And yet, at that KinShip dinner, there were couples. Some able to be “married” in commitment and spirit only. But not recognized by either civil or religious domain. And yes, one couple with a real Canadian marriage . . . with a real “committed” marriage because they would have to become Canadians to be able to divorce!! And there were those who long to be married. Married in a civil domain with all of the legal benefits that automatically ensue. And yes, to be married with the blessing of their church.

And there were those who know they will never have the opportunity to make that choice. And the sense of that can be painful and palpable.

On this Sunday morning, I went back to the Unitarian-Universalist church. The sermon was in two parts: (1) Working for the right to marry is an expression of our UU principles; (2) Why is there opposition to same sex marriage?

And between the parts, I had to cry again. It was a duet. The antiphonal co-mingling of “We Kiss in the Shadows” from “The King and I” and “If I Loved You” from “The Carousel.” The singers, a lesbian couple of a committed relationship of decades, desperately wanting to participate in the basic human right of marriage, but this time in the State of Maryland.

I came back to this church today because I had heard that it was re-establishing its commitment to be a “Welcoming Congregation.” A certified program within the Unitarian-Universalist Association for establishing and maintaining a “safe space” and an inclusive worship experience for GLBT individuals. And to put into practice the activism for fostering justice and human rights for ALL peoples. For the “Welcoming Congregation” program, that means being a leading religious presence in the quest for same-sex marriage.

For whatever reason, today, a scheduled “new-comers” orientation was also held. I stayed. And as we told our stories of our spiritual journeys, the emotional dam was broken again.

And I can’t talk while crying. For the telling of a spiritual journey can be wrought with pain.

I can’t help but cry when I try to explain how and why my children feel about me, their homosexual father, the way they do. It is not easy to tell others that your son has told you how surprised you’re gona be on the morning that Jesus returns, and He tells you how morally depraved you are.

But it feels so damned good to be able to cry in a safe space in a spiritual community. Where those around you inherently know and understand.

In time, the tears do stop. And the smile tries to come back. And we talk of other things.

But we knew.

We know.

We know that Virginia is not for lovers.

We know how wrong it is for Virginia, for Maryland, for countless other states to write a religious code of marriage, a code for one religious persuasion only, into their constitutions.

We know. We cry. We hope.

We live our lives exemplifying the love and tenderness and diversity that is the very core of family.

We try to think that our examples will surely teach them.

But for how long must we cry?

The Refectory Manager