(For any who are interested, here is a very moving account of Gene Robinson’s unfolding life of self discovery and self acceptance as a gay Christian father, husband, priest and bishop. The article from GQ also includes the reactions of his former wife and two daughters to his coming out as a gay man and their warm acceptance and appreciation for his new partner.
The day they divorced, Gene and Boo knelt before the altar, asked for each other’s forgiveness, and pledged themselves to the joint raising of their children. Then they re-exchanged their rings, as symbols of the vows to which they no longer held each other. He still has hers, and she his.
With Mark and Gene, and with my mother and her second husband, I grew up with this loving feeling of having all four of my parents there at every parent-teacher conference and every horse show and every play.”)
Even before he could speak, he knew it and felt it: knew he would never be separated from it; felt it in the form of light and heat. actually, light and heat belittled what he felt. They were just words, and words were small, man’s way of knowing; words could point and suggest, but never apprehend. When he was old enough to search for better ways to convey what he felt when the love of God came upon him, he would tell his mother and father and minister and anyone else in Nicholasville, Kentucky, that it was like butter, liquid-warm, luminous, drizzled atop his head and descending over and through him in a seamless golden coat to his feet.
As a child, he prayed the way he breathed, and for the same reason. His Sunday-school attendance record was unblemished, from toddlerhood to the time he left for college. One Sunday morning, he woke feeling that his insides were being dry-baked. “Nothing’s wrong,” he told his mother when she saw the color of his face. “Let’s go to church!” So off they went, where he passed his measles on to every student in his Sunday-school class. Weighed against the prospect of not getting his Sunday fill of Jesus, the reprobation that came from being a Patient Zero was a small price to pay.
The Love of God! If you paid the right kind of attention—and there wasn’t anyone around him during his childhood who didn’t—you could see it everywhere you looked, in every person, in every little thing. The women who cooed over him the first time he was brought to church as a newborn—there it was!The distinct reddish inking, a grain of beauty, on his infant nape, marking him as Christ’s own forever, even before he’d been baptized—there!The tender and ravishing attention—the way, a generation later, on the day that boy brought his own progeny to that church, those women were able to recall that birthmark to his children. There!
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