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Something Has Got to Give

Last week, I wrote about the back and abdominal pain that had been plaguing me. Thankfully, the abdominal pain has eased up, but the back pain seems to have gotten worse. To top it all off, I managed to sleep oddly last night and woke up at one point because my neck and shoulder were hurting. This morning, they’re still stiff and sore.

I called in sick last Monday, so I’m determined not to do that again today. I don’t want my boss thinking I’m going to make a habit of calling in sick every Monday. Mondays are hard enough — I don’t usually want to go to work on a Monday, but I still show up. Today, though, I really do have a legitimate excuse.

I plan to call my doctor’s office this morning. It’s conveniently just across the street from work — about 30 minutes from my apartment but less than five minutes from the office — so if they can fit me in, at least it won’t be a hassle to get there. Honestly, I just want some relief. I miss going to the gym (and that’s a sentence I never thought I’d say).

I also have an appointment for a massage tomorrow afternoon, which I really hope will help loosen things up. At this point, something has got to give.

Here’s hoping this week brings some healing.

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Building One Another Up

“Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, leading to edification.” 

— Romans 15:2

Not long ago, the Verse-of-the-Day that landed in my inbox was Romans 15:2: “Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, leading to edification.” I’ll admit, my first reaction wasn’t exactly devotional. The phrase "please his neighbor" brought to mind some rather human, even carnal, interpretations. While I don’t currently have any neighbors who inspire those kinds of thoughts, I certainly have in the past. But as I gently corrected my own imagination, I turned to what the verse is really about.

Romans 15:2 is a call to build others up—not for personal gain, but for the sake of their good and their growth. It’s about setting aside selfishness and leaning into compassion, patience, and encouragement—traits we desperately need more of in our world today.

Sadly, when we look at the current American political climate, we see a nation drifting further and further from that call. Instead of mutual care, we see mistrust. Instead of patience, we see outrage. Laws are being written not to edify but to exclude—especially for LGBTQ+ individuals. From renewed efforts to suppress trans rights, to politicians who dehumanize queer people for political leverage, we are witnessing a culture of cruelty that stands in direct contradiction to the Word of God.

James 1:19 gives us this charge: “So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.” But how often do we see the reverse? People rush to speak, quick to anger, unwilling to listen. People shout over each other instead of listening. Social media rewards the harshest voices. Political debates are framed not by compassion but by conquest. This is not the way of Christ. In the world we live in, outrage and judgment come quickly, while compassion and listening fall by the wayside. It’s easy to shout. It’s much harder to hear.

For those of us in the LGBTQ+ community, particularly queer Christians, this dynamic is all too familiar. We have been judged before being heard. We watch as our identities are politicized and debated rather than honored and respected. We have been spoken of but rarely spoken with. We see leaders and lawmakers tearing down the dignity of queer and trans lives and yet, Romans 12:10 reminds us: “Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another.” God does not rank people by identity or status. We are called to show honor—especially to those the world dishonors. We are not meant to live in echo chambers of self-interest or tribalism. We are meant to honor each other—especially the vulnerable and marginalized.

Even in our churches, where we should expect unity in love, divisions often mirror the world’s brokenness rather than offering a better way. Even among Christians, division and discord can grow where love and unity should flourish. But Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 1:10: “Now I plead with you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all speak the same thing, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment.” We don’t have to agree on every detail of theology or policy, but we are commanded to seek unity in Christ, grounded in love and mutual respect. This is not a call for sameness, but for unity through love, humility, and shared purpose.

Finally, we anchor ourselves in this hope from Romans 15:5–6:

“Now may the God of patience and comfort grant you to be like-minded toward one another, according to Christ Jesus, that you may with one mind and one mouth glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

As LGBTQ+ Christians, we often stand at the intersection of worlds that misunderstand or reject us. But we are not without hope. Harmony, not hatred. Encouragement, not exclusion. One voice—raised not in protest against each other, but in praise to God.

This is our calling—to live in harmony, to uplift each other, and to glorify God with one voice. As LGBTQ+ believers, we know what it means to seek belonging where others sow division. We know the power of kindness in a world of cruelty. Let us live this calling—not as abstract ideals, but as real, daily acts of love. As LGBTQ+ people of faith, we know what it means to seek harmony in the face of division. Let us be neighbors who lift others up. Let us be voices of peace and compassion in a time of bitterness. Let us be the voices that unify, and the hearts that honor God by honoring each other. And let us, with one voice, glorify the God who made us, loves us, and calls us to love boldly in return.

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Moment of Zen: Summer Heat

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A Somber Fourth of July

Today is the Fourth of July — a day that is supposed to celebrate independence, liberty, and the birth of a nation “conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” But I don’t feel much like celebrating.

How do we celebrate when the ideals at the heart of this country are being trampled?

We live under a Republican Party that has become openly fascist, hellbent on dismantling every shred of decency and fairness left in our democracy. With Project 2025 as their roadmap, they now dominate all three branches of government, mocking the Constitution even as they pretend to worship it. They speak of “liberty,” but only for the wealthy and powerful — only for those who fit into their narrow, hateful vision of America.

The Preamble to the Constitution speaks of forming “a more perfect Union,” establishing justice, promoting the general welfare, and securing the blessings of liberty for ourselves and our posterity. These are not just lofty words — they are a promise. A promise this government is betraying at every turn.

We are told this is the “land of the free,” yet immigrants are vilified and rounded up like criminals. We are a “melting pot,” yet the party in power wages a war on diversity, erasing the stories, cultures, and dignity of anyone who does not fit their mold. The Statue of Liberty, with her lamp lifted high, still whispers:

Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…

But the current administration would rather snuff out that lamp entirely.

We are told all men are created equal, yet inequality deepens every day. We have tax cuts for billionaires while cutting food assistance and closing hospitals. We are watching, in real time, a government that would rather people starve and die than risk denting the fortunes of the ultra-rich.

On this day in 1863, Abraham Lincoln, the first Republican president, spoke of a nation “conceived in liberty” and warned that we were being tested as to whether such a nation “can long endure.” Today, we are failing that test. The Republican Party has made it clear: they believe only rich white men are equal, and everyone else must fall in line or be crushed.

This country has stumbled before. It has made grievous mistakes and committed unforgivable sins — yet it has also found ways to right itself, at least partially, each time. But never before have we been so actively beaten down by our own government, so gleefully dismantled from within.

And the Democrats? They have grown so complacent, so timid, that they too allow this to happen. We desperately need something new — a party with courage and compassion. A party that fights for justice instead of just tweeting about it. A party that remembers that government exists for all of us, not just for Wall Street and country clubs.

If we recover from this, it will take decades. But recovery is not impossible. It starts when we remember what we shouldbe fighting for: dignity, equality, justice.

For now, though? I find myself ashamed of this country.

If Vermont decided tomorrow to secede, I’d gladly wave goodbye to this so-called union and either stand proudly as the Republic of Vermont or join Canada. (And yes, if Canada absorbed Vermont, they’d gain a monopoly on maple syrup — since Vermont and Quebec together already produce 90% of the world’s supply. At least someone would benefit.)

What it boils down to — and yes, you boil down sap to make maple syrup; I couldn’t resist — is that America has never truly been great when it comes to humanity. But it could be. It still could be. If only we chose to live up to the words we pretend to celebrate today:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal…

This Independence Day, I don’t feel like celebrating — but I do feel like fighting.

Because it’s long past time we made those truths a reality.

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Little Monsters and Lingering Pain

On Monday, I wrote about the back and abdominal pain that made my weekend so miserable. Tuesday, I went to see my doctor to try to figure out what was going on. He ran some tests and was able to rule out kidney stones, a kidney infection, and any obvious gallbladder problems—though, as he put it, nothing could be ruled out 100%.

When I told him how my back pain started the week before, after standing and giving tour after tour to high school kids at the museum, he nodded knowingly. He felt the knots in my lower back (which I had already discovered myself), and then did a thorough check of my abdomen. After he finished poking around, his conclusion was that I strained my back during those tours and probably caught some kind of intestinal virus from one of those “little monsters”—his words, after I joked about losing the immunity I used to have when I taught high school nearly a decade ago. Apparently, years away from a classroom full of teenagers means my immune system isn’t as prepared for their germs anymore.

So the working diagnosis is a combination of back strain and a mild viral gastroenteritis or colitis. He recommended a probiotic, being gentle on my stomach, avoiding anything that would make my back worse, and keeping an eye on symptoms. He told me to call the clinic by Thursday if things hadn’t improved.

Well… it’s Thursday morning, and I can’t say I’ve noticed much improvement yet. Ugh. So I’ll be calling the office this morning to see if they can advise me or hold me over through the weekend since tomorrow is a holiday. Unfortunately, I’m the only person at the museum today, so running to the doctor might be tricky. But I do have a deep tissue massage scheduled for Tuesday afternoon—just couldn’t get in sooner with the holiday.

For now, I’m muddling through. The silver lining? My migraines have been minimal lately thanks to the botox and other meds, so at least that hasn’t been piled on top of everything else.

I’ll keep you all updated if there are any new developments tomorrow. Fingers crossed that a little more rest and care will start to turn things around.

Stay healthy, everyone—and if you’re around high schoolers, don’t forget: those little monsters carry more than just noise and chaos.

P.S.: I should say, though, that the students I gave the tours to were actually wonderfully behaved kids—attentive, engaged, and full of intelligent questions. They really were good tours, and it was a pleasure to share the museum with them.

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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.