Today I would lobby hard that the church remember one who held a golden pen and touched the essence of what it means to be human in this existence: Brother Walt Whitman, Poet and Deamer of Dreams.

Born in the early days of the 19th Century on Long Island, Whitman left schooling early on (at the tender age of 11!) to embrace the life of quill-bearer, teaching, working as a journalist, and eking out an existence as a poet and writer. He was intensely curious about the underlying emotions of what it means to be alive, feeling the vibration of the mortal coil with every ounce of his being. This became a central theme in his writing: an analysis of living, specifically living in an America trying to find itself.

Brother Walt took to the hospital room once the American Civil war was underway, and many of his essays and poems touched on healing and hurt, influenced by the care he gave to soldiers in the field. When Abraham Lincoln was assassinated, the grief-stricken Whitman penned, “O Captain, My Captain,” an ode to the fallen forlorn leader (and darling of a poem for those who loved “Dead Poets Society”). He bled his heart on every page.

America loved this homegrown writer who was influenced by the art of the opera, the art of the operating room, and the art of existence. He wrote journal essays and serialized novels (some b tree than others, IMHO) before becoming enamored with the idea of poetry that might capture all of these feelings into one. This he birthed ingenious forms of poetry, and the epic “Leaves of Grass” emerged from his soul, and the study of American humanities has never been the same.

In “Leaves of Grass” Whitman’s sexual energies (he is thought to have been pretty openly bisexual in orientation) mixed with his emotional vulnerability to create a sweeping romp touching on the transcendent, the primal, and the political. He used free verse and symbolism in inventive ways, creating what some consider to be a uniquely American way of articulating the best of what it means to be alive. It truly is a wonder, and my Junior year High School teacher might delight in my memory of him reading pieces of it to his gathered, rapturous students from the perch of his stool.

Any mention of Brother Whitman would be remiss if it also didn’t note perhaps his most popular work, “Song of Myself,” a winding exploration on self-discovery. It is certainly his hit single.

On the spiritual front, Walt considered himself a practitioner of every faith, and sometimes none at all. He thought the Divine to be utterly ineffable and yet immediately accessible, a lovely combination of religious question marks and exclamation points if you ask me.

He wrote and explored and loved.

In his later years Whitman suffered declining health, and after a stroke resigned himself to a quiet life in New Jersey.

He died on this day in 1892 at the age of 72, revising “Leaves of Grass” until the very end.

Many consider him the very first, true, poet of the American experiment…which is kind of lovely to imagine that such a true American was a bisexual wordsmith who loved symbolism more than literalism, good questions more than trite answers.

Would the America (and the church!) take this to heart today.

Brother Walt Whitman is a reminder to me, and should be for the whole church (and everyone), that being alive is a wonderful playground for minds daring and curious enough to explore what it means.

-historical bits from public sources.

-drawing by Michele Rosenthal, and can be purchased at Queer Portraits in History (queerportraits.com)