THE LITURGY OF A HURRICANE byRolandWise

Good friend Tommy Dillon is the father of the flock at Saint Augustine’s Episcopal Church just outside Baton Rouge. By the time I arrived in Louisiana, it was about a week after hurricane Katrina had made landfall, making business as usual in the small church a thing of the past. The liturgy of human needs in this devastated region had naturally beckoned the church and it good folks to displace any sense of normalcy, and become a hub of relief effort.

And this not only happened here, it was happening in Athens, Georgia at Emmanuel Episcopal Church as well. A group of parishioners from there, led by the Very Reverend Mandy Brady, loaded up their vans with supplies and made the day and half trip from Georgia, arriving at Saint Augustine’s to help meet the various needs growing with every days passing.

I first met up with the group of saints at one of the relief shelters in town where they were busy sorting out supplies into various categories, a system that eventually bagged up orders, labeling them, so that the folks who had called in prior could drop by and pick up things with some sense of arrangement. I thought to myself it was very important (as well as efficient) to have these packages waiting for folks, and I imagined that it gave them dignity they might not have received otherwise, to walk up to god’s house and have something waiting there with their name on it.

With no physical address, it was unimaginable to me what must be going on in the hearts and minds of these folks as they arrived in need trying to secure the very basic resources for their families. This notion of having a gift or package waiting also played out with the children that day who were there browsing through the pile of toys donated. While passing out toys to them, I felt like Santa Claus, and then one of the little girls brought me a bag of bows she had found over in the Christmas stuff. She handed me a bow wanting me to stick one on her present making it like Christmas, she informed. All of the kids then lined up for a bow on their gift, and we all had fun pretending for a moment.

On our last night together, before the folks of Emmanuel Episcopal Church left to go back to Georgia, was spent in communion, while sharing stories about the vastness of human liturgy that had transpired on all fronts. While eating a potluck supper following the Wednesday night mass, Father Tommy posed the question that we all had been throwing around since Katrina made landfall.Where is God in all this mess?

After hearing each story, and how every single person there had brought such a lovely unique brand of individual wholeness to the table while meeting the many needs that had to be met one by one, it seemed the answer to this age old question was much clearer and closer to our hearts than perhaps any of us realized. My experience tells me this sort of innate humbleness we have in relation to the unknown while going about doing good deeds, is built in for good reason; and that it helps us to avoid premature recognition of our own godliness, so as to continue the efforts of relief in ways small and large, culminating into a mass of good will unlike anything we could have every imagined or forecasted or thought we might be able to create and withstand.

This sense of alpha beckons tomorrow’s omega, and the timeshare we (as humans) invested in was like putting a bow on the relief efforts so that each of us could go our separate ways becoming evermore changed and present while moving back into our routine lives.
And the grandest surprise of all is the ending, and how God hides from us with great purpose, like the ending of a great novel makes us wait and wait for relief until the very last word.

It's how the grand devastation of knowing the unknown displaces us for a moment to what lay ahead, and this means that the electrifying service of loving one another efficiently and effectively can go on uninterrupted while shedding much needed light onto situation after situation, inviting us to look into the mess of it all and gather ourselves up into the wholeness that is our birthright. We do all this to others as we would have them do unto ourselves, with hope and love, while the liturgy of one meeting of need ends, and the musical service of another begins.

Photo and Text Copyright 2005 Roland Wise

SEVEN YEAR ACHE: Angel Action Protest, Laramie, Wyoming 1999

Well into the autumnal season, just beneath the golden canopies of cottonwood trees; the defamed Reverend Fred Phelps and his followers, several members of the Westboro Baptist Church from Topeka, Kansas, had arrived and began setting up their anti-gay protest at the Albany County Courthouse in Laramie, Wyoming - site of the jury selection for the murder trial of Matthew Shepard's accused assailant.

Camera in hand on that cold Wyoming morning, I stood there alongside many townspeople, which included several concerned college students and news media alike; all of whom had gathered early that morning to witness this unfolding. As Phelps and flock unpacked hate signs pulling them from large black portfolio carriers, everyone remained calm [perhaps even reverent] allowing the hate group to set up in peace. I stood in amazement privy to backstage because of a yesteryear. before me forcing me to ponder my own Baptist upbringing, and gearing up for very specific versions of bewilderment and what lay ahead.

Phelps and his group removed each sign with such care, laying them out side-by-side in gallery format as if each piece were precious works of art to behold. At their very best I thought; these signs would be made to mingle some day within the walls of museums with loving curators grooming them into harmless documentaries for all to see. Perhaps these signs would have traveled in such away to show our children’s children the destruction and disharmony caused by the shallow marketing ploys of a religious bully. That if by then galleries were preserving such rotisseries of hate, that we indeed had made it to the next level of civil rights.

Organized much like a would-be choir and clearly under the direction of their pastor; these Baptist both young and old walked about in circles signing their orchestration of fear based hate and judgment. The group held forth bright and colorful signs damning Matt to hell and protesting the free choice and inalienable rights afforded to all human beings.

Ironically however, the hate-focused slogans on the signs had been scribed in the most beautiful fall colors; the deepest of reds and the brightest of yellows, and a particular shade of orange that seemed almost “hippie” in the softest sense of the word. All of which was becoming clearer to me as I looked on, and then it hit me, these were the vibrant colors used in the 60’s on the famed anti-war protest signs pushing for love and peace.

How times have changed I thought, for such lovely colors to be used in such dastard ways. Yet at the same time, how appropriate that these small-minded gestures would attempt such lofty notions so as to pantomime the wonder of printed color as their means of protesting the color of a particular group of people - in this case the group being my people, gays and lesbians the world round. It stands to reason though for this attempt to be yet another miscarriage of ill thinking; and rightly so becoming prey to the backdrop of the golden fall and faithful rows of cottonwood trees that have stood some fifty years now in witness over this town square and its comings and goings. Not only would this stand of trees witness the mockery of this small-minded-ignorant preacher from Kansas; these lovely trees via their seasonal nature (and playfulness) were in turn mocking Phelps all the livelong day. Much like the glances he received from the police presence, so were the trees looking onward as they simultaneously branched their way toward each heart, offering peace of mind and blending all the loving presence a day could ever hold true, rousing our hopefulness gently into an overpowering spell, casting Phelps' signs of hate to scatter into the beauty of a surrounding Wyoming fall.

Like within any seasonal deluge, it is human nature to lean ever so slightly toward becoming restless. I always eventually tire of the same old weather patterns and by seasons end my hopes have shifted just enough, budding the evolutional push needed to see the joy of what lay ahead.
Fortunately for all sides of love that day, this storm of hateful pretense and fading fall color known as Fred Phelps and the members of Westboro Baptist Church would soon give way to the blustering-winged-whiteout of a very different first snow, a storm known as Angel Action.

In response to this hateful act by those calling themselves Christians, Romaine Patterson and a rather diverse group of “Angels” had gathered just before dawn in a warehouse across town. I was blessed to be part of this group in more ways than one; not only would I have the privilege to document this experience by capturing the stills you see here, I would also be given my own set of wings to wear in protest. Our costumes were amazing, each sporting a 10-foot wingspan, constructed of PVC piping and held together by duct tape. The white sheets were hymned in such a way creating musical panels that were silent like brail yet loud and clear. With only mere presence, each of us would naturally block the messages of hate and graciously cover the multitude of sins whining about before us, making them seamless and white as snow.
Meanwhile back at the protest, the hate was in full swing and the cardboard wings of ill will seemed small to me now, especially when placed in direct proximity with the angelic wings of love that were being assembled across town.

Phelps and his son stood out among the others as they were holding two signs back-to-back toting up four signs each. I noticed the black fence surrounding their protest was caging them in such a profound way giving off the appearance they were wingless birds being made to carry paper replacement wings scribed with their own self-loathing. Sad birds I thought, being made to march about in a small area, stepping in their own hate.
They were indeed birds of a fearful feather and I wondered if their continual flocking together was an escape from some deep-dark longings that might never be unearthed or explored. The writing on the wings seemed to suggest something hidden, some wall of secrets not faced; and so frantic and busy were their signs, as if the more color applied to the face of something (or someone) the more apt it was to be received as real. It was little more than the theatrical overkill you’d expect from a drag queen.

Once winged and ready to go, I stood somber with all the other angels along the chain link fence outside the warehouse. We offered up a group prayer, blew a kiss to Matt and then proceeded down the alley toward the street that would lead us to the Albany County Courthouse. The march through town was a most powerful event, I brought up the rear white-winged and taking still shots the entire way. As each of us stepped closer and closer toward the events that would shape our tomorrows, I could feel my heart opening.

It was powerful seeing the other angels walking ahead of me, as I was watching those who watched on, seeing them join and follow us through town, it was amazing. There were so many angels that day I lost count, some winged, some not, but all of us accountable for the very moment these events called us forward. I would examine my own ache that day from start to finish again and again in hopes of preparing myself for the responsibilities I would foster in the future and in turn allowing me to face how the parenting such grief would in turn impact generations to come.

Upon arrival, we rounded the corner at the courthouse preparing to shield the hate with the white of our wings. I found myself just across from Phelps. I was sober and somewhat saddened, draped in white standing in concert with my fellow Angels. As per the permit agreement, we said nothing but rather smiled in silence as best we could with only a small lane separating us from Phelps and his family.

The message of salvation I was getting that day had much to do with my own personal freedoms that had been in bloom for some time. I had indeed made it out and was no longer being conditioned by a group of haters similar to Phelps. This entire day was a constant reminder that it had been several years now since I had turned my back on my own Baptist beginnings, an event my father refers to as the fall from grace but to me an event much like a turning toward my own personal shade of color, not unlike that of a leaf during fall. The Baptist season was over now and I was ripe and had gingerly made the drop, hitting just about every branch on my way toward the ground. I was safe now buried beneath my own creative conditions, free of blame and mulching my way back to life.

Seeing the children there made to protest grabbed my heart the most. They were so small in relation to the hate they were required to carry and I wondered if they feared their own color as I had feared mine at that age? Would their little hearts ever make it (somewhere) over the proverbial rainbow? Would they ever ground themselves in freedoms naturally emerging from those who remain young or would they just become more of the same tired diminishing force, a sad legacy to their maker Phelps and his failing Baptist religion?

Boredom is redemptive and perhaps the most encouraging thing I saw in these children. Hate is boring and becomes cliché to such small spirits who are truly large and wanting to fly. These children are no exception as they struggled to stay with it, continually hiding their faces behind the colorful signs when I would catch them yawning, showing me smiles that were less than stellar, not even childlike. It made me think they were forced to smile out of shy embarrassment, much like the smiles I once mustered.

Even while drifting back and forth between the seasonal disorders I witnessed that day, I found comfort in what many would not. I had bet all the currency of my inner strength against the ever failing Baptist economy that had plagued my own life as a boy, for I too had stood holding what the adults in my charge said to be the truth: signs of hate protesting abortion, the equal rights for women, and of course my hidden and much belated homosexuality.
My gratitude was expanding nonetheless. Tall now, rooted in this new grove of thinking, I had planted myself somewhere out there in humanity. I found a place that affords me space in which to branch my way toward as many hearts as I see fit, a field of dreams that come true, a river where I could reach out with my eyes jarring old lines of sight creating a piracy that would become memoir in the making as I boarded this stomach sinking kinship with these children from Kansas.

We are all human beings working together and moving forward. We are drifting like continents, some together others apart and a very good chunk of the hope we experience arrives via our seasons of personal change. The experience I had as an Angel nearly seven years ago at the Matthew Shepard murder trial was such a rift in my life, yet it will go down in history as my own personal benchmark for that change.

The pain I felt standing there as a former Baptist and a much better photographer nearly broke my heart. But the heartache I carried was in need of healing long before I arrived in Laramie that day. It took all these events to open my heart and face the man I was becoming. From this pain and healing I would discover that my voice had survived the many assaults, and the day as an Angel stands as a colorful reminder to me of the place where I emerged as a Gay man.
It was on that day I received my robe and crown becoming responsible for the choices that are existent within my realm. The moment-by-moment choices I had made up until that point ran together like one lengthy non-season, but on that morning the repetitive nature of the seven year ache within my heart receded ever so slightly, turning like the changing leaves caught in the cool beginnings of a new fall and forever setting my compass toward the wholeness residing deep.

In standing face to face with the irreverent Phelps, I realized with lasting clarity that we are blessed in the strangest of ways to have been captivated by his hate, if not for just a fleeting moment. We are blessed to have taken the opportunity to tally the minute by minute summaries of who we truly are in this experience, as well as who we will choose to be in the future.

Our emergence into love and wholeness is largely based on the choices we make; and as we witness who we are not (whether that antithesis be within ourselves or within another) it is the glorious contrast that pulls us forth toward the new. Within the experience of our own light is the only way we can make sense of Phelps and his messages of darkness. Without his hate (which I pray will end sooner than later) we may never have tapped the vast love residing within each of us as all-powerful forces existent within humanity.

We simply are folks, and that is enough to change the world.

SIDE BAR:
Photo and Text Copyright 1999 Roland Wise - you may purchase the Photo Journal SEVEN YEAR ACHE at www.rolandwise.com