Flag-waving, Bible-thumping

I received one of those Flag-waving, bible thumping emails today and this was my response: 

The problem as I see it is that God has been co-opted to serve the prejudices of whoever thinks they have the corner on truth. 

People of dubious faith pick and choose what parts of the bible suit them: they will use passages to condemn gays and lesbians but think it perfectly OK not to feed the hungry or clothe the naked. 

They will complain about being persecuted but ignore the treatment of blacks, Muslims, the handicapped and disabled, the mentally challenged or the disfigured, the homeless, the poor, all of whom their bible in one way or another instructs them to respect, serve and alleviate their suffering. 

They attribute to God their silly notions of using weather to punish a geographical area for some transgression or another but deny the science of climate change. 

They enjoy the privilege of health care while denying affordable health care to the masses.

I'm getting really tired of having so-called "Christianity" shoved in my face. 

And it reminds me of a re-write I did of another post back a couple of years ago. I'll insert the revised edition here:

As Published in Today's American Catholic  April 2013

A Reflection on Easter Past: The Last Station of the Cross 

by Frank DeFrancesco

I write this as one with deep roots in the Catholic tradition, but I have been cut off from the Catholic community for so long now, that I barely speak the language.  I went from Et cum spiritu tuo to being a Catholic in exile and finally to being a man without a church.  

Before I go on, you should know that I struggled, perhaps for too long and needlessly, with my God-given sexuality throughout my childhood, adolescence and young adulthood.  It was a sometimes arduous journey with confessors and penances, and therapists and tears along the way, until I was finally able to accept and fully embrace my gay identity at the age of 36. I knew then I could not sit at a communal table where I was not fully welcome.

Now, when I look at the Catholic Church from my vantage point in the secular world, I experience a brief, but telling, twinge of homesickness in spite of the fact that I notice the broken windows, the crumbling bricks and the old men in funny clothes talking about who they won’t let in.  

But I am well aware of the more mature realizations that I have come to: that I have no Ruby Slippers and I cannot go home; that my home has ceased to exist; and that perhaps that home always was an illusion.  

It sometimes saddens me that I cannot conform, or bring myself to believe any longer in the Catholic myths or mysteries.  In some respect, my life would have been much easier if I had fit the parameters of what is acceptable.  If I could have listened, prayed, communed, participated as, for example, the male head of a neat, little, nuclear, heterosexual family rather than as someone who was condemned, shunned, and ultimately exiled.  

If my authenticity and conscience had remained unchallenged, my life as a Catholic would have been so easy, wouldn’t it?  

But I have moved on, and that is good.  I now rarely see the inside of a church, except for funerals – and that only out of respect for the family of a deceased relative or friend.  I don’t celebrate the religious holydays and am less inclined to celebrate even the secular aspects of religious holidays: I no longer get ashes on Ash Wednesday nor do I weave palm fronds into crosses on Palm Sunday like my father taught me and his father taught him; I no longer fast or abstain out of any religious obligation or sit in a pew moved by the liturgy of Holy Saturday; OK, I confess that I did indulge in a chocolate Easter bunny – but that’s about it.

What Gethsemane has brought me to this place on the hill where I gaze upon a man who is broken and bloody for his message of love?

I could talk about Dignity, a faith community of Gay, Lesbian, Bi and Trans Catholics that I was a part of, where, for a time, I shared a wistful hope and a grounded belief that the Catholic Church might come to a new, brave and enlightened understanding of our lived experience as gay men and women and embrace us in the love of Christ.

I could talk about the Alice-in-Wonderland-Theology that, in its lack of wisdom and logic, would theoretically allow me to sin and to repent repeatedly under a great burden of guilt - but deny me the sacraments if I entered into a committed, loving relationship with another man.   

I could talk about the all too many priests I knew who, using similar illogic had “reasoned away” their commitment to celibacy, and were living in sexual relationships with other men – priests who continued to say Mass and consecrate bread and wine, while representing the Church that condemned me and my sexuality and required me to be celibate, despite my never having taken a vow.

I could talk about how I turned the other cheek, again and again, so that the Church hierarchy - its popes and bishops and priests - but specifically in the person of Joseph Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, could slap me harder, and repeatedly, until the final blow, calling me and those like me “objectively disordered”, and having a “more or less strong tendency toward moral evil”.  

Those words were uttered in all seriousness and lacked even a hint of compassion.  After some reflection, and deeply hurt, I finally lost heart and walked away.

But what I really want to talk about is what I call the “New” Catholic Church – the one that has seemingly transformed itself over the past thirty years so that I no longer recognize it.  And they say the Church is slow to change!

It seems this “New” Catholic Church, has abandoned the poor, the marginalized and the victimized, all of whom, like Christ on his walk to Golgotha, have received exceptionally brutal treatment by “believers” of many stripes in recent times.  

It seems this “New” Catholic Church has been disturbingly silent on matters that cry out for love, justice and compassion but has been disturbingly vocal on issues that promote divisiveness, hate and conservative ideologies.  

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church speaking on behalf of the struggling working classes and the poor on whose backs the wealthy thrive like parasites? – a church that had always professed a belief in "an option for the poor".

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church speaking out against the hoarding of obscene wealth by corporations and individuals who hold greed as a virtue? – a church that had always professed a belief in the words of Jesus that it is “harder for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven than for a camel to go through a needle's eye”?

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church on behalf of Mother Earth, condemning the waste, the wanton disregard for the environment and the wanton use of limited resources by the wealthy few while the poor are left to subsist on table scraps? – a church that had always professed to hold creation sacred.

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church on behalf of those who have no option for health care or who cannot afford health care? – a church that had always professed that it is a work of mercy to care for the sick.

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church speaking out against the evangelization of government? – a church that had always professed a belief in the words of Jesus to "render to Caesar what is Caesar's and to God what is God's".

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church speaking out against the atrocities perpetrated by pedophile priests?  or speaking with humility to put the victims of abuse ahead of its need to hide the truth? – a church that had taught the spiritual grace of humility, penance and repentance.

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church on behalf of gay and lesbian and transgender children – too many of whom take their own lives or are the victims of violence? – a church that professes an unconditional support of all life but for its own nearsighted doctrines, actually puts these children at risk rather than embrace and acknowledge them as authentic children of God.

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church rising in outrage against so-called evangelists who take advantage of the elderly and other vulnerable followers to aggrandize themselves and amass personal wealth?

Where is the voice of the Catholic Church speaking out against a fanatical so-called “christian" church that pickets funerals of American servicemen, gays and others with signs that proclaim, "God hates..."?

Where, indeed!  Instead, over the past years the Catholic Church spoke out lest women receive health services it disapproves of.

Instead they reneged on their mission and service to the poor, the sick and orphans rather than provide health benefits to legally married spouses of employees; they closed their doors rather than allow children to go to “non-traditional,” loving homes.

Instead they loudly condemn the love and commitment of two men or two women in marriage while they tolerate the annulments, divorces and serial marriages of opposite sex couples, all the while waving a banner proclaiming the "Sanctity of Marriage".

Instead they excommunicated an intelligent, dedicated religious Sister for making a difficult, conscientious, life-or-death medical decision to save a woman's life while under her hospital's purview.

Instead they denied communion to a woman at her mother's funeral Mass instead of offering the sacrament in love and compassion.

Instead they withdrew financial support from a homeless shelter because the director advocates same-gender marriage, even though they say they believe in the merciful work to "shelter the homeless".

Instead they intimidated the religious Sisters in America who have been living and working in the true spirit of the gospels and under the guidance provided by the Second Vatican Council.

You get the gist. 

It is no longer an option for me to try to "change things from within".  There was a time when I thought it was possible, when being a “dissenting” Catholic was an authentic option.  I think this is no longer the case.  The "New" Catholic Church is a different church altogether.  I do no not recognize this new heretical church and I think it has lost whatever vestige of moral authority it had left.   

I cannot help but imagine that if Jesus Christ could see his "followers" today, He would certainly "turn in his grave" so to speak. The passion of Christ lives on, but Resurrection seems highly unlikely. 

Frank DeFrancesco, critic and sometimes apologist, was educated in Catholic schools, received a BA from St Michael’s College, Vermont and an MA from St Joseph College, Connecticut.  A former member of the board of Dignity Hartford, Frank lives with his husband of 27 years and their dog Bennie who was named in spite of that other Pope.

An Excerpt From the Afterword

An excerpt from the "Afterword" of "Did You Ever See A Horse Go By/"

Peter, the friend to whom I addressed the Preface, died from complications of AIDS, like too many other people I have known. I never finished composing that letter to him in 1987 and so it was never sent. Here, many years later, I include an Afterword, addressed to him.

May 2014
Dear Peter,

I’ve somehow survived to 2014. I am old—or pretty nearly old as life journeys go. In the grand scheme of things, I am nobody and my life is irrelevant. So why should my story, my experiences beginning more than half a century ago, matter to anyone? Why should I bother to write down these snippets of my life?

The answer to that last question: I had to write this account, even if no one ever reads it, because I was compelled to do so in the same way as I was compelled to come out; it was a matter of survival. And if I am to live any semblance of an authentic life, I must come out unreservedly and often; because coming out is never only an event: it is a continuous process and one that challenges me daily.

• The woman who cuts my hair when I’m visiting in South Carolina insists on making small talk and asks about my wife. She has scissors. How do I respond?

• At the auto repair shop, I tell the service tech, who I’ve just overheard making a homophobic comment, “If there’s a problem, call Lee, my, uh, friend? roommate? partner? significant other? husband?”

• Lee and I are holding hands on a deserted beach at sunset as some college kids approach in the distance. Do I let go of his hand?

Ann Bancroft as Ma Beckoff scolded Harvey Fierstein’s Arnold in Torch Song Trilogy: “You haven’t spoken one sentence since I got here,” she says indignantly, “without the word gay in it.” How often do I check myself so as not to offend the likes of all the Ma Beckoffs in the world with constant gay references?

• I am challenged daily to come out, again and again and again, because, even as things appear to be changing, there still exist subtle and pervasive societal and cultural norms that are intended to usher us back into our closets: the veiled but insidious beliefs, behaviors, words, and hatred that are still widely tolerated.

• I am challenged to come out, again and again and again, because of the hate and vitriol and rage that seem to escalate in response to every equal rights victory and with every courageous individual who comes out and who refuses to remain silent and invisible.

• I am challenged to come out, again and again and again, because too many gay kids still choose suicide as their only option to escape bullying and familial rejection; because some lawmakers still introduce bills that would take back our hard won rights and liberties; because some religions still wave signs declaring that “God hates fags” while others, less blatant, use more refined and educated language to condemn and vilify us.

....continued in the book

Speaking of Gold Rings and Rainbows and From the File Cabinet Re-run

Looks like the Supremes have spoken in our favor once again. Or more precisely NOT spoken.

Their refusal to hear the appeals by a slew of states means they are letting stand lower court decisions that overturned bans on same sex marriage in those several states: Indiana, Utah, Oklahoma, Virginia, Wisconsin. And this has also opened the door to marriage equality in Colorado, Kansas, North Carolina, South Carolina, West Virginia, Wyoming.

Surprisingly, some of these states and/or their elected officials are embracing the outcome of this non-ruling by SCOTUS.

Thanks to Russ over at Blue Truck, Red State, for the link, you can follow the story here.

This seems like a good time to re-post an entry from April 10th, 2012:

This little ditty was written in a creative writing class - during a 3-minute exercise in which we were required to use the words "Manhattan Kansas". Interesting how the mind works in a spontaneous moment...

"I'm glad that's over." Gary said as he raised the whisky glass and took a good gulp. He put the cigarette to his lips with the other hand and drew a lung-full of smoke. "I hate weddings in general," he added as the smoke escaped through his mouth and nose, making curly-cues around his face, " and I especially hate being in wedding parties".

"Well," John replied, "You held up pretty well in spite of it and I'm sure my brother and my folks appreciated it. And, it was kind of fun being best man and having you in the wedding party too. I couldn't help thinking that someday the two of us could be exchanging vows, right here, in Manhattan, Kansas!"

Or Bristol, Connecticut for that matter...

Coming Soon - More Details Later

I've just been informed by my publisher, Lefora Publications that my memoir will be published sometime in October.

Here is a mock-up of the cover:

From the File Cabinet: Daniel at Boys' Beach - Continued

Daniel At Boys' Beach - Continued

            After a short swim and getting Bruno frustrated as he attempted to fetch the rocks that the guys were tossing into the water, they all went back to their spot on the beach.           

            “This is too wonderful for words,” Frankie said for probably the tenth time as they sprawled out on their towels. “What about lunch? I’ve got tuna salad or tuna salad. And some sliced tomatoes.”

            “Sounds good,” Danny said.

            Frankie passed out sandwiches and Jay fed Bruno a snack.

            “It’s great here,” Danny said. “I could get used to it.”

            “As much as I love it here, I doubt that I could live here,” Frankie philosophized. “Especially in the winter. They say the unemployment rate is like eighty-percent or something and there’s nothing to do but drink.”

            “Like I said, I could get used to it.” Danny was only half-joking. “I like the solitude – or at least the opportunity to have solitude when you want it.”

            Jay said, “There’s such a thing as too much solitude. And none at all in the summer. But, the way prices have skyrocketed, we couldn’t afford to live here anyhow. Not unless we had bought a place back in the early eighties and could rent it out for most of the summer, but neither of us had money back then either.”

            “Why rent out your place in the summer, when that is when you most want to be here? No, coming out here once or twice a summer and staying at the campground is fine,” Frankie said, “It makes the time we’re here special. Oh, that reminds me, I want to got out on the schooner Acadia sometime this week. Got to do that at least once a year,” Frankie said. “Love being out on a sail boat and listening to Captain Bill’s stories. Too bad he doesn’t do gay naked cruises.”

            “Yeah, that would be cool,” Danny said, “But I’d love to go out for a sail with you guys, naked or not.”

            And so went a glorious afternoon at the beach. It was one of those September days that seemed too good to be true. Even this late in the season Boys' Beach had a good-sized crowd and it was busy with guys cruising the dunes and walking out into the marsh. Danny and Frankie each slipped on some ear-phones, Danny listening to rock music and Frankie relaxing to the samba rhythms of Sergio Mendes and Brazil ’66.

            It was past three-thirty when Frankie observed the exodus from the beach had begun. “Looks like the boys have to get back to their B&B’s or hotel rooms to take showers and get ready for Tea Dance. I, for one, am not ready to leave. It’s just too nice. We’ll do cocktails at camp while the steaks are on the grill.”

            “T-dance is mostly boring S&M. You know, the pretty boys doing ‘Stand and Model’ and the ‘Steroid and Muscle’ types flexing while lifting their Michelob Lights. Besides, the beach is just getting interesting when the tourists are heading for the Boatslip,” Jay said. “As a matter of fact, I’m going for a walk to see if anything interesting is happening now. Be back in a few.”

            Frankie held on to Bruno’s rope to keep him from following his favorite Daddie. Several guys on their way back to town walked past their spot. Daniel, who was now lying naked on his back, stretched out to grab his pack of cigarettes. The pose would have made a great Honcho centerfold and the motion made a few guys stop to gaze on Daniel’s sexy body.

            An older gent walked into his buddy who had stopped in his tracks and they both nearly fell on top of Danny as they awkwardly attempted to regain their balance. Jay was headed back from his walk.

            “Hey, Danny,” Jay said, “I’m sure if you take a stroll in the dunes you will surely get molested. Just warning you. Of course, I had nothing to worry about.”

            “I’ll just stay put. I don’t think I much care for cruising the dunes.”

            “Maybe you’d change your mind if you gave it a chance,” Jay said.

            Just then, a cute guy, about Daniel’s age, walked right up to Danny and got his attention.

            “I just want to thank you for being here today,” he said. “You are beautiful and I really enjoyed looking at you all day. You made my day. Thanks.” He didn’t wait for a response. He just continued down the beach.

            Danny couldn’t have responded if he wanted to. He was speechless. Embarrassed. Dumbfounded. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention. Coming from friends and strangers alike. Only moments later, another man, slightly older than the first, walked up to Danny and introduced himself.

            “Hi! I’m Adam and I had to talk to you before I left the beach. I saw you earlier when I was walking by. I want to have sex with you. Here’s my number. I live in town. Call me. Tonight. Seriously.” Adam handed Daniel a piece of paper with his info. “I’d love to get together and I am willing to please.”

            Daniel, still caught off-guard, just mumbled, “Oh, right, I’m Daniel, uh Danny, thank you, I mean, oh, uh, I don’t know, thanks anyway.”

            Frankie and Jay just laughed and smiled knowingly at Danny's embarrassment.

            “You don’t even know what you’ve got, do you, Danny? Jay asked. “You could have any guy you want, do you realize that? Ah, Danny, what the average gay man would give to have your looks or, if not, to have you for a night.”           

            “Well," Danny answered, "I don’t know. These guys scare me. I don’t know why, but having guys come on to me, it’s just all pretty new.” Danny was clearly blushing beneath his tan.

            “You’ve got Adam’s number. Go for it Danny. Have some fun,” Jay encouraged.

            “Well, we’ll see,” Danny said, "we'll see."

To be continued

From the File Cabinet - Boys Beach

A little something to take the chill out.

DANIEL AT BOYS BEACH

            Daniel was a friend of Jay and Frankie’s who they had invited up to spend a few days at camp in PTown. Daniel had moved east from Ohio after breaking up with Loretta, the woman he lived with for a couple of years. She’d been possessive and controlling, he finally realized, and knew that only distance would give him the freedom to start a new life without her – a life that included the realization that he really preferred men to women. Jay had worked with Daniel for six years now but this was the first time Daniel had an opportunity to stay with Jay and Frankie in their RV.

            Daniel was in his late twenties and not quite sure of himself when it came to meeting or dating men. He’d had one boyfriend, now an ex-boyfriend and their tempestuous relationship had made him something of a loner. Because of his shyness, Daniel could easily be taken for being aloof. In a place like Ptown, aloofness was normal and even considered desirable – or at least it was a quality that made some men very desirable in the eyes of certain other men.

            Daniel was desirable in his own right, aloof or not. He was about 5-foot-ten, nicely tanned and, despite the fact that he never went to the gym or worked out, he had a perfect physique: big-boned and solid, his arms and torso were those of an Olympic swimmer. His body was decorated with just the perfect amount of dark hair that shouted masculinity without any of the negative qualities of hirsuteness. Daniel did not have the abs of a gym rat, but his belly was flat and taut; a dark treasure trail led from his navel and disappeared into the jeans that hung seductively on his hips and bowed out slightly in the front so that from the right vantage point one could observe a tease of pubic hair. His angular facial features, his cheeks and jaw were accentuated by a sexy 5 o’clock shadow at all hours of every day. His hazel eyes were constantly smiling though his lips were more reserved and showed little emotion.

            “Get your things together, Daniel, we’re heading out to Boys Beach.” Frankie announced.           

            Jay and Frankie and a few of their friends always called the gay section of Herring Cove “Boys Beach” though other Provincetown regulars had other names for the popular spot. It was a relatively remote beach, way past the life-guarded area. It was a good half hour walk from the parking lot or the bike rack and even a bit longer if you hiked out the breakwater from Pilgrims’ Landing to Long Point.

            “And don’t forget to bring plenty of water and your suntan lotion. You wouldn’t want to burn your delicate parts,” Jay added.

            “I’m ready,” Daniel said, dressed in only a pair of cut-offs and holding a rolled up beach towel. “I stuffed a jug of water, some lotion and my cigarettes in here. That’s all I need.”

            Jay and Frankie and their dog Bruno were loaded down like they were going on a desert safari. They had knapsacks, a cooler filled with sandwiches and Diet Coke, a pile of blankets and towels, a beach umbrella, a large thermos jug of ice water, a dog bowl, a leash, and a ten foot rope to keep Bruno from wandering. Somewhere in the pile was a book, a cassette player and the Provincetown Magazine. Bruno had his own saddlebags for water and food and toys. The four of them hopped into Jay’s truck and drove to the Herring Cove parking area.

            “I’ll carry the cooler,” Daniel offered, “and the umbrella, if you like. I don’t mind.”

            Daniel, carrying the cooler, the umbrella and his towel looked even more toned and gorgeous than usual. His bare feet and legs were nicely tanned and his abs glistened with a mere hint of sweat as he walked the beach, effortlessly toting the Igloo cooler. Jay, Frankie and Bruno, in contrast, looked like they were on a month-long expedition.

            The guys made their way past the various groups of sunbathers: past the families with kids, past the Lesbians with kids, past the topless Lesbians, past the naked straight couples and past the gay men with swim suits, around the dunes and to the section of the beach where naked gay men were scattered like castaways. Some single men, some in pairs or groups, soaked up the sun; others were reading books or the daily newspaper, while others frolicked in the waves or strolled nonchalantly along the water’s edge, picking up colored stones or dishing about last night’s tricks.

            “OK, this looks like a good spot,” Frankie said as he dropped a load of beach paraphernalia on the sand. Bruno looked relieved to finally take a rest from the long hike.

            Jay said, “Fine. Looks good. And there’s plenty of eye candy to boot." Frankie and Jay spread out a large blanket and arranged some rocks along the perimeter to prevent an unexpected gust of wind from churning it up. Jay hoisted up the rainbow colored beach umbrella and tied the dog to the center pole.

            Frankie and Jay removed their shorts. “Ah, finally, free,” they both said in unison. Frankie added, “The glorious freedom of being naked on the beach. Has to be the next best thing to heaven, maybe better.”

            “Danny boy, don’t worry about the park rangers,” Frankie said, “they usually just give a verbal warning reminding you that the National Park does not allow nudity. Mostly the rangers don’t go looking for trouble and pretty much ignore the nudity, unless someone gives them flack. Nudity’s been a tradition here for years.”

            “I don’t know about that,” Jay said, “I heard that they’ve got a new head honcho this year and the rangers are under instructions to issue tickets and collect fines if they want to keep their jobs. But it’s after Labor Day, so they might be short staffed and we’ll probably be OK. Besides, there’s usually plenty of warning when the rangers come down the beach on their ATVs. Most guys give a shout and a heads up if they spot a Parkie. Just keep your shorts handy.”

            Frankie said, “I remember when the rangers actually used to patrol the beach on horseback. Maybe that’s what made it so difficult to enforce the no-nudity rule. Much easier to spot a Mounty than a dune buggy.”

            “Well, guys, if you don’t mind I’ll just spread out my towel here and catch some sun. Give me a holler if I need to cover up,” Daniel said as he laid out his magic carpet on the sand about a dozen feet from Frankie and Jay. Frankie didn’t show his disappointment with the distance Danny had decided to put between his towel and their blanket. He had been hoping to keep a closer eye on Daniel’s beautiful body.

            “You never have to cover up, if you ask me,” Frankie said, “but if I see a ranger I’ll let you know.”

            After an hour on the beach, Daniel needed to cool off. There hadn’t been any sign of a ranger, so he walked bare-assed down to the water’s edge and dove in. Bruno, eager for a swim also, tugged at his rope and nearly took the beach umbrella down in an attempt to follow Danny. Frankie got up, untied the dog and the two of them walked down to the water to join Daniel. Jay followed and jumped in before Frankie even got his knees wet. Frankie was trying to adjust to the cool temperature of Herring Cove as Jay sent a cold splash into his face.

            “Hey, cut that out!” Frankie complained.

            And so went a glorious afternoon at the beach. It was one of those September days that seemed too good to be true.

(to be continued)

Pope Francis' Questionnaire

Assisi, Italy

I guess I'm on a Catholic trend.

I posted this to a website: John Wijngaards Catholic Research Centre where they are asking for respondents to the Questionnaire put out recently by Pope Francis - the one that the Catholic Bishops in the US chose to disregard.

The section of Pope’s questionnaire concerning LGBTs contains the following questions:

Question 5 a. Is there a law in your country recognizing civil unions for people of the same-sex and equating it in some way to marriage?

Question 5 b. What is the attitude of the local and particular Churches towards both the State as the promoter of civil unions between persons of the same sex and the people involved in this type of union?

Question 5 c. What pastoral attention can be given to people who have chosen to live in these types of union?

Question 5 d. In the case of unions of persons of the same sex who have adopted children, what can be done pastorally in light of transmitting the faith?

According to official Vatican documents, gays or lesbians are not allowed to have any sexual relationships. They state that gay or lesbian ‘unions’ go against Natural Law and may never equated with a heterosexual marriage.

If you are a homosexual yourself, could you describe your experience in this area? What is it like to be a Catholic and live in a homosexual relationship? Do you feel you are guilty of immorality/ Do you receive any support from the Church?

Here is my response:

Question 5  a. Is there a law in your country recognizing civil unions for people of the same-sex and equating it in some way to marriage?

Yes, in some states of the USA same-sex marriage is legal.

Question 5  b. What is the attitude of the local and particular Churches towards both the State as the promoter of civil unions between persons of the same sex and the people involved in this type of union?

Progressive Christian and Jewish congregations are supportive; evangelical Protestant, Mormon, Catholic, and others are not only not supportive, but actively work against what are our civil rights and try to impose their beliefs on those of us of other faiths or beliefs or those of us who do not belong to any religion. That is putting it mildly. Religions, in many cases have become the embodiment of hate and dare I say of evil.

Question 5  c. What pastoral attention can be given to people who have chosen to live in these types of union?

As far as I’m concerned, it is way too late for this.

The question itself is disingenuous.

If you must, begin by listening to the stories and lived experience of Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgender individuals without judgment or preconceived ideas, without an attitude of your knowing us, our lives, our consciences, or struggles, or our identities better than we do.

Question 5  d. In the case of unions of persons of the same sex who have adopted children, what can be done pastorally in light of transmitting the faith?

My God, respect the lives of the children and their adoptive parents in the same manner that you insist on respecting life in the womb. Many, but of course not all,  same sex partners adopt children with special needs – unwanted children, sick children, emotionally disturbed children, children born addicted to drugs, - these families are providing love and nurturance. How can this be wrong?

A Brief Recounting of my own Experience:

I am a young, sixty-five-year-old American male and I have bee in a loving relationship with another man for over 25 years (since I was 40). My childhood upbringing was in Catholic schools and I came from a very devout family. I discovered my sexuality gradually from the time I was around twelve to fourteen. At around fourteen I learned that masturbation, (self-abuse) was a mortal sin and I struggled with this through my young adulthood. A priest once refused to give me, a 16-year old, absolution because he said I was not contrite enough and was not serious about changing my ways. I was devastated. I discovered the word “homosexual” when I was about sixteen and read an article in Life Magazine that depicted homosexuals as frightening degenerates. I was fascinated and horrified.

I knew I was a homosexual but I also knew I couldn’t be. I knew I could never act on my desires to have sex with a male. Even though I was not having sex with men, the guilt I lived with around masturbation was unrelenting. I went through several therapists (some were priests) from age sixteen until I got out of college at twenty-two. No therapist ever acknowledged my true identity, instead said things like “you can’t be homosexual, you’ve never had sex with a male,” or  “You’re just shy with women. “ or “you’re an intelligent person, you can work things out for yourself.” My education continued in Catholic institutions through graduate school where I got a degree in Pastoral Counseling.

I even sacrificed what might have been a career in another field in order to study psychology and try to “figure out” how to “cure” myself. I experienced long periods of depression for most of my life, often after making occasional aborted attempts to connect with another man.

Finally, thanks to a co-worker, I found a therapist who was excellent, non-judgmental and who stayed with me for the long haul – more than two years. My long inner struggle finally came to an end with my full acceptance and embracing of my sexuality.

I “came out” at the age of thirty-six; I came out personally, psychologically, sexually, spiritually and politically. It was 1984. This was the most joyous, liberating, deeply spiritual, fulfilling and positive period of my entire life.

One of my first “out” actions was to attend a Mass at the local chapter of Dignity the organization for LGBT Catholics which met in the basement of a community center like the early Christians in the catacombs of ancient Rome. I wept for joy when we sang “…Blest are you that weep and mourn, for one day you shall laugh. And if wicked men insult and hate you all because of me, blessed, blessed are you! Be not afraid. I go before you always…and I will give you rest.” and then “Let us build the city of God, May our tears be turned into dancing, For the Lord our light and our love, Has turned the night into day.”

I became very involved with Dignity because I still needed spiritual sustenance: I was overjoyed that my Church, through Dignity, was finally accepting me, or so I believed. Then, in October of 1986, Ratzinger and JP-II issued “The Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on the Pastoral Care of Homosexual Persons” that called us objectively disordered and self-indulgent. The Catholic Church was now calling my innate aversion to hetero-sex a “more or less strong tendency toward moral evil.” And it accused organizations like Dignity of promoting deceitful propaganda and even suggested that increased violence toward gay persons was almost to be expected in view of new civil rights legislation protecting gays from discrimination.

The document was full of insults. It made the lived experience of Gay, Lesbian and other sexual minorities unimportant, irrelevant and worthless. It reminded me that in the eyes of the church I was considered sinful to my very core, to my very identity. Nothing had changed, except for the worse. This was a blow to both cheeks. This teaching hurt me so deeply, I lost faith in Dignity and in the Church.

Since that time I observe that vis-à-vis most Christian denominations I am anathema. As we LGBT communities advance in our civil rights, Christian religions, and most prominently the Catholic Church, has redoubled efforts to put us down, condemn us, and spread outright lies about us, our lives and relationships.

I now have little use for organized religion of any kind and find their promulgations just as unimportant, irrelevant and worthless as they find me.

As I said at the outset, I have been in a loving relationship for 25 years. Tell me, how can love be sinful?

Yes, sex is involved. But sex is not the most important thing in our lives. (Let me use “our” in the wider, community sense). Not even close. The church makes way too big a deal about sex. People are sexual. People have sex. Grow up. Get over it. We’re way past the days when the church had to control everything and everybody.

For me and my partner and I will say most other same-sex couples, friendship, love, intimacy, companionship, being one another’s helpmate are much more important than sex. Just like most heterosexual couples. We work, we pay taxes, we volunteer, we take care of elderly parents, we teach, we support charities, we plant gardens, we do art and music and science. We sing in your choir, we say your masses, we heal the sick, we counsel the troubled, and we feed the hungry.

But there are those who would say that all we do is tainted.

All we do is for naught.

All we do is cancelled out because of who we are. 

And that all we do is without merit because of how we occasionally stimulate our sexual organs.

Those who discount our lives, who protest our very existence, they are hypocrites, Pharisees.

We hear condemnation daily: from our religious leaders, our politicians, our neighbors.

How can a human being live in dignity when faced on a regular basis with hatred, condemnation, ridicule, violence, name-calling and even the real possibility of being murdered for who we are? In some countries we are imprisoned or even condemned to death.

What makes us so frightful to the hetero world?

Why do you spend so much time and energy and money and spiritual capital in a misguided attempt to destroy us, we who are part of God’s creation and made to exist in His image and through His infinite wisdom?

Did You Ever See A Horse Go By? A Coming Out Memoir

I've made passing reference to the fact that I've been working on a memoir. 

I belong to a writers' group - a small group of fantastic people who have encouraged me and offered guidance, feedback and sane company. It has been a long project - I actually started thinking about it and did some writing back in 1987.

The manuscript is finally complete except for a final edit by "my publisher" who are actually members of the writers' group. So while the book is as yet unpublished and as I don't have a clue when it might be and as I don't have much else to say, I decided to post the Preface here. 

Did You Ever See A Horse Go By? 

A Coming Out Memoir

Copyright 2013 Frank DeFrancesco

PREFACE

 Peter, to whom the following letter is addressed, died, like too many others I’ve known, of complications of AIDS. I had never finished composing the letter to him in 1987 and so it was never sent. Here, many years later, I’ve added a few thoughts by way of a preface.

1987:   Dear Peter,

            We had talked about writing, about our need to capture in words the experiences and feelings, the joys and foibles of that mysterious process-event we call “coming out.” While I’m not sure the world really needs another “coming out story”, I feel deeply the need to tell it.            

            I write better knowing I am writing for an audience, so I hope you will be both my audience and my critic, as you are close to the experience yourself and of course you are intelligent, sophisticated and articulate. I will appreciate your feedback.

            We are, both of us, owning our true selves as adults rather than as teens or young men; it has brought us on a mid-life adventure to an exotic foreign land filled with marvelous sights and people and things to do and learn and discover. Learning to get around in this new country is at times exciting, joyful and deeply satisfying and at times dangerous, painful, sobering and even sad. I’ve shed more tears for love lost than I would have liked or even imagined.

            What we are experiencing is adolescence. It’s not particularly easy to be a responsible grown up and to be going through adolescence at the same time. But in some respect, I find that my grown-up life of work and service in the health field is less charged with importance than is the challenge of my adolescent life: experiencing reciprocal erotic love for the first time, along with the drama and jealousies and heartbreaks, not to mention the insecurities around being attractive or desirable. But being out is certainly better than the alternatives – remaining terrified of the dark but too afraid to open the closet door, or living a lonely desperate life or, godforbid, suicide.
             Peter, It is now 2013. I am nobody. I am old – or nearly old as life journeys go. My life, in the grand scheme of things, is irrelevant. So why should my story – my experiences beginning more than half a century ago – matter to anyone? Why should I bother to write down these snippets of my life?

            The answer to that last question is: I had to write this account, even if no one ever reads it, because I am compelled to do so in the same way as I was compelled to come out; it’s a matter of survival. Because, if am to live any semblance of an authentic life I must come out unreservedly and often; because coming out is never only an event – it is a continuous process and one that challenges me daily.

            The woman who cuts my hair insists on making small talk and asks about my wife. How do I respond?

            At the auto repair shop, I tell the service tech, “if there’s a problem, call Lee (who is not yet my spouse), my, uh, friend? partner? significant other?”

            Lee and I are holding hands on a deserted beach at sunset as someone approaches in the distance. Do I let go of his hand or not?

            A close relative introduces Lee as my “friend”; do I make some awkward correction and call him my husband even though we are not yet married?

            Am I afraid to offend the likes of all the Ann Bancrofts in the world with constant gay references, “You haven’t spoken one sentence since I got here,” Ma Beckoff indignantly scolded Harvey Fierstein’s Arnold in Torch Song Trilogy, “without the word gay in it.”

            I am challenged daily to come out, again and again and again, because there still exist subtle and pervasive societal and cultural norms that are intended to force us back into our closets; the veiled but insidious beliefs, behaviors, words, and hatred still go largely unchallenged, even as things appear to be changing.

             I am challenged to come out again and again and again, because of the hate and vitriol and rage that seem to have escalated in direct proportion to the numbers of courageous LGBT individuals who refuse to be silent and invisible and in response to our coming ever closer to achieving equal rights.

            I am challenged to come out again and again and again, because too many gay kids still choose suicide as their only option to escape bullying and familial rejection; because some lawmakers still introduce bills that would effectively deny rights and liberty to LGBT folk; because some religions still wave signs declaring that “God hates fags” while others, not so obvious, use more polite and educated language to condemn and vilify us.

            My “coming out” was not only a matter of self-preservation, it was and continues to be, a uniquely liberating, transformational, spiritual and healing life experience. I do believe that “coming out” is the only antidote to the poison of societal oppression that tries to deceive us into believing that the closet is the safest place to be, that the closet will ultimately protect us from the world, from ourselves and from eternal damnation.

            The closet’s false security is ultimately suffocating and fatal to one’s emotional and psychological integrity, if not to one’s physical existence. The closet is built on more or less equal parts fear, guilt and societal and ecclesial condemnation – a formula for what is called internalized homophobia. The closet derives power from that internalized homophobia, from our internal conflicts and fears: the phony conflict between good and evil; the fears of rejection, reprisals, and violence; a mythologized Last Judgment and ungodly wrath.

            Yet we persist in our coming out as if our lives depended on it. Because they do. Coming out is so vital to our integrity that the impulse to acknowledge and be true to ourselves is, in many respects, not unlike our innate survival instinct.

            The fact that there is such an event that we call “coming out” which is virtually universal to the contemporary homosexual experience suggests that this is not an inconsequential phenomenon. Think about that. Coming out has a reality beyond our individual experience. Our experience of “coming out” is both a unique and a shared experience – one that unites us in some fundamental way.           

            Now, although I am “out” I am still in the process of “coming out.” After all, our gayness is mostly invisible to others. Coming out and being out involves being visible – when we look in the mirror and when others see us. Sometimes, to be visible, we have to be “in their face.” Sometimes we need to tell our stories, each of us, story after story, after story, until they “get it.” Because “they” are still trying to define “us”, tell us who they think we are, tell us that we are “objectively disordered” or sinful, or worse.

            Just who are “they” and who do “they” think they are?

            “They” are not only the ignorant and bigoted, but are often otherwise intelligent and sometimes even well meaning individuals. It amazes and frustrates me that our stories – the actual lived experience of gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender individuals – are so summarily ignored, discounted and dismissed. It baffles me that many vocal and influential individuals persist in holding to and disseminating absurd, erroneous and irrelevant opinions about us. This is unacceptable and should no longer be tolerated; “they” can only make their own positions tenable by repeating questionable scriptures, fabricated “studies”, pseudo-science and outright lies, over and over – and by wholly disregarding us and our voices.

            I can only pose a few questions for others to try to answer: What is it about homosexuality and sexual and gender non-conformity that makes it such a lightening rod? What is it so unique about this issue that religious factions condemn it, regressive governments ban it, entire cultures punish it and ordinary people are moved to hatred and violence by it? Why are millions of dollars spent to fight us and to deny us equal protections under the law? Why do “they” think they know more about our sexuality, or us, than we do?

            More to the point, why do they care? Certainly “they” outnumber “us” and we’ve always been an easy target. Does their inability to save our souls or change us, or to limit our freedom somehow make them inadequate or fearful? What is in it for “them” that they so persist?

            I can’t answer these questions. But they underlie my need to tell my story.

            As for the first question at the beginning of this preface – whether my story or experiences matter to you, the reader, or not – is for you to decide. But I do know that the lives and the lived experience of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender individuals are testaments to their truth and perhaps, that is Truth with a capital T; and that their truth will never be silenced. This is my voice, my truth, for what it’s worth.

            For me, the value in telling my story here, beyond being therapeutic, is to preserve a tiny slice of our collective history – to document what it was to be gay in a particular time and place. I want to remember others who were there along with me, creating our lives and defining our sexuality as we went along.

            I had thought of beginning my story like this:

            Perhaps the world does not need another coming out story. But, I suppose it can’t hurt. Coming out at thirty-six has got to be immeasurably better than not coming out at all . . .           

With fondness and love,

Frank