January 2007

So, this is how many of us first heard of John 3:16. Like the loud mouth guy outside Macy’s on 34th and 6th, standing on an upside-down empty bucket of drywall compound, holding a saran-wrap covered white sign scrawled with black magic marker, a big word “REPENT.” I loved that guy. He was so loud, and so engaged in what he believed. He never scared me into repenting, but he did give me hope that even a nut job has a place where he can be at his most nutty, right in the heart of Manhattan, and still survive. I miss that part of New York City more than anything: The ability to be an all-out-kook, and have folks not even notice because they are busy chasing down a cab, or picking your purse. What a town!

The Rainbow Man would be at the ballgames. You’d see him in the crowd with his own personal sign that read “John 3:16,” which reads as follows (King James Version):

“For God so loved the world that he gave his Only Begotten Son, that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have Everlasting Life.”

This is what the Rainbow Man wants us to know, and maybe the Drywall Bucket guy, too. “Why” is their business. But, the message itself, and what it means, is for all of us to decipher. Folks much better read than myself have no doubt picked this apart, but, I guess I’m entitled to my opinion such as it is.

In bible study this Sunday, the minister (a young and cool guy who is not, by a long shot, of the fundamentalist variety) stated that scholars agree the first half of this statement “For God so loved the world…” is frequently mis-interpreted as a quantitative statement of God’s love (”Daddy loved you SO MUCH that he worked hard to get you that broccoli, so you better eat it”), rather than a simple qualitative statement (”so” meaning “in such a way”) which is the accepted scholarly interpretation.

The diffusing of the potential sensationalism of these first words notwithstanding, the middle part of the statement requires that I take a larger leap of faith. Accepting that Jesus is the son of God involves a bit of understanding on my part that language breaks down a bit here. For years, I’ve reflected, read, talked, written and prayed about this. I’m in a position now to accept, with my own capabiity of understanding at all, that Jesus was the son of God. I’ve also learned to be really awestruck at the magnitude of generosity in the crucifixion, and the mystery of the resurrection. It’s all quite profound and beautiful, a feast for the soul when I allow myself to meditate on it.

Then we get to the part in John 3:16 about eternal life and perishing. That’s where, for me, the fundamentalists, with their “Left Behind” series (did you ever see the “Left Behind” guy? He has a really bad toupee that makes him look like Dennis Kucinich’s less good-looking brother. And I suspect a brow lift. I’m wondering if he gets to take the rug with him when Jesus comes, or if that gets “left behind”). The notions of “eternity” as we understand it, we being those who don’t have PhD’s in theology or physics, or don’t have the experiential and spiritual depth of a mystic like Thomas Merton, have a limited sense of what that means. But, I do have to plow on with this understanding within my own considerable limits.

The meaning of eternity is elusive, but comes to me non-verbally in moments I call “unity.” Those moments are when the universe and I seem to be vibrating at the same frequency. Full of anguish or joy, these moments are irretrievably real. I believe another term for this is “sublime.” In those moments, I have the ability to glimpse eternity because it is present in the moment in its entirety. That is, an eternity that is not limited by the notion of “forever”, that is, not just a really, really long time. Eternity is continual and instantanous being; a state of connecting cognitively, spatially, materially, and temporally to the all, both now and all the not-nows, which are one and the same.

In that context, eternity is here, so hell, perishing, or paradise, accompany it in this moment and all moments. There are hints of this in some of the other things Jesus says, including “The Kingdom of God is at hand. (Mark 1:14)” Of course, at the time of Jesus, folks may have wanted to believe that God was going to do some heavy-handed Roman-smiting, hence the “at hand” -edness, but, I think he was saying to get out of the way of God because he’s here, and you’re all being jerks wanting to war your way to paradise.

This is consistent with Eastern philosophies, and with Judaism, which emphasize the here and now over pondering on the potential nature of an eternity that begins at corporeal death. This notion of perishing right now by living in despair, instead of in faith, is a notion that is explored in the 12 steps as well. “A grateful drunk is a sober drunk,” I’ve heard a million times. In early sobriety, there is a saying called “ABCs: ashtrays, brooms, and chairs.” In other words, stay in the moment and make yourself useful. Cut the drama and do the next right thing consistently, one day at a time, and paradise will be with you.

And so we have the Rainbow Man. What notion of eternity and perishing does he proclaim? We may never know. He looks so utterly engrossed in the eternity of his moment in the wig, in the summer heat, in the sun-bleached baseball stands, spreading the word, and doing his evangelist thing. Maybe his moments are utterly sublime and connected to the one. I prefer his kind of no-holds-barred, completely John-the-Baptist-like social outcast approach, vs. the smarmy Chri$$tian Rock that is really unlistenable, bad, bad art. The Rainbow Guy may be a true prophet of our times, blessed for his willingness to be persecuted and reviled. The kind of brutal honesty that many performance artists try for, but just can’t approach, because they are doing the art, not being it. The Rainbow Man may just be the real thing.

Or maybe he’s just a kook.

Okay–I need to get this down before I forget it. It’s one of those moments where something is synthesizing, and most likely, important only to me

What is shocking about women being violent? There are weak feminist “ancient archetype” arguments, biology-is-destiny arguments, women-are-nurturing-by-nature arguments. I think, maybe, all of the arguments are built on sand. That is, they are constructed on a construct.

The construct of which I speak is like all other constructs: retroactively defined to suit our current purposes. If, after centuries of violent aggression resulting in the current map of the world with its borders drawn in their current places, we look at the “whys” of it all, we build some conclusions to justify all the pain it took to get here.

It’s like Civil War history. For some reason, the one question that folks NEVER seem to ask is, what was so important about the idea of the Union that Lincoln had to put so many folks to death for it? Heresy, you see. Because, violence, wholesale (war) or retail (capital punishment), on the part of the state is taken as a given right. States have always maintained their legitimacy or gained new legitimacy through violence. Therefore, we dub it a “necessary evil.”

There is power in this little exception to the 10 commandments (what I like to call the Judeo-Christian “training wheels” that we needed before we had the opportunity to internalize on a larger scale of something deeper, like universal love). You see, to transgress one of these rules publicly with impunity means you have ALL the power. Just ask any person whose spouse or domestic partner does not press charges when the police respond to a domestic violence complaint. The one who threw the punch, and got away with it, has the power.

With centuries of power being defined this way, the line between male and female is just a sideline to the power struggle. Because the real action has to do with subject and object. To be able to use legitimized violence makes you the subject. My fellow female Americans, I hate to tell you this, but all the shattered glass ceilings in the world won’t change that. Success is just a by-product of the violence that gave rise to the nation that gave rise to the corporation. And one big bomb could taketh away. You see, you never really had the power to begin with. It’s all 3-card monte, and the ones with the armies get to shuffle the deck.

That being said, it IS fun to watch the boobs in charge stumble with their misuse of the “Big V.” But, so innured are we with the abuse of violence on this level that our popular culture is comfortable with making comedy about it. Not so when the “object” starts to think it’s a subject. Let me explain.

Andrea Yates and Timothy McVeigh had nothing in common, right? Wrong. They were people who acted, as the state does, in their deluded judgment, and committed heinous acts of violence. They are absolutely reviled for it, and there is no reason why we should not be horrified (condemnation, I would argue however, should be a matter for a higher authority, the one on the Hebrew National commercials, but that’s another discussion). But, why does the death of 6 kids and 100 in a single bombing seem to viscerally affect us so, when we are killing thousands of our own (I consider 18-year olds kids), and tens of thousands of Iraqis (I think they have kids), not to mention “the coalition of the willing,” then creatively reationalize it or worse still, abstract it into sound bites and slogans, until it has no meaning on a human level?

It’s because the chaos of the object (read: the non-state entity without the right to the Big V) is trying to be the subject (read: the all-powerful state). They are refusing the back of the bus. They are being uppity.

I would contend that, therefore, the violence that so horrifies us is just window dressing to disguise our anxiety about the possible chaos that could break out if the Big V were in the purview of everyone. Surely, the abortion issue is about this and this alone. We cannot, on one hand, be bombing a country to smithereens while, on the other hand, be bemoaning the loss of the thousand “pre-born” babies. Again, the visceral reaction to the violent act is being exploited to mask the real issue: the natives could get restless, and refuse to let us colonize their brains any longer.

The logical outcome of this argument is this: Killing makes you fully human. That being the case, not a single state on this planet has escaped this dubious “pedigree” of violence that gave rise to it. No real change can happen until, as Howard Zinn believes, this idea of borders and nations comes under serious scrutiny. As long as we are living in this construct, there will be no room for another.

Dr. King, my apologies.

Okay, so, I used to be cool. I left 2 husbands without a care, became an alcoholic, slept around, performed in art spaces in the East Village, and lived in a women’s hotel writing comedy music. I became part of AA in NYC in the early 90s, when it was coming into “vogue” to be in recovery. I was the keyboard player in a band with a puppet. Guys wanted to date me, but were afraid to ask, because, well, I was so cool.

I’m not cool anymore. I live in an apartment in Virginia with my husband and son. I love being a Mommy. I struggle with bills, with a day job, with keeping the house clean (or not). I’m heavier now, pushing 50, and definitely not evoking coolness anywhere. Dust collects on the piano in our living room. My days as a keyboard player are definitely over, and, did I mention? I’m not cool anymore.

There has been a thread through all of this. Whether through the bottom of a bottle, or the working of the 12 steps, or “church-shopping,” I’ve always looked for something deeper in life. Call it religion, prayer, medidation, worship. I’ve had these things in my life, in different degrees, all of my life. I didn’t “find God” when I got sober. I just got a little out of his way.

The shedding of coolness removes a distraction for me. I no longer have to live up to expectations that are artificial, but rather, live up to responsibilities that are all too real. There is a paradox here that I may be unable to express well. But, the notion of having been a “free spirit” held with it the promise of freedom; freedom of thought, action, choice, whatever. I was untethered, and untethered means free.

But I’ve come to a point of needing roots, a stake in the ground, a place that is real that I can call my life. And that place seems to comprise what has become a firm belief in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I typed that. It’s hard for me to be that uncool.

I’ve been doing a lot of reading, thinking, talking, reflecting. The teacher appears when the student is ready. I began to get to know a couple of folks who called themselves Christian, but rode around with bumper stickers for gay rights and against capital punishment. I was intrigued. For all the comfort it would have given me to go back to the Catholic church, it would have been with fingers crossed behind my back. I don’t believe in the virgin birth (why?), in a literal hell. I have big issues with the celibacy rule for priests, with women being denied the priesthood, with gays being denied full fellowship in the church (unless they don’t actually “live” as gay people, whatever that means).

Of course, I had the obstacle of the resurrection, which I managed to get through by reading, talking, reflecting, and accepting intellectually the real possibility of it. So, what was the obstacle?

Well, I don’t want to be thought of the way that most non-Christian folks think of Christians (myself included) these days. The awful people in charge of our country, and the culture wars, have created a image for Christianity that rivals the Tylenol scare for its wholesale damage to brand equity. They’ve made it a religion of hate. I must feel the way some Muslims feel — that a vocal few have hijacked the trappings of their faith and perverted it for violent and selfish purposes. That is why part of me is embarassed that, today, I began to consider myself a Christian.

But, it’s not about me being cool anymore. I remember the ultimate cool moment in my life, pathetic as it was. I finally had everything I WANTED: I was only 103 pounds, had great hair, great clothes, my own apartment on Washington Square Park, no husband left to tie me down. I was in “what-passed-for-my-boyfriend”’s apartment on the Upper East Side. It was mid-day. The shades were closed. We were listening to Al Green CDs and sharing a bottle of Remy Martin naked in bed. I looked up at the ceiling as I toasted myself, and thought, “Finally, I have everything I want!” As if simultaneously, I thought, “Oh, God! I have everything I want, and it’s awful.”

A life driven by my own cravings surely had moments of euphoria. There is no doubt about it. But, in that moment, I had the equivalent of an out-of-body experience where I was able to see just how empty it was. I felt utter, pure, earned and justified shame.

That’s what some would call a bottom, but it still took a few months for me to get to the rooms of AA after that moment. Getting sober necessarily changed my relationships. Friends I had before dropped away, made fun of me. Aside from my sister, other family members thought it was ridiculous. I literally lost everything, and began to rebuild my life from the ground up: moved in with my sister, began writing music again, performing, and examining my next steps independently of familial expectations. Surely, through my behaviors, they were largely dashed.

But, the choice I made did not destroy everything by a long stretch. It was the beginning of all that I have now. The beginning of clarity, of responsibility, of the self-esteem that comes with trying to be and do better, with the need to be honest, and the pain when I’m not. With the gift of feeling all the slings, arrows, and insults that are inevitable in a life built on faith, on what is actually here, rather than magical thinking and the pressure of looking cool.

Oh, God! It happened. I’m a dork, but, I think I’m happy.

That’s cool.