First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis

Rev. Kendyl Gibbons
First Unitarian Society of Minneapolis
October 7, 2001

Living Outside the Lines

Oh, my dears; there is only one sermon. I preach it every Sunday, dressing it up in different words, with more or less eloquence, telling stories, trying to illustrate, looking for ways to break through the blankness of our inertia, our comfort, our good intentions, our fear. It is the same sermon - there is only one. Shall I talk about the way that the world has fallen apart, as we begin to assess, reflect, try to pick up the pieces, swing through the unpredictable roller coaster of grieving? Or should I talk about the issues of transgender people, the pain of their struggle for identity and integrity, the fear that they sometimes feel, the need they have for understanding, for acceptance, for sheer human dignity? It is the same sermon, I promise you. Look how fragile we are; look what we do to one another. Please do not break the world any more; it is broken enough. Please. Please do what you can to mend things, to help each other. What separates us is so trivial compared to what we have in common - if only our grief. If only for that, for the sake of our sorrow, for the sobbing mothers and the blank-eyed wives and the stricken husbands and the uncomprehending children. Is not our flesh torn enough? We share it, all of us, this agony of loss; why, then, do we make things harder for each other? Please, do not break the world any more; please do not hurt each other. Please try to understand, please help to put the pieces together again. Please.

There is a story which alas, is not true; but it is one of those archetypal tales of such human decency that something in me wishes it were true, and almost feels ought to be true. It is a story from another dark time, the years of the ascendancy of Hitler's Third Reich and Nazi Germany's conquest of Europe. It is told that after the rather tiny, defenseless nation of Denmark fell to the Germans, the conquerors began their policies of oppression and intimidation designed to rid their territories of the Jews. The first step was to identify them, to drive a visible wedge between the Jewish citizens of Denmark and their neighbors, by requiring that they wear the identifying sign, the yellow star of David armband on their clothing, to mark them as separate, and different. In itself, this does not seem to matter so very much; what is it, after all, to wear a piece cloth? But as other nations had discovered, this process of identification and separation was only the first step down an irrecoverable path, at the end of which lay unimagined horror. The story goes that King Christian the 10^th led a majority of loyal Danes, including the entire population of Copenhagen, in all wearing armbands with the yellow star, thus proclaiming their solidarity with Danish Jews, and their unwillingness to let their fellow citizens be isolated and set apart for abuse. And the story says that in the face of this compassionate intransigence, the German commanders rescinded the order for the identification of the Jews, and so the Jews of Denmark were saved.

The truth, as is usually the case, is less romantic, and more complex. It is true that most of the 7,500 Jews of Denmark were saved, through the efforts of many ordinary citizens, who helped them at the crucial moment to flee to neutral Sweden. It is true that King Christian the 10^th publicly expressed support for the Danish Jews, and opposed the Nazi deportation policies, but it does not appear that he ever actually wore the star of David, nor that the armband requirement was ever actually imposed during the occupation of Denmark. Too bad. It is one of those legends so full of moral resonance that it will probably live in the twilight of apocryphal history for a long time.

Do you think that fifty years ago was a long time? Do you think that our world today is beyond the life and death power of such symbols? Let me tell you a couple of sad things. Since September 11, even amidst all the very encouraging calls by leaders in every sphere, from clergy to presidents, for us not to succumb to cultural prejudice and paranoia, all around this country women wearing the hijaab, the traditional head covering that marks them as practicing Muslims, have been subjected to harassment. They have been cursed and ridiculed in public; they have been refused service in stores and restaurants. They have been pushed in front of moving cars on busy streets; most alarming of all, there have been reports of a kind of game on one college campus by cruelly reactionary young people trying unobtrusively to set the tip of the scarf that hangs down in back aflame with a match or lighter. What is it, after all, to wear a piece of cloth? I tell you, there is only one sermon -- the world is broken enough, our flesh is torn enough, we are grieving enough; please do not break it any more; please let us not hurt each other. Please.

Perhaps you suppose that those of us sitting here, safe within the liberal walls of the First Unitarian Society, are beyond all that -- that we can recognize cloth for nothing more than what it is, that such symbols and such cultural prejudices have no power here, over us. I would like to think that you are right, if this is what you suppose, but I wonder -- and let me assure you that I wonder about myself as much as anyone. I wonder what we would do if a visitor came to gather with us in this assembly, who had a beard, and wore a skirt? I wonder, if someone came to me, and sat in my office and said, "I was born with the body of a woman, and that is wrong for me -- wrong for who and how I love, wrong for the work I want to do and the way I want to be in the world, wrong for who I most fundamentally am. I have begun the process of taking hormones; when the time comes, I will have surgery. I am changing my body and my identity to more accurately reflect my sense of my own being. This is a tremendously scary journey, and sometimes I feel very alone. I will be leaving behind a huge part of my old identity. I need -- more than you can imagine -- I need a community that can know me and accept me and let me make this change, and be with me while it happens. Is this a place where I could find that community?" -- I wonder what you would want me to say. And I wonder if you would back me up if I said Yes.

I wonder how permeable, or how rigid, our boundaries are; how committed we are to the binary gender divisions that still run through our culture, in spite of all the progress we have made, in my lifetime and in yours. And progress has been made; it has. I know with confidence that if I said there was a wedding scheduled in this assembly hall next weekend, for two men, that no one in this congregation would turn a hair today -- and that cannot have always been true. I know that gay and lesbian couples can be listed in our congregational directory, and sign up for circle suppers, and dance together at our winter ball, and teach Sunday School to our children, without a second thought. And I believe with all my heart that communities like that, communities like this one, are the hope that sustains the poor, broken world.

But I also know that the questions are deeper and more complicated than two nice, ordinary women, or two nice, ordinary men, having a nice, ordinary loving commitment to one another. Not that it didn't take work and sacrifice and risk for us to figure that out; it did -- but we got it. We got it, and we expanded the horizons of our community, and we got stronger and wiser and more loving and more free by that acceptance. And now this congregation stands, not alone by any means, but part of a significant, healing beacon of justice and welcome, and a witness against the cruelty, oppression and abuse that so many people have experienced and do experience, just for loving who they love. But that is not the end of the matter. The community with which we are asked to stand today, on this National Solidarity Sunday, includes not only our gay and lesbian friends, neighbors, co-workers, family members, and fellow members of this society; it also includes bi-sexual and transgender people.

It is still a stretch for me, to wrap my mind around the realization of how ancient and how universal are the evidences of the human fluidity of gender identification. The records are there, of people in every position, from popes and generals to priestesses and courtesans, who were not born into the gender identity that history attributes to them. In all cultures in all ages, people have altered their bodies, with everything from crude surgeries to make up and costume in order to blur the lines that supposedly separate male from female. Or, to think of it the other way, it is difficult to acknowledge how recent, and how parochial, is the rigidity with which western European culture insists upon the bifurcation of the sexes. Even nature itself is not so precise; there are infants born with ambiguous sexual characteristics, or ambiguous absences of such indicators. In our culture, with its surgical prowess, such births are almost invariably treated as medical emergencies, with the characteristics of one gender type or the other surgically inscribed so that the cultural conditioning can proceed -- though not invariably successfully. In some more primitive societies, such infants may have been killed; in others, they were regarded as holy, and gifted, individuals.

There is ample evidence that many of the tribal cultures of people indigenous to this continent before the European migrations provided for various kinds of transgender lifestyles; sometimes called 'two-spirit' people, men might choose to dress and work as women, and to serve in the councils and spiritual practices of women. Or females might declare their intention not to marry, and be accepted into the hunting companies of men. Often, these gender-crossing or blending people were regarded as ritually powerful, as particularly religious or spiritual figures. In no way hidden or deceptive, these practices particularly enraged the Catholic conquistadors and missionaries who observed them, contributing to the ferocity and deadliness with which the early-arriving Europeans sought to eradicate native cultures. And the surviving statuary of many ancient religious traditions, from Eastern Indian as well as African and Native American heritages, clearly shows gods and spirit powers portrayed with various kinds of intentional gender combinations. There is even some suggestion that the figure of Cupid was once envisioned as representing both sexes; Cupid was said to be the child of Hermes and Aphrodite, and from their blending in his person derives the modern word for gender ambiguity, hermaphrodite.

"We, the member congregations of the Unitarian Universalist Association, covenant to affirm and promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person." How often have we heard it? How often have we said it? It is a cliché, it is trite among us; I am tired of hearing it. And yet it is a struggle not yet won, a mountain perhaps never entirely climbed. The legend of King Christian and the compassionate citizens of Denmark haunts me; a thing I wish had happened; an act I wish that I had been part of. Yet the opportunities are not out of reach today. Let me tell you another story, from another part of the globe. Only a few days after the outrages of September 11, seven young women were on their way to school in Melbourne, Australia. They were high school girls, going to King Khalid Islamic Parochial School; they were Muslim teenagers, and they were dressed piously, in the hijaab. The driver of the tram they needed to take, distressed by the news from America, refused to let them on what he called 'his' tram. Frightened by his resentment, they decided to walk to school. On the same tram were a group of students on their way to Xavier, a Roman Catholic school, and every one of those young people got off the tram as well, made a joint phone call of complaint to the tram company headquarters, and walked with the King Khalid students to see them safely into class, after which they arrived at their own school nearly an hour late. It is heartening to report that the rector of Xavier, upon hearing the reason for their tardiness, not only commended them himself, but telephoned the Archbishop of Melbourne, who came immediately to congratulate and bless them for their demonstration of the true meaning of Christianity.

My friends, there is only one sermon that matters, and we either preach it with our lives, or we do not preach it at all. We can preach it by standing in solidarity with the Jews, or with our Muslim sisters, or with those who live in fear of violence, brutality and isolation because they know that there are choices about how we make our gender identities; and more choices than just two. What is it, after all, to wear a piece of cloth? It can be the difference between life and death, if that cloth is a yellow star, or the hijaab, or what society says is the wrong style of clothing for your body. Yet if we mean it about the inherent worth and dignity of every person -- if we really mean it -- then we know that the cloth doesn't change anything, and that we are called, by the only sermon there is, to stand with our brothers and sisters; to mend the world, to heal the flesh, to not let one another be hurt any more.

Once again this year, this faith community, in partnership with others across the country, offers you a rainbow ribbon to wear as a sign of support and acceptance and welcome to our gay, lesbian, bi-sexual AND transgender friends, an assurance that they -- that you, perhaps -- are not alone, but valued members of our society. If you elect to wear this ribbon, for a day or a week, it may generate some conversation, and that is a good thing. Bear witness, as you are called upon; preach with your own lips and your own life the only sermon there is, until it is heard in every household, in every workplace, in every city and state across the land, and in every land around the globe.

For myself this year, there is a somewhat greater challenge. A women's group in the Washington, D.C. area has proposed tomorrow, October 8, as 'Scarves in Solidarity' day, inviting women of all faiths or no faith, of all ethnic heritages, to wear head coverings as a gesture to show our Muslim neighbors and friends that they are not alone, that we do not want them to be afraid, that we affirm their dignity and their right to celebrate their faith with the symbols of their choosing. Now, it is not easy for this middle aged feminist to set aside my long standing prejudice against the requirement that women cover themselves in one particular way or another; such edicts are the essence of an oppression I have dedicated my life to opposing. But I know that no woman is truly free unless all women may truly choose; my bare gray head is no symbol of liberation if my sisters are at risk of finding their scarves in flames around them at any moment. So I am going to try it; for the rest of this day and tomorrow, I intend to wear this scarf, to preach my sermon with my life, to do what I can, with this small symbol, to stop the hurt and mend the world. I suspect it will not be easy, but that is part of the point. Neither did I choose this particular scarf arbitrarily; it was a gift from my mother, a souvenir that she purchased when she visited the shrine of the goddess at Delphi in Greece. It is redolent of the ancient power and wisdom of women; I do not think it will compromise my independence all that much!

Scarves in Solidarity is by necessity a gesture of and for women; no doubt, as the weeks and months go by, there will be other, more general opportunities to witness to our kinship across the divisions of faith and culture. The ribbon, which you will presently be offered, is such an opportunity to stand in solidarity today, or this week, or for as long as you like, with those whose gender identities and sexual preferences are different from the average. And there is always the choice of sharing with those whose needs are so much greater and whose resources are so much less than many of ours. Here is someone to tell us more about those needs, and to introduce our second collection in support of the work of Clare House.

first writing since

1. there have been no words.

i have not written one word.

no poetry in the ashes south of canal street.

no prose in the refrigerated trucks driving debris and DNA.

not one word.

today is a week, and seven is of heavens, gods, science.

evident out my kitchen window is an abstract reality.

sky where once was steel.

smoke where once was flesh.

fire in the city air and i feared for my sister's life in a way never

before. and then, and now, i fear for the rest of us.

first, please god, let it be a mistake, the pilot's heart failed, the

plane's engine died.

then please god, let it be a nightmare, wake me now.

please god, after the second plane, please, don't let it be anyone

who looks like my brothers.

i do not know how bad a life has to break in order to kill.

i have never been so hungry that i willed hunger

i have never been so angry as to want to control a gun over a pen.

not really.

even as a woman, as a palestinian, as a broken human being.

never this broken.

more than ever, i believe there is no difference.

the most privileged nation, most americans do not know the difference

between indians, afghanis, syrians, muslims, sikhs, hindus.

more than ever, there is no difference.

2. thank you korea for kimchi and bibim bob, and corn tea and the

genteel smiles of the wait staff at wonjo the smiles never revealing

the heat of the food or how tired they must be working long midtown

shifts. thank you korea, for the belly craving that brought me into

the city late the night before and diverted my daily train ride into

the world trade center.

there are plenty of thank yous in ny right now. thank you for my

lazy procrastinating late ass. thank you to the germs that had me

call in sick. thank you, my attitude, you had me fired the week

before. thank you for the train that never came, the rude nyer who

stole my cab going downtown. thank you for the sense my mama gave me

to run. thank you for my legs, my eyes, my life.

3. the dead are called lost and their families hold up shaky

printouts in front of us through screens smoked up.

we are looking for iris, mother of three. please call with any

information. we are searching for priti, last seen on the 103rd

floor. she was talking to her husband on the phone and the line

went. please help us find george, also known as adel. his family is

waiting for him with his favorite meal. i am looking for my son, who

was delivering coffee. i am looking for my sister girl, she started

her job on monday.

i am looking for peace. i am looking for mercy. i am looking for

evidence of compassion. any evidence of life. i am looking for

life.

4. ricardo on the radio said in his accent thick as yuca, "i will

feel so much better when the first bombs drop over there. and my

friends feel the same way. "

on my block, a woman was crying in a car parked and stranded in hurt.

i offered comfort, extended a hand she did not see before she said,

"we"re gonna burn them so bad, i swear, so bad. "my hand went to my

head and my head went to the numbers within it of the dead iraqi

children, the dead in nicaragua. the dead in rwanda who had to vie

with fake sport wrestling for america's attention.

yet when people sent emails saying, this was bound to happen, lets

not forget u. s. transgressions, for half a second i felt resentful.

hold up with that, cause i live here, these are my friends and fam,

and it could have been me in those buildings, and we're not bad

people, do not support america's bullying. can i just have a half

second to feel bad?

if i can find through this exhaust people who were left behind to

mourn and to resist mass murder, i might be alright.

thank you to the woman who saw me brinking my cool and blinking back

tears. she opened her arms before she asked "do you want a hug?"a

big white woman, and her embrace was the kind only people with the

warmth of flesh can offer. i wasn't about to say no to any comfort.

"my brother's in the navy," i said. "and we"re arabs". "wow, you

got double trouble. " word.

5. one more person ask me if i knew the hijackers.

one more motherfucker ask me what navy my brother is in.

one more person assume no arabs or muslims were killed.

one more person assume they know me, or that i represent a people.

or that a people represent an evil. or that evil is as simple as a

flag and words on a page.

we did not vilify all white men when mcveigh bombed oklahoma.

america did not give out his family's addresses or where he went to

church. or blame the bible or pat robertson.

and when the networks air footage of palestinians dancing in the

street, there is no apology that hungry children are bribed with

sweets that turn their teeth brown. that correspondents edit images.

that archives are there to facilitate lazy and inaccurate

journalism.

and when we talk about holy books and hooded men and death, why do we

never mention the kkk?

if there are any people on earth who understand how new york is

feeling right now, they are in the west bank and the gaza strip.

6. today it is ten days. last night bush waged war on a man once

openly funded by the

cia. i do not know who is responsible. read too many books, know

too many people to believe what i am told. i don't give a fuck about

bin laden. his vision of the world does not include me or those i

love. and petitions have been going around for years trying to get

the u. s. sponsored taliban out of power. shit is complicated, and i

don't know what to think.

but i know for sure who will pay.

in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will

have to bury children, and support themselves through grief. "either

you are with us, or with the terrorists" - meaning keep your people

under control and your resistance censored. meaning we got the loot

and the nukes.

in america, it will be those amongst us who refuse blanket attacks on

the shivering. those of us who work toward social justice, in

support of civil liberties, in opposition to hateful foreign

policies.

i have never felt less american and more new yorker, particularly

brooklyn, than these past days. the stars and stripes on all these

cars and apartment windows represent the dead as citizens first, not

family members, not lovers.

i feel like my skin is real thin, and that my eyes are only going to

get darker. the future holds little light.

my baby brother is a man now, and on alert, and praying five times a

day that the orders he will take in a few days time are righteous and

will not weigh his soul down from the afterlife he deserves.

both my brothers - my heart stops when i try to pray - not a beat to

disturb my fear. one a rock god, the other a sergeant, and both

palestinian, practicing muslim, gentle men. both born in brooklyn

and their faces are of the archetypal arab man, all eyelashes and

nose and beautiful color and stubborn hair.

what will their lives be like now?

over there is over here.

7. all day, across the river, the smell of burning rubber and limbs

floats through. the sirens have stopped now. the advertisers are

back on the air. the rescue workers are traumatized. the skyline is

brought back to human size. no longer taunting the gods with its

height.

i have not cried at all while writing this. i cried when i saw those

buildings collapse on themselves like a broken heart. i have never

owned pain that needs to spread like that. and i cry daily that my

brothers return to our mother safe and whole.

there is no poetry in this. there are causes and effects. there are

symbols and ideologies. mad conspiracy here, and information we will

never know. there is death here, and there are promises of more.

there is life here. anyone reading this is breathing, maybe hurting,

but breathing for sure. and if there is any light to come, it will

shine from the eyes of those who look for peace and justice after the

rubble and rhetoric are cleared and the phoenix has risen.

affirm life.

affirm life.

we got to carry each other now.

you are either with life, or against it.

affirm life.