Monthly Archives: August 2007

First day of school

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I’m sitting in my office on a warm Monday morning, ready for the first day of fall semester classes.

I’ve been in this same office — at this same desk — since 1994, when I was first hired as a tenure-track instructor at Pasadena City College. In 1994, I didn’t have a computer on my desk. In 1994, I had very different framed photographs to gaze at. In 1994, I had a very different office mate (my newest colleague, Lynora, just moved in last week.) I note, however, that I have the same darned office phone — an ancient plastic contraption that has been dropped dozens of times but still somehow survives.

I can’t think of many peers of mine who’ve had the same full-time job since 1994. I was 27 when I was hired full-time (I’d already been teaching here as an adjunct for a year); to have the same job at 40 is increasingly rare. Many of my peers have had three, four, or five different serious jobs in that same time span.

When I was hired over thirteen years ago, I said to everyone who would listen that this was my “dream” job, one I would have “forever.” (I wrote at length two years ago about my reasons for preferring the community college environment.) The danger in getting security so young is obvious: if not careful, one could stagnate very easily. There’s no “publish or perish” pressure at the community college, and few tenured professors are ever let go here, even in cases of serious incompetence.

Because I’ve had tenure and stability, I’ve had to push myself very hard to develop new courses, explore new avenues for writing and for public service. I have to remind myself not to settle for “good enough”. Ambition, in my case, cannot be about material comfort or security (though those are lovely things for which I am very grateful). Rather, tenure is an island on which to stand, a foundation on which to place my feet while I explore new opportunities (like rescuing chinchillas, writing books, finding novel venues for youth ministry). Indeed, those of us who have tenure — especially at a non-research-oriented place like the community college, have an obligation to use that “gift” of lifetime job security wisely and responsibly. For some, that wise and responsible use will come in the form of political activism; for others, it will come through exciting innovations in the classroom. But we waste this precious gift if we keep on doing the same thing, over and over and over again.

I will, howver, be talking on the same phone and sitting in the same seat that I was talking on and sitting in around the time the O.J. Simpson trial began.

My hero…

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… this morning is Haile (Heila) Satayin of Israel. At age 52, he finished 19th in the marathon at the World Track and Field Championships this weekend, in a blistering 2:22 — run in high humidity. Satayin, a Jewish native of Ethiopia who made his aliyah in 1991, has qualified for the Beijing Olympics, where he’ll be by far the oldest marathoner in the field and almost certainly the oldest Olympian. Mazel Tov, Haile!

The older I get, the fewer still-competitive athletic heroes I have. And though I can admire men and women younger than myself, I’ll admit I can only truly look up to those who have a few years on me. And no, this doesn’t mean I am an exuberant Barry Bonds fan.

Final Summer Reprint: Young women’s dreams, choices, Yeats

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I won’t be reprinting any more oldies again this summer, as a regular posting schedule resumes on Monday. Alas, the links in the post below no longer work.

This post originally appeared Friday, March 11, 2005.

Stephanie links to this article in yesterday’s Independent:  Desperate to be housewives: young women yearn for 1950s role as stay-at-home mums.   An excerpt:

Research into the attitudes of 1,500 women with an average age of 29
found that 61 per cent believe "domestic goddess" role models who
juggle top jobs with motherhood and jet-set social lives are
"unhelpful" and "irritating". More than two-thirds agree that the man
should be the main provider in a family, while 70 per cent do not want
to work as hard as their mother’s generation. On average, the women
questioned want to "settle down" with their partner by 30 and have
their first child a year later.

Vicki Shotbolt, deputy chief executive of the National Family and
Parenting Institute, said: "This is the generation of young women who
have seen the ‘have it all’ ethos up close and personal, and they have
realised that it doesn’t work.

"Their own mothers may have tried to juggle motherhood and careers,
and it may have been the children who feel they lost out … I think
women really are coming of age now, and are accepting that it is
virtually impossible to have it all."

Stephanie writes in response:

I would have to agree, it’s very hard to try and have it all. In some
ways, I think I may have given up on the dream myself. That is a
problem. But I think the either/or solution we’ve resigned ourselves to
seems more likely to breed resentment than anything else. I don’t see
much point in agreeing that the best way to organize society is for men
to be the breadwinners and women the childrearers. That just
potentially limits everyone to a lifetime of unfulfillment. I know from
experience that unhappy parents make lousy parents so I’d argue that
doesn’t do the kids much good either.

I’m always encouraged when folks start questioning false dichotomies, as Stephanie does here.  One important role feminists play in society is that of dreaming out loud; it’s vital that we have change agents questioning whether the given paradigm ought to be accepted as is.  And in terms of social policy, it’s clear that much can be done to make it possible for both men and women to better balance family and work obligations.

That said, the title of the article bugged me.  Obviously, it’s a riff on the TV show "Desperate Housewives."   But I see nothing in the article that says that these young women actually want to return to the "1950s." (For what it’s worth, I’m tired of both sides in the culture war dragging in the 1950s.  Conservatives need to stop idealizing it; progressives need to stop demonizing it.  It was one decade, folks, and a complex and interesting one at that.)  More to the point, why is it that we assume that the yearning for marriage and motherhood is somehow defective?   

Feminists are often tarred as "anti-family", a charge that is, in general absurd.  Most feminists desperately want to strengthen families by giving parents more time, more choices, more state and social support.  But it’s true that among at least some in the women’s movement (and their male allies), there remains an ugly, patronizing, dismissiveness towards young women who genuinely aspire to marriage and motherhood.   Mark, who commented at Stephanie’s place, wrote:

A disturbingly high number of women in college (at least in SE Ohio/N
Kentucky), do not want to work after graduating…

(Bold emphasis is mine.)  This raises the question, is college really only about preparing people for the work force?  (I sure hope not, because I have no idea how next week’s lecture on the Peloponnesian War is going to help anyone.)  What about college as an opportunity to engage new ideas, a place to be challenged, and a time to discover what one really wants?  And what about the possibility that some rational, intelligent, interesting and creative young women might conclude "Hey, the more I think about it, the more I realize that nothing is likely to be more fulfilling to me than raising a family."  Why must we assume that she is a victim of low expectations?  Is it not possible that such women have weighed their options, considered their choices, and made a heartfelt decision?  As feminists and pro-feminists, should we not be interested in empowering young women to live out their hopes and dreams?

More specifically, are we so sure that if high-quality, subsidized day-care was widely available, every woman who wishes to stay home would suddenly change her mind?  Mind you, I’m a big believer in high-quality, low-cost day care!  But I’ve known enough women who could afford the best day-care, and chose to stay home anyway, to know that not all mothers approach the issue in precisely the same manner. 

I’ve written a few times that I want to raise up young feminists and pro-feminists.  I want my female students to be aware of the tremendous, varied possibilities for their lives that may not have existed for their mothers and fore-mothers.  I want them to challenge themselves and take risks.  But I don’t presume to tell them that a high-paying career in the workforce is superior to building a loving home and raising children.  My goal is not to empower them to live out an ideological agenda; my goal is to empower them to lead lives that will be both personally fulfilling and socially beneficial.  I don’t know what each one of them will find fulfilling, but I am damn sure that different choices will please different people in different ways.  And to those young women who want to prioritize children over career and marriage over management, I say "Good on you."  It’s the same exact thing I’ve said to young women who pledge never to marry, and devote their lives to public service.  But when it comes to the future dreams of my students, I will not create a hierarchy of wants, in which certain desires are validated and others are shamed.  To do so would go against everything I have been taught that real feminism is.

And you know, when it comes to time and children and life itself, we really can’t have it all our way all the time.  I know it’s Friday, but the best lines on this subject come from the great W.B. Yeats:

The intellect of man is forced to choose
perfection of the life, or of the work,
And if it take the second must refuse
A heavenly mansion, raging in the dark.
When all that story’s finished, what’s the news?
In luck or out the toil has left its mark:
That old perplexity an empty purse,
Or the day’s vanity, the night’s remorse.

It’s clear where Yeats’ sympathies lie.  And mine.

 

Ten Favorite Albums, 1970-76

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I flippantly remarked today that my favorite musical era is marked by the period between the Kent State shootings (May 1970) and the election of Jimmy Carter (November 1976). And so, here are ten of my favorite albums from that period. I turned three the month Kent State happened; I was nine when Carter defeated Ford. (The 1976 presidential election was the first one I followed closely, and I walked precincts in Carmel for Carter-Mondale that fall).

I’d take all of these albums to a desert island with me. Of course, I’d love to have them on original vinyl with that wonderful “hiss and pop” sound that came with an old-fashioned record.

I’m limiting myself to one album per artist, and though I might change the order a week from now, I’m ranking them as follows:

1. “Late For The Sky“, Jackson Browne. There are very few albums from any era on which every single track is a gem. This is one such recording. I burned through two cassettes before I finally got the CD. Favorite Track: “Before the Deluge.”

2. “Pieces of the Sky“, Emmylou Harris. Favorite Tracks: “Boulder to Birmingham”, “Queen of the Silver Dollar”

3. “The Last of the Red Hot Burritos“, Flying Burrito Brothers. Favorite Track: “High Fashion Queen”

4. “Turnstiles“, Billy Joel. Favorite Track: “I’ve Loved These Days”

5. “Blood On The Tracks“, Bob Dylan. My favorite Dylan album ever, hands down. Favorite track: “Shelter From the Storm.”

6. “Manassas“, Steven Stills and Manassas. Favorite track: “The Treasure (Take One)”

7. “Eagles“, The Eagles. Everyone says “Hotel California” is the essential Eagles album, but I’ll take their self-titled debut. Favorite song: “Peaceful, Easy Feeling.”

8. “Blue“, Joni Mitchell. Who doesn’t love this album? Most people pick the wonderful “Carey” as their favorite song, but I’ll go with “This Flight Tonight”.

9. “Madman Across the Water“, Elton John. Obviously, “Tiny Dancer” is one of the greatest songs ever, but I’ll select the title cut as my fav.

10. “Harvest“, Neil Young. Favorite track: “A Man Needs A Maid.”

And the bonus album is obvious:

“Born to Run“, Bruce Springsteen.

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Anesthesia is not recovery: a note on breaking up and healing

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I have a weak spot for the sort of pop psychology studies that end up being spread around by the internet; I justify that interest by telling myself that regardless of their reliability, many folks clearly believe in them — which makes them worth reflecting on for that reason alone.

In reality, breaking up doesn’t feel that bad is this week’s attention-grabber:

“We underestimate our ability to survive heartbreak,” said Eli Finkel, an assistant professor of psychology at Northwestern University, whose study appears online in the Journal of Experimental Social Psychology.

Finkel and colleague Paul Eastwick studied young lovers — especially those who profess ardent affection — to see if their predictions of devastation matched their actual angst when that love was lost.

“On average, people overestimate how distressed they will be following a breakup,” Finkel said in a telephone interview.

That makes good sense.

What I wonder is, how much of that “ability to survive” is a testament to the reality that the relationship wasn’t particularly significant? How much is attributable to our ability to grow emotional scar tissue? After all, as any veteran of divorce will tell you (and I am a thrice-decorated veteran of that agonizing process), it’s often tough to distinguish between numbness and recovery.

Folks often ask me about how I “survived” three divorces. I get that question a lot, especially from those who are in the midst of their first (and, one hopes, their final) divorce. “How could you go through this again and again and not be permanently devastated?”, they inquire. Some of that resilience and willingness to begin again is a result of grace, surely. And some of it is also attributable to stubbornness. (See my post last year on “the king of starting over”.)

But let’s be honest: ending a marriage (or any other significant, long-term relationship) is desperately painful. It’s agonizing, crazy-making, soul-scarring. When I was going through my second and third divorces, I remember thinking to myself “How could I ever have put myself back in this situation? How did I forget how much this hurts?” (It’s a question I also ask myself around mile 23 of every marathon, and I’ve heard from some of my female friends that they ask themselves the same thing when they give birth for the second or third time.) And of course, the answer is that most of us have not only a great capacity to endure pain, but a great capacity to forget. Time is just slow-acting Percoset, sweet anesthesia coming at its own maddening pace.

But anesthesia and real recovery aren’t the same thing. The absence of pain is not always a reliable indicator of good emotional health. I know plenty of young people who move serially from relationship to relationship, and I know them well enough to know that their post-break-up insouciance isn’t an act. But for many, the real pain comes months or even years later. Sometimes, we need a shot of anesthetic to get us out of an unhealthy relationship. Two or three weeks after the break-up, we’re smiling and laughing and feeling on top of the world; three months later, we’re curled pathetically on the couch, sniffling in misery. The lag time between the separation and feeling the hurt is often quite substantial (and, in my experience, it’s a good deal longer for men than for women.) And during that lag time — the period between leaving the dentist’s chair and the novocaine wearing off — it’s easy to underestimate just how much the loss of a love really did hurt.

Do I feel today the pain of three divorces and a half-dozen other serious break-ups? No. But in order to move forward, I had to go back (in therapy, in spiritual retreats, in writing) and look carefully at each of those many past relationships. I needed to feel the pain — and cop to the pain I inflicted. It took a lot of work to make sure that I wasn’t mixing up numb forgetfulness with genuine healing.

And I suspect that some of the folks in this little study will discover that they’ve been mixing up those very things.

Friday Random Ten: start of the semester edition

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Old and new favorites here. Jackson Browne shows up twice, as he deserves. The Stephen Stills track is from another one of those great Seventies albums to which I have increasingly returned in recent years. It would not be a stretch to say that Hugo feels that popular music hit its twentieth-century zenith in the era framed between the Kent State shootings and the election of Jimmy Carter. Or perhaps it’s just because that’s the music I remember my baby-sitters played on the radio.

Next week, I’ll do my ten favorite Seventies albums. I know you can’t wait.

1. “Deliver Me”, Catie Curtis
2. “Rock Me On The Water”, Jackson Browne
3. “Swallow”, Wailin’ Jennys
4. “I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man”, Prince
5. “Wedding Day” Rosie Thomas
6. “You’re Crazy”, Guns n’ Roses
7. “Queen of My Double Wide Trailer”, Sammy Kershaw
8. “So Begins the Task”, Stephen Stills (and Manassas)
9. “Celebrity Skin”, Hole
10. “That Girl Could Sing”, Jackson Browne

Bonus Track: “Let the Mystery Be”, Iris DeMent

Justice is not a zero-sum game: some thoughts on Michael Vick, feminism, and animal rights

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I haven’t blogged about the Michael Vick case yet, largely because I haven’t been sure I had anything I wanted to add to the conversation. I get e-mail updates from just about every animal rights organization you can think of, so I’m following the story both in the mainstream media and through those charities.

On Tuesday, Sandra Kobrin wrote an interesting piece at Women’s E-news: Beat a Woman? Play On; Beat a Dog? You’re Gone. (Hat tip: Feministing.) Excerpt:

…just wish the NFL had the same outrage toward spousal abuse and other forms of domestic violence. But they don’t. Not by a long shot.

Scores of NFL players as well as players from the National Basketball Association and Major League Baseball have been convicted of domestic abuse, yet they play on with no fear of losing their careers. Most pay small fines, if that, and are back on the field immediately.

The message is clear. Beat a woman? Play on. Beat a dog? You’re gone.

Well, to be fair, Vick did more than beat dogs. He tortured many of them to death. That’s more than physical abuse. For those of us who care profoundly about animals, Michael Vick’s case is more like O.J. Simpson’s than, say, Jason Kidd’s. And O.J., despite his acquittal, has been justly ostracised.

But I understand Kobrin’s frustration. The double standard is real. Our cultural tolerance for violence against women — especially when committed by male athletes –is much too high. Much of that is rooted, I think, in the reality that the majority of sports fans and sports writers in this country are heterosexual males. And though most heterosexual men in this country don’t physically abuse their girlfriends and wives, a great many of them are frequently very, very angry at women. On a visceral level, far too many men may empathize with a celebrity athlete who strikes his female partner, assuming that she “made him do it”. Most men don’t condone domestic violence (or won’t do so publicly, particularly in mixed company), but many, I suspect, “understand” how a “normal guy” might “just happen to strike his wife” in the course of a heated argument.

On the other hand, very few men or women in this country regularly murder dogs. Dogs are thought of as members of the family, and rightly so. And because so few men can (thank Goodness!) imagine themselves electrocuting or drowning Spot and Rover, they have no empathy for Michael Vick and the appalling crimes to which he has apparently agreed to plead guilty. It’s this cognitive gap that lies at the heart of the different response to Vick than to those athletes convicted of domestic violence: most men can’t “get” what the Falcons quarterback did in the way that they “get” hitting a spouse when one is exasperated.

Kobrin:

Vick has already lost most of his sponsorship deals worth millions of dollars and he deserves to lose a whole lot more.

But the disproportionate punishment of Vick–while athletes who commit violence against women are let off the hook–has to be wondered at.

Might it be that domestic violence and spousal abuse is so pervasive in sports that it’s simply too costly for leagues to suspend so many men? What would happen after all if those poor dear teams couldn’t fill their rosters?

I wince at Kobrin’s use of “disproportionate.” As an animal rights activist, there’s nothing excessive about Vick’s suspension and loss of endorsements. Indeed, if his jail sentence is in the range of a year or two, it’s woefully inadequate in light of what he did to so many precious, sentient animals. (I’m assuming Koprin meant Vick’s punishment was disproportionately harsh in the light of what is meted out to those who abuse women, and that she didn’t intend to minimize cruelty to animals. At least, that’s my sincere hope.)

It would be very sad if the historically strong alliance between the animal rights community and the feminist movement were to be weakened by the Michael Vick case. I understand completely feminist outrage at the “slap on the wrist” that most male athletes who abuse women receive. But the answer doesn’t lie in minimizing the horror of dog-fighting. Calling Vick’s punishment “disproportionate” and mentioning only that he “beat” dogs (rather than drowning and slaughtering them) minimizes his crimes — which, of course, is exactly what far too many people do in cases of domestic violence. Saying Vick only “beat” dogs is comparable to saying that breaking your wife’s jaw is just “keeping her in line.”

We live in a culture that teaches many men that women are still property. We live in a society where many young men — particularly privileged athletes — are allowed unfettered access to women’s bodies. Sexual assaults and acts of domestic violence are excused or punished very lightly. (I wrote about this a long time ago.)

We live in a culture where the horrific abuse of animals is also tolerated. Michael Vick killed animals that most folks identify as pets; plenty of other equally intelligent animals are slaughtered in barbaric conditions every day for our food. We raise our children to believe that animals exist for their pleasure (just as we raise many men to believe women exist for theirs) and when our kids ask how the Easter ham came to the table, we tell them “don’t think too much about it.”

Justice is not a zero-sum game. Taking animal abuse more seriously does not mean ignoring violence against women. We need stiffer penalties for these crimes, and we need to hold our celebrities equally accountable. As the Michael Vick case dominates the news cycle this steamy August, feminists are right to demand an end to the pattern of excusing the violence that male athletes commit against women. But we can demand more substantial penalties for those who hit their wives and girlfriends without minimizing the horror of Michael Vick’s crimes.

Those who struggle for animal rights and for women’s equality ought to be natural allies, partners in a great coalition seeking justice and demanding protection for the vulnerable and the exploited. It would be very sad indeed if this case were to widen a rift between these two vitally important movements.

Thursday Short Poem: Hirshfield’s “For Horses, Horseflies”

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This Jane Hirshfield poem came to my head last week while watching a few minutes of that dreadful “To Catch a Predator” program on MSNBC. I’m all in favor of sting operations to catch pedophiles, mind you, but am not at all certain it’s healthy or good for the rest of us to watch. I watched ten awful, heartbreaking minutes, and shuddered. Today’s poem fits how I felt.

For Horses, Horseflies

We know nothing of the lives of others.
Under the surface, what strange desires,
what rages, weaknesses, fears.

Sometimes it breaks into our daily paper
and we shake our heads in wonder –
“Who would behave in such a way” we ask.

Unspoken the thought, “Let me not be tested.”
Unspoken the thought, “Let me not be known.”

Under the surface, something that whispers
“Anything can be done.”

For horses, horseflies. For humans, shame.

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“Often in Error, Never in Doubt”: on leaving All Saints and a penchant for always ending up in leadership

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When I first started blogging four years ago this month (at a now long-defunct site), I was in active leadership at Pasadena Mennonite Church. After several years of worshipping at All Saints Pasadena, I left for the Mennonites in mid-2002. I remained, however, active in youth ministry at All Saints.

I left the Mennonites and returned to All Saints in late 2004. It was exhausting to be part of two very different church cultures, and though I felt more at home theologically among the Anabaptists, I felt more culturally comfortable with the Anglicans. I’ve written about this journey back and forth before (see here, here, here).

While at times I’ve been unhappy with what I’ve heard from the pulpit at All Saints, I’ve stayed at this flagship church of progressive Episcopalianism out of my devotion to my beloved senior high youth group. For nearly eight years, I was active as both a confirmation class teacher and Wednesday night facilitator, and believe I played a valuable role in the lives of many young people there. Though at times I had theological and political differences with the church in which I worked, I was able to put those aside (most of the time, anyway) because of my loyalty to the teens.

But this past spring, the church leadership and I came to what I can only describe as a fundamental philosophical disagreement about what youth ministry is and ought to be. Because so many people (including teenagers) associated with All Saints Pasadena read this blog, I’m choosing to avoid sharing details of this profound split between myself and at least some members of the church staff. I will say that all the adults involved were passionately committed to the well-being of “our” teens. But that shared commitment was not enough to bridge a wide gulf over what it means to pastor teenagers and what it means to provide them with a safe, nurturing, loving spiritual environment. The upshot: I’ve left the All Saints Pasadena community on amicable (if strained) terms.

I hate “church shopping.” I learned early on in my life as an adult convert that no one church was going to be perfect. As in some of my youthful romantic relationships, my church experiences followed a tiresome pattern: initial enthusiasm and idealization followed by gradual disillusionment, separation, and the repetition of the cycle. I broke that cycle with women at long last, and had hoped to break it with churches. But I didn’t make the kind of pledge to All Saints Pasadena that I did to my wife. And sometimes, being on a spiritual journey means moving on.

I’m not a cradle Episcopalian, a cradle Catholic, a cradle Mennonite, a cradle Pentecostal. I was raised by atheists, after all. I was baptized and confirmed into the Roman Catholic church as a college student, and began a spiritual journey that took me from studying (very briefly) to be a Dominican to the Assemblies of God, the Mennonite Church USA, and in and out of the Anglican Communion (at least twice). In that sense, there has indeed been some symmetry between my chaotic romantic life and my quest for a spiritual home in which my relationship with Jesus can flower.

Even before this serious disagreement with the All Saints leadership over what was best for the youth emerged, I was beginning to think it was time for me to find a different spiritual home. All Saints does many things well, but one thing it doesn’t do as often as I’d like: preach the central importance of relationship with Christ. Like many progressive, liberal churches, All Saints does a wonderful job of calling people to action. All Saints not only encourages political activism, it encourages valuable social work in the community. Faith without works is indeed dead faith. But works without faith often leave those who do the works exhausted and alienated and in desperate need of spiritual refreshment. And for me, that spiritual refreshment comes in the reminder that Jesus is Lord. And that reminder isn’t offered at All Saints as often as I’d like.

So I’ve been going to the Warehouse. I sit quietly in the back, participating with enthusiasm but without any desire to step forward into leadership. I have a bad habit with churches: I join them, start volunteering, and within six months, am invariably asked into leadership. I was only at All Saints Pasadena for two years before I was invited onto the Vestry (if you know how vestries work at large Episcopal parishes, that’s a fast trajectory); I was at Pasadena Mennonite for all of five months before I was placed on the Leadership Team.

Whenever I’ve joined a church in the past, I’ve compensated for my feelings of anxiety about a new experience by throwing myself into the center of that church’s life. My inner ENFP kicks in, and I start signing up for committees and volunteer opportunities, showing up early and staying late. And I’m a pretty smooth talkin’ guy who can project a considerable amount of enthusiasm when called upon, so invariably I end up in leadership much too soon. By the time I start asking questions about whether the church and I are really compatible, I’m enmeshed in responsibilities and duties. Heck, I asked each of my first three wives to marry me within four months of starting to date them. My family motto, passed on for generations, is “often in error, never in doubt.” In church and in relationships, I’ve lived that out for years.

I’ve known she who is today my wife for many years. We dated for nearly three years before getting married in 2005. Never before had I moved so slowly, and that willingness to do what is so against my impulsive nature has paid enormous dividends. It’s time for me to start practicing that same degree of care and caution in my church relationships. That doesn’t mean diminishing the intensity of my love for Jesus. It does mean allowing myself to go to church just to worship, without feeling compelled to start taking over. It means resisting the urge to move into leadership before I am ready. It means being okay with going somewhere where not everyone knows my name.

The other reason to be hesitant about doing more than worshipping at my “next” church: when I’m in leadership, I have an obligation not to make public statements that are at odds with church teaching. When I was at Pasadena Mennonite, I got into trouble because I take a publicly affirming position on gay marriage — and I also feel quite strongly that pre-marital sex is not always offensive to God. At All Saints Pasadena, I’ve taken issue with a variety of stances adopted by the church and its leadership. When I represent the church as a senior youth leader or a Vestryman or a Prayer Team coordinator, I have an obligation to conform my public reflections to church teaching. But as someone whose views don’t fit easily into any particular political or theological template, that’s very hard.

I know full well I don’t share every view held by the leadership at Lake Avenue (the parent church of Warehouse). I like the way folks get together there to praise God, and I want to be with them as they do it. But I’ll be in the cheap seats rather than right up front, at least for now. And though I’m sure I’ll end up in leadership and youth ministry again somewhere soon, I think it’s okay to take a time-out for now.