When I heard that the I Heart Sapph Fiction website was featuring books that spoke to the topic of addiction and that my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage (Thorned Heart Press; 2022) was being published, I decided to post an excerpt. This is from the ending of the novel which tells the story of Art, short for Artemis, who was a drug dealer in high school, got caught, went to reform school, and then a few years later deals again, is caught, and sentenced to prison. After a few years, she gets released and eventually marries the love of her life, Linda, and goes on to lead her lesbian life. I have always believed in second chances, and this is Art’s story.
I am reading the excerpt from Loving Artemis below on Youtube and have pasted the words on my blog below.
***
In the end, it was Linda who saved her. She started coming to visit when Art was in the County Jail. Art still remembered their first visit with the glass window between them when Linda was fighting back tears. Linda said that she left Tommy after he told her he and Cal set Art up the first time she had been busted. “They had the whole thing planned,” Linda had said. “Tommy polished off two six packs the night that he told me this, and he acted like he thought it was funny. Then he demanded to know if you and I were ever lovers. I told him we were, and that I was still in love with you. He said he suspected as much because things were never right between us. I packed up our things and took Clio with me back to my mother’s house that night.” Then Linda held her hand up against the dirty glass window between them and said she was sorry for leaving her, that she had been young and stupid and just doing what she thought she should be doing. Linda named her daughter Clio after one of the Muses. She told Art she chose the name from Greek mythology so that she would think of Art whenever she said her daughter’s name. After Linda came to visit, Art signed up for auto mechanic classes in the prison. Linda came every week, and when Art pressed her hand against the glass opposite Linda’s, she remembered being a teenager and wishing on the evening star to marry Linda and spend her life with her.
***
This is Janet Mason reading from my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage published by Thorned Heart Press.
For more information on my most recent novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love, and marriage, click here.
To read another excerpt from Loving Artemis, click here.
I wanted to tell you about an interesting reading that has been rescheduled for Thursday, April 18th at The Big Blue Marble Bookstore in the Northwest section of Philadelphia. I’m looking forward to the reading and hope to meet some of you!
Suzette Mullen had been raised to play it safe—and she hated causing others pain. With college and law degrees, a kind and successful husband, two thriving adult sons, and an ocean-view vacation home, she lived a life many people would envy. But beneath the happy facade was a woman who watched her friends walk boldly through their lives and wondered what was holding her back from doing the same.
Digging into her past, Suzette uncovered a deeply buried truth: she’d been in love with her best friend—a woman—for nearly two decades—and still was.
Leaning into these “unspeakable” feelings would put Suzette’s identity, relationships, and life of privilege at risk—but taking this leap might be her only chance to feel fully alive. As Suzette opened herself up to new possibilities, an unexpected visit to a new city helped her discover who she was meant to be.
Introspective, bittersweet, and empowering, The Only Way Through Is Out (University of Wisconsin Press, 2024) is both a coming-out and coming-of-age story, as well as a call to action for every human who is longing to live authentically but is afraid of the cost.
When asked who she wrote The Only Way Through Is Out for, Suzette replied:” I wrote my story for every human who is longing to live out loud—including LGBTQ+ folx crushed by oppressive religious institutions; women at midlife who have deferred their own dreams; empty nesters who have stayed in unhappy marriages “for the kids”—every person who longs to live more authentically but is afraid of the cost.”
“I could not put this book down. Mullen shows us the search for one’s authentic self has no expiration date and is worth whatever it takes. This book is a glorious tale of tenacious courage that anyone searching for their own path in life will love.”
—Jennifer Louden, national bestselling author of Why Bother? Discover the Desire for What’s Next
“Candid, inspirational … An emotive memoir that issues a stirring call to women to choose self-actualization.”
Lately, I’ve been bringing together the past and the present. Since I was a poet before I was a prose writer (the poems got longer, contained dialogue and demanded prose), I returned to my book When I Was Straight published in 1995 by Insight To Riot Press.
The poem I’m posting today is titled
Newborn rhythms
Seven years, almost eight,
our bodies pressing into
each other nearly every night.
The indentation of our lives;
our apartment, once large,
growing ever smaller, cramped
with what matters most: records,
cassette tapes, piles of books,
drums springing up like toad stools.
Seven years and when her mouth
wraps around me, she still sings
through my throat, and I
watching her, drum strapped to her
waist, it’s thick stemmed hollow
pressing between her thighs—
relinquish seven years
to the thunderclap, her gentle
slap on stretched skin, and
her fingers, dancing lightly
like mallets, her gentle
slap on stretched skin, and
her fingers, dancing lightly
like mallets, their newborn rhythms
raining down on my breasts.
‘I wrote the poem for my partner Barbara. To hear her accompany our late friend, the poet Toni Brown click here:
In honor of International Women’s Day, I thought I’d tell you about an interesting reading happening this week in Philadelphia.
Suzette Mullen had been raised to play it safe—and she hated causing others pain. With college and law degrees, a kind and successful husband, two thriving adult sons, and an ocean-view vacation home, she lived a life many people would envy. But beneath the happy facade was a woman who watched her friends walk boldly through their lives and wondered what was holding her back from doing the same.
Digging into her past, Suzette uncovered a deeply buried truth: she’d been in love with her best friend—a woman—for nearly two decades—and still was.
Leaning into these “unspeakable” feelings would put Suzette’s identity, relationships, and life of privilege at risk—but taking this leap might be her only chance to feel fully alive. As Suzette opened herself up to new possibilities, an unexpected visit to a new city helped her discover who she was meant to be.
Introspective, bittersweet, and empowering, The Only Way Through Is Out (University of Wisconsin Press, 2024) is both a coming-out and coming-of-age story, as well as a call to action for every human who is longing to live authentically but is afraid of the cost.
When asked who she wrote The Only Way Through Is Out for, Suzette replied:” I wrote my story for every human who is longing to live out loud—including LGBTQ+ folx crushed by oppressive religious institutions; women at midlife who have deferred their own dreams; empty nesters who have stayed in unhappy marriages “for the kids”—every person who longs to live more authentically but is afraid of the cost.”
“I could not put this book down. Mullen shows us the search for one’s authentic self has no expiration date and is worth whatever it takes. This book is a glorious tale of tenacious courage that anyone searching for their own path in life will love.”
—Jennifer Louden, national bestselling author of Why Bother? Discover the Desire for What’s Next
“Candid, inspirational … An emotive memoir that issues a stirring call to women to choose self-actualization.”
(note: this essay I wrote and am reading excerpts from was originally published in Sinister Wisdom 76: the Open Issue—Summer 09)
I recorded the excerpt from the essay for YouTube below and the text is below that.
11/4/1952 – 4/19/2008
Portrait of a friendship: in memoriam Toni P. Brown
A true friend is hard to lose. The loss is palpable — like some previously unknown core at the center of you is suddenly ripped out, howling and empty. This is how I felt when my good friend, Toni Brown, died on April 17th, 2008. She was 55 years old.
As her Philadelphia memorial service — standing room only at The Painted Bride Art Center — confirmed, Toni was many things to many people. She was a writer — of poetry and fiction, well known in the lesbian, the African American, and the larger literary communities; she was a writing teacher to college students; and she was a teacher and a mentor to the “at-risk” teenage girls that she worked with for the last ten years in her position as director of education, training, and outreach for Girls Inc.
Toni and I were close friends for nearly 20 years — we met several years before she moved to Philadelphia. At the time, she lived in Amherst Massachusetts and was a member of a Northampton lesbian writers group. We met through a mutual friend, who was in the Philadelphia feminist writers’ group with me, at the Outwrite Conference, an LGBT writing conference held, at that time, in Boston.
A year or so later, my Philadelphia writing group went to Northampton to give a reading. I stayed at Toni’s house in Amherst and took her large gentle German Shepherd, named Zen, for a walk. Zen led me into the garden at the Emily Dickinson house — where I made a reservation for the two writing groups, now one large group, at least for the duration of our stay.
I remember all of us sitting in the large, Victorian sitting room. The drapes were drawn and there was a hush surrounding the words of the tour guide who carefully left out any mention of Emily’s lesbian passions. We didn’t contradict her, but the room was bursting with our silence. Now, reflecting back on that afternoon, I see that there was something prophetic about it. We were surrounded by the ghostly presence of Emily Dickinson even as we laughed and posed for pictures. At the time that the pictures were taken, in the Dickinson garden, some 20 years ago, Toni had a short Afro. A year later when she moved to Philadelphia, she began locking her hair-always, it seemed, twisting the tiny nubs, until they grew down below her shoulders.
After Toni moved to Philadelphia — to be with the love of her life — the two of us became closer. We took Zen for long walks in the Wissahickon. “Zen, the dog,” as we called her, would chase sticks and squirrels, the occasional deer, as Toni and I walked and talked about our writing, our lives, our loves — walking and talking, talking about everything.
….
Toni came to Philadelphia to connect with her other identities. She was a Cave Canem poetry fellow in the years 1998, 1999, and 2,000. Cave Canem was begun in 1996 as a weeklong summer workshop/ retreat designed as a “safe haven” for black poets. Toni and I read together when she returned from one of these retreats — and in her poetic voice I heard a new level of sophistication, a continuing evolvement of her work that had the feeling of a gust of air under her wings. Consider her poem Dreadlocks (published in “Gathering Ground: A Reader Celebrating Cave Canem’s First Decade,” University of Michigan Press, 2006).
Dreadlocks
See these ropes of hair This is how It would have grown on my head In the bowels of a ship long ago
Understand We dark still living who crawled or were dragged hair matted flat into this New World would have been dreadful
Toni’s work was published in Sinister Wisdom, Prairie Schooner and the American Poetry Review, among other places. Her words are the quiet hush around the storm; a keen and often painful observation of detail, insight into injustice in its many forms, and at the same time a testament to love, to all that is good in the world. Her work is transcendent, just as Toni was in her life.
This is Janet Mason with commentary for Booktube and Spotify.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about lesbian literature and how it has informed and enriched my life. So I decided to post this early poem titled “The Dickinson House” from my poetry collection When I Was Straight published in 1995 by Insight To Riot Press.
The video of me reading the poem is below and under that is the text of the poem.
In honor of Valentines (Vagina) Day, I decided to repost this section from my novel Loving Artemis, an endearing tale of revolution, love and marriage (published in 2022 by Thorned Heart Press) that was published in the anthology Favorite Scenes From Favorite Authors, from I Heart Sapphic Books. I am particularly enthusiastic about this excerpt because it was inspired by the Lesbian poet Sappho. The excerpt is called “The trees blushing”
“Blurb:
Artemis found the love of her life when she met Linda, but their passionate relationship fizzles when Artemis lands herself on the other side of the law. Pulling the pieces of her life together, Artemis rekindles her relationship with Linda, and together they raise a daughter.
Meanwhile, Grace, running from her past, starts a life with Thalia. At a pride parade, Grace spots someone who reminds her of Artemis, who she was briefly involved with in her youth. Old feelings are rekindled. A lifetime of rejection, abandonment, and fleeing rears its head. Now she must come to terms with her past, put her relationship with Artemis to rest–or risk losing everything.
Artemis and Grace embark on a journey of revolution, love, and marriage and discover that love finds us when we least expect it.
Tell us about this scene:
Art (Artemis) and the love of her life Linda take a motorcycle ride to the nearby quarry where they make love for the first time.
Why did you choose this scene as your favorite?
This scene is heavily influenced by my reading of the ancient Greek poet Sappho (who lived on the Island of Lesvos).
* * *
Excerpt:
(from chapter ten)
They got back on the bike. Art turned the key in the ignition and pulled forward slowly. This was where Art had come with her old girlfriend Allison. They had been on foot then, that first time when they hid behind the trees and called out to each other with lines from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Art remembered the light shining through the trees, the way it did now as it danced on the ground around them. It was summer then. Now, red, orange, and brown leaves covered the path. Art felt the bump of tree roots under the tires. She brought the bike to a halt. She sat there for a minute, feeling the warmth of Linda behind her: the inside of Linda’s thighs cupping her ass; Linda’s arms hugging her waist. Art had been thinking that it didn’t get better than this. But now she knew it did — and it would. The difference between the time that she first came here with Allison and now, coming here with Linda, was that Art had been here before. She knew what she was doing. But she wanted it to be Linda’s idea. Linda got off the bike first. She walked to a log next to the path and sat down.
“I can see the lake from here,” said Linda. The back of her head was toward Art. Her windswept hair fell over her jacket collar.
“Come on over.” Art swung her leg over the bike. She put down the kickstand and stood there for a moment, holding the handlebars until she made sure that the bike was on steady ground. Then she walked the bike to the side of the path — beyond the log where Linda was sitting.
A narrow trail shot off from the path. It looked familiar. Art walked over to the log. “You can see the lake from here,” Art said. “I never realized that before.”
Linda scooted closer to Art. “You know the first time I walked into school with you, the girl sitting next to me in homeroom asked, ‘Who’s that cute guy with the motorcycle?’”
Art looked at her.
“Art is a guy’s name,” Linda explained.
“It’s short for Artemis,” answered Art. “My mother’s Greek. Artemis is a goddess from Greek mythology.”
“Yeah, the goddess of the hunt. She was always my favorite,” replied Linda, looking at Art perceptively. “I think it’s cool that you’re Greek.”
Art looked into Linda’s green eyes. The woods were shady. Afternoon light filtered through red and orange leaves. Linda’s eyes blazed into Art’s.
“You would make a cute guy,” Linda continued.
Art was drawn into the green vortex of Linda’s eyes. Art’s arms and legs trembled and tiny flames scorched her skin. She opened her mouth slightly to say something, but speech eluded her. Linda leaned in and kissed her. Art kissed her back. Linda’s lips felt as soft as moist rose petals and she smelled like musk oil. Art didn’t know if Linda wore perfume or if the scent came from her own body. A breeze rustled the leaves. Art’s heart trembled. This wasn’t the first time she kissed a girl, but this kiss felt different. A universe opened between them. Their tongues found new language. Soon, Art drew back. Linda looked radiant, as if the moon and stars were glowing inside of her. Still speechless, Art remembered that there was something she wanted to say.
Words formed on her lips: “But I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.”
“A smart girl,” whispered Linda. “I like that.”
This time, Art leaned in and kissed Linda. Their hands were everywhere. They came up for air, stood, and stumbled ahead on the path. They turned down a narrow path and found a large mossy patch that looked inviting. Art thought she had been here before with Allison, but she wasn’t sure if this was the exact place. Now, here with Linda, it was new. They were standing, kneeling, lying on the ground, rolling, touching. It was too cool a day to take off their clothes, but, as it turned out, it didn’t matter. There would be plenty of time for that later.
Art rolled on top of Linda. Excitement sparked in her groin and danced throughout her body. Her fingers tingled. Her tongue entwined with Linda’s. When they were done kissing, Art drew back and looked at Linda. Her hair was the deep red of autumn apples. Her skin was radiant. Shifting her weight, Art thrust her thigh against Linda’s crotch.
Linda groaned. “I’ve wanted to do this ever since I got on your bike with you,” she whispered.
Art had wanted to do this ever since she set eyes on Linda. She wanted the bike more than anything, but she wanted Linda just as much. Maybe Linda was the reason she bought the bike. Yiayia (her Greek grandmother)would have understood. The wind blew harder and the leaves rustled. A distant roaring filled Art’s ears. Linda moaned and writhed under Art, as Art rubbed her crotch in a circular motion on Linda’s thigh. Cries overflowed from her throat. A humming filled her ears. The moss felt like moist velvet under her fingertips. It was chilly, but Art was filled with warmth. She rolled to the side.
As she lay there, her arms circling Linda, she imagined that the red and orange leaves looking down at them were the trees blushing.
Here is the link to the free anthology on BookFunnel:
Since the Biblical season is on us and everybody is holy, I am re-posting a published excerpt of my novel, THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders published by Adelaide Books (New York/ Lisbon). (For more information about the book — click here.)
This piece was first published in aadunaand was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
The Mother
(sometime early in the first century)
In the beginning was the Mother.
In the womb, Tamar took mental notes. The heavens trembled — at least it felt like the heavens. Maybe it was just gas. The Mother shifted. At first, it was too dark to see. But Tamar could feel. At first it felt like chaos — like everything was unconnected. But then she felt something holding her. A curved wall. She was leaning into it. It was soft and warm. She felt her backbone curve behind her. She was half of a circle. Was she floating? There was a chord attached to her belly. She relaxed once she realized that she wouldn’t float away.
There were appendages coming out from her shoulders. She looked down below the chord. On the lower part of her body there was a small bump and on either side of that were two more appendages. There was liquid all around her. She felt warm and safe. She didn’t have to worry yet about breathing.
Whoosh. She flinched. Slosh. Gurgles whizzed by. There was an abbreviated bubbling. After it repeated three times, she identified the sound as a hiccup. After a few moments, there was silence. Then there was a contented hum coming from the distance. Tamar knew it was the Mother, and it calmed her.
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The darkness lifted. She saw a distant light glowing through the pink barrier. She looked down and noticed tiny extremities with red lines moving through them. They were attached to the ends of two appendages, on each side of her. She found that she could move them, as if she were trying to grasp something. She knew that these movements would come in handy later. The light went out. Darkness. Tamar felt herself in her body.
She was perfect.
When she woke again, she blinked for the first time. It felt good so she did it again. The pinkish yellow glow came back. She clenched and unclenched her fingers. She rubbed the short one across the tips of several of the others, and felt a roughness. She felt a nourishment rushing from the chord through her body. And it was good. She went back to sleep for a long while.
When she woke, she stretched and yawned. She saw a pinkish yellow glow. It was faint and came from the other side. She looked toward the light and saw the sack next to her. There was someone inside who looked like her. It even had a light glowing around its edges — just like she did — down its extremities and around its fingers and toes. She remembered now that she had entered one body of two. Her twin was beside her. There was a large, round dome attached to a small body like hers. The big round dome faced her. The eyes looked at her. One blinked and the other stayed open. The two corners of the lips went up. Somehow she knew that this was a smile. Her twin was welcoming her. She wanted to welcome him back, but something stopped her. She didn’t know who her twin was. Was her twin part of her? She wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of someone else. She definitely didn’t want to share her Mother.
There were appendages on both sides of his body. There were five fingers attached to the end of each appendage. The fingers clenched and unclenched. They seemed to wave at her. Tamar thought about waving back, but she didn’t. She wasn’t sure if the thing next to her in the translucent sack could see her. So she pretended that she didn’t see it. Then she looked down and saw something protruding. At first she thought that she was seeing a shadow. She moved her head slightly. The shadow was still there. She looked down at her own body and saw that she also had a third appendage on the lower part of her body. It was much shorter than the two other limbs. She clenched and unclenched her fingers. They were all there — five on each side, including the shorter ones at the ends. None of them had fallen off. She looked down again. Somehow she knew that this protrusion made her a boy and knowing this made her angry.
She knew her name was Tamar, but she had forgotten where it came from. She knew that Tamar was a girl’s name, and that she was a girl. She had a vague memory in her cells that she had come from a single egg, fertilized by a trail of light that had come just for her. And she remembered that another egg, fertilized with its own stream of light, was next to her and that the two eggs had merged. They crossed over and into each other, exchanging some vital information. Tamar’s egg knew that it was female. But it absorbed a sequence of information that told it that its genetic material that it would be male and female. The secret language of the cells said that each of the eggs would be XX and XY.
The thing next to her had a longer protrusion than her. She took comfort in that. Perhaps this meant that she was really a girl after all. But the thing next to her — gradually, she came to think of him as her twin — would most likely be lording his superiority over her forever.
On the sides of the protrusion were two lower appendages. She found that she could use her mind to stretch them. And once she stretched them, she realized that these were her legs and that her feet were attached to the ends of them. She kicked at the inside of the pink cushion that surrounded her.
“Ow,” said a woman’s voice. It was the voice of the Mother. Tamar knew that she had to get the Mother’s attention first. She kicked again.
This time she felt a gentle hand push down on the other side of the pink cushion. Her twin nudged the Mother back.
“What are you trying to tell me, my son?” asked Mother.
I’m a girl — a girl just like you Mother, Tamar tried to say. But speech eluded her. She had yet to utter her first cry. But she had to get Mothers attention —
I often consider the world to be a Buddhist test. I pride myself to be able to wish everybody well — regardless. This time I failed that test. Not only did I get pissed — I relished the feeling of righteous anger.
You see, I got ganged up on in Twitter. I was bullied as a child and really really don’t like being ganged up on. Then a crowd of boys pushed me down the steep hill that was behind the elementary school playground. This time it was retweets and likes on a homophobic Bible verse that was sent to me. It did not matter that this was a Christian gang. I still got pissed.
I read and reread the verse. It was from Romans and part of it reads: “…for even their women did change the natural use into that which is against nature: Likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust toward another.”
First of all, the “natural use of the woman” — really?!
Secondly, this verse tells us that there were LGBTQ people in Biblical times. Of course, we knew that, but this confirms that our tribe was there.
If anything, this Bible verse (which I have seen before) should be ignored. It also points out the necessity of re-writing the Bible which I did in THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders ( Adelaide Books).
I was ganged up on by this virtual mob during Pride. My first thought was shame, shame, shame. This is what we used to say during the LGBTQ Pride March in NY where we used to stop and point at the religious right people protesting the parade and chant back at them.
Shame on you for trying to make me feel bad about myself. And shame for trying to make a whole group of people feel bad about themselves. What’s the point? Usually, homophobia has a fair amount of twinkle, twinkle (what you say is what you are) in it.
This is what I thought at first. But then I started to wonder what makes a homophobic right religious person tick. For surely by driving people away from the church — it isn’t self preservation.
So I went to the major offender’s Twitter page and the first thing I saw was a donation button. Ah, money, I thought. That’s what they’re thinking. Then I saw a video about the migration of a certain Bible from Scotland to a recent “presidential” photo op in front of the church near the White House after the protestors in the street were scattered with tear gas.
I loved it when I saw that Mitt Romney was marching in the street with the Black Lives Matter protestors. He was marching with a group of evangelical Christians who were singing “This Little Light of Mine.” Even if they came late to the party, they came. And even if some of these folks still oppose LGBTQ rights — other evangelicals (usually younger ones) are secure in their sexuality and are more open minded.
On this Twitter page (of the person who sent the homophobic Bible verse) there is no mention of justice and no mention of Jesus. There is no mention of goodness.
There is no mention that those protesting George Floyd’s murder are right — and that they are bending the moral arc of history toward justice.
We are at a pivotal moment in history — but not to back the forces of hate.
The young people are shaping the world that they want to live in.
Listen to them.
They are not your enemy.
To learn more about my novel THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders (published by Adelaide Books New York/Lisbon), click here.
Today is Pentecost in the Christian tradition. There was a time, when the word “Pentecost” just conjured little white churches in central Pennslytucky that I knew with a shudder that I should avoid. (Even driving by on the turnpike was a hazard.) But I am now past that. I am really am curious.I researched the Christian holiday of Pentecost a while ago for my novel The Unicorn, The Mystery (being published later this year by Adelaide Books) and found that doves were routinely shoved through a little hole in the ceilings of cathedrals in the Middle Ages. (Doves represented the Holy Sprit and before that they were associated with Aphrodite.)Perhaps there really is nothing new.
The minister at the Unitarian Universalist Church I attend (now digitally) is from a Christian-background and mentioned that today was the holiday of Pentecost in his background. Then he went on to talk about the events of the day which truly are grim.
Later,I received two comments online relating to Pentecost. The first comment was from a colleague I’m friendly with. She quoted a passage from what I assume is the Acts chapter in the New Testament. The quote ended with: “ever with the cross that turns not back.”
I approached this Bible verse like a riddle. To me, not turning back is persistence.
The second comment I received was from a not so friendly source. It was written in response to my novel THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders. He told me that Christ demands the complete and full surrender of self. Then he said, “This not only includes acting upon same sex attraction but all sin.”
I have to confess to being raised secular— something that I have always considered a blessing — so I may have missed something. But I think I was just insulted.
I’m a practicing Buddhist. That’s my root religion in my Unitarian Universalist faith. As such, I rarely comment on anything personal about my harassers. But I looked at this guy’s Twitter profile and saw that he looked more than a little light in his loafers. He is young looking and rather effeminate. In fact, if he hadn’t just insulted me, I’d think we both played for the same team.
He described himself as a “Catholic who’s doing his best and discerning the priesthood.” Now I don’t know what the latter part of that means. But I do understand the first part. The question is what is he doing his best at? Does he mean that he’s doing his best in his avoidance of same sex attraction? If so, what is his best? Does he act on his same sex attractions now and then?
I hear that thinking you’re engaging in a sinful act might make things seem forbidden, and therefore “hotter.” But to me, it’s easier to believe that there is no such thing as “sin.”I’ve heard it said that Jesus never said one word about “homosexuality” being a sin.
I’ve come to understand that Jesus is about justice.
In my research today about the holiday of Pentecost, I learned that the holiday is often called White Sunday or WhitSun. And I learned that the wearing of red is customary.
If it is White Sunday — then it is time for white people to stand up for justice. And this time — as in too many instances — it’s about racial justice. As a practicing Buddhist, I try to stay away from anger. But people have a right to their anger and often when it starts, it can’t be stopped. It’s perfectly understandable.
The senseless murder of George Floyd is an outrage. Thinking of yourself as above the law or as the law — is a mindset that has to be stopped.
The golden rule of ethics (included in the New Testament) of doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, is a creed that we live by.
It’s time for justice.
“…. ever with the cross that turns not back.”
To learn more about my novel THEY, a biblical tale of secret genders (published by Adelaide Books New York/Lisbon), click here.
Janet Mason, author 