Our dog chewed on Henri's words.
Recent
events in the United States regarding President Trump’s firing of F.B.I.
Director James Comey have prompted comparisons to the so-called “Saturday night massacre” in the fall of 1973, when then-President Nixon ordered the firing of
the special prosecutor of the Watergate affair, prompting the resignation of the
attorney general and the deputy attorney general rather than comply. A
newly-appointed acting attorney general then fired Archibald Cox.
That
weekend I was taking a personal retreat at Mercy Center along the Long Island
Sound. One of the Sisters of Mercy that ran the place confided to me that she
thought the only thing left for Nixon to do was commit suicide.
I
was there because I had just arranged and hosted the first openly gay speaker at
Yale Divinity School: the Rev. Troy Perry, founder of Metropolitan Community
Churches. It was the most “out” thing I had done as I became the first openly
gay activist on the campus.
The
student body president had fought to prevent Troy’s appearance, telling me that
“It’s time we remembered that most of the student body here are white, male,
and straight,” apparently also miffed that women and racial minorities were
getting attention.
I
was warned by others that attendance at the lecture would be slight; as it
happened, the large Common Room was packed. Henri Nouwen was the only faculty
member I could identify at the gathering, and, as I recall, he asked the most
penetrating question. Rev. Perry seemed to please his audience with his genuine
faith and passion, as well as his sense of humor.
My
book, Uncommon Calling, described my
feelings arranging the visit as being like birth pains, and I was exhausted. As
a student in Henri’s course (whose lectures became the book Reaching Out), we had been encouraged to
take personal retreats, and so I opted for one that weekend at Mercy Center. That
fall had been spectacularly colorful in New England: bright blue skies
contrasted with the vivid autumn colors of the leaves just beginning to descend
from the trees. I could hear the gentle lapping of the Sound on the
shore.
It
happened that Henri was also spending the weekend there, preparing a sermon,
one of a series of three for the university’s Battell Chapel. He gave me the
manuscript and asked me to take a look at it, offering feedback. I was thrilled
to do so. Henri frequently sought advice from others on his writings, including
his students.
When
we met to discuss the sermon, we were outside, and as I recall, sitting on big
boulders, but this could be my memory playing tricks on me. A comment I made to
Henri found its way into what became the book, Out of Solitude:
A student from California who had to leave many of his good friends behind to come to school at the faraway east coast recently said to me: “It was hard to depart; but if the good-bye is not painful, the hello cannot be joyful either.” And so his sadness of September became his joy at Christmas time.
Tears
are in my eyes as I write this sentence, because to quote the book accurately,
I have opened my mother’s copy and saw for the first time that she had written
beside the text, “Chris was the student.”
Quite
a different “Saturday night massacre” occurred when our dog Calvin ate much of
my copy of the book, apparently jealous I was spending so much time with
Henri’s books as I prepared my first retreat on his life and writings after his
death in 1996.
It
was in our conversation about the sermon that I asked Henri what he thought of
Troy’s talk. Hesitant to be critical, he finally said that he was looking for
something more—how Troy’s spirituality strengthened his resolve to affirm his
sexuality. It didn't occur to me that Henri’s wish for more might be
personal.
But
it did tell me that my own spirituality had to “come out” alongside my
sexuality, and that is why my talks to advance the inclusion of LGBT people
over the past 40+ years have always included spiritual dimensions. I’ve gone so
far as to write that spirituality is the final frontier of intimacy, and that
the failure of the church to be inclusive of LGBT people was a spiritual rather
than sexual problem.
Beginning
next Wednesday, I will be offering four posts during Pride month (June) speculating
on what the LGBT movement in the church meant, for God’s sake!
I’ve
joked that if the church had not been so concerned with my sexuality, it might
have been more troubled (or perhaps more blessed) by my interest in progressive
theology and contemplative spirituality!
I sometimes feel as if I’m trying to make up for lost time writing this
blog.
It
is said that at the height (or depth) of the Watergate affair, Nixon prevailed
on Henry Kissinger to kneel with him in prayer. Such a humbling posture could make
for better leaders as well as better activists.
View from Mercy Center, October 1973.
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