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A Soldier Stripped Bare: The Nude Photographs of Lt. Edgar Henry Garland

Some of you may know that my original academic passion—and the reason I first went to graduate school—was to study military history, with a particular focus on the First World War. Ever since I took my first undergraduate course on WWI, I’ve been captivated by the conflict: the way it reshaped nations, upended empires, and left cultural and emotional reverberations we still feel more than a century later. I’ve long been drawn to the poetry of the war, as well as the deeply human stories of the individuals and communities who lived through it.

That’s why, when I came across a set of nude photographs taken of New Zealand soldier Lieutenant Edgar Henry Garland, I was immediately intrigued. The images are striking—not just for their artistic composition, but for the questions they raise about masculinity, memory, and identity during wartime. This week’s art history post centers on three rare and intimate photographs of a single soldier. There may have been others like them, but this particular case remains one of the most compelling and well-known examples of its kind.

Uncovering the Man Behind the Uniform: Art, Intimacy, and Queer Visibility in a WWI Portrait

In the archives of New Zealand’s photographic history lies a haunting and striking series of images: nude portraits of Lieutenant Edgar Henry Garland, a World War I soldier, posed with classical grace and remarkable vulnerability. Captured by the studio of S. P. Andrew Ltd., these images raise fascinating questions about art, masculinity, and queer subtext in the early 20th century.

At first glance, Garland might seem like any young officer from the Great War—handsome, lithe, a product of Edwardian values and imperial loyalty. But his story is far more remarkable.

Born in 1895, Edgar Henry Garland served with distinction in the New Zealand Expeditionary Force during World War I. He fought on the Western Front and was captured by German forces, becoming a prisoner of war. What set Garland apart was not just his courage in combat, but his extraordinary persistence in trying to escape captivity. He attempted to escape seven times from various POW camps—an astonishing feat that earned him admiration both during and after the war. His repeated escapes were acts of daring and defiance that turned him into a kind of folk hero in New Zealand military lore. By war’s end, he was among the most celebrated escapees in New Zealand’s wartime record.

And yet, tucked away behind this legacy of bravery is a quieter, more intimate chapter—one not written in medals or official commendations, but in a series of photographs that strip away the uniform and expose the man beneath.

These nude images were taken by S. P. Andrew Ltd., one of the most respected portrait studios in New Zealand. Founded by Samuel Paul Andrew, the Wellington-based studio was renowned for its official portraits of governors-general, judges, and prime ministers. It specialized in formal, large-format images meant to convey dignity, authority, and professionalism. That such a prestigious studio would also produce a set of male nudes—posed with artistry and elegance—speaks volumes about the complexity of photographic culture at the time.

So why were these photographs taken?

At one level, they reflect the influence of classical artistic ideals. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the nude male form was seen—at least within certain artistic circles—as a symbol of strength, youth, and aesthetic perfection. Garland’s poses recall ancient Greek statuary, suggesting a deliberate invocation of heroism and beauty. For a young man who had survived war and captivity, these images may have served as a personal monument—an assertion of vitality, resilience, and self-possession.

But there are other possibilities too.

The photographs may have been taken as private keepsakes, either for Garland himself or for someone close to him. Garland never married, and little is known about his private relationships. The possibility that these images were intended for a romantic or intimate partner—perhaps even a male lover—has been raised by queer historians who see in the photographs a coded form of homoerotic expression. The tenderness of the poses, the elegance of the lighting, and the sheer vulnerability on display all hint at a relationship between photographer and subject that goes beyond documentation.

Indeed, these photographs function within a long tradition of discreet queer representation. In an era when homosexuality was criminalized and forbidden by military and civil law, photography could serve as a silent language of desire. Studios like S. P. Andrew—though publicly respectable—may have discreetly permitted or even participated in the creation of such images for trusted clients. This wasn’t pornography; it was art. But it was art with layers of subtext—subtext that speaks volumes to those willing to see it.

Whether these photographs were meant as aesthetic studies, personal mementos, or secret love letters, they offer a rare and poignant glimpse into the inner life of a man whose public legacy is defined by heroism. In these images, we see not just the soldier who escaped seven times, but the human being who posed—naked, unguarded, and beautiful—for reasons we may never fully know.

Taking a dip: Soldiers take a break from the heat with their horses in the sea. The men wash their steeds while completely naked as they enjoy a moment away from the battle

A Note on Queer Visibility in WWI Remembrance Culture

Photographs of nude soldiers—while rarely publicized—have existed across multiple conflicts, including World War I and World War II. Often taken in private or semi-artistic contexts, these images captured the male form not only as a symbol of strength and youth, but sometimes as an intimate keepsake, a personal act of vulnerability, or even a quiet expression of queer desire. Though such photographs were uncommon, they remind us that behind every uniform was a body, a story, and a complex humanity often left out of official histories.

Stories like Edgar Garland’s remind us how queer history often survives in the margins—in photographs, in letters, in quiet acts of defiance and longing. Mainstream remembrance of World War I tends to focus on duty, sacrifice, and masculine honor, but it rarely makes space for the hidden lives of queer soldiers. Yet they were there: loving, grieving, and serving alongside their comrades. For some, like Garland, a single photograph may be the closest we get to that truth.

As we commemorate the soldiers of the Great War, it is vital to recognize that their humanity was not confined to the battlefield. Some found intimacy in silence. Some left behind coded artifacts. And some, like Garland, posed for a camera and dared to be seen—fully, tenderly, and without shame.

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America

America
by Walt Whitman

Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.


About the Poem

Walt Whitman’s six-line poem “America” may be brief, but its layers of meaning resonate across history, politics, and queer identity. First published in the 1880 edition of Leaves of Grass, it is often overshadowed by his longer, more famous works. Yet this small poem encapsulates Whitman’s vision of the United States as not only a political ideal but also a deeply emotional and physical presence—one that holds particular significance within LGBTQ+ literary history.

At first glance, “America” reads like a patriotic hymn. The poem praises a nation made of “equal daughters, equal sons,” where all people—regardless of age or status—are “alike endear’d.” This inclusive language is typical of Whitman’s democratic ideals. He often celebrated the collective body of America: not a faceless mass, but a communion of individuals bound by shared experience and affection. His use of words like “endear’d,” “fair,” and “love” reflect his romanticized view of a nation built not just on law and order, but on emotional connection.

But Whitman’s vision of unity goes beyond mere nationalism. His America is not militaristic or imperial. Instead, it is “perennial with the Earth,” suggesting a natural, almost spiritual presence, and one that is rooted in love. Love, for Whitman, was often embodied in the male form and in same-sex affection, offering deeper layers to his patriotic verse.

Though “America” is more abstract than Whitman’s overtly homoerotic poems like “Calamus” or “Live Oak, with Moss,” it is steeped in his lifelong merging of the sensual and the political. Whitman, a man who celebrated “the love of comrades” and reveled in the touch and sweat of male bodies, did not separate his love for men from his love for his country. In fact, he often imagined the two as intimately entwined.

To Whitman, America’s promise of equality and freedom was not just a civic ideal but a personal one. The phrase “equal daughters, equal sons” carries resonance for LGBTQ+ readers, particularly those who have long fought for recognition, rights, and representation. In declaring that all are “alike endear’d,” Whitman gestures toward a radical inclusivity—one that, at least in theory, includes queer lives.

His description of America as a “towering, seated Mother” may seem traditionally maternal, but the sensual grounding of this maternal figure in “adamant” and “Time” adds an almost mythic gravitas. This is not a soft figure of sentimentality, but a resilient presence that endures. For queer readers, Whitman’s “Mother America” might even serve as a symbol of a nation large and loving enough to include all her children—regardless of who they love.

For LGBTQ+ Americans, Whitman’s “America” offers both comfort and challenge. It’s a vision of what the country could be: a place of true equality, of celebration rather than repression, of love alongside law. At a time when queer Americans continue to face political backlash, book bans, and legislative attacks, Whitman’s dream of a “grand, sane” republic remains aspirational.

Yet it is also a call to action. If America is to live up to the Whitmanian ideal—a nation of “equal sons, equal daughters”—then we must continue to demand that equality, to assert the place of queer people within the American story.

Walt Whitman is often called the father of American poetry. For many LGBTQ+ writers and readers, he is also our queer literary ancestor—one who dared to blend the erotic with the patriotic, the body with the nation. In “America,” he offers us not just a reflection of his time, but a challenge to ours: to imagine, and to build, a country worthy of such love.


About the Author: Walt Whitman (1819–1892)

Whitman was a poet, essayist, and journalist whose groundbreaking collection Leaves of Grass helped revolutionize American literature. Though he never publicly identified as gay, Whitman wrote openly about same-sex desire and affection, especially in the “Calamus” poems, which have since become foundational texts in LGBTQ+ literary history. His bold embrace of the body, the soul, and democratic ideals continues to inspire generations of queer writers and thinkers.

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Rough Weekend

It’s been a rough one.

This weekend has been full of pain—head, back, and stomach—and not the kind that fades with a good night’s sleep. The headache is, unfortunately, part of my usual chronic migraine pattern. For me, pain doesn’t like to travel alone. When something flares up in my body, it often invites a migraine along for the ride. And this time, it brought friends.

For the past week or so, I’ve been dealing with lower back pain. It ebbs and flows—sometimes tolerable, sometimes so intense I can barely move around the house. I’ve had worse episodes in the past, but that doesn’t make this one any easier. I’ve been using a heating pad, and while it gives me temporary relief, it’s just that—temporary.

To make matters worse, a bout of stomach pain decided to join the party. No clue if the three are connected or just coinciding at the most inconvenient time. Either way, it’s made for a miserable few days.

Today, I’m taking a sick day. I need to rest, let the heating pad do its magic, and take a muscle relaxer to see if I can ease this back pain. If I’m not better tomorrow, I’ll be giving my doctor a call. I know when it’s time to stop pushing through and start taking care of myself properly.

I hope your Monday is starting out much better than mine. Wishing each of you a healthy, pain-free start to the week.

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🌈 Bold, Beloved, and Called

“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

— 1 Peter 2:9 

 

“For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

— 2 Timothy 1:7 

 

“Love is patient, love is kind… It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7–8 

 

As Pride Month draws to a close, we are invited not to retreat—but to rise. We should not pack away our rainbow flags or tuck away our truths—we should plant them firmly in the soil of our daily lives. We have explored who we are (fearfully and wonderfully made). We’ve reclaimed the image of God within us (queerly reflected). We’ve healed what shame tried to break, found boldness in our truth, and committed to growing where we are planted. now, we turn to three things that comes next.

 

We are called to serve God.

 

Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:16 (“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”) offer a powerful commission: Let your light shine. Not dimmed for the comfort of others. Not hidden behind polite silence. But out in the open. Joyfully. Authentically. As a witness to what God has done in and through us.

 

Scripture tells us that we are a royal priesthood, a holy people, God’s own. That’s not conditional. That’s not for someone else. That’s for us. We are called not in spite of who we are, but because of who we are. We are called out of shame and silence, out of marginalization and fear, into God’s marvelous light. Our queerness, our tenderness, our truth—they are not spiritual liabilities. They are spiritual gifts.

 

Through God’s gift, we are bold.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, Pride has historically been about survival—holding onto life, faith, and hope in a world that tried to silence us. And that survival has been sacred. But now, we are called to more than surviving. We are called to joy. To deep, radiant, unashamed joy.

Paul writes in Philippians 4:4, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.”  Not only when things are easy. Not only when we’re safe. But always. Because joy—real joy—is an act of spiritual resistance. It’s a declaration that we are still here, still beloved, and still building something beautiful. It takes courage to live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian. It takes courage to love ourselves in a world that taught us to hide. It takes courage to believe that the Spirit speaks through our lives.

But here’s the truth: we were not given a spirit of fear. We were given the Spirit of power—to stand tall. The Spirit of love—to resist hate with grace. The Spirit of self-discipline—to hold fast to our faith even when others misunderstand it. Holy boldness is not loud arrogance. It is quiet faithfulness. It is showing up fully, beautifully, honestly—day after day. Pride is not just a celebration. It is a declaration: We are still here, and we are still beloved.

 

We are love in motion.

 

Love is not just a feeling—it is a force. It bears burdens. It holds space. It speaks truth. And LGBTQ+ love is no less holy than any other. In fact, many of us have learned how to love through rejection, through hiding, through longing. We have had to fight to love ourselves, to love one another, and to believe that God loves us too.

Our lives as LGBTQ+ Christians are not a detour from faith—it is a testament to it. Our honesty, our resilience, our capacity for love—these are lamps lit by the Spirit. When we love openly, we reflect the God who is love. When we celebrate joyfully, we reflect the God who rejoices over creation. When we live truthfully, we reflect the Christ who never apologized for healing, embracing, and breaking the rules to welcome the outcast.

We are not just welcome in the Church—we are vital to its witness. Our pride doesn’t end with the parade. It continues in our daily living, in our compassion, in our courage to shine. So now, let that love flourish. Let it speak. Let it heal. Whether you’re single, partnered, celibate, dating, married, or questioning—you carry within you the kind of love that “never fails.” Love that transforms. Love that reflects God.

God calls us to be courageous. He made us part of His royal priesthood. He called us into the light—not despite our queerness, but through it. He gives us boldness to live as He created us. God gives us strength to resist shame, and tenderness to love others as He love us. We carry His love—patient, kind, and enduring—into a world that so desperately needs it, especially in this climate of hate that seems to permeate our political, secular, and, far too often, religious worlds.

 

We are chosen. We are courageous. We are love in motion.

 

As Pride Month ends, may our truth continue to shine, our love continues to grow, and our calling becomes ever clearer. Let the world see what God is doing through us—a radiant reflection of bold, beloved queerness.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

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Moment of Zen: Colors of the Rainbow 🌈

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The First Pride Was a Riot

In the early hours of June 28, 1969, something extraordinary happened on a quiet stretch of Christopher Street in New York City. After years—decades—of police harassment, social invisibility, and the criminalization of queer existence, a group of drag queens, trans women, gay men, and lesbians refused to be silent. When officers raided the Stonewall Inn—a dingy, Mafia-run gay bar in Greenwich Village—the community inside and outside the bar erupted in defiance. What followed were six nights of protest, resistance, and righteous rage. The Stonewall Riots weren’t the beginning of LGBTQ+ activism, but they were the spark that ignited a global fire.

 

“The First Pride Was a Riot.” That slogan adorns t-shirts, protest signs, and banners today as a reminder that our liberation was not handed to us—it was demanded. It was thrown back in the faces of billy clubs, shouted in the streets, and carved into the consciousness of a country that would rather not have seen us at all. Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Stormé DeLarverie—names that should be shouted from rooftops—were part of this uprising. They fought not just for acceptance, but for dignity. For survival.

 

The summer of 1969 marked a turning point. In the year that followed, LGBTQ+ organizations across the U.S. multiplied, and on the anniversary of Stonewall in 1970, the first Pride marches were held in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. These were not corporate-sponsored festivals with rainbow floats. They were loud, political, and unapologetic marches for visibility, safety, and rights.

 

Stonewall happened in a cultural moment when the world was already in upheaval: the Civil Rights Movement, the Women’s Liberation Movement, and anti-Vietnam War protests were reshaping the American political landscape. The gay rights movement joined that chorus—and for a time, especially into the 1970s, it began to sing with joy and newfound sexual freedom. The 1970s became a decade of exploration and visibility. Gay men in particular embraced a new culture of liberation: discos pulsed with rhythm and energy, bathhouses became places not of shame but of connection, and artists, writers, and activists pushed boundaries in the public eye.

 

But the joy of that revolution would come under brutal siege in the 1980s with the emergence of the AIDS crisis. As friends and lovers died in staggering numbers, the government remained indifferent, slow, and cruelly silent. The queer community rallied again—not just to mourn, but to fight. Groups like ACT UP and the Gay Men’s Health Crisis forced a reluctant nation to see us, to acknowledge our grief and fury. Stonewall had taught us how to protest. AIDS taught us how to organize for our lives.

 

And still, here we are.

 

Today, we celebrate Pride with parades, with community, and yes, with joy—but we cannot forget the riot that began it. Nor can we ignore the threats we continue to face. In this current political climate, with a Republican administration openly hostile to LGBTQ+ rights, we are watching hard-won freedoms come under attack. Trans healthcare, anti-discrimination protections, even the right to teach honest history in schools are being stripped away state by state. Pride is not just a celebration—it is a protest. A defiance. A promise that we will not go back.

 

The Stonewall Riots were not polished, pretty, or corporatized. They were angry, spontaneous, and necessary. We owe our thanks to those brave souls who threw bricks, linked arms, and stood their ground. And we honor them best not just with rainbows—but with resistance.

 

So wear that shirt with pride: The First Pride Was a Riot. And remember why.

 

🏳️‍🌈⸻🏳️‍🌈

What does Pride mean to you this year? How do you honor the history while living in the now? Share your reflections in the comments below. 

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Male-Order Desire: The Bold Legacy of International Male

Long before Grindr profiles and Instagram thirst traps, gay men turned to other sources for affirmation, fantasy, and fashion. And for many, there was nothing quite like opening the mailbox to find the latest issue of International Male—a glossy, unapologetically flamboyant catalog filled with mesh shirts, tight pants, deep V-necks, and men whose smoldering stares made it very clear: this wasn’t just about buying clothes.

From its founding in the 1970s through its peak in the ’80s and ’90s, International Male became a low-key lifeline for gay men across America. And even if it never explicitly said the word “gay,” the message was clear: these clothes—and these bodies—were for you.

International Male was launched in 1974 by Gene Burkard, a San Diego-based entrepreneur with an eye for flamboyant fashion and emerging markets. His goal? To create a mail-order catalog for men who wanted more than just workwear and flannel. This was high-collared, disco-era glam for men who wanted to be seen—and desired.

Though never overtly labeled as gay, the catalog’s aesthetic left little doubt. Muscular male models posed in silky robes, sheer tank tops, and outrageously tight trousers, often in settings that felt more boudoir than boardroom. But because it was technically a fashion catalog, it flew under the radar. For closeted men in conservative towns, this was covert contraband—an acceptable, even respectable way to engage with queer desire.

At its peak in the 1980s and early ’90s, International Male had over 3 million customers. Its sister brand, Undergear, took things even further, focusing almost entirely on underwear and swimwear. Both catalogs were often tucked under beds, stuffed in gym bags, or secretly flipped through while pretending to look for a new blazer.

The magic of International Male was never really about the clothes. It was about fantasy. About possibility. About creating a world where men could be sexy, flamboyant, and free.

For gay men—especially those in the pre-Internet era—the catalog served as coded affirmation. It said, “You’re not alone.” It offered a vision of masculinity that didn’t have to be rugged or repressed. It could be styled, sensual, even sultry.

As queer studies scholar Shaun Cole writes in Don We Now Our Gay Apparel, catalogs like International Male offered not just fashion but “performances of masculinity” that pushed boundaries and created new scripts for how men could look and be seen.

Other Icons of Queer Print Culture

International Male wasn’t alone. There was a whole universe of catalogs, zines, and magazines that played pivotal roles in gay history:

Physique Pictorial (1951–1990)

Launched by Bob Mizer, this “fitness” magazine was the first to feature nearly nude muscular men in a semi-legit format. It helped launch the careers of models like Joe Dallesandro and inspired generations of artists, including Tom of Finland.

Honcho, Mandate, and Blueboy (1970s–1990s)

Glossy gay lifestyle and erotica magazines that blended porn, interviews, fashion, and personal ads. They gave gay men access to a world far larger and more glamorous than their own.

A&F Quarterly (1997–2003)

While technically a catalog for Abercrombie & Fitch, under Bruce Weber’s lens it became a bold, glossy celebration of homoerotic youth culture—shirtless boys in golden fields, bathed in natural light and coded desire.

Undergear

A spinoff of International Male, this catalog was even more explicitly erotic—offering thongs, jockstraps, sheer briefs, and loungewear photographed with far less subtlety.

BUTT Magazine (2001–2016)

Launched in Amsterdam, BUTT was an indie, raw, and refreshingly honest publication that celebrated gay sex, intimacy, and everyday life. Pink pages, candid interviews, and gritty photography made it a cult favorite.

The Argument for Art

As with erotic photography and gay porn cinema, there’s a growing argument that catalogs like International Male should be remembered not just as pop culture oddities but as legitimate artifacts of queer history and visual art.

They reflect the shifting landscape of male identity. They archive our fantasies, our insecurities, our attempts to be beautiful in a world that once told us we didn’t belong.

Today, collectors preserve International Male catalogs as kitsch, camp, and cultural gold. Exhibitions of old issues have appeared in queer history museums, and documentaries (like All Man: The International Male Story, 2022) are reclaiming the catalog’s legacy as both fashion history and queer resistance.

For many gay men, flipping through International Male was a ritual—a private moment of longing and laughter. It was how you discovered new shirts and new dreams. How you imagined a body that might one day be yours—or in your bed.

And perhaps that’s the enduring power of such catalogs and magazines: they made desire visible. They turned clothing into code, fashion into fantasy, and mail-order into memory.

So, here’s to International Male—to its satin shirts, its sultry stares, its sneaky subversiveness. It was never just about the clothes. It was always about the possibility of being seen.

Further Reading and Viewing

• All Man: The International Male Story (2022 Documentary)
• Don We Now Our Gay Apparel by Shaun Cole
• The Male Nude: A Modern View by David Leddick
• Archive scans of Physique Pictorial, Blueboy, and BUTT Magazine
• Retrospective fashion articles on International Male in The Advocate, Out, and W magazine

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Running on Empty This Morning

I know that today is usually when I post one of my art history pieces, and I do actually have one written and ready… but I just haven’t had the chance to gather the images for it yet. Honestly, I would have worked on it last night, but I was at the museum working until nearly 9:00 pm, giving tours. By the time I stopped for gas and got home, it was close to 10:00 pm, and I was wiped out.

My throat felt raw from talking loudly for two solid hours (the realities of leading big group tours). I always keep a bottle of water nearby between tours, but I can’t bring one along during the tours themselves—no food or drink allowed inside the museum. So when I finally got home, I was simply too tired to pull together the post.

The tours themselves went well, though! These were high school students visiting as part of a summer camp. One of the groups in particular was fantastic—really engaged, asking great questions, and interacting with me throughout. Of course, not all groups of teenagers are like that (group dynamics are always interesting), but that one made the long evening worthwhile.

I’m still feeling a bit worn out this morning, but I have another regular workday ahead of me. I’ll try to have the art history post ready for tomorrow. Thanks, as always, for reading.

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“To a Stranger”

“To a Stranger”
By Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, 1860 edition)

Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you—your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I do not ask who you are—that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you,
To one side for you is the onward road and to my side the same, I give you my hand,
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law,
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?


About the Poem

In “To a Stranger,” Walt Whitman captures a moment many queer people know intimately: the electric, instantaneous recognition of someone—another man, perhaps—whose presence stirs desire, curiosity, and a sense of deep, unexplainable connection. The poem unfolds in a fleeting encounter on a street or in a crowd, a stranger seen and felt in passing. But within those seconds, a whole imagined history blooms. This is not just a glance; it’s a lifetime distilled into a gaze.

Whitman’s poem belongs to his “Calamus” cluster—arguably the most homoerotic section of Leaves of Grass. In it, he expresses a spiritual and physical love between men with tenderness and boldness rare for the 19th century. Though the poem never explicitly mentions gender, the “stranger” often reads, in context and tone, as a man. Whitman universalizes desire while also encoding a personal and radical queer perspective. The fluidity of the poem mirrors the fluidity of identity, attraction, and intimacy.

This encounter is imagined as eternal and reincarnated: “I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.” Whitman’s speaker does not ask for a name or demand recognition—only that the stranger accept his open hand and heart. The poem dares to believe that love and recognition can transcend boundaries, even if unspoken. During Pride Month, it feels especially poignant as a celebration of queer connection in a world that still too often passes by without noticing.


About the Poet

Walt Whitman (1819–1892) is widely considered one of the foundational poets of American literature, and Leaves of Grass remains a revolutionary work in both form and content. His radical embrace of the body, sensuality, and nonconformity challenged the poetic conventions of his time. Though Whitman never openly declared himself gay (the concept didn’t exist as it does now), his writing speaks volumes. The poems in the “Calamus” section express a loving, spiritual intimacy between men, often autobiographical in nature.

Whitman lived in Brooklyn and Washington, D.C., working variously as a printer, journalist, nurse, and government clerk. During the Civil War, he tended wounded soldiers—experiences that deepened his compassion and his poetic vision. Scholars and readers alike have long recognized the homoerotic dimension of his poetry, even as it was obscured or censored in his own time. Today, Whitman is embraced as a queer literary forefather—one who gave voice to the sacred beauty of male love in a society still bound by silence.

In “To a Stranger,” Whitman offers not just a look or a line, but an invitation. As we close this Pride Month poetry series, it’s worth asking his final question once more: “Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” In community, in love, and in remembrance—we say yes.

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On the Edge of War

Like many of you, I am alarmed — and honestly, frightened — at the news that Trump has ordered the bombing of Iran. It's hard to shake the feeling that we may be standing on the edge of a true global crisis. If Iran retaliates — which they very well may — we could soon find ourselves plunged into a conflict that might spiral far beyond anything we’ve seen in decades.

In blunt terms: this is a provocation of war. And Iran would be within its rights to formally declare war on the U.S. in response. The prospect of World War III no longer feels like the stuff of history books or far-flung hypotheticals — it’s something we are suddenly forced to consider, right here and now.

I also can’t help thinking of my friends who live in or near major cities, military bases, and other strategic targets. While living here in Vermont provides a small sense of safety — we are, after all, far from those centers of power — there’s always that unsettling thought: will this administration stoop so low as to create a domestic target? Vermont is a liberal stronghold. Could a false flag attack be used to further sow fear and division? The paranoia is starting to feel not so paranoid.

What makes this even more terrifying is how unprepared we are. Most military analysts have long said that the likeliest form of nuclear attack would not be traditional bombs, but dirty bombs — radioactive material dispersed in populated areas. Yet the very departments tasked with detecting and responding to these kinds of attacks have been gutted in recent months.

It’s hard to sleep at night when it feels like the world is careening toward disaster — and yet here we are. I just needed to say this out loud tonight. I imagine many of you are feeling the same dread and uncertainty. I don’t know where this will lead, but I do know that in times like these, we need to stay informed, stay connected, and keep speaking out.

Stay safe. Stay aware. And if you’re feeling anxious — you’re not alone. ❤️

“Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president.”— Theodore Roosevelt 

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🌈 Rooted in Love, Growing in Grace

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind…And you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

— Matthew 22:37, 39 

 

“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce…But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you… and pray to the Lord on its behalf,

for in its welfare, you will find your welfare.”

— Jeremiah 29:5, 7

 As we move deeper into Pride Month, our celebration continues—not just as a public witness, but as a deeply spiritual journey. This week, we turn inward to examine what it means to love ourselves as God commands—and what it looks like to thrive right where we are, even if the place we find ourselves is far from perfect.

To live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian is already an act of courage. But to thrive—to truly love ourselves, and to build a life of meaning wherever we are—that’s holy work. And it’s not always easy.

 

Many of us have been told to leave certain parts of ourselves behind to belong. Others have been asked to move—emotionally, spiritually, or physically—to fit the mold of someone else’s expectations. But God’s Word reminds us: we are meant to love others as we love ourselves, and that means our own well-being matters. Our flourishing matters. Our joy matters.

 

This kind of love isn’t narcissistic—it’s necessary. Because when you believe you are beloved, you can begin to love others from a place of wholeness, not performance. When you root yourself in grace, you can begin to grow even in unfamiliar or uncomfortable ground.

 

In Jeremiah 29, God speaks to a displaced people in exile—not to promise a quick rescue, but to offer purpose in the waiting. “Build houses. Plant gardens. Raise families. Seek the good of the place where you are.” God doesn’t say, Just survive. God says, Live. Thrive. Invest. Pray. Root yourself in this moment.

 

So many LGBTQ+ Christians know what it’s like to feel out of place—in our families, churches, towns, or even within ourselves. And yet, even there, God is saying: Your life still matters here. You can still grow something beautiful in this soil. We don’t need the perfect setting to bloom. We need the assurance that God is with us in every setting.

 

Jesus reminds us that the greatest commandment has three directions:

1. Love God.
2. Love your neighbor.
3. Love yourself.

 

So many of us have learned to prioritize others, sometimes to our own harm. But this week is your invitation to remember: your wellness is not selfish. Your joy is not indulgent. Your rest, your healing, your wholeness—they glorify God.

Pride is not only about being visible to the world—it’s about being present to ourselves. It’s about knowing we are worthy of care, kindness, rest, and joy. It’s about believing that God’s image is reflected in us, even when others try to deny it.

Self-love, especially for LGBTQ+ people of faith, is a form of resistance against shame. But more than that, it’s a sacred rhythm: love God, love neighbor, love self. All three are part of the same holy breath. This week let’s not only celebrate who you are but care for ourselves as someone deeply loved by God. Build something real. Plant something hopeful. We should. rest in the knowledge that our lives have meaning right now, not just in some imagined better place.

We should build a life where love takes root in us, flows through us, and blesses the world around us. God’s love is rooted grace. He loves us fully and completely. God teaches us how to love ourselves in ways that honor Him—with gentleness, patience, and truth. When we feel out of place, God helps us remember that we are still present and active in this soil. He gives us courage to plant seeds of hope, to build something real, and to live boldly as a reflection of God’s enduring love.

 

We were made to flourish—not just in safe spaces, but in the very places where the world said we couldn’t. We were made to love—not just others, but the radiant reflection of God that lives in us. So go and build. Go and plant. Go and love. Even here, we can grow. Even now, we are already enough.

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ 

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Moment of Zen: Summer ☀️

Summer officially began yesterday. While I doubt I’ll be going anywhere this season—certainly not to the beach—I do hope some of you have plans to get out, soak up some sunshine, and enjoy a bit of summer fun. Whether it’s a vacation, a day trip, or simply relaxing in your own backyard, make the most of the season! And if you’re facing a heatwave like many of us, please be careful, stay cool, and remember to drink plenty of fluids.