Posted in Activism, Compassion, Faith

Go Ahead Call Me Naive


I bear the physical and psychic scars of a life spent on the razor sharp edge of survival. I still have to play hide and seek with whole pieces of who I am long tucked away safely out of reach from whoever might be swinging at them. My brain and my body not always knowing today isn’t those yesterdays.

Say I am naive. Tell me I don’t know how it really is. What the world is really like. As if I haven’t felt their fear my body might bleed, toxic puddle between us, my soul bleeding instead—an acceptable penance. I still hear the priest who held the life preserver I might have exchanged for the razor meant for my wrists. “No, child, there is no place in heaven for your kind, I’m sorry.” In my dreams with my eyes wide open I still see the fists and the belt. Watch the parade of their agents. Hear my own whimpers. Like I don’t know what the sweat on my skin feels like as I wrestle love apart from it’s weld with violence. Go ahead, tell me how it is while out of the corner of my consciousness I hear a debate about the cost of government funded health care. You think I don’t know Paul Ryan wouldn’t spend the forty grand a year it costs to keep a queer trans man with AIDS alive? Go ahead, tell me I am naive because my anger isn’t the first thing you meet.

Then let me tell you: my faith is my rebellion. Standing ankle deep in compassion anchoring my open heart while I bear witness to my pain and yours. My radical act—choosing love and hope over my cultivated fists or sharpened tongue as agents of change. Believing I am wanted and loved by the divine is my heresy. Speak your truth, it’s ok with me. I can hear the divine over the thunder of my heartbeat simply by touching my forehead to the floor.

Call me naive audio


You’re the one who gave the lie to the idea “if you’re not angry you’re not paying attention” and showed me that love and compassion are the real signs of attentive awareness and connection to the suffering and injustice in the world. You gave me permission to be my open-hearted self, to shed the ill-fitting armor of self-righteousness. You taught me that inside every angry person—no matter how vicious and hateful—lives a scared and hurting small self.

Right before I met you I was reading about Howard Thurman and his role in bringing the practice of nonviolence to the U.S. civil rights movement. I realized that I had never understood what nonviolence was. It is so often painted as passive resistance—a lack of violence—when in reality it is anything but passive; it’s actively choosing love and compassion and practicing lovingkindness toward those who are complicit with the forces of hatred and intolerance. Practicing nonviolence doesn’t just mean refraining from acts of aggression and force, it means finding love and compassion for those who would destroy you with hate.

The universe laid out pebbles for me to follow that led me back to staking a claim for myself as a person of faith—a faith grounded in love and interconnectedness. And then I met you, and one of the first things you told me was that you believed that the energy you bring into a room is the first and foremost way to make a difference in the world. My armor cracked and I found my feet solidly on the path of love, the path leading me back to my authentic self, back to wonder and hope.

Being hopeful and loving isn’t a sign of a sheltered, charmed life. It doesn’t mean a person isn’t paying attention. Choosing a path of love, compassion, and hope in the face of struggle and injustice is far harder than taking the easy road of bitterness and anger. That’s why it takes faith. I’m so grateful to be on this path with you.

Posted in Faith

On Faith


It seems only right to get this blog started with one of the biggest questions of all: What does faith mean to you?

I have long felt something bigger than myself at work. I would never consider it to be sentient — to describe it using such human terms is to disrespect it. It is larger than sentience, more dimensional than simple understanding and intellect. It has no use for reason; it simply is. I believe this force/spirit flows through all beings and things, all gas and liquid and matter, deeply connecting everything, making each of us part of a huge larger whole. We use reason and science to try to make sense of this force/spirit, but ultimately it is beyond our understanding, and science and reason are beginning to come full circle in support of this truth.

One of the most amazing and resonant things you’ve shared with me about doing martial arts speaks to my conception of the place beyond sentience. The novice martial artist will think carefully about how to execute a kick — where to position their body, how to best react to what their opponent has done. The person who has spent a lifetime practicing martial arts will move without conscious thought, move in relationship to their environment, intimately knowing — without thinking — what an opponent will do next before the opponent has any idea themself. That, to me, speaks to the difference between relying on science and being one with the spirit of life.

Faith comes in because of my belief that this larger spirit/force works in service of balance. It flows through all things and pushes the whole of creation toward balance. And each element and being has a part to play in that. So I believe that things happen for a reason, even though I think reason has nothing to do with it. I can’t comprehend the answers to the biggest WHY?s because they are beyond my comprehension, but I can and do believe that in small and enormous ways everything is tugged toward balance.

I see the presence of the spirit in things like perfectly geometric patterns in plants, shells, and snowflakes. I am connected to the spirit when I sing and am surrounded by music. I feel it course through me and connect me to another being during times of intense physical intimacy and sex. I am left in awe that I am intimately and divinely connected to every living thing — which is to say, everything. Awe, gratitude, faith.


I really appreciate your willingness to take a leap and write about faith first.  Trying to articulate my spiritual beliefs and the role faith actually plays in my life is one of the most vulnerable experiences I can have.

This Kevin Griffin quote grabbed me recently: “I need to spend less time trying to name god and more time trying to know god.”

I can’t always explain what I believe or believe in, but I know that feeling of touching my forehead to the mat in child’s pose.  It’s the place and the space where I meet god without fail.  I can almost hear the welcome home.  Everything in me melts.  I know I am loved and wanted.  Somehow I can remember that I am needed, that there is a purpose for all of my experiences and struggles.  I don’t have the words to articulate that experience, it just washes over me.  When I was younger I was afraid to talk about the intimate experience I felt at times.  I was less able to seek out the connection, but it was there especially when I needed it most.  At the lowest points, when I was ready to jump off a bridge or just roll over and quit, I would sense a faint “knowing” that kept me grounded just enough to stumble through.

That song by Libby Roderick you were singing the other day is the essence of what I “hear” from the divine when I am in child’s pose.  How could anyone ever tell you / you were anything less than beautiful? / How could anyone ever tell you / you were less than whole? / How could anyone fail to notice / that your loving is a miracle? / How deeply you’re connected to my soul.

Part of faith for me is much like it is for you.  It isn’t something that happens in a church.  It is something I am called to walk, both in trusting a power greater than myself and in being willing to walk that calling.  In twelve step meetings I heard “walk the walk” all the time, walking my faith is the way I carry out a lived relationship with the divine. The best way I can describe it is the feeling of being kept company, a gentle touch on the shoulder and an invitation to get up because we have work to do.

During our first dinner together you asked me about my spiritual path and we had a long conversation about the role of faith and spirituality in our lives.  I didn’t think I would ever meet a radical queer identified, genderqueer identified human being who craved the kinds of conversations I craved.  That you were irresistibly handsome was a huge bonus (grin).  I am ever grateful for your courage in being visibly genderqueer, visibly radical and visibly a person of faith.