Scratching the Gay Marriage Surface... Part I

Feeling feverish at the moment. I hope it doesn't get any worse. Drove up to Massachusetts  to be with my family and enjoy Thanksgiving. I was feeling fine all the way here and no sooner I walk in the door my body begins to take a downward spiral. No better place to be sick than in close proximity to Mom. She always rises to the occasion and does what she knows to do to nurse me back to health. Truly thankful to have people who love me. Even more thankful to live to see healing and restoration take place between my parents and I.  Honestly speaking, I never thought I'd see the day. Yet God has a way of constantly surprising me and bringing me closer to wholeness. Truly thankful.

Funny how you wait and wait for the inspiration to write to hit and when it finally does you find yourself writing about something completely unexpected. I really don't mean to stir the  waters and become controversial but I can't help but want to write about the whole Gay Marriage thing. I know very well that in the circles I travel I am the minority. I wish the use of labels were not needed or mattered much but sadly, at least with me, they are used often and punitively. Case in point, when I dare to stand in the face of traditional values and conservative views and proclaim myself as how I view myself, that being a "Born-Again Gay Christian", I am immediately reprimanded, rebuked, and chastised. I am confronted with immediate opposition from the members of my own church. I am assaulted with people who have a compounding need to correct me.

"There is no such thing as a Gay Christian. You can't be both. It's either one or the other so pick a side."

Or my all-time favorite: "God is not done with you yet. You need healing and deliverance. Once you receive it, you will be free (not to mention Straight)." Well, I guess I haven't learned to receive it. This kind of response always makes me feel like I am at fault. Like I haven't tried hard enough.

Well, I may be in bondage. I am not going to deny this nor do I care to have to defend myself concerning the matter but I resent the thought that I am less than or not complete because I refuse to deny the truth about my sexuality. I refuse to pretend having no sexual and emotional attraction towards men. If I've said it once, I'll say it a million times: " I am exclusively attracted to men which in definition authenticates my labeling myself as Gay". Nor does it matter to me the fact that I have embraced my singleness and am committed to pursuing a vow of celibacy. I am presently celibate not because I believe or consider same sex attraction as inherently evil or unacceptable in the eyes of God. I am intimate with the few and scarce biblical passages forbidding or condemning homosexuality. Even so, I do not ascribe to the beliefs that men who have sex with each other are reprobates or abominable. I do believe wholeheartedly that they, like everyone else, regardless of their sexual preference or orientation, "have all fallen short of the glory of God." Whether we be, Gay, Straight, Bi, Questioning, Transgender, etc. it is my sincere belief we all need a deeper revelation of God's love towards us. Then and only then when we enter into a deep and  conscious reality that we were created to love and be loved by a Merciful and Kind God are we able to experience freedom. Simply put, I am celibate because I have come to the place of receiving God's call for my life to enter into a deeper and richer relationship with Him. I say no to sex because for me it only drives me farther apart from experiencing what God has designed for me to experience alongside Him. To be the Bride of Christ in the here and now, as well as in the world to come, is my highest calling.  A calling I have come to embrace and cherish in my life's journey.

Part of accepting my call and destiny as a passionate lover of God and His Son is to confront what I believe is the rampant homophobia inherent and prevalent in God's household. The Church needs to heal from its own self-righteous indignation. The pathway to Heaven needs to be cleared away of our preconceived notions. We need to stop interpreting God's mind and heart erroneously and stop shutting the door on the very ones He came to die and rise again for.  Enough with the hierarchy of sins!

Recently, a vocal opponent to Gay marriage spoke up and gave his reasons why Gay marriage should not be legalized. While gracious and merciful in his response, he at least made a reconciliatory attempt by conceding to civil unions.   In reading his response, I could not help but see why the Gay Rights movement compares itself to the Anti-Slavery and Civil Rights movements of old. The same arguments then are being revived and once again utilized in the defense of strictly heterosexual unions. What was once the battle against racism is now being vehemently fought in the arena of sexism.

I'm not going to pretend that I will even come close to changing anyone's mind overnight. Religious prejudice, as well as centuries old strongly held traditions and practices are never easy to eradicate. Every worthwhile battle in mankind's history has required incredible fortitude and resistance in the face of tyranny and hatred. Jesus himself said it best when he declared how "the kingdom of God suffers violence..." With that said, I would propose to the nay-sayers and unflinching critics of Same Sex Marriage that maybe the time has come to realize that just because we believe something to be absolute truth, God may be challenging and offending our minds and emotions in order to make plain to us all the foolish contents of our hearts. Maybe, just maybe, God is trying to let us know that what we hold fast to and would like nothing better to see imposed upon everyone around us, is in the end better left carried out by the Holy Spirit, the only one who is able to guide and lead us in the path of abiding truth.

I ran across the following blog and found the words spoken by T.D. Jakes echoing my own sentiments regarding this matter. He says plainly:

"Several months ago I had the privilege of appearing again on “Larry King Live.” He asked me a very poignant question, “Is this a Christian nation?” I immediately replied, “No. This is a nation with a lot of Christians in it.” Many times majority groups think that their views control the country, which for me as a Christian is a great idea. But what happens when and if the numbers switch and we aren’t the majority? The founding fathers created a democratic system that separated church from state so that, as a country, we could avoid the slippery slope of getting into the business of telling people what to believe. That is a job they left to be determined by the individual, the synagogue, the mosque and the church!

A country that has one national religion as its only compass is much more of a theocracy than a democracy. That kind of tyranny leads to witch burning, spiritual genocide, forced and fraudulent expressions of faith, and God knows what else. As wonderful as faith is, faith out of control can be lethal.


I love democracy because it is designed to keep the government from telling me when and how to serve communion, and it allows room for debate without dominance. Religious people will never agree on everything within or outside of the bounds of the church. Democracy allows that debate without polluting it further with political intervention as long as that debate doesn’t infringe on another human’s rights. Lately, it is my view that religion has become increasingly a servant to politics, and whenever a flame is needed to move a candidate or party closer to power, they ignite the flame of the faith community by playing on controversial issues and fear. This isn’t new religious jargon; it’s the same lingo that moved the civil rights movement forward. It disannulled the religious language that slave owners used to justify their hideous abuse of African men and women in our history. Communism enforced an atheistic view that denied its citizens the pursuit of an open practice of faith."

To read whole article go to: http://www.tdjenterprises.com/blog/?p=85

We should not fall into the error that our way is the best way. Too many bloody wars and conflicts have been fought in God's name, which in the end brought nothing but shame and disdain for the message of the Cross. I know I am surrounded by passionate men and women who no matter what will hold to their beliefs and even die for them if necessary. So be it. Nonetheless, my ardent prayer is for openness in dialogue. A simple acknowledgment that we are called to love, to love one another and more importantly, to love our enemies. How will people know how great HE is if we, His representatives, insist on going the way of giving God lip service and futile attempts to honor Him with our vain traditions? Will it not only serve to drive away those who are in need of the power of the Cross and the freedom it provides to all who follow? We must learn to love our enemies and stop giving lip service to the often used rhetoric among religious people: "God loves the sinner but hates the Sin". This is just another way of condoning the right to condemn alternative lifestyles and promote tha language of avoidance and deep seated hatred of what we do not understand.


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Feelings of Rejection and What to do in the Midst of It

I consider myself fortunate to have many more supportive people than adversaries surrounding me. People who have loved me through the many traumatic events of my life and when the fear of rejection has reared its ugly head, have come alongside me and reminded me of my worth in God's eyes. Today was no less different. I made my way to Church with a heavy heart and full of fearful expectation that today would be the day when my worst fears would finally manifest and deal me a heavy and irreversible blow. This is the irrational thing about fears; it tends to loom bigger and more ominous than the truth and light of God's affirming touch. At least, this is how it tends to feel during those moments when one starts to doubt that love could ever remain faithful. Yet, this love comes through every single time, and gently reminds me how unyielding it is in the presence of my doubts and fears. This amazing love, somehow always wins me over and brings me safely to the other side.

It has been an extremely long week for me as I have dealt with the lies of rejection. Same old lies.
"You are not good enough..."
"People will turn away from you and abandon you for good."
"God Himself can't love you..."
And so on. It's enough to make grown men want to lie down and hide under the covers for days on end.

Can't really tell you what led to this present bout at the present moment since I want to be careful not to fall under the old patterns of lashing out against those I believe have in any way let me down or betrayed me. No, this time around I am determined to allow myself and others the benefit of believing the best about a given situation and not jump to conclusions.  But it hurts like hell nonetheless. Rejection falls over my shoulders like an ill-fitted leaden garment. It slows my steps and causes me to move cumbersomely. I lose the will to dance when rejection makes it presence known.

Through it all, I want to believe and trust God that no matter how bad things may look or feel, I will get through it and become a better person because of whatever I may have to endure for the moment.
All this to say, regardless of what my emotions say about my situation, I am in a good place and well on the path to experiencing  greater levels of truth and freedom; two key elements of wholeness and health in overcoming rejection. Call it blind optimism but deep down I believe that "All things work for the good of those who love God, and are called according to His purposes." I believe it. I hold firmly to it in the face of my overwhelming and irrational fears.

Perfect love casts out all fear.

I'm cutting the ribbon and laying the cornerstone.

I want to lay a proper foundation for this new blogging venture. I'm afraid it's not going so well in that respect. Lately, I have been bombarded with work and completely distracted with other things. Yet,  I find myself thinking about this writing business a great deal. I want to have a place to compile and input all these ideas and stories floating in my head. What I really want to do is write my long awaited book and have it published but I must confess I am nowhere as disciplined as I ought to be in order to make that happen.

So, I am left with random thoughts, bits and pieces scattered all over the place, and not much of anything worthwhile to write about. Frustrated, to say the least. Just thinking about a thing will not make it materialize in itself. Action is required, which is where my fingers come into play. I have decided to write every day whatever it is that comes to mind and not worry so much about structure and such things. I'm just going to type away and see what comes of it. I am going to call it an experiment in setting a foundation. Foundation for what exactly is anyone's guess at this moment but if I don't get around to just doing it, well, the day will surely come when I will regret never having attempted to write.

Here it is... I'm cutting the ribbon and laying the cornerstone while crossing my fingers. Remembering what I have been told, I will not despise small beginnings and with that forge ahead unto uncharted territory. Wish me luck!

The "I Wish You Were Never Born" Curse

I sit here and wonder: will my wounded heart ever mend? Will I wake up one day and finally be able to reach down into myself and never again fear having to puncture old wounds? Or will I have to learn to accept the broken places and be ever mindful of scars that threaten to gape open and come undone periodically?

More often than not, I wish I didn't have to look back. I want to be a life with no rear view mirrors. A life blessed with amnesia of painful past experiences. Yet, I know this is not realistic since their is much good that can and has come from looking back and exposing things that once caused great shame and guilt. I am being set free from the bondage of shame. It no longer has a hold on me. For that I am thankful. But does it have to hurt so damn much? God, grant me a tough layer of skin so when I look back and conquer the past I can find myself still standing whole and stronger than ever. I pray this also for everyone who has taken on the task and monumental challenge of addressing past wrongs; setting wholeness and freedom as their goal and just reward for the present hopeful condition of their lives. May we bear under the weight of such honorable accomplishments.

With that said, I take a deep breath and inhale deeply from the source of my victory and overcoming, and open that ominous door which leads to the past where pain, trauma, and suffering abounds. I am on a personal God sent mission: to deliver that little scared boy and scoop him up in my grown-up arms and bring him out to the safety of the light. For far too long he has cowered in the lonely and dark crevices, alone and destitute, whimpering and believing no one cared. Cry no more little one, help is on the way. You have been heard. You have a voice now. More so, you have a place of safety now where you can come to and never be harmed. Where I am bringing you to, no one will ever dare lay a hand on you. It is a place of abundance. A place of unmitigated laughter where the sun shines brightly and darkness is nowhere to be found. Oh, and even more importantly, it is a place where you never have to fear again, where truth is spoken in gentle breezes and complete acceptance is the golden standard, the only option available to those who are redeemed.

You see, my mother, in her misery, in her wretched pain at being in an unfaithful marriage where beatings to her tender pale flesh by a husband who would not and could not be man enough to take his marriage vows as a sacred oath and abide within its set boundaries; caused her great humiliation and grief more often than any woman should ever have to endure. I remember him never being home long enough to take care of the home front. He used our home as a pit stop to shower, eat a good cooked meal, change into his philandering clothes and head out the door to go be with his whores. And there she sat, seething in anger, full of resentment, feeling trapped in a loveless marriage. It was no wonder that this conduit of pent up loneliness and desolation would become an uncontrollable and raging channel of anger who could not see the pressing needs around her. We, her offspring, soon became tied to and identifiable with her deep seated resentment at being left alone to fend for herself. The joy of motherhood replaced by contempt and bitterness gave way to an onslaught of impatience which manifested into beatings and neglect on a daily basis. My mother lost her ability to effectively communicate with words and daily resorted to her hands and fists to let us, my sister and , know how much she resented us; the reason why she remained trapped in an unfruitful and decaying marriage.

This became crystal clear one rare evening where we sat down at the kitchen table as a family to eat dinner. Together on that rare occasion due to the fact that our paternal grandmother had come from Puerto Rico to visit and spend a few days with us. My mother had done what had been expected of her and prepared the evening meal. Don't ask me what it was but for whatever the reason I was in a finicky mood that night and refused to eat something that had been put on my plate. This was unacceptable. Unlike the Brady Bunch family, where if one of the kids did not want to eat or needed to be excused from the table, such a request was granted. Not so in the Rivera household. The unbreakable rule was you had to eat anything and everything served you and then you were granted permission to leave the table. This night I tested my mother's patience and looking back put her mothering skills to question in the presence of her mother-in-law because as we sat there and I raised a fuss about not wanting to finish my portion, my mother uttered those eternally damaging words no child should ever have to hear coming out of a mother's mouth. She looked at me and yelled: "I wish you had never been born!"... words that still resonate with the same intensity and devastation within my damaged emotions.

" I wish you had never been born!"

There. She said it and meant it. I looked up wide-eyed and waited for those seven words to reach over the table and do what no beating, as severe as they might have been, to reach me and puncture my soul. The words went deeper than any belt lashing ever could. Deeper than any insensitive and sudden smack. Even deeper than the worst of welts brought on by wire hangers or extension chords.

"I wish you had never been born!"

Hands down, the worst beating of my life up to that point. I remember looking around the table and searching the faces which stared back at me but did not come to my defense. My grandmother, with pity in her eyes, sat there silently. My younger sister, the only one who during those hellish an tormenting days of my childhood, was ever able to bring me relief with her sweet hugs and embraces, sat there frozen, knowing that a wrong move on her part might cause the curse which had just been unleashed and spoken, to be hurled at her direction. She looked at me, sadness filling her soul, feeling my pain, but unable for her own sake, to come to my defense. Yes, Cindy, my youngest sister, my lioness in pig-tails who always came to my defense in the school yard against the bullying of the older boys, but here, at the dinner table, she was completely unable and defenseless to come to my rescue. Finally, slowly, with innocent expectation quickly fading, I turned to look at my father, my last hope at being rescued from the curse of being unwanted and unloved. The man, the figure head of this broken and neglected family, never once reacted to my mother's curse and kept right on eating.

I put my head down and as surely as the tears are streaming down my face as I write this account, I sat there and cried, feeling the crushing weight of her words seep into my soul and take permanent residence in my young and hopeless life. Eight years old and already I knew what it felt like to be unloved and unwanted. Words that followed me for the rest of my life. Words that to this day make a grown man to this very day convulse and heave with way too much pain and sorrow at having to relive that moment in time where everything seemed lost; where the desperate need to be loved by a mother was denied him and caused what seemed unrepairable damage to fragile and sensitive emotions.

I cried alone that night at the kitchen table as the rest of the family watched in silence and hastily emptied their plates with little to no conversation exchanged. How surreal. They ate and moved on to the next activity while I sat there and let my tears fall onto food I refused to eat. My mother forbade me from getting up that night until every last morsel on my plate was gone. These were the days both my sister and I yearned for a Fido to come to the rescue and take our unwanted leftovers. No Fido came that night or any night and I sat there for hours alone with the cold food staring back at me and the spoken curse making its ironclad ball and chain weight felt deep in my psyche. No one came to say sorry that night. No one sat with me and took the time to explain what took me a lifetime to finally realize; that those piercing and hateful words, which had ascended from the pit of hell, were never meant to be carried and identified with. But what do eight year olds know of such matters? Isn't that what mature and caring adults are supposed to do; disseminate information and provide explanations? No one came back to the table that night to provide such relief. So I took on those words of death into myself and provided fertile ground for it to fester and grow like out of control weeds in an abandoned back lot somewhere where only vagrants and wild dogs roam and rummage through piles of garbage and unwanted objects.

To that place, that painful memory, is where I must travel back to this night. Armed with grown-up understanding and a good measure of God's revealed love for me, I go back tonight and make myself known to that little boy. I go with angels who with swords in hand cut through the thicket and darkness and provide me a path to safely go and retrieve what was lost and is now saved. As they fight and guard my every step I am left to concentrate on how I will reach out to that little frightened boy and convince him I come to rescue him and not cause him any further damage. He may not believe me at first. Many men have gone before me saying similar words only to take advantage of his defenseless spirit and trick him into going with them into dark places where once out of the prying eyes force him to his knees or to bend over and commit acts of sexual degradation and perversion. I must convince this little one that I come from the future, that I am he in grown-up form come to rescue him from the dark and shameful place he has been confined to. I will speak to him as I have been spoken to by the voice of magnanimous love and let him know he is at last free to leave that place and never to return.

I will speak gently and tenderly the very words spoken to me by my emancipator, my friend, my rescuer, Jesus, who has modeled for me how the work of setting the captives free is done. I will say to that little boy: " You are redeemed, you are not only wanted and loved, you are precious and fully accepted". I will sit with him at that table and finally take that plate from him and eat those leftovers for him. I will show him it is okay to feel what he feels and I will wait there as long as it takes until he is reassured I mean him no harm, that I speak truth and just want to love him with a love so pure and noble which will once and for all break the power of that spoken curse. Show him not only was he to be born but unto royalty and high esteem was he destined to be born into. Then maybe, after all that has been accomplished, he will see the value and worth in his life and in seeing it set out a course to boldly go back into darkness and snatch twigs forgotten and left in the fire of abuse and suffering.

May this life of pain and suffering be a catalyst for others to come into their own realms of self-discovery and freedom from the snares of shame and abuse. And one by one, every little scared boy and girl finally come out of the dark shadows and be set free to play and bask in the fullness of the light of acceptance and freedom. God's kingdom children free once and for all to run and play under the watchful and strong gaze of affirming love.

When Five-Year-Olds are Raped

I was brutally introduced into the gay life at the tender age of five.

A sixteen year old neighbor, who lived on the top floor of the Brooklyn tenement building my family and I lived in, was taking a bath one day when my mother, younger sister and I stopped by for a visit. As was customary in those times, children were to be seen and not heard. Mom had instructed my sister and I to go into the bedrooms and play while she gathered in the kitchen with the other ladies who had already come together for coffee and neighborhood gossip. I remember how the women sat around the kitchen table sipping coffee, talking in loud voices and laughing at who knows what. The hens were loud enjoying each others company.

My sister who was three at the time went into one of the bedrooms where some girls had gathered to play with dolls. Me being a boy who had already learned that playing with dolls was absolutely forbidden stuck around in one of the adjacent bedrooms to wait for Luis Armando to finish his bath. We were the only males in the home. I stuck around and waited hoping he would let me play with the few toys he kept in his room. 

Sigh. And thats when it happened. Luis Armando opened the bathroom door and summoned me to come into the bathroom. Never suspecting the terror that awaited me. I walked into his trap. No sooner had i entered the bathroom he grabbed me, laid me face down on the cold bathroom tiled floor and pulled my shorts and undies down to my ankles. He placed his hand over my mouth and introduced himself into me. My excruciatingly painful introduction to anal sex. 

I remember the searing pain accompanied by the suffocating horror of his hand over my mouth. The muffled screams. The hot tears streaming down my face. His heavy frame pressing down on me threatening to break me. His hushed hot whispers telling me to be a good boy, to be quiet. To this day when I look back I am amazed at how I did not pass out right there and then. Sadly, I remained present for the whole ordeal feeling every brutal thrust going in and out of me until at last God saw fit to make the agony end. He shuddered and convulsed and finally lay still covering me in darkness. 

His instructions were firm and clear as he pulled me off the wet floor and jumped back into the bathtub. "This never happened. If you tell anyone they will not believe you and will be angry with you. Pull up your shorts. Go quietly, like a good boy, and wait for me in my room". I did as I was told still covered in tears but deathly afraid to tell anyone what had just happened.

I carried this dark and shameful secret for many years. I never told a soul. 

My molester found an obedient receptacle in me and continued to use me for his pleasure for several years after that first incident. I learned to take it. Grew up overnight capable of withstanding pain and hiding it for the sake of survival. I believed the lies fed to me that I had brought this hell upon myself and no one would or could save me from what became my new life.

Labeled and branded, other child molesters saw the signs and helped themselves in the process. It seemed wherever I went, someone was waiting to continue the process of defiling and rendering me worthless. a neighbor, two uncles, and a cousin; my captors and tormentors. 

So when people try to convince me that "we" are born this way I know now that not to be the case in my life. I was made gay by the countless sexual and  verbal abuse inflicted upon me. Verbal abuse from men and peers who would call me and tease me with such hateful words as "sissy", "faggot", "queer", "weak" and so on. They too did their part to cement into my psyche my present day identification and association with being Gay.

... And people wonder why, at times, I become a cauldron of seething volcanic anger. They dare judge me for ever wanting or even attempting to take my life into my own hands. Maybe now people will understand me better and not fault me for attempting suicide three times... for being fiercely mistrustful and independent in nature. For I have only myself and my God to count on when the darkness rolls in like a flood and the haunting memories, followed by the painful questions of "Why God, Why me? Where were you when I most needed you? Why...Why...Why? crash down on me and try to do me in.

I hope my painful and traumatic story may help someone out there who may be struggling with a similar situation. Believe me, take it from me, God is still good. He does care. He truly does and he alone is able to turn the very thing evil intended to destroy and undo us, to become the very thing that will become a blessing and strength.

As I write these words I am beginning to see greater and more meaningful purpose but more so I am entering into deeper levels of healing and revelation of god's love.