As
a youth I was fascinated by a custom practiced among Pacific Northwest Native
Americans called the Potlatch. I capitalize the Chinook term here, though my
OED does not, because it seems every bit as sacred as Christmas and Easter.
Having
accumulated much, a person (often a chief) would give away or burn all possessions
and start afresh. Though my dictionary implies this was a show of wealth and
prestige rather than generosity and humility, I’d say Christmas or any show of
charity and humility is practiced with similar mixed motives, so why quibble?
Wade
and I have been engaged in a similar practice as we downsize and move to a
smaller, more affordable home, though one we hope to improve. I got practice
for this in October by emptying my public storage unit in Los Angeles of my
parents’ library and a few pieces of their furniture.
I
was ruthless in finding new homes for their books, though I did glean three
boxes of books and memorabilia to send home. About 35 boxes of books went to a
used book store in the suburb where they lived. The furniture went mostly to
family, thankfully, though a few pieces found their way to Mexico thanks to my
brother’s enterprising neighbor.
My
parents were not hoarders in the problematic sense, but they did hoard memories
and books. Those “sacramentals” whose stories we knew we often kept, but the
ones whose stories have been lost to us easily wound up in the yard sale after
my mom’s death. Yet the books also contained “sacramentals”: postcards, photos,
news articles, letters, poems, etc. that I needed to remove before giving up
the books.
Maya
Angelou shared her steely resolve with me through a book of hers I was reading
in my morning prayers during that process, one I had found in one of those
little lending libraries in a neighbor’s front yard. She could be sentimental
and nostalgic, but also realistic and pragmatic, and she helped me recognize
the grief and nostalgia of my enterprise as well as its practicality and
necessity.
This
October pilgrimage prepared me for our December/January Potlatch. Wade, the
true materialist of the household, nonetheless loves giving up things just as
much as acquiring them, and has made multiple trips to our neighborhood Habitat
for Humanity ReStore, delighting its volunteers with every batch of items we
will no longer have room for or have fallen into disuse.
As
it was my job with my original family to empty my parents’ bookshelves, so too
I needed to prune my own overflowing library, an exercise that reveals my
present priorities. My books about
theology, church organization, and interim ministry were the easiest to
surrender, but the books about spirituality will stay with me for now,
including my Henri Nouwen collection.
My
collections of books by Gore Vidal and Paulo Coelho, LGBT authors and other
contemporary writers I deeply appreciated reading, but can release to keep
books that changed my life and make room for those I hope to read. And of
course, my volumes of poetry and art will stay. A local seminary library has benefited from my literary Potlatch.
My
many boxes of personal and professional files I am still sorting for my archive
at the Center for LGBTQ and Gender Studies in Religion at the Pacific School of
Religion. Many boxes were sent years ago, many are still to be reviewed. I have
given up my desire for putting together a scrapbook, wanting rather to “move
on” rather than be kept in the past.
These
archives serve as the “final resting place” of the papers of such folk and
ministries as John McNeill, Janie Spahr, and the Lazarus Project (to name a
few) and I would urge you to make a donation to preserve them, and include them
in your will. Write to CLGS, Pacific School of Religion, 1798 Scenic
Avenue, Berkeley, CA 94709, call toll-free 800-999-0528, email clgs@clgs.org, or visit http://www.clgs.org.
The
first sermon I gave to an LGBT congregation, MCC Hartford in 1974, was entitled
“Letting Go.” Coming Out is ultimately about letting go, whether coming out
sexually or coming out spiritually. In a post entitled “Spiritual Picassos,” I
described spirituality as a process like Picasso’s life’s work, letting go of
unnecessary lines in his paintings and drawings to suggest the essence of his
subject.
In
October I found a big box of my childhood writings: stories and poetry. When I
mentioned I was surprised that there were so many, my brother reminded me, “You
were always writing stories.” Somewhat arbitrarily, I selected a few for my
archive and tossed the rest, so impatient was I to let go of the dross of my
life!
However,
one story I rescued long ago was my first childhood attempt to write a story from the
Bible, the story of Joseph and his brothers. His having to let go of his
family, country, safety and security, believing in his dreams, spoke to my
spiritual imagination.
“You
intended this for evil,” Joseph later told his brothers who had sold him into
slavery, “but God intended it for good.” As I think back on my life,
disappointed and disregarded by the church alongside my LGBT sisters and
brothers, there is no doubt our exclusion was evil, but God has used the
injustice for good to those who follow.
Copyright © 2017 by Chris R. Glaser.
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