How Mature Is it?

Back in mid-October, when I posted “Inaugural Address,” I expected to be back here within a week or two. It has now been almost seven weeks.

I have been busy, yes, but also discouraged. I felt shut down by WordPress, the hosting site for this and other blogs in which I participate. A day or so after “Inaugural Address” appeared, I heard from one of their “Happiness Engineers” who told me this blog, The Naked Theologian, would be labeled “Mature Content.”

At 71, I am surely mature–at least in body–so I suppose I should not feel bad. But, of course, they do not use the age of the blogger to make this determination. Instead, as you might suspect, this label is because of the presence of a naked body or two, and maybe even the name of the site. .

WordPress_logo4WordPress has a policy which they were quick to send me when I objected. They said it was nothing personal–why do authorities so often say that, when what they are doing feels very personal to the person to whom or about whom it is being done–it is just their policy to label the appearance of a naked body as requiring a special level of maturity. In other words, young people might be injured were they to stumble on the site, as well as those for whom the naked human body is offensive, based on religious belief, or simply makes them uncomfortable. They can see the site if they choose, but in doing so they signal they do not object to Mature Content. As you can imagine, there are restrictions on how the writer and blog readers can link the blog elsewhere on WordPress and this blog will never be featured on “top ten” list or in the WP Reader.

Included in that policy is the prohibition of blogs that promote sexual abuse, pedophilia, sexual acts that might be perceived as pornography, sexualized violence, etc. I am glad for that portion of the policy but wish somehow it was not connected to the simple fact of bodily nudity.

But I recognize that our society, and much of the world beyond the United States, is not comfortable with, indeed often appalled and deeply offended by, the naked human body. Even the sight of a mother baring a breast to nurse her child can create panic among some people (as happened here).

nursing motherSo, why have I been slow to write more here? In part, I was looking for alternative  host sites where this blog and its sometimes naked bodies would not be labeled or in any way restricted. But I stopped that some time ago, as I realized that Tumblr (where I once had a blog for People of Faith for Equality in Virginia) and others that appear more open also use the Mature Content label for nudity, etc.

Still, I did not post here. I am realizing that the response of WordPress tapped into my own issues of body-phobia, the lurking feeling that somehow, despite how much I like being naked, it really is not okay.

My answer today: Nonsense.

Further, this is a theological blog, not a blog about nudism or naturism (which I practice as much as I can). It is about being open as the tagline says. And that includes being open to Creation, all that God has brought and is bringing to life. The human body is a beautiful creation in all the trillions of forms it takes. Thanks be to God for your body, my body, all bodies!

If this sounds like a bit of repetition from “Inaugural Address,” so be it. Sometimes, this writer needs to write  to help himself get real and accept the full import and power of the call on his life to speak faith to power (even WordPress). In other words, I need to claim my own maturity.

I can’t promise I won’t revisit this topic in the future, but I expect to be posting more frequently and about other theological topics very soon. I hope you’ll stay tuned, and tuned in, even if in doing so you may experience Mature Content.

To Write Is to Write

I am embarking on my long-delayed vocation as a writer.

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[image from global university.edu]
I am not engaged in it full-time yet–have to finish some important work for People of Faith for Equality in Virginia (POFEV), and deal with another big project in my life–but I am committed to writing regularly. In fact, I have pledged to write daily.

One vehicle I have chosen is every day to offer a few thoughts on my Facebook page–spiritual or poetic or even issue-oriented (but not related to my work for POFEV)–as a form of accountability. It is one sure way to make sure I do what I say I am going to do.

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[image from universitypressclub.com]
Yesterday, I dropped the ball–visiting my daughter Robin and husband Christopher in Brooklyn (and having great conversation with her after he went to work), and then taking the Long Island Railroad to Yaphank (what a name!) to spend several days with daughter Meg and her family, husband Kevin and daughters Juna and Annie–and wrote nothing.

This is not a confession so much as an opportunity to say why I am writing daily (almost) on Facebook.

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[image from gretchenrubin.com]
I do not intend any of the short pieces to be final and complete–some might actually become polished poems or maybe the start of a longer essay or spiritual reflection. But for now, they are ways for me to record some thoughts–to notice what is going on and to write it down, which is, according Anne Lamott, what writers do.

Whatever, the key to writing is to write. A writer writes. I am a writer who writes.

“And the Writing Keeps Crying Out”

[This continues the meditations from December 9, 10, and 12, 2014, and January 9. 2015. reflecting on moments during a Vision Quest in September 2014 at Lower Cathedral Lake in Yosemite National Park.]

2014-09-10 13.42.34As Thursday’s sun continued to warm me and the rocks on which I sat, I knew the moment was coming for me to walk naked into the frigid mountain lake waters (see December 10, 2014).

But before this exposure–pushing aside my shame by showing my body to whomever was at the shore, and daring the icy waters my fellow Quester told me about two days before–I felt the need to meditate and write more. I wear only my Radical Faerie/RFD pansy t-shirt for inspiration (left).

I fin2014-09-11 14.59.41d a spot where I can sit away from the public path (only a few day trippers come through, but still after a time of being alone each one feels like an intrusion, even though of course they have as much right to be here as I do) but where I also can see the lake and the pines and the great bowl of rock around me . . . and as soon as I am settled, I say to myself, sort of out loud but mostly inside myself, “I am afraid.”

It is not being alone here–some of my fellow Questers are, I think, within shouting distance, at least if I really yelled–or even my hunger which is beginning to nudge me around the edges, but as soon as I say it, I know it is because something is rising up in me, something what will create big change in my life.

It is what I came for, I suppose, to connect with this “something” that has been getting under my skin for a couple of years, and longer, maybe for most of my adult life, something about my life that needs to change. I write down that fear, and also some of the good things I am learning–how to reconnect with trees (December 12, 2014)  and how to observe creatures in nature (January 9, 2015). In some ways, I realize what I am learning is how to pay attention to the wild, the natural, as a source of wisdom (something our culture actively discourages) . . . .

. . . and I say, again, I am afraid there is more . . . and then it happens. The more comes.

In that moment, out of my control, I say out loud–and I write exactly at the same moment in my journal. . . “and the writing keeps crying out.”

The writing keeps crying out journalThe writing keeps crying out.

I did not say this and then write it down, or write it and then say it out loud. This was a simultaneous action of speaking and writing, as if my voice was moving my pen, or perhaps my pen was moving my voice. Either way, my voice hung in the air for just a moment or two, and I burst into sobs, I wail, I cry out big loud cries of agony and joy all mixed together. I try to stifle the noise, and then I know I must be even louder, this is decades of denial that needs to come out.  I breathe, it feels as if I am taking in big gulps of truth which then send me into tears. I exhale. I drink. I breathe. I cry. I sit.

I cry more, and I write. And cry. Some long neglected part of me has come home, I think, or more accurately, I have come home to it.

I reflect on how out of balance my life has become. I have lost my earth connection, I say. I don’t dig in the soil, I don’t run the soil through my fingers like natural rosary beads, seeking its truth. And I admit I am afraid to write from my soul, afraid I will be found out as a fraud by others.

2014-09-10 17.44.31It felt good to write a poem back in Richmond to bring to give to my fellow Quest pilgrims. I then wonder what it would be like to spend an entire day writing, and then another day, and another, a rhythm of writing, digging, reading, playing, walking, resting, writing. Is that my vision, I ask.

I ponder, and write a poem (still needs work!) about the Cathedral Peak behind me, and reflect about the smoke that blows from fires not that far away (what are we doing to the earth?).

And I write of how the question of whether to stop my pastoring and organizing and turn to writing, perhaps in conjunction with some teaching, is not exactly a new one for me. I wonder if I made the wrong choice when I left pastoring MCC Richmond and took up leading People of Faith for Equality in Virginia (POFEV). Did I hear God wrong?

I pause. I seek some peace. I breathe.

I realize all I know right now is that “the writing keeps crying out.”

Enough, for now. Time to go into the water!

More on that later.