Anchorhold

Welcome to a space for the spirituality of gay and bisexual men. We have within ourselves the resources for our healing, liberation, and growth. Connecting with each other, we encounter the grace to lay hold of a richer, juicier life. Losing ourselves in deep play, we rediscover the bigger, freer, more joyous selves we're capable of becoming. Here I share my interest in personal and communal ritual, making art that expresses my inner life, and an intentional practice of erotic spirituality.

Tuesday, February 21, 2023

Fat Tuesday and the Forty-Day Hangover

Hey, it's nearly Lent. The next season of the Church Year carries associations so toxic for me that just about every February, I come close to folding my cards and chucking the spiritual tradition of my upbringing--deeply flawed as it is, and despite the riches it still contains that I don't want to forgo (as I did for the fifteen years I wanted absolutely nothing to do with Christianity). It doesn't help that the current leadership of my congregation, bless it, gives a disproportionate share of floor time to young, straight, white, well-intentioned, cis-gendered guys who've found too many answers they're too ready to impart to the rest of us.

So if my disaffection resonates, here's a very partial list of alternatives to the usual breast-beating and encouragements of self-loathing.

You could consider giving up church for Lent.

You could read one Mary Oliver poem every day for Lent.

You could read Terence McNally's play Corpus Christi for Lent.

You could watch the first season of Six Feet Under for Lent.

You could watch Babette's Feast for Lent.

You could read Angels in America for Lent, or watch the HBO adaptation with Meryl Streep playing a rabbi, a Mormon mother, and the ghost of Ethel Rosenberg.

You could listen to a Leonard Cohen song every day for Lent.

You could consider (with Peter Rollins) Atheism for Lent.

For Lent, you could get up every morning and tell yourself out loud, "My sins didn't kill Jesus."

For Lent, you could get up every morning and tell yourself out loud, "Bigotry, self-righteousness, and the thirst for power killed Jesus."

You could listen to Jessye Norman singing a spiritual every day for Lent.

You could rip a page out of the Book of Leviticus every day for Lent. (And burn it if you need to.)

You could exchange names with a homeless person every day for Lent.

You could try to give up single-use plastics for Lent. (Good luck with that one. Maybe just try to reduce the harm.)

You could think of someone who's suffering and just hold them in mind for ten breaths every day for Lent.

You could thank God for your queer self every day for Lent.

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Sacred Intimacy: Companionship in Spiritual and Erotic Healing

Different practitioners use the term "Sacred Intimacy" to mean different things. It's important to remember that Sacred Intimacy work is different from therapy, and can't replace therapy. I'm not a therapist. I don't claim to offer services in any officially regulated modality. (Some Sacred Intimates are also practicing therapists, but they're clear with themselves and with clients which modality they're working in.) Put simply, I offer heart-centered companionship and deep listening.

For me, first and foremost, Sacred Intimacy means that what passes between us is holy. It's filled and enlivened with the presence of the Divine. I will do my best to be as present to you, as available to you for your good, as I'm capable of being. My intention is to be open to working in whatever modality we agree will be helpful to you. A session begins with a short conversation in which you explain to me where you're at, and what you hope to take away from our time together.

The emphasis is on healing, growth, and the expansion of your life. You may, for example, have issues of erotic shame that you want to work on, or grief, or body image, or intimacy. I may ask for clarifications and make suggestions. Together we agree on the starting point for the experiential work that will follow.

A session might unfold through breathwork, guided meditation, bodywork, intentionally focused erotic interaction, creative movement, the shared creation of ritual, artistic practice, psychodynamic role playing, or some combination.

I can't hope to be of service to you unless I feel competent in the role I assume, and unless I have the sense that what we do has potential to help you move forward with your declared intention. So our initial conversation may involve some give and take around what's possible and what's useful.

It's essential for your integrity and mine that we maintain full confidentiality and respect one another's boundaries. We enter into sacred space together at the beginning of a session. We leave sacred space at the end, and what's happened within the safe container of the session remains distinct from any interactions we might have before or after the session. What happens in the session stays in the session.

Every Sacred Intimate has his own understanding of the nature of his work. Just below you'll find a series of links to the web pages of a number of Sacred Intimates working in various cities and areas.

Finding Yourself, Claiming Yourself

I invite you to celebrate who you are, and who you want to become.

Think of the times your life as a gay or bisexual man has flowed without effort.

Think of the times you’ve struggled to lay hold of your life more fully.

Maybe those times feel like opposites. But they’re parts of a single cycle: sowing and harvest, labor and rest, preparation and enjoyment. We can’t work toward a fuller life unless we already feel some trust that life will rise up to meet us. We can’t sink deeper into our present joy and satisfaction in life without being reminded that it took a long journey to get here.

Please join me in considering a place where the two halves of this cycle come together: in the safe, empowering container of ritual space and ritual time.

What's an Anchorhold?

For centuries in Europe, a handful of men and women took a vow to devote themselves to the cultivation of their inner lives and to make themselves radically available to their communities for spiritual counsel. Committing themselves to remaining in a single dwelling for the rest of their lives, they were known as anchorites; the houses in which they lived were their anchorholds. Those who needed what the official channels of the religious establishment couldn’t provide came to the anchorhold for conversation and support.

Neither priests nor monks, the spiritual practice of anchorites and their interaction with those who came to them fell outside formal control of the Church. As a result, religious authorities often viewed them with suspicion. One of the best known of these dropouts from ordinary social and religious norms was Julian of Norwich, a woman who had a near-death experience in 1373 and spent the rest of her life thinking about what it meant, for herself and for the world at large. The book she wrote about her revelation, the first in English that we know for sure was written in by a woman, is an astonishingly daring and original rethinking of Christian theology: a vision of a God in whom there is no wrath, who is both Father and Mother of Creation, and who will somehow, by a miracle beyond our ability to grasp, eventually effect the salvation of every living being.

Men and women of spirit who fell between the cracks, anchorites practiced what in its own way was a profoundly queer inner life, following the instincts of their own experience, flying under the radar of the powers that claimed to control access to the Divine.

Anchorhold

Tuesday, February 21, 2023

Fat Tuesday and the Forty-Day Hangover

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