There are no bionics that can fix a break like that.

The last two days were spent at a professional conference. The Maryland state Dietetic Association annual meeting.

Somehow, I found myself yesterday in an intense conversation with an individual who is both and Registered Dietitian and a Registered Nurse. As it turns out, she is a “contractor” working in the Neurology Clinic at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

Now I have spent my days in that facility. Some six years back in the late 60s and early 70s, and another 6 years in the 80’s. I saw the Viet Nam war from the perspective of those ambulance busses rolling into the West-Ambulance Entrance at WRAMC in the middle of the night from Andrew’s Air Force base, their cargo of maimed GI’s just off of air-evacuation flights from Southeast Asia.

I met a lot soldiers (and sailors and airmen as well) who suffered terrible wounds. I will never forget the duo that were inseparable in that hospital. They were there for months. I often wonder if they are still together today. For you see -- one had no arms and was wheel-chair bound. The other had no eyes. Between the two of them, they could go anywhere and handle anything.

There was one ward in that old Walter Reed Hospital that held about 30 Stryker frames. The “vegetable ward.” Most of the men were paralyzed from the neck down. And far too many were paralyzed in the their mental faculties as well. When I think of the homemade tube feedings that were used in those days . . . made from milk, baby food, raw eggs . . . and blenderized in blenders that got cleaned only a few times during the day, and the ambient temperature in the kitchen near 100 degrees . . . and I think of the HACCP (Hazard Analysis Critical Control Points) protocols rigorously controlling the time/temperature parameters that we religiously follow in today’s commercial kitchens, I wonder how and why we didn’t kill them with food poisoning! I do know that diarrhea was a horrible problem for them.

And I often wonder how many of the homeless today are those very same men from then. Somehow, there is this mighty mystic of the shock and awe of the initial battle, and the subsequent abandonment of the blood-letters in the aftermath. It reminds me of an old poem I heard somewhere:

On the brink of danger,
But not before.
God and the doctor you adore.

But when danger is past,
And all is righted,
God is forgotten and the doctor is slighted.

And the sorry history of experience bears out the slight to the maimed soldier as well.

But in my conversation yesterday with this RN/RD from Walter Reed, I realized that some things have changed and some things have not.

The injuries are simply horrific. The IED’s (improvised explosive devices) just blow limbs to infinity. The parts of the torso that are protected by armor survive relatively unscathed. But the concussion injuries to the face, skull, and brain are devastating.

She told me of a recent incident.

A newly admitted soldier was in her clinic. He had no limbs. His neurological trauma was still being assessed. And while in the clinic, his wife came in. Her first visit. She was obviously pregnant, and obviously by some other man. She looked at her soldier-husband. Pointed at him. Pointed at him! “I don’t want a thing to do with that!” Turned. Walked out. Her last visit.

She didn’t use the words “with him.” It was “with that!”

Technology today can do miracles with bionic prosthetic devices. And the military and Veterans Administration will (hopefully) be funded appropriately to provide these restorative devices and procedures for the next 70 years that the twenty-year-olds might otherwise expect to live.

But at that sentinel moment, in the mayhem of a clinic bulging with casualties, deep within the Army’s flagship hospital now totally overrun with trauma, an injury that cannot be healed was inflicted. That soldier’s heart was now broken. There are no bionics that can fix a break like that.

One can only wonder how or even if, an avalanche that buries one’s spiritual journey can ever be cleared.

One can only wonder why the slogan “Support Our Troops” has such a hollow thud of hypocrisy.

One can only wonder at the motivation of a government that has so wantonly destroyed its blood and treasure and reputation. For what. Why.

One can only wonder of the uncounted broken hearts with stories that will forever remain untold.

Why must it always be the soldier’s heart that must break when it is the politician that has failed.

The Refectory Manager,
LTC, US Army, Retired

Why Pots and Kettles?

So the pot is calling the kettle black! What else in the sordid history of man’s (read that male) implementation of revealed religion is new?

One fundamentalist implementation of a religion wants to execute a member who has become idolatrous and “converted” to another fundamentalist implementation of a religion.

Mercifully, most people in whatever religious persuasion they identify with are not unreasonable fanatics. But there are the elements within each that are.

For within these United States, there is a movement within evangelical Christianity to usurp, to replace the Constitution of the United States with laws of the Old Testament (The “Hebrew Bible”). The political wags call them the “Theocons” and recognize their goal of establishing a theocracy within the United States. The United States, from a Theocon point of view, as the “God-initiated” nation based on “Christian principles,” that had the purpose of rescuing mankind from the debauchery of sin and religion in the “Old World.” And from this kind of mindset, so much of the subordination of women, white supremacy, and demonization of the homosexual orientation comes.

And as emphatically as the religious zealots and fanatics of Afghanistan seek to execute a converted Christian, the law in Deuteronomy, (Deut 17:2-7) just as surely demands the stoning to death of someone who “converts to idolatry.” And what is idolatry if it is not simply worshiping something other than what you think aught to be worshiped?

It was ten years ago now, that plaintive plea from Rodney King, “Why can’t we just all get along together?”

And so I wonder, why do we even have “pots” and “kettles?”

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, just accept the inherent worth and dignity of every person? Why do the reds, or the blacks, or the yellows, or the fags, or the queers, or the whomever it is that might be of a group that we don’t know, don’t understand, and therefore fear -- why must we/they always have to be demonized?

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, seek and promote justice, equity and compassion in human relations? Why is it that we must always “impose” our paradigm on others?

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, simply accept one another and encourage each other in each person’s spiritual growth and spiritual journey. Every religion that I am aware of recognizes some concept of the “Golden Rule.” Why can’t every religion accept that rule as being an “inter-religion” rule rather than a “intra-religion” rule?

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, relish in the free and responsible search for truth and meaning based on enlightened reason? Why must codifications of barbaric, ancient laws, from mythical world views, hold people of the 21st century hostage?

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, affirm and promote the right of conscience and the use of the democratic process to establish our inter-relations with each other, but with the inherent notion that the rule of the “majority” cannot deprive any member of their basic human rights? And yes, for women, for non-white, for homosexuals, our very existence IS a “human right.”

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, seek peace, liberty, and justice for all? Or is it because of some religious paradigm to which we have attached ourselves that tells us to do otherwise, in the interest of “salvation.”

Why can’t we as individuals, as members of a religion, as citizens of a country, recognize and give our respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part? Or is it just fine to rape the planet Earth because the “Lord” is coming soon and “He’s” going to burn the wretched place anyway?

And so the Refectory Manager asks: Why must the pot always be calling the kettle black?

All will be well!

The sermon in the Sunday morning service of the Unitarian-Universalist church was paused for an interlude. And Franz Schubert touched me. Transcended me to a mountain top. And filled my very being with wonderment.

For 13 minutes, the commingling of melody on melody of human voice with clarinet, the underlying fabric of piano seaming them together, the exuberance of the epiphany of mountain-top experience, the singing of the protagonist of the poem, the cry, the realization that all will be well.

Der Hirt auf Dern Felsen (The Shepherd on the Rock) was written in Schubert’s (1797 – 1828) last year of life. It was written as a request from a renowned opera singer who asked him for a song that would make use of the vocal versatility that enabled her to sing long, flowing lines as well as very fast passages within a wide vocal range.

The text is bucolic. Based on a poem by Wilhelm Mueller, and especially loved by Schubert. For Schubert loved to travel among high hills and sylvan meadows.

And the question exists -- did Schubert hear in this poem what I hear?

The text and music are divided into three sections.

The English paraphrase . . .

When I stand at the mountain-top, and look down into the valley, and sing, a friendly voice returns to me in echo and cheers me. My beloved lives far away. I hope he hears my voice.

The clarinet introduces the setting. Sets the ambiance. Gives one the feeling of swirling from dizzying heights. The soprano, almost imperceptibly, augments the scene. Then the call. The echo. The cry. I wonder who my beloved is? How far away? Does he? Will he? Can he hear my voice?

The dynamic of the music intensifies.

Without the beloved, one suffers and is lonely. Those who hear the song are drawn to heartfelt sorrow.

The music is powerful. But in my heart I wonder if anyone in the valley is even there to hear the song?

But springtime is coming, the wonderful month of May is near. I’ll make myself ready and sing again. And the answer will come with resounding clarity! All will be well!

The music is not only powerful. It is fast. It is articulate. The pitch and range are all over the place. It swirls. The clarinet and voice tug and tag, sometimes in unison, sometimes in dissonant harmony. The piano, holding them together in the vista of a springtime mountain-top. And it ends with a resounding clarity. And one would really think that all will be well.

There is speculation that Franz Schubert did indeed have his beloved who lived far away. One wonders if Franz Schubert’s voice was heard by him in that special way.

Franz Schubert was a young man when he died. And one wonders of the things of his life had he been given more years.

But to a very alone old gay grandfather, sitting in the midst of a Unitarian-Universalist Sunday morning worship service, Franz Schubert came to me.

The sermon progressed on. The service moved on.

But the swirling mists of mountain-top questions continued in my mind. Questions, seemingly, with no answers.

For with Schubert, whose beloved lived far away and with whom he expressed his hope that his beloved would hear his voice, was Schubert really talking of me?

But so it is with faith.

With faith, at some point, the answer will come, will come with resounding clarity! An echo back from the valley. His voice in response. All will be well!

The Refectory Manager

The Ethos of Tenderness

Somehow, I inherently just knew that. But when I saw that concept in the essay by Fritz Guy in “Connection,” it was like a serendipitous discovery for the first time.

What a beautiful concept. What a rich set of images it brings into the mind. What a set of remembered sights, and sounds, and smells. What a sense of feeling. What a security of comfort. Of safety. What a cohesion of belonging.

Tenderness. The ethos of tenderness.

But what is it of mankind that emanates tenderness? How did we each come up with our set of images of tenderness within our mind? Our remembered sights, and sounds, and smells of tenderness. How did we recognize and confirm that sense of tender feeling? What assures us of a tender comfort and security with another? With our safety with another? What is it about another that tells us we belong to them?

What do we know of “tenderness?”

The vegetarians in the group likely have no clue about this. But a skilled chef will determine with remarkable precision the degree of “doneness” of a piece of cooking meat, simply by touching it. For the “tenderness” of the touch will determine its inner condition. The softer the meat, the rarer its degree of doneness. The harder the meat, the more well done.

And yes, the gift of touch. The gift to be touched. That gift will reveal the inner condition of tenderness.

And what a wonderful diagnostic indicator the privilege of intimate touch can be.

But when touch is not possible. Not appropriate. Impractical. Separated by space or time. Or any of another myriad of reasons. How does one ascertain tenderness?

The voice? Yes. But one must first know that voice to be able to ascertain the quality of tenderness. For a stranger though, that assessment will be imprecise.

But what of the face?

Is not the face a window to the soul?

The face that is beautiful, the face that is knurled, the face without blemish, the face with a life-time of weathering?

Is not the reflection of tenderness within any face discernable?

Does one not just inherently know the tenderness, the inner condition, by looking into another’s face?

I think of faces into which I have looked in this past week alone.

What I don’t know about tenderness, romance, love, intimacy, sex, marriage . . . would fill a decent sized encyclopedia. But there is something inside of me that responds to a look of tenderness. And I feel confident that I inherently recognize that look.

And there is something inside of me that inherently responds when tenderness is not there.

The faces of this past week.

Two ladies. Singing in antiphonal duet to each other in a church service. Singing into the face of their other.

Two young men. Parents. Telling of their child. Beaming at each other. Completing each other’s sentences.

A lonely young man telling his story. His eyes dropping. His face softening. Radiating.

Two young cowboys. Those heart-breaking furtive glances to each other. The unspoken conversation of unspeakable things. Their inherent tenderness as soft as the lamb’s wool of which they shepherding.

A man and a woman seated in an opulent awards festooned theater. Each gazing into the eyes of their other.

And so many more.

Faces radiating the expression of the “Ethos of Tenderness.” The subconscious facial telling . . . of love, of commitment, of endearment, of intimacy, of safety.

But there were other faces in this past week as well.

Faces I do not understand.

I try, but I simply can’t.

Are these faces even capable of expressing tenderness? Please, someone, tell me this is so. Tell me it can be so.

The faces are mean. Contorted. And frequently there is a rifle or some other menace close by. In other settings, the faces are shielded by hate-emanating placards.

There is heat of war. Violence. Death. Bigotry. Hate.

Some of the faces are partially hidden by veil, but the little parts that are revealed, reveal a look of fear.

Their faces are on the 24/7 news. Their faces are in the glossy pictures of news magazines. Their faces are pixilated on web sites. Their faces are instilled into the psych of this viewer.

The humanness of human sexuality.

Is it not to be nurtured in the ethos of tenderness?

Is not that what the morality of human sexuality is all about? The ethos of tenderness?

So I cannot understand. How do these faces of meanness, faces of fear, faces of hate share the intimacy of the ethos of tenderness?

Yet there are babies being born every day in the midst of this mayhem. And one would think that the ethos of tenderness would be the stork of babies.

But I sense. I don’t want to. But I can’t help it. I sense that the stork of these babies is not a tender stork.

And I get this sick feeling within me.

And the realization of the horrors of patriarchy and misogynic domination.

For I fear of the primal fear of the male. I am fearful of the male’s fear of the ethos of tenderness.

The Refectory Manager

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