The Unitarian Universalist Church of Flint called me to become their minister beginning August 16, 2005. As I begin this third year in the Midwest, I'm relieved to be on vacation (!), I'm behind (of course) in getting the yardwork done that I had planned, and haven't quite finished painting the kitchen. (So what else is new?) But I'm happy. As I sit and think about the reasons I came to Flint and what still pertains in that decision and my life, I am happy.
I had been happy in Boston, Massachusetts, too. I served the Community Church of Boston as their Leader/Minister for seven years. The work was rewarding and I was especially pleased about my public ministry through the Greater Boston Interfaith Organization, GBIO. Still, I had always planned on moving away from New England to see how our liberal religion was practiced in other parts of the country, and I wanted to grow as a "parson" and as a person.
Flint is and has been a tremendous challenge for me. First, it is a much smaller city than I had imagined--smaller than Providence, smaller than Worcester where I had done my clinical pastoral educaiton, and, of course, much smaller than metropolitan Boston. I have long known that I'm a city guy; being in such a small city has been a learning experience.
Second, the culture in Flint assumes a standard family arrangement that I don't have. Rather than ask what I do for work or where I went to school, questions that seemed pretty standard openers in New England, virtually every first question I got when I moved here was, "Who is your wife, and how many children do you have?" WOW! How much do people ant me to reveal? To say simply, "I'm not married," is such a diminution of the rich relational life that I aspire to. To say, "I'm gay," is to reinforce a notion that gay guys don;t have partners and children, which is not my experience, as well as to be too candid with strangers. To say, "My husband (!) died ten years ago of AIDS," sets off a whole pile of emotions that aren't the best conversation (or relationship) starters. So I just tolerate the question and say that I live alone. And watch a sadness grow in the eyes of the inquirer.
Finally, the gay culture in Flint feels hard to build relationships within. Being the minister of the UU church means that I develop public relationships with all sorts of LGBT people, and quickly; but it also means that I can only be the part of myself which aligns with my ministerial identity. (This, of course, is NOT unique to Flint!) I've been pleased to speak to the LBGT Center at University of Michigan at Flint; happy to think with Genesee County PFLAG leaders; excited to attend Triangle Foundation events and host an appearance by a gay speaker on a national book tour. But these are not dating opportunities. I haven't discovered the places that gay men go for Salsa dancing and speaking Spanish; or the gay-friendly gym with folk that enjoy camp humor; or the circle of gay Democrats (or Greens or Libertarians or Socialists, etc.) who want to critique culture and politics in a deep way and from a point of view that celebrates our marginality and its perspective (as well as holding healthy suspicion about the role of maleness or whiteness in my own development). Gay culture seems wed to bars and private parties, and I haven't found my way in.
I don't have reference points here that shape my sense of myself the way Narragansett Bay and the Lucy Parsons Bookstore and any number of political theaters and galleries do when I am "home" in New England. I know that such reference points for me can (and will) be found. But in these first two years, I have been working--and working hard--to be present fully to Flint and to my congregation. And it has been exhausting work, this worthwhile work that I have chosen. Exhausting.
I look forward to being able to be here more simply; to begin feeling at home in this home; to be able to relax among friends; especially to be able to talk politics and culture and spirituality and camp and sexuality and desire, and, and, and . . . and not feel like a stranger in a strange land.
So I rise and watch the sun . . . and breathe.
Good morning.
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