Open Hands Vol 16 No 4 - Down On The Farm: Addressing Rural Issues

Open Hands Vol 16 No 4 - Down On The Farm: Addressing Rural Issues

16

4

2001

Spring

2 Open Hands
Vol. 16 No. 4 Spring 2001
Shaping an Inclusive Church
Affirming Congregation Programme
More Light Presbyterians
Open & Affirming Ministries
Open and Affirming Program
Reconciling Ministries Network
Reconciling in Christ Program
Welcoming & Affirming Baptists
Executive Publisher
Marilyn Alexander
Editor
Chris Glaser
Designer
In Print—Jan Graves
Marketing Manager
Jacki Belile
Editorial Advisory Committee
Vaughn Beckman, O&A
Daphne Burt, RIC
Ann Marie Coleman, ONA
Chris Copeland, W&A
Bobbi Hargleroad, MLP
Tom Harshman, O&A
Alyson Huntly, ACP
Bonnie Kelly, ACP
Susan Laurie, RCP
Samuel E. Loliger, ONA
Ruth Moerdyk, SCN
Caroline Presnell, RCP
Paul Santillán, RCP
Julie Sevig, RIC
Kelly Sprinkle, W&A
Kathy Stayton, W&A
Margarita Suaréz, ONA
Judith Hoch Wray, O&A
and Program Coordinators
Open Hands is the quarterly magazine of the
welcoming movement, a consortium of programs
that support individuals and congregations
in efforts to welcome lesbians, gay men,
bisexuals, and transgenders in all areas of church
life. Open Hands was founded and is published
by the Reconciling Congregation Program, Inc.
of the Reconciling Ministries Network (United
Methodist), in cooperation with the six ecumenical
partners listed above. Each program is
a national network of local congregations and
ministries that publicly affirm their welcome of
LGBT people, their families and friends. These
seven programs, along with Supportive Congregations
(Brethren/Mennonite [www.webcom.
com/bmc], Oasis Congregations (Episcopal),
Welcoming Congregations (Unitarian Universalist),
and INCLUSIVE Congregations (United
Kingdom)—offer hope that the church can be a
more inclusive community.
Subscription is $20 for four issues ($25 outside
the U.S.). Single copies and back issues are
$6; quantities of 10 or more, $4 each.
Subscriptions, requests for advertising rates,
and other business correspondence should be
sent to:
Open Hands
3801 N. Keeler Avenue
Chicago, IL 60641
Phone: 773/736-5526
Fax: 773/736-5475
openhands@rcp.org
www.rcp.org/openhands/index.html
Member, The Associated Church Press
© 2001
Reconciling Congregation Program, Inc.
Open Hands is a registered trademark.
ISSN 0888-8833
Printed on recycled paper.
DOWN ON THE FARM
Addressing Rural Issues
A Rural Indignity 4
CHRIS GLASER
A city boy goes country—briefly.
Down on the Farm 5
JAN GRIESINGER
“We love it out here in the country.”
We’re Family 6
HAROLD BROCKUS
Family is in the eye of the beholder.
A Thanksgiving Conversation 8
GENE E. MILLER
“Can a homosexual be a Christian?” my stepfather asked.
On the Farm “Down Under” 10
VERA BOURNE
Hostility in the Australian countryside.
More Light in Timber Country 12
BEN DAKE
How a small church in a timber town became welcoming.
Anonymous Rural Stoles, Anonymous Rural Ministries 14
MARTHA JUILLERAT
“Sacrifice is living in a small faith community where it is
assumed I am heterosexual.” –From the stole of an
anonymous gay minister.
Welcoming Conversations 16
Suggestions for Small Town and Rural Congregations
STANLEY N. OLSON
“Bishop, this is a small town. How can our church share
the gospel?”
Bringing the Conversation Home to Rural America 18
Welcoming Conference in Montana
JEAN LARSON-HURD
“The bishop had come after all. Picketers didn’t.
No one stomped off in rage.”
Urban Legends 20
Deconstructing Urbocentrism
BRIAN WATSON
“Instead of thinking with urbocentric logic of city/farm, we would
be wiser to think of people living in insulated communities…”
Spring 2001 3
Publisher
Reconciling Congregation Program, Inc. (UMC)
Reconciling Ministries Network
Marilyn Alexander, Coordinator
3801 N. Keeler Avenue, Chicago, IL 60641
773/736-5526
www.rcp.org
Ecumenical Partners
Affirming Congregation Programme
(United Church of Canada)
Ron Coughlin, Coordinator
P.O. Box 333, Station Q, Toronto, Ontario
CANADA M4T 2M5
416/466-1489
www.affirmunited.org • acpucc@aol.com
More Light Presbyterians (PCUSA)
Michael J. Adee, Coordinator
369 Montezuma Ave. PMB #447
Santa Fe, NM 87501-2626
505/820-7082
www.mlp.org
Open & Affirming Ministries
(Disciples of Christ)
John Wade Payne, Interim Coordinator
P.O. Box 44400, Indianapolis, IN 46244
941/728-8833
www.sacredplaces.com/glad
Open and Affirming Program (UCC)
Ann B. Day, Coordinator
P.O. Box 403, Holden, MA 01520
508/856-9316
www.UCCcoalition.org
Reconciling in Christ Program (Lutheran)
Bob Gibeling, Coordinator
2466 Sharondale Drive, Atlanta, GA 30305
404/266-9615
www.lcna.org
Welcoming & Affirming Baptists (ABC/USA)
Brenda J. Moulton, Coordinator
P.O. Box 2596, Attleboro Falls, MA 02763
508/226-1945
users.aol.com/wabaptists
SUSTAINING THE SPIRIT
God’s Apology 23
A short story set in the South Dakota Badlands
PAUL MCCOMAS
MINISTRIES
RETREATS
Taking a Chance on God for Us: John J. McNeill 26
RALPH WILLIAMS
FAMILY
Gay Godparents—“What’s the Big Deal?” 27
JAN, ANNE, AND REBECCA THOMAS
CAMPUS
What Is It Like Being Gay at Calvin College? 30
BENJAMIN P. MCCLOSKEY
WELCOMING COMMUNITIES ........... 32
MOVEMENT NEWS ............................ 32
Next Issue: YOU ARE THE BELOVED!
Call for articles, litanies, rituals, and columns for
Open Hands Winter 2002
Singing God’s Song In A Foreign Land
Stories of Resistance in the Church
Theme Section: How do we resist the “powers and principalities” of the
church? What are the ways that we have declared to ecclesiastical councils,
“It is neither safe nor prudent to do anything against conscience. Here we
stand! We can do no other!” What “theses” or expectations have we nailed
to the door of the church? In what ways do we proclaim and celebrate God’s
love and reign anyway? How do we negotiate without compromising our
integrity? How do we resist being co-opted or selling out? How do we oppose
without becoming what we abhor?
900 to 2500 words per article.
Ministries Section: Columns may include: Welcoming (the process of becoming
welcoming), Connections (with other justice issues), Worship, Spirituality,
Retreats, Resources (books and videos), Outreach, Leadership, Marriage,
Health, Youth, Campus, Children, and Family. These brief articles may
or may not have to do with the theme of the issue.
750-1000 words.
Contact with ideas by September 1, 2001
Manuscript deadline: November 5, 2001
Chris Glaser, Phone/Fax 404/622-4222 or e-mail at ChrsGlaser@aol.com
991 Berne St. SE, Atlanta, GA 30316-1859 USA
www.ChrisGlaser.com
4 Open Hands
IIn February, on a missionary journey of sorts, I suffered
an indignity of which not even the apostle Paul could
boast. I was spat on by an alpaca, a relative of the llama. It
was preferable to the usual scriptures about homosexuality
expectorated on me.
The broader context was a trip with lesbian evangelist Janie
Spahr and others on behalf of her outfit, That All May Freely
Serve (TAMFS), to the small towns and countryside of South
Carolina. The narrower context was a visit to an alpaca farm
run by the spouse of the chaplain of Presbyterian College in
Clinton, a campus described by those who came to hear us as
an unsafe place for LGBT people.
The trip had begun at a high-steepled church in a large
town, where a retired physician (whom we thought would
know better) insisted on inextricably linking homosexuality
with AIDS. To show his “openness” he mentioned living next
door to a gay couple. When we came home from the event,
my host looked up the doctor’s address in the phone book to
see who the gay couple was. The town is small enough that
my host could thus name the couple!
The trip also included a visit to a goat farm and folk art
studio owned by a lesbian couple who are members of the
largely straight but very LGBT-positive North Anderson Community
Church, Presbyterian. At worship that morning two
literal “kids” were present: goats born the day before. We drank
coffee from mugs shaped and fired by another member who
crafts ceramic art, and is on an unconventional spiritual quest,
recently returned from a visit to a guru in India. He is also an
active participant in Mel White’s group, Soulforce.
The spectrum of attitudes, ignorance, information, resistance,
acceptance, and advocacy represented in this non-urban
area could as easily be experienced where I live, Atlanta, or
where I grew up, Los Angeles. Quick estimations of the nonurban
psyche are foolhardy. On a similar missionary journey
“Feed my alpacas.” Glaser along with the Rev. Patti Snyder,
Christian educator Mardee Rightmeyer, and the Rev. Janie
Spahr do a variation on Jesus telling Peter to “feed my sheep.”
through the countryside of Iowa sponsored by the regional
UCC conference years ago, I was struck by the depth of those
clergy who attended our “dog-and-pony show.” One minister
wanted to know, if the church was changing its attitudes toward
homosexuality, “Where’s the repentance?” In other
words, shouldn’t the church first offer its mea culpa to the
GLBT community before moving on to welcome it? Another
explained that the smallness of his community assured that
homosexuality would be less “an issue” than a person everyone
knew and cared about.
Jesus took his ministry from the rural regions of Galilee to
the city of Jerusalem, with images of sown seeds, awaiting
harvest, weeds mixed in wheat, forgiving farmer father, lilies
of the field, fallen sparrows, mother hen with her brood, lost
sheep, good shepherd, and so on. The first “least of these,”
the first marginalized people he addressed, were in non-urban
areas. The first disciples he called were fishermen. The first
evangelist, a woman at a village well.
Those from urban areas, longing for simpler lives, may sentimentalize
rural life, just as those in rural areas may either
“fab-u-lize” (yes, my own word) or demonize urban life. The
truth is, the truth may be found in either place, or even in
between— suburban life. Jesus shared his truth on a mount in
Matthew, on a level field in Luke, and in a city in all four
gospels. So should we. No matter what alpacas do to us.
“Ewe.” Author at the moment “impacted” by alpaca.
Photos by Janet Henley
Spring 2001 5
This is one woman/pastor’s reflections
on rural life in southeast
ern, Appalachian Ohio in the
hills along the Ohio River near West Virginia.
I do campus ministry at a large
public university of 20,000 in a county
whose total population is 60,000. The
university makes our community somewhat
more cosmopolitan than many
rural areas, so I don’t want to claim that
my perspective is somehow typically
rural. I grew up in a rural area becoming
suburban. My parents’ roots and
many of my early years and summers
were in Iowa/Nebraska farmland.
I have lived here more than 24 years,
most of that time on a 150-acre ridgetop
10 miles out in the country from our
county’s biggest town of 10,000. When
I use “we” in what follows, I am speaking
for many long term area residents
though certainly not all.
We love it out here in the country.
We love the slower pace, the lower cost
of living, the lack of traffic, the fresh
air, the brilliance of the stars at night
without city lights to obscure them, the
wondrous beauty of forest and field, of
rushing creek and steep cliffs, the voices
of owls and hawks.
We don’t always have to have a calendar
date to meet because we see each
other at the post office, the grocery
store, the farmers’ market, church and
school. If there is a death or serious illness,
you will hear about it from someone
within hours.
Not all GLBT folks want to live in
the big city. Yes, we go there monthly
to get our urban fix— the concerts, the
hard-to-find part for our vacuum cleaner,
the diverse restaurants, a place to dance,
an art film, a good bookstore. And yes,
it makes our eyes light up when we see
the variety of organizations and events
available in urban GLBT newspapers.
But the grass seems greener here.
We wouldn’t trade what we have,
our roots in the land where we live—
the apples we eat from the trees we
planted, the asparagus from the patch
nurtured over many years, the grape
vine planted decades ago by the folks
who lived there before us, the rocks we
hauled to the gully for erosion control,
the pine seedlings we planted that are
now 30 feet tall, the knowledge of how
the hillsides look so differently in the
winter, spring, summer, and fall. I have
a very faint glimmer of how native
people in this country feel about land
on which their roots are very deep, indeed
sacred land. I feel good that I know
my neighbors’ names and can count on
them to pull me out of the ditch or warn
me when something is amiss on our dirt
road.
Some of us are raising children or
grandchildren; some are caring for parents
or relatives. Family ties are very
strong and most local folks’ social lives
are one with family and/or church, with
possibly the Elks Club or the Grange
thrown in. Country lesbian friends of
mine have joined their local Grange and
saved it from the disintegration that has
happened to so many rural institutions
when old people can’t sustain their past
level of activity. (If you don’t know, ask
a country person in your life what The
Grange is.) Our dinners out are often at
the small town senior citizens centers,
volunteer fire department monthly
fundraising smorgasbords, or church ice
cream socials.
Parents and families are as welcoming
as those most any other place. A
small town dad who has no higher education
drives his high school age son
15 miles to attend a Gay Straight Alliance
meeting. The Athens water treatment
plant manager is an African American
lesbian raising 2 bi-racial daughters
with her white lesbian partner. They live
way back in the country and have had
few hassles.
Challenges in Paradise
There are, of course, many rural realities
that constrict our lives. We
are in Appalachia, where the natural resources
would make us wealthy if only
we owned them. Huge logs, natural gas,
oil and coal are shipped out daily for
someone else’s profit. The poverty rate
here is the highest in the state of Ohio.
Is this connected to the outside ownership
of resources noted above? Most of
my neighbors’ adult children want to
stay here but are frequently forced to
the cities for employment. Many people
would like to farm but can’t support
themselves on the land and must work
in town.
There are no GLBT bars, clubs, community
centers, sports events, news
media. If we want a social event, we create
it. How do we find each other, you
wonder? The old fashioned way: by
word of mouth, through mutual friends,
the grapevine. Sometimes folks meet
people from their rural hometown in
the big city GLBT bars. The isolation can
be tough. (City folks tell me this even
happens to them!) I get calls from lesbians
in neighboring counties wondering
how they make friends or meet
other lesbians. I usually don’t have
much to offer them. There is no ano-
We don’t always have to have a calendar
date to meet because we see each other
at the post office, the grocery store,
the farmers’ market, church and school.
6 Open Hands
How do we find each other, you wonder?
The old fashioned way: by word of mouth,
through mutual friends, the grapevine.
nymity. Even if you live back in the
woods, people will know what you are
up to.
In some cases you become a pariah
and have to move to the city for survival.
The stereotype about gays being
rich can definitely be trashed. GLBT
folks I know include a school janitor, a
grocery clerk, a railroad engineer, a
prison guard (need I mention that the
prison industrial complex is a booming
employer in rural areas), cab driver,
assistants for disabled people. And yes
there are professors, doctors, social
workers, teachers, and a few closeted
clergy, but we are a significant number
only in small college towns like mine.
Racism exists here, making life immeasurably
more difficult for GLBT
people of color than for white folks with
privilege. (I hear that is true in cities
too!)
GLBT identity is by and large an urban
phenomenon—a certain look, a specific
neighborhood, bars suited to your
preference. Here many of us have a
strong GLBT identity and quite a few of
us are out, but we more naturally divide
along lines of our own interest,
whether that be playing cards, hiking,
singing, family, gardening, raising
goats, collecting quilts. I think as our
community matures and life in the big
world is less homophobic, this pattern
is showing up in urban areas as well.
Most lesbians over 30 in our area seem
settled into busy lives that don’t center
around lesbian culture.
I have spent some of my time over
the last 20 years developing the Susan
B. Anthony Memorial UnRest Home
Women’s Land Trust as an intentional
residential community and feminist
education center. We have a women’s
campground and have hosted potlucks,
volunteer work days, Solstice celebrations,
swimming parties, workshops,
video discussion nights, and educational
forums. These have been avenues
for lesbians coming out, networking,
and friendship, and have contributed
positively to overcoming the isolation.
What About Church?
Since social life often revolves around
family life which revolves around
church life, it is a very tough decision
to come out and risk losing the whole
ball of wax. Some quietly stay with
church; some just leave, grieving the
community of folks that loved them so
much as they were growing up in Sunday
School.
In our college town, several of the
mainline churches have out GLBT
members and welcoming pastors but
none have been through an open and
affirming decision-making process—
not even the local Unitarians! The
Quaker meeting stands out, having
made a public statement of welcome
almost 15 years ago. If you go out past
the town limits, there are no churches
who would speak a positive word unless
you drive for a few hours to the big
city.
This is part of the reason United
Campus Ministry where I serve decided
to offer public worship services several
times a year, usually in conjunction
with Coming Out Week or Pride Week
on campus. The hymns, litanies, prayers,
sermons, and time for sharing church/
We’re Family
Harold Brockus
We all have our stereotypes. Some of us hold them in abashed public silence
because we’re privately embarrassed by them. In the comfort of friendships
they do pop up and out as we relax our guard and vent our prejudices.
Happily, there are serendipitous moments when our personal stereotypes are
exposed and confounded by life. I experienced such a moment while transporting
our Open Hands editor to a tension-filled workshop held in a small town of
the Presbytery of Tampa Bay. Many in our conservative presbytery had protested
Chris Glaser’s presence in our dialogue about a constitutional ban on the
ordination of lesbians, gays, and other “sinners.”
On that day, we arrived in Lakeland, Florida, early in the morning. Lakeland
had been chosen because it is the center of the most conservative section of the
presbytery. After leaving the interstate, I pulled my car over when a tire went
flat. I called the host church to arrange a ride for our speaker, put on the small
spare, and found a garage nearby. I called Bill, an elder, to pick me up.
I left the car with some trepidation. A miniature rainbow windsock hangs
from my rearview mirror. The garage was the ultimate redneck, greaseball establishment.
Unshaven, disheveled workers labored in a mass of dirt and discarded
parts that made the neighborhood garage of my blue-collar childhood look spiffy
by comparison. In a rush of paranoia, I imagined some act of vandalism on my
beloved old Acura by the grime shop.
As Bill and I returned to the workshop, he offered to pick up my car so I could
stay at the meeting. After the formalities and lingering conversation ended, Bill
approached with the keys to my Acura.
I asked, “How much?” Bill responded, “They said, gesturing toward the rainbow
windsock, ‘Tell him there’s no charge. We’re family.’”
Harold M. Brockus, Ph.D., is pastor of Good Samaritan Church (Presbyterian/United
Church of Christ) in Pinellas Park, Florida, and a longtime straight ally.
Spring 2001 7
coming out stories are always very moving
and people seem so grateful to have a
setting to put all the pieces together. Participants
get clarity and courage to live
out their daily lives among the people
who raised them. While this serves
mostly students, faculty and staff, some
born-and-reared local folks attend also.
In recent services the following stories
have been told:
• A woman just divorced who has
three children attended our service
with her lesbian partner. She was
thrown out of her Church of God
congregation by her father, who is
the pastor.
• A 25-year-old man who has just finished
college lives in the country
with his parents who are not in good
health. He has found a church he
likes but is uncertain about whether
to come out there.
• A 35-year-old man, whose parents,
siblings and extended family have
lived here for generations has chosen
a Presbyterian church in town
to attend rather than deal with his
family’s fundamentalist church
nearby.
• A 21-year-old woman just finished a
stay at a cult de-programming center
located in our rural area. She is
struggling to come out against her
upbringing in a patriarchal, physically
abusive Pentecostal Apostolic
cult.
• A young lesbian who had grown up
in a rural Presbyterian church was
not permitted to be an elder, so she
and her partner and her whole family
eventually left the church.
Our occasional worship services are
not the same as having an ongoing
church community but they fill in the
gaps and allow people to find others
who are struggling with what it means
to be Christian as a GLBT person or an
ally.
Blessing
Same-Gender Couples
Union ceremonies often include
family members and co-workers
who for the first time get a glimpse of a
non-heterosexual community. For
many folks it is a “don’t ask, don’t tell,
but everyone knows anyhow” situation.
I have done many union ceremonies
over the past 24 years I have lived here.
Couples find their way to me through
the grapevine. Most of them have been
rural residents from Ohio or West Virginia,
generally with a high school education
at best.
One such ceremony involved a man
who lived next door to his parents,
farmed on the family home place, drove
a school bus and served as lay pastor of
the church his family attended. His ceremony
was held in a gay bar in a small
city 40 miles away. His parents were not
invited. What does being a gay man
with a partner mean in such a situation?
Somehow it feels very different to me
than being a gay man in Chicago when
your parents live 200 miles away and
your livelihood is not dependent on
your family’s land and church.
We really like it here— I said that already
but it’s worth saying again. We
bristle at the idea that country folks or
high school drop outs are necessarily
more homophobic than other people.
We don’t take kindly to hillbilly or red
neck or West Virginia or Kentucky
jokes. We urge other people to stop
running their class and regional superiority
attitudes on us. We ask that
you go deeper than seeing our scenic
attractions and breathing our pure air.
Find out what impact the increasing
concentration of corporate ownership
and global economics have on this
country’s rural areas. Join all the environmental
activist groups you can. And
ask God/Goddess to give you a good
country friend. You will be truly blessed.
Jan Griesinger is a co-founder of the Susan
B. Anthony Memorial UnRest Home
Women’s Land Trust near Athens, Ohio.
She is also Director of United Campus Ministry
at Ohio University
and the National
Coordinator for Christian
Lesbians OUT
(CLOUT).
8 Open Hands
II grew up on a small farm in northwest
Iowa. I was reared by my parents
and great-grandparents. My
great-grandfather, a German immigrant,
owned the farm. I lived there until I
went to college. I am the oldest of five
boys and we have always been a close
family. In fact, to this day on most major
holidays we are together. Rarely does
a Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, Memorial
Day, or Labor Day go by that we
are not with each other. In addition to
these days we often spend the Fourth
of July together, plus birthdays, anniversaries,
graduations and confirmations
as we are able.
Mealtime is an especially grand time,
as we love to visit. Over the years we
have many times solved the world’s
problems during dinner! Our children
were reared in the same manner. One
of my brothers recently remarked that
the kids were brought up more like
brothers and sisters, than cousins. I
think he is right.
Growing up we were all Presbyterians.
Primarily because that was the only
church in our little town one mile away.
When I was growing up we had about
160 people and one church. When I left
for college we had about 160 people and
one church. Today there are still about
160 people and one church. Two of my
brothers have remained Presbyterian.
Two have become Roman Catholic. My
spouse, who was raised American
Lutheran, and I joined the United
Church of Christ 25 years ago when we
left college and I went to my first teaching
position. Four years later I went to
seminary, became a United Church of
Christ pastor and the rest, as they say,
is history.
Four years ago as we gathered for our
annual Thanksgiving dinner my stepfather
asked me a question for which I
was not particularly prepared. He has
been a part of the family since 1987
when he married my mother, who was
widowed in 1984. We were gathering
in the living room. Families had arrived
one by one. The tables were set. The
food was almost cooked. Aromas were
wafting throughout the house. I was
primarily engaged in watching the Dallas
Cowboys. We were assembling to eat
when out of nowhere (or at least that’s
what it felt like) my stepfather asked me,
“Gene, can a homosexual be a Christian?”
Please understand that this was not
exactly the question I anticipated we
would discuss over Thanksgiving Dinner.
“Can a homosexual be a Christian?”
My initial thought was, “Oh
great, this is going to a be wonderful
Thanksgiving conversation.” But I knew
that I had to say something that portrayed
my true convictions, was simple
to understand, and yet hopefully did
not set up a win/lose scenario.
So very hesitatingly and in a soft, but
deliberate voice I said, “Well, I’ve come
to believe that homosexuals are created
by God. It is not something that they
choose. And so if God creates them, yes,
they can be Christians.” Then I waited
for the reaction. From everyone.
Almost immediately my one brother
who is Roman Catholic and an administrator
in a Catholic School, said, “I
agree.” Huh? “I agree.” He then went
on to tell about how when he was working
on his Master’s Degree in guidance
counseling he had become friends with
one of the other students who had revealed
himself to be gay towards the end
of their course work. My brother decided
that this man was still the same
man today that he had known yesterday
and that learning about his sexual
orientation hadn’t changed a thing.
From there we proceeded, over
Thanksgiving Dinner, to have a reasoned,
philosophical discussion about
homosexuality. I won’t try to tell you
that everyone agreed with our position,
but I will tell you that each person was
heard and that every person was given
the opportunity to express their opinion
and understandings and ask questions.
No argument ensued, no one got
angry and I think some came away from
the table that day with at least a slightly
different perspective. All in all, for a
bunch of farmboys from northwest
Iowa it was a good, healthy conversation!
That night as we drove home my
spouse and I revisited the conversation
that had taken place over dinner. She
said, “You know Gene, most families,
especially those in a small town, could
have never had the conversation your
family just had.” I said “Yes, I know.”
Recently, when I told my wife and
daughter one night at the supper table
that I had been asked to write an article
for Open Hands on how we talk about
gay and lesbian issues in rural communities
my 18-year-old daughter, without
hesitation, said, “I’ll tell you how we
talk about gay and lesbian issues in a
rural community,” and she promptly
pointed to the closet in our entrance
way. “That’s how we talk about it.”
These words come from a child who has
been raised and immersed in the convictions
and theology of the United
Church of Christ.
I wish this were not true, but in our
experience it is, although I think it is
becoming less so all the time. Because
we are constantly being made aware of
it by the media, we can no longer bury
our heads in the sand. While in the past
we would have ignored it, television
now brings gay pride parades into our
homes, newspapers tell us of the happenings
in Vermont, and magazine
covers confront us on every magazine
stand.
Some folks still quote the Bible and
speak of sin. Others don’t even do that,
they simply say it’s wrong without any
reasons to back up their opinions. Yet,
more and more, people are having seriSpring
2001 9
ous discussions. Are rural gay people
coming forward more than they used
to? A little, but not a lot. That is viewed
as a major step by many. The environment
still contains hostility. But people
are also beginning to understand that
this issue is not simply going to go away.
Gay people are here to stay!
In young people is where I see the
most change and evidence of hope.
Even those who are taught in their
churches that homosexuality is a sin
seem less hostile and more ambivalent,
although this is not always good either.
But perhaps we can take heart from the
words of Jesus himself when he was at
least able to say, “Those who are not
against us are for us.”
Increasingly, in the rural communities
where I live and work, when a
young person comes out, they are met
by mostly a ho-hum attitude. Especially
if they are already well-liked and respected
in the community. People may
not understand it. People may feel sorry
for the parents. People may not like it.
People may talk behind their backs, but
at least they are not openly harassed or
abused like they were a generation ago
or even a few years ago.
I would love to be able to tell you
that all rural families are sitting around
tables discussing this like my family did,
but it simply wouldn’t be true. I can tell
you however that more and more
people are. Does hope spring eternal?
Of course it does. But sometimes the
spring only comes after a long and cold
winter. In my opinion we are there. A
long and cold winter has finally begun
to see the first thaw.
Gene E. Miller, Ph.D. is the Conference
Minister of the South Dakota Conference
of the United Church of Christ. He has
authored three books and is contributing
editor to The Five Stones, a periodical focusing
on ministry in small churches. He
lives with his spouse Elaine, an academic
administrator for
Yankton College, in
Beresford, South Dakota.
They have two
children, one in college
and one in high
school.
Shaping An
Inclusive Church
Quarterly magazine of
Welcoming congregations
in the U.S. and Canada
Annual subscriptions $20
($25 outside U.S.)
Mail to
Open Hands
3801 N. Keeler Ave.
Chicago, IL 60641
Phone 773/736-5526
Fax 773/736-5475
www.rcp.org/openhands/
index.html
10 Open Hands
While I cannot guarantee that
the same conditions apply in
every country town and city,
these are the facts relating to life for the
GLBT community in the North Eastern
region of New South Wales, an area
with the largest number of gays and lesbians
outside Australia’s capital cities.
This is the region in which I have lived
for over twenty years.
Life in rural Australia is not easy. As
in all farming communities across the
globe, its people are shaped by the vagaries
of climate, weather, and predators,
along with the opinions and actions
of others. Conservative in politics
and religion, people in most country
towns and cities are not interested in
changing the status quo. To be gay, lesbian,
bisexual or transgender outside
the capital cities is to discover isolation.
There are no bars, nor is there opportunity
to lose oneself in the crowds. Public
transport outside rural towns and
cities is non-existent. Private bus services
take children to primary and secondary
schools, but there are not even
community transport buses available to
take people from villages to work in the
town and cities. Employment opportunities
are very limited, and few businesses
will employ openly gay people.
Twenty years ago things were a lot
worse for members of the GLBT community.
In fact it was still the era of “bedroom
busts,” when police were able to
burst into people’s homes and charge
with sodomy gay men found together
in bed or a state of undress. Couples
walking down the street were harassed
by police and advised to leave town.
Slowly things began to change. First,
some local members of an Australiawide
club decided to start a social group,
and Northern Rivers Gay Group was
birthed. Then came the era of Gaywaves,
a program presented weekly on community
radio 2NCR FM. From its inception
this program was opposed by members
of most Christian churches in the
area (in fact not one denomination supported
it), by elected members of local
government, by the parochial straight
media and various vocal groups fueled
by such media reports. Had it not been
that the community radio station would
have lost its license if the program had
been canned— due to the requirement
of the Public Broadcasting Act that all
community representative groups be
allowed air time— the protesters would
have succeeded.
The Cost of Change
The cost to the two programmers
was high—constant attacks in the
media including threats contained in
published letters to the local newspaper
and the reluctance of station officials
to repair external door locks at the
studio. Snide editorials suggesting AIDS
could be caught by eating at a certain
restaurant, the business of one programmer,
resulted in its bankruptcy. One
sponsor of the program was bashed so
badly that he endured six months of reconstructive
surgery. Police were swift
to arrest the culprit, but the case was
dismissed due to his allegation that a
homosexual pass had been made at him
and he was only defending himself. This
was the first local case in which such a
defense was employed.
As the other programmer, I was to
see each of my children targeted during
their school years. A senior lecturer
at a local college, who was also on the
board of the radio station, continually
marked down my eldest daughter’s assignments,
and it needed an appeal to
the Board of Studies to have her subjects
re-marked. In the five years that
my son traveled on the school bus from
home to attend high school in the closest
town, no one would speak or sit next
to him. During the years of my second
daughter’s marriage her husband’s family
openly and constantly condemned
my sexuality, thus creating an atmosphere
of hostility. While garaged on
my farm the brakes of my car were tampered
with even though my surname
and address were never broadcast.
Hostility in the Country
It was a time of terror that was
matched only with our determination
to keep the program on air. None
of the mainstream Protestant churches
in Australia will ordain openly gay persons.
To be accepted into a church family
in rural Australia one’s sexual identity
must be concealed. In mainstream
churches it doesn’t take long before you
are asked if you are homosexual. Most
organizations in the rural community
are homophobic, so social functions are
attended without one’s partner.
Hostility in the country is stronger
and more openly expressed, often with
physical violence. Straight couples can
walk down the street hand-in-hand, but
lesbians and gay men cannot afford to
walk down the street with a member of
the same sex without jeopardizing that
friend’s reputation. “Poofter” is still a
derogatory term leveled at anyone who
is a little different, or even perceived to
be less “macho”— a very important identity
trait of Australian men. There is a
stereotype of the Australian male in the
bush— shorts, tee shirt, thongs, beer
swilling, and yarn-telling yobbo.
Funeral directors are only now comfortable
handling bodies of those who
have died from AIDS-related diseases.
In this region’s churches the Exodus
program is but one of the recognized
ways of “dealing with” our community.
Charismatic churches regularly practice
exorcism on those they believe to be
possessed by the demons of homosexuality.
The phone counseling service run
by one Australia-wide Protestant church
has no counselors trained to understand
or offer advice to any GLBT persons in
crisis.
Even the broadest-minded Christians
still hold to the patronizing “love the
sinner, hate the sin.” Families ostracize
Spring 2001 11
GLBT members who then move to the
cities where they can be virtually anonymous
and at the same time access GLBT
community support. This denies even
a modicum of support for those GLBT
people who remain in the country. Access
to community resources (funded
by various levels of government) is very
limited to openly gay people. There still
remains the assumption that all gay
males are pedophiles, which is reflected
in the personal bias of juries. This bias
still applies to the Supreme Court appeals
where misdirection by a judge can
be overlooked where gay males are concerned.
The attitudes of staff in hospitals in
this region toward our community have
been unhelpful. For a period there was
a marked resistance to nursing people
with AIDS (and this included members
of the cleaning and kitchen staff); however
the Palliative Care ward in a nongovernmental
hospital is now providing
sensitive and loving care. There have
been many recorded incidents in which
family pressures have persuaded staff to
refuse access to a patient’s same sex
partner.
Though in New South Wales recent
legislation has been enacted to ensure
that people in same-sex relationships
are entitled to equal property rights as
are enjoyed by de-facto couples and
married folk, it is advisable for members
of our community to draw up legally
binding power of attorney and
enduring guardianship documents so
that the rights of each partner, in times
of illness or accident, can be substantiated
and consequently respected.
There have been attempts to open
facilities for our community, including
a lesbian bookstore, a gay bar, a motel
and the leasing of hotel space for
monthly functions but, rather than risk
being labeled as GLBT by frequenting
these places, folk stayed away, forcing
the businesses to close. Community and
religious groups target churches perceived
as “gay churches.” Services held
in individual homes are poorly attended
because of the fear that attendance will
label worshipers as gay. There is, however,
one church, Christ’s Community
Church, which has developed an outreach
ministry to all people who are
unable to share in worship services held
in any specific location. This ministry
enables Christians across the world to
identify as part of a worshiping community.
Thus agrarian GLBT people
share their spiritual journeys with other
Christians in prison or hospital and
those who, by distance, are disenfranchised
from congregational worship.
Vera Bourne farms a rural property called
Green-Winter farm in northeast New South
Wales. Through the Auris Ministry of Christ’s
Community Church she pastors a congregation,
spread across the world, of those
who are unable to meet with others in communal
worship. A staff writer with the
online magazine, Whosoever, she has just
won the annual Wellspring short story competition
for Australian women writers.
Shapiing Sancttuarry
Proclaiming God’s Grace
in an Inclusive Church
A collection of essays, sermons,
liturgies, and hymns from the
Welcoming movement. Valuing Lesbian,
Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender persons
as an integral part of the Body of Christ.
Exploring themes of embodiment
theology, integrating spirituality and
sexuality, and inclusive worship.
Includes an eight-week group study
guide.
ISBN # 0-9701568-0-4
Order from your denominational Welcoming organization
or from www.rcp.org
Don’t miss this opportunity to “help the rest of the church
rediscover its soul.” —from book review by James B. Nelson
$14.00
12 Open Hands
Nobody actually quit when the
choir got new green robes to
replace the black ones, but several
threatened. It took more and longer
meetings to decide not to replace the
orange pew cushions than it did to rewrite
the by-laws. Many things that happen
in smaller rural churches, even if
they aren’t inherently controversial,
generally involve a great deal of discussion.
Sometimes the discussion is
heated. Often the church acts as if it is
one large committee. Almost everyone
knows what is going on, or thinks they
do. However, one may not know where
folks come down on the issue till the
last minute. Resolution of conflict is
frequently difficult, but it is impossible
when people head out the door.
It’s not that large urban churches
don’t have their conflicts too, its just
that having served some “associate
years” in larger churches, one notices
how much easier it is to have things
happen that are confined to just one
committee or one segment of the
church. In the larger setting the pastor
is less likely to become the focal point
of whatever issue is up for debate.
Here’s the story of how one small
rural Presbyterian Church in Oregon
survived the “disruptive grace” of God
to become a More Light congregation,
a welcoming church. Pastoral colleagues
sometimes ask how it is that a
church in a rather conservative timberbased
economy small town can “get
away” with More Light affiliation. It
certainly is not without its challenges
but in a phrase the answer is: by listening
to and knowing each other’s stories.
At every level of the Presbyterian
Church the discussion was going on
about the authority of the Bible, whether
certain texts are to taken literally, or
understood as time-conditioned ethnocentric
metaphorical narratives, and
about the merits or lack of merits of our
Book of Order’s proposed Amendment
B [limiting ordination to the heterosexually-
married and chaste singles,
which was ratified] and its intended
substitute, Amendment A [calling for
integrity in all relationships, which was
not ratified].
First Presbyterian Church Cottage
Grove, having a long tradition of paying
attention to denominational issues,
held Bible studies, forums and discussion
groups. Members and elders attended
presbytery-sponsored events.
They heard both sides of the debate.
Articles were published in the newsletter.
The session (governing elders of a
congregation) had retreats and wrote
letters and position statements.
Family Proved
the Turning Point
But more importantly, at one point
in the rotational life of the session,
we had two elders with gay children and
one elder with a lesbian twin sister. In
our congregation there were also three
other families, that we knew of, with
gay children.
Out of nine elders sitting on the governing
board, that particular one-third
would feel especially affected by anything
our denomination decided. It is
certainly true that if you want to get
someone’s attention, ask about their
family. If you really want to get their
attention, contemplate denying their
child a basic human right, inside or
outside the church.
The twin sister was an ordained UCC
pastor serving a church. We heard stories
of an effective and exemplary ministry.
Some of us knew her personally.
Some of us had heard family stories. She
had published a book of prayers through
the Presbyterians. Knowing these sisters,
and knowing the seriousness with
which they study the faith and engage
in the work of Christ, we knew it to be
ludicrous to question the validity of
God’s call to ministry in their lives.
In addition, the local United Methodist
Church, which for many years was
an ally in ministry with the Presbyterians,
hired a new pastor. Things changed.
This pastor and some of the leadership
were decidedly in favor of ballot measures
in Oregon which were intended
to limit the rights of gays and lesbians
who worked in the public sector. In
search of a resolution to their faith conflict,
a few Methodists began to migrate.
One was a long time leader and choir
director, a well-respected member of the
business community. She has a son who
First Presbyterian Church Cottage Grove
Spring 2001 13
is accomplished and she is proud of him
and he is out. Although church is not
central in his life, it is in hers. It is one
thing to be part of a denomination that
votes to exclude her son, but she could
not be part of a local church that was
vociferous in its denial of him. In our
small church, many knew her story.
After years of work in worship, choir,
Christian Education and bookkeeping
among the Presbyterians, she came to
be an elder on session. Her story was
heard not only with ears but also with
hearts.
Labels are always awkward. One
characteristic about being the only
somewhat liberal church in a town of
8000 is that the congregation is delightfully
diverse. We have white- and bluecollar
workers. We have very wealthy
and fairly modest income levels. We
have all ages and levels of education.
We also have folks who, for lack of better
categories, are thought of as “establishment”
and people who are deemed
by some as “alternative.”
Our former Methodist elder would
probably fit the mainstream model
pretty well. Our third elder is respected
as a champion of mission activity, environmentalism,
and human rights. In
addition to a marvelous sense of humor
she brings a plethora of printed information
and life experience on every
social issue to every Mission Committee
meeting, session meeting, and coffee
hour. Her son is gay. She loves him
and we love her.
Three members of session voted not
to join the More Light Churches Network.
They didn’t vote that way because
they were not in favor of the ordination
of homosexuals who were living
and loving in relationship. They voted
against the motion to affiliate because
some other long time members were
making it clear that they intended to
leave the church if the session did. It
was very painful for everyone.
As pastor these were people with
whom I had celebrated in worship for
over 15 years. These were families with
whom we had all shared weddings, funerals,
anniversaries, and birthdays.
Some members of the session and myself
as moderator felt inordinately pressured
by the opposition. Five members
who had probably been members for
near to thirty years did leave. Two left
being frank about why, the others offered
other reasons for leaving, but we
knew.
If asked why the session made the
decision to do what they did, in spite
of the conflict and threat of loss, I would
have to say, retrospectively, they did it
for the children. We listened to people
talk passionately about their children.
They are grown children, but for these
elders they represented the future. At
some level I think all of us knew that
perhaps our greatest contribution to the
future is our children, and they are,
thank God, who they are. Our faith tells
us that the future belongs to God. In
this congregation, we lost a deeply loved
part of our past, and even yet I feel a
lump in my own throat as I write about
it, but we made a choice in favor of a
future without conditional love and
exclusion. We chose to stand with those
who hope that all of God’s children can
live and love all of God’s gifts.
Ben Dake took his seminary training at
New College, the University of Edinburgh.
He is a trustee of the Presbytery of the Cascades
and on the Board of Directors of Ecumenical
Ministries of Oregon. He has
served the church he writes about for eighteen
years. The proud
father of two daughters,
he enjoys climbing
mountains, most
recently summiting
Cerro Aconcagua in
Argentina.
If asked why the session made the decision
to do what they did, in spite of the conflict
and threat of loss, I would have to say,
retrospectively, they did it for the children. Second Edition
by Chris Glaser
14 Open Hands
When I first met my partner, Tammy Lindahl, she was
a Presbyterian minister serving three small churches
near a town of 1,000 in South Central Missouri. I
was in the ministry, too, serving two churches in the neighboring
county. People who were “different” were not well
tolerated in this area; the Ku Klux Klan and white supremacist
survivalist groups still thrive there at the edge of the Ozark
Mountains. The fact that Tammy and I met at all and were
able to come out to each other in such a place just proves that
“the Lord works in mysterious ways.”
Like most small towns, everyone around us knew everyone’s
business, including ours. The woman who lived across the
street from Tammy often could be seen surveying the block
with a pair of binoculars stuck under her living room blinds.
To afford ourselves some privacy Tammy and I established a
“100 mile rule”: if we wanted to see a movie or go out to
dinner together we would choose a theater or restaurant in a
larger town at least 100 miles away from home. Two years
after we met, we carried this rule over to our Holy Union service,
celebrating it in a Presbyterian church near Kansas City.
Even this remote site didn’t feel completely safe, however, so
before we began the service we taped construction paper over
the windows to prevent anyone from looking in.
The Shower of Stoles begun by Martha Juillerat and Tammy Lindahl is an ingathering of
ordination stoles that ecumenically celebrates the ministries of LGBT folk and their allies.
The only grocery store in this town is marked by a
large wooden cross, its white paint peeling in chunks
that scatter across the parking lot: “Christian Discount”
inscribed in black. I wonder if I could get this
discount or if I want to.
You judge a Christian by the number of tires on his
truck, how many kids he’s got rolling around his trailer,
and the thirteen stars that form an X on his t-shirt.
You like my necklace. I finger the colored beads
as you say this, knowing that for you my rainbow is a
symbol of God’s promise of redemption after the
cleansing flood. I close my eyes and thank God for
putting a couple of lesbians on that ark.
—Words painted on an anonymous stole from rural Ohio
From a gay ordained minister:
“To my beloved parishioners:
You turn to me for comfort
with your hurts,
your fears,
your needs.
I give until I am drained.
I hurt, I fear, I need.
I turn for comfort
to my life partner.
I am strengthened,
renewed, refreshed,
to serve you once more.
If you knew of our love,
you would reject me.
I couldn’t be with you for
your hurts,
your fears,
your needs.
What would Jesus want?”
—A minister serving a small town church in the Great Plains
Spring 2001 15
Serving five churches between us while maintaining a carefully
choreographed life in the closet began to wear on us. We
often felt that we were living under a magnifying glass, and
we began to question whether we could stay in our small town.
This conversation was particularly difficult for Tammy, who
had grown up on a dairy farm and envisioned living in rural
America forever. But as time went on, we looked more and
more towards larger cities for safe space, welcoming churches,
and a community of support.
I am a clergy person beginning my ministry in the state
of Wyoming. I have sacrificed a piece of my life by
answering God’s Call to be in ministry in the United
Methodist Church. This sacrifice is living in a small faith
community where it is assumed I am heterosexual,
knowing full well I cannot freely pick my friends or fall
in love when that opportunity arises.
—From the stole of an anonymous gay minister
Although we knew of a few other gay and lesbian folks
living in the county, they tended to keep very quiet about
their lives and were the constant subject of snide remarks by
folks in town. They also didn’t go to church; there wasn’t a
church for many miles (including our own) that would have
welcomed and affirmed them. Although a few of our parishioners
must have suspected that we were more than just “roommates,”
and at least one couple made a point of inviting me
along whenever Tammy joined them for dinner, the truth remained
unspoken. We longed for affirmation, to be able to
share our whole lives— our anniversaries, our home, and our
vacation photos— with people who could share our joy.
I am currently serving as a pastor of a church. I am quite
certain that most of the members know that I am lesbian.
Still, we continue to tip-toe around the question of
identifying who I am. As a pastor, it sometimes feels as
if I am crossing a bridge to meet someone and, just as we
are about to embrace in the middle of the bridge, the
center falls away…
—From a letter sent to us by an
anonymous lesbian minister
Eventually Tammy and I decided that if we were truly to be
free— to be completely invested in our church and community
as “out” lesbians— we were going to have to give up our
parishes and our small town life. Reflecting on this decision
Tammy said, “The things I loved most about small towns made
it impossible to stay: the close-knit community, knowing what
everyone’s up to. I worried about someone seeing something
in the mail because the letter carrier always looked through
the mail and knew what you were up to. Letter carriers just do
that in small towns. I worried that someone might see a gay
newspaper or something in my car, because people in small
towns have a habit of glancing inside cars as they walk by.”
We have many friends who continue to thrive in rural communities
throughout the country. I think of our friend Carol.
She now lives with her partner in a small town in the southeast.
They own a successful business and have a few good
friends in the area. But the one piece missing from their lives,
as with so many gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender people
in rural areas, is the church. In the end, this was the most
important piece missing from our lives, and the thing that
finally led us away to the city.
What can make the difference in a small town?
•One “straight ally” can make an enormous difference. Although
your church may not be a welcoming place, you
can create a safe space of your own. Come out as an ally.
Use the words gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender in
your church, at a school board meeting, with your friends.
Be a friend to someone who has a GLBT child.
•Be willing to take risks to stir up the status quo. Don’t tolerate
gay jokes or derogatory remarks. Counter stereotypes
with the truth. Remember that homophobia persists when
it goes unchallenged.
•Network with other supportive people in your area. While
you may be alone in your church or even your town, there
may be many others in the county or neighboring towns
who would welcome the opportunity to meet and work
with like-minded people. Be willing to advertise your network
and make your presence known in the area.
•Finally, whether you are gay or straight, find ways to keep
your faith and your spirit alive. Create intentional spiritual
community, long-distance if necessary. Start an on-line
prayer circle, reading group, or even a virtual “house
church.” If there is a welcoming church in a nearby city,
create a partnership with this church through periodic activities
that might draw in other rural folk. Network with
national welcoming church movements. Most important,
feed your spirit through personal study and prayer.
Speak the truth.
Speak the truth.
Speak the truth. Please.
Your friend in Christ.
—Anonymous
Martha Juillerat travels the
country with displays of the
Shower of Stoles Project, which has
collected 800 stoles from 16 denominations
and five countries.
There were 96 displays across
North America during the past
year. Visit the Project’s website
(www.showerofstoles.com).
Schedule a display of stoles (either
a portion or the entire collection)
by e-mailing StoleProj@aol.com
16 Open Hands
Acongregation member asks me, “Bishop, this is a small
town. We know that there are homosexual people here.
Some of them are our friends, some not. How can our
church share the gospel with them, welcome them? It’s all so
controversial!”
Christians have always faced tough questions. In smaller
towns and rural areas, as in the whole country, questions about
welcoming homosexual people bring challenging conversations
to families, friends, congregations, and communities.
Congregations sometimes struggle to welcome their own
members and those who are not members. The rural context
has an impact on these conversations. Community strengths
often include a problematic aspect.
In small towns, we know each other well but often not
quite so well as we think. In many ways we remain strangers
to one another because in rural communities one works hard
to protect his or her privacy. Thus, we may make false assumptions,
such as assuming there are no gay or lesbian people
in our congregation because we cannot name any.
There is a “sanctified gossip” that helps us be aware of one
another and care for one another. But, gossip’s darker form
builds walls that are strong, though often not openly
acknowledged.
In small towns there are intricate networks of relationships.
The people with whom we worship almost always are linked
to us in several additional ways— as neighbors, co-workers, customers,
competitors, relatives, classmates, distant in-laws, etc.
These networks of relationships are essential to the functioning
of the community and to one’s comfort in it, so each must
be respected. Thus, one can never converse just as a church
member or make a decision as though it affected only the
congregation. One also has all the other connections to consider.
These multiple links often make us more compassionate
and foster at least some tolerance among us, but they may
also make us dangerously cautious and keep us from being
candid.
These community networks are all at least partially closed.
That keeps them predictable and functional. It takes small town
and rural folk a while to integrate newcomers, sometimes a
long while. This caution has helped our communities and
cultures stay strong for generations, but it is also an obstacle
to receiving the gifts an outsider brings. If the newcomer is
different in some way— he or she is gay, doesn’t speak English
well, isn’t ostensibly Christian— the welcoming can take even
longer. On the other hand, almost every small Christian community
has a deep sense that newcomers are to be welcomed
and received. Welcoming is a commitment intrinsic to our
identity, but we move carefully.
In small towns, our conversations about big matters are
seldom abstract. Almost always we see the question through
the lens of knowing particular people and knowing their places
in the community networks. Discussions will be filled with
anecdotes and aphorisms, the accumulated wisdom and grace
of the community. This may seem strange to people accustomed
to dispassionate academic debates and literate discussion,
but it is the main way we can do things in small towns.
And, it is good. This tendency always to keep real people in
mind helps us be faithful in our conversations.
Shared Assumptions
When we talk about matters relating to our gay and
lesbian friends, family members, neighbors and strangers,
we Christians will not agree on answers to tough questions.
However, I believe we can and should agree on some
shared assumptions and on some approaches to our conversations
on these matters. First, the assumptions:
•God’s love is for every person.
•All the baptized are brought into the church of Christ.
•Christians have not always treated one another with love
and respect. Relations between heterosexual Christians and
homosexual Christians offer many examples of these
failings.
•All people are sinners for whom Christ died.
•Scripture and the church’s teachings are the guiding norms
as we discuss our experiences and understandings.
Approaches to Conversation
As members of God’s family, we need to talk about homosexuality
and about our responses. The conversations will continue
to be hard, but as Christians we have ways to make them
possible. I believe that the following approaches can help us
talk and live faithfully with one another:
Begin with repentance: In small towns, we usually know some
of the sins of every other person! It is tempting to assume the
position of virtue and want to talk only about the sins we see
Spring 2001 17
in others. It is more faithful for each of us to acknowledge to
ourselves and others that we all come to every discussion as
sinners. Whether we are gay or straight, bisexual or transgender,
our sexuality is infected by sin. Sin also infects our
ability to think, to understand the Bible, to express ourselves,
to forgive, to hope. Repentant, we can live in God’s forgiveness
and draw on the Spirit’s guidance, courage and persistence.
Watch your language: Language can serve or undermine
Christian purposes. As parents of a beloved gay daughter,
Nancy and I are often made uncomfortable when someone
makes a joke about homosexuals or uses a harsh stereotype.
Such language is hard for us to hear but far worse for our
daughter Christa who may instantly feel unwelcome, even
unsafe. Similarly, words like “homophobic” can become weapons
of disrespect that exclude and reject, stopping conversation.
In a small town with its webs of relationship, random
comments, even those overheard, can damage many relationships
and damage them for a long time. Many lesbian and gay
young people have left their rural hometowns for places that
seem safer. Often a major factor in their decision is the careless
comments and vulgar jokes that made them know they
were unwelcome or deemed strange. Perhaps the comments
were not even directed against them personally, but the words
were sharp swords, cutting them off from their community.
Such careless and unloving language should not be used
or tolerated by Christians in public or private, in the church
or out. It weakens Christian community and conversation and
it undermines faith. We can bridle our own tongues, object
when others mis-speak, and teach children and youth to use
respectful language for all God’s people. It will be necessary
to talk explicitly about language that speaks harshly of homosexual
people and about language that speaks dismissively of
those who may be seen as hostile. In Christ, we owe one another
respect even though we may not accept another’s opinions
or actions.
Conversely, in preaching, teaching and ordinary speaking
we can remember to include gay and straight people in our
lists of grace. We can name gay and lesbian people among our
examples of those God loves, of those facing challenges, of
those serving God, of people we know and care about.
Speak the invitation and act on it: General invitations to be
part of a congregation or a particular church activity are always
less effective than personal, specific invitations. This is
even more true when inviting people who know they are part
of a group that is often unwelcome. So, when you know a gay
man, invite him to worship with you. When you know a lesbian
woman, ask her to come to the church supper. When
one of your high school classmates is being shunned because
kids suspect he’s gay, ask him to sit with you and your friends
at lunch and join you for the youth Bible study. It can be
welcoming to see an announcement in the local paper that
the adult class will discuss Christian hospitality to homosexuals.
Congregations can seek out the gifts of their lesbian and
gay members and encourage their use for Christ’s mission. Of
course, it is a strong welcome to become an officially “welcoming”
congregation, as in the welcoming programs from
the variety of denominations that sponsor Open Hands. Christ
breaks down dividing walls and invites us to do the same.
Study the Bible: It is obvious and important that the Scriptures
have a central place in our conversations. This acceptance
of the Bible is in church constitutions and confessions,
but it is also personal and deeply ingrained in most of us.
I am convinced we will not have good discussions or change
any minds if we do not take seriously the whole witness of
Scripture. The Bible has much to say about human relationships
and sexuality. It celebrates marriage between a man and
a woman and warns against divorce and other abuses of that
gift. There are no references to homosexuality as an orientation.
However, there are verses where specific types of samesex
behavior or associated actions are condemned as sinful
(e.g., prostitution, pedophilia). In Romans 1, same-sex behavior
is mentioned as an evidence for the sinfulness of all humanity.
The Bible also overflows with the conviction that God’s
love is for all people, that all are sinful, that there is no hierarchy
of sins, and that God surprises the church with the inclusiveness
of Christ’s love and its human manifestations. We
must hear all of these texts and hear them in their biblical and
historical contexts.
We who are Lutheran understand the Scriptures to be God’s
living Word, meant to be interpreted and proclaimed evangelically,
graciously. The Bible is always more than the sum
total of its stories and statements. It is God’s effective tool for
bringing new life to every person. Thus, we dare not assume
that we have already grasped everything the Bible says to us as
we live together as straight and gay Christians. We dare not
use Bible verses as loveless weapons to destroy or exclude those
for whom Christ died. So we study and listen and speak graciously.
Talk together about Christian living: A Christian never works
in isolation to interpret God’s Word for himself or herself.
We need each other. Each of us, gay or straight, needs other
believers for deep conversation and counsel about Christian
living. These soul friends help us struggle for clarity about
Law and Gospel in our own lives. You can be such a friend
and you can seek such friends. Always, it is important that
soul friends maintain confidentiality. This respect and trust is
doubly essential in rural communities where there are many
interlocking connections.
The church of Christ should never lightly change its interpretations
of Scripture or its teaching and moral guidance.
Nevertheless, we always need to be in conversation about how
to understand Scripture for our own time and our individual
lives. And, we know the church has sometimes changed its
understandings when Christ has led us to new insights. One
may strongly believe that the church will not change what it
says about homosexuality. Nevertheless, a Christian will come
to the discussion in humility before the living Word. Congregations
can design discussions that model both acceptance of
the church’s norms and willingness to hear the experiences
and insights of many. These gatherings should intentionally
include homosexual people and people who care about them.
If you are not sure who might be asked in your small congre18
Open Hands
II knew it would be a good conference. I just never dreamed
it would be so much fun. With great satisfaction and a
huge sigh of relief, I tucked myself in bed and had my
first good night’s sleep in months. The bishop had come after
all. Picketers didn’t. No one stomped off in rage. The planning
team was relaxed and happy. We had enough money.
Best of all, people actually came! “Gay and Christian: Bringing
the Conversation Home to Rural America” was over. That
is, the conference was over. The conversation, we knew, had
to continue. Planners and participants could only hope that it
would continue with the passion, thoughtfulness, and joy we
had come to know over the previous four days together.
A little over 100 people gathered in Missoula, Montana, in
June of 1999 for this venture— a brave and lively bunch: two
Lutheran bishops, college students, a few pastors of various
stripes (one of them had been outed and defrocked), church
musicians, university professors, youth workers, moms and
dads, church ladies, a transgender Vietnam vet, a non-Christian
straight person who didn’t quite know why she came,
Californians (graciously ignoring “Don’t Californicate Montana”
bumper stickers), Midwesterners, and a wonderfully
supportive gaggle of gay and lesbian locals. The money and
institutional support came through Lutheran channels: the
gation, there are good resources on tape and in print that can
give you first-person stories from gay and lesbian Christians
and those who care about them.
Accept the journey,
be honest about differences
There is no consensus about homosexuality in our society
nor in most of our churches today. Rural communities
and congregations have the same spectrum of opinions as the
rest of American and Canadian culture. We differ, but homosexuality
is not a theoretical problem waiting for one brilliant
sermon or an inspired compromise. Rather, we are all finding
our way as people for whom Christ died. We are talking about
the attitudes, perceptions and relationships of forgiven sinners.
Perhaps in small towns and congregations we have the
best possible context for acknowledging this and having a truly
welcoming conversation.
I have not intended here to give final answers to the questions
facing the church. It seems God is asking us to wrestle
longer. I urge congregations and church bodies not to take
actions now that will deepen the divisions among us. The
divisions are already sharp and painful. Instead, let us be patient
with one another and acknowledge our differences on
thoughts, actions, and policies. Let us together seek God’s reconciling
guidance. We are on a journey.
It is not clear where this road will lead us, but we know
whom we follow and to whom we all belong. Let us use often
the old prayer,
Lord, you have called your servants to ventures of which we
cannot see the ending, by paths as yet untrodden, through
perils unknown. Give us faith to go out with good courage,
not knowing where we go but only that your hand is leading
us and your love supporting us, through Jesus Christ our
Lord. Amen.
Stanley N. Olson serves as Bishop of the Southwestern
Minnesota Synod of the Evangelical
Lutheran Church in America. This article, written
at the invitation of Open Hands, will also
be published in briefer form in the March, 2001
Southwestern Minnesota Synod News.
Philip N. Knutson Endowment, the Northern Rockies Institute
of Theology, and Lutheran Campus Ministry at the University
of Montana. Yet Christians of differing denominational
orientations came and spoke.
The planning team had envisioned this conversation around
a very big table, where scholars, experts, rural gay and lesbian
people and their families, and church leaders would learn from
each other— all to help the church become more hospitable
and safe for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender (GLBT)
people. After all, our Evangelical Lutheran Church in America
(ELCA) bishops had issued a charge: “Our congregations should
reflect our Lord’s invitation to all by being safe places for those
who are persecuted or harassed in our society. We repudiate
all words and acts of hatred toward gay and lesbian persons in
our congregations and in our communities, and extend a caring
welcome for gay and lesbian persons and their families”
(March, 1996). We wanted to make it real for us in the towns
and cities of the rural west. But we knew it would be tough,
because most of our churches were mute.
The conference had outstanding leadership: New Testament
scholar Dr. Arland Hultgren (Luther Seminary, St. Paul), moral
theologian Dr. Patricia Beatty Jung (Loyola University, Chicago),
author Will Fellows (Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men from
Spring 2001 19
The planning team celebrates: Pastors Carl Rohr and Jessica
Crist, student Perryn Pomatto, psychotherapist Andy Laue,
Pastor Jean Larson-Hurd, student Steve Jerbi.
Information on applying for a grant from the
Philip N. Knutson Endowment is available from
Lutheran Campus Ministry,
8765 West Higgins Road, Chicago, IL 60631.
the Rural Midwest, of Madison, Wisconsin), and singer, worship
leader, community-builder Judy Fjell (directing Honey
Pie Music in Big Timber, Montana). Workshops on becoming
a welcoming congregation, parenting GLBT kids, being a GLBT
youth, a social-cultural history of homosexuality, plus smallgroup
conversations with the speakers gave us plenty to digest.
Some fine preaching by Pastor Arne Bergland (now in
Spanaway, Washington) and Bishop Paul Egertson (ELCA
Southern California West Synod) gave us hope. A gay man
was astonished to hear Patricia, a Roman Catholic, make a
stronger case for the blessings of same-sex unions than he
would. Arland was gently effective in teaching how the Bible’s
seven “bullet” texts on homosexuality really don’t address
committed, consensual sexual relationships. And the rural folks
nodded knowingly when Will Fellows spoke of the isolating
effects of not having a strong and visible gay community for
support—but also of the satisfactions of rural life which avoid
some of the pitfalls of big city gay culture. After all, small
towns know their sons and daughters, and sometimes they
know them so well that fears or discomfort with sexual orientation,
known or suspected, can’t hold a candle to longstanding
community ties.
Missing in Conversation
However, with Matthew Shepard’s death not far behind
us, and certainly not far from us in neighboring Wyoming,
we all knew what was at stake. Some people didn’t come
to the conference because they were afraid— parents of gay
and lesbian adult children so anxious about what their smalltown
neighbors and pastors would think or say or do that
they were in the closet, too. Nevertheless, with each speaker,
each prayer, each song, we began to relax and trust and soon
we knew: this was a blessed event.
It was all the worse, then, that part of the conversation
didn’t happen at all. (If it had been a mediocre event, the
missing participants wouldn’t have missed much. But they
missed such good stuff!) The planners had hoped that smalltown
pastors would come and learn and be encouraged. But
none of them showed up—not a one who wasn’t already part
of the program. Was it fear, lack of interest, hostility? Sure. A
young man in his first call whose brother is gay sadly decided
he couldn’t come. He was too new and he feared his congregation
would eat him for lunch. Another pastor tried to punish
Lutheran Campus Ministry financially for its sponsorship.
It didn’t work. (With remaining funds though, we did mail all
Montana ELCA pastors the presenters’ tapes.)
So, our hope to gather in the rural clergy fell on its face.
Another conference, another time. Nor did we have any outright
opponents, so those conversations didn’t happen, either.
But the Spirit was afoot and we all learned a lot and several
church members were planning to work on their congregations
from the ground up.
The sweetest surprise of all, though, was in the sharing of
stories, because through them, through brave public responses
to speakers and informal conversation alike, we became
church—safe, funny, singing church— for in- and out-GLBT
people and their supporters. “Worshiping together was wonderful!
Being able to BE who I am as a person of faith who is
not out in my congregation was a very affirming experience,”
said one woman. Another said, “I was looking for help for our
church to become reconciling. Not only did the conference
help with that, I got a great sense of the spirit moving the
church in this direction.”
And Saturday night’s barbecue, in the glorious twilight of a
Montana summer evening, surrounded by flowers and greens
and wondrous food and a new community—well, that was
church, too. We might have been preaching to the choir, but
as Pastor Jessica Crist noted, “the choir can use some good
preaching now and again.”
“Gay and Christian” couldn’t have happened without the
generous spirit of Pastor Philip Knutson. Phil served the
Lutheran campus ministry community for many years with
creativity, courage, and humor, despite his struggle as a gay man
in the church, and later as one who lived with AIDS. Before
his death he established the Philip N. Knutson Endowment for
the purpose of funding conferences related to big issues facing
Christians in higher education. And get this: at least every
four years the endowment is required to fund a conference on
sexuality. With Phil’s generous heart, the conversation can
continue. With all our unfinished business, it must.
Jean Larson-Hurd is Lutheran campus pastor
at the University of Montana in Missoula. She
received an M.Div. from Yale Divinity School,
an M.Th. from Luther Seminary, and is currently
on sabbatical as a Merrill Fellow at
Harvard Divinity School, catching up on recent
developments in feminist theology.
20 Open Hands
Back in the ’70s, it was easy to
imagine a gay person fantasizing
that “life would be better if
only I were in The Castro or The Village”—
especially if that person were on
a farm or in a small town. For proof,
think only of your annual visit to the
Gale farm and Dorothy wishing to be
happy “somewhere over the rainbow.”
Significantly, her journey from farm to
Oz and back offers contemporary lessons
to the American church seeking
postmodern ministries that welcome all
people regardless of sexual orientation
or residence.
Over the rainbow, it’s clear that location
is not determining. You can take
the girl out of the country, but you can’t
take the country out of the girl. In Sam
Shepard’s Curse of the Starving Class,
mother Ella tells daughter Emma of a
plan to escape their unpleasant family
life by relocating to a better location.
Emma: You mean just you, me and
Wes are going to Europe? That
sounds awful.
Ella: Why? What’s so awful about
that? It could be a vacation.
Emma: It’d be the same as it is here.
Ella: No it wouldn’t! We’d be in
Europe. A whole new place.
Emma: But we’d all be the same
people.
Ella’s misguided fantasy is so common
that counselors and therapists call
it the “geographic solution.” Suspicious
as Emma, they learned Dorothy’s lesson:
trouble and evil are everywhere,
whether as Miss Gulch or the Wicked
Witch of the West. While Shepard’s
characters are always dreaming of a better
life somewhere else, sexual minorities
long fantasized a better life in San
Francisco or Chicago or Manhattan (New
York— not Kansas). The trouble, as Ella
knows, is that you’re still you— only you’re
in a bigger, more expensive place.
Wherever you live life’s adventures,
you experience loss and wounds that
need healing. Dorothy loses Toto, her
Kansas farm home, her dream of returning
home, and her sense of security to
the sporadic terror of the Wicked Witch.
Like so many American pop-culture
heroes, she has lost her parents and lives
as an orphan with her Aunt Em and
Uncle Henry. When her hopes of returning
to them in Kansas are dashed by the
escaping balloon, the Tin Man touchingly
weeps with Dorothy at her sadness.
To prevent him from rusting, Dorothy
dries his tears until he’s done crying with
her. Both are wounded by life’s disappointing
losses and shared dreams, and
each embodies to the other Henri
Nouwen’s idea of the wounded healer.
Reconciling is nothing if not a
ministry in which dreams are shared
along with wounding losses— accepting
grief and tears while preventing sadness
from inflicting additional pain. Dorothy
doesn’t tell Tin Man he’s “co-dependent”
or “enmeshed.” She doesn’t teach
him to be empathetic instead of sympathetic.
She doesn’t tell him to toughenup
and get over it. No. She lets him feel
a consequence of being on the journey
together, each sharing a grand dream
of a heart and a home.
While the specter of malevolent evil
terrorizes Dorothy, she is perhaps most
wounded by the one at the heart of The
City in whom everyone advised her to
place complete trust. In the film’s final
scene, though, Professor Marvel/The
Wizard is among the extended Gale
family on the farm— each person now
revealed as a human with limitations,
yet none the target of Dorothy’s anger
for the pain she’s endured. Consider
that this climactic forgiveness occurs
only because others helped acknowledge
and heal her wounds along the way.
Dorothy’s return home isn’t merely
a psychological lesson about one girl
obtaining insight; it teaches us that
whatever is There and Here is ultimately
and fundamentally the same. When we
focus on “the farm,” then, we should
expect to discover primarily aspects of
ourselves that urbocentric logic (thinking
and operating from the perspective of
a city with an international airport) leads
us to ignore in our models of ministry.
Avoiding a
City/Farm Dichotomy
In Will Fellows’ book Farm Boys, gay
men from rural America:
…describe how they perceived and
responded to a variety of conditions
that existed in many of the farm
communities and families of their
boyhoods: rigid gender roles, social
isolation, ethnic homogeneity, suspicion
of the unfamiliar, racism,
religious conservatism, sexual prudishness,
and limited access to information.
While none of these conditions
is unique to farm culture, they
operate in a distinctive synergy in
that setting. (Fellows, p. ix.)
The stunning thing is that it’s impossible
to specify the “distinctive synergy” that
makes those factors “rural,” and that’s the
takeaway message in Fellows’ postscript:
“Really, these stories are all of our
stories,” said a gay man who grew
up Jewish in Chicago. A man in Minneapolis
said the experiences of gay
farm boys resonated with his ethnic
urban upbringing. It has become
evident to me that, except for the
often greater social isolation of farm
life, city boys growing up gay in
tightly knit ethnic communities have
much in common with these farm
boys. (Fellows, p. 318.)
Instead of thinking with urbocentric
logic of city/farm, we would be wiser
to think of [1] people living in insulated
communities, [2] minorities within
those communities, and [3] those migrating
Dorothies seeking happiness
somewhere. Ministries for all people
must therefore shift focus from zip
codes to each person’s sense of comSpring
2001 21
munity and belonging: making sense of
the world from the other person’s perspective,
paying attention, and dedicating
effort to the other person’s wounds
and desires.
Urbocentric logic is prone to assert
that The Farm exists, partly because focusing
on location justifies our refusal
to focus on people and on the variety of
actual farms. In the postmodern culture
of global capitalism and corporate farming,
the monolithic notion of The Farm
is increasingly false and nostalgic. Visit
someplace like Garden City, Kansas and
you won’t see the county seat of family
farms from decades past; you’ll see the
huge ConAgra hog farm and immigrant
labor shipping pork to the Safeway in
the Castro and the Publix in South
Beach, faithfully lining-up at Dillon’s
customer service counter every payday
to wire money home to their families
in Mexico. Perhaps we imagine American
farms from The Wizard of Oz or
Places in the Heart, but the reality is the
pretext for Field of Dreams—an impressively
slick film because it makes Americans
feel good about the corporate takeover
of the family farm by shrouding it
in the religion of baseball and fatherson
sports bonding with women far in
the background.
Minus that baseball miracle, The
Farm is bankrupt and we’re left with the
reality that capitalism is systematically
transforming American culture. Fellows
notes the rapidity of technological
change. As gas-powered tractors and
rural electrification enabled greater
mechanization and efficiency (1920s-
1950s), fewer farmers were needed. Farm
size, wealth, and machinery grew to
meet the needs of urban markets; small
farms and tight-knit, neighborly communities
began to disappear. One “farm
boy” from southeast Nebraska said that:
…Where I was raised, the old patterns
of farming are disappearing year by
year. You don’t see nearly as much
pasture and livestock. All you see is
corn and soybeans anymore. I don’t
like the direction that farming has
taken, the increased industrialization
and reliance on corporate power and
corporate structure. Bigger farms
might mean more production, but
the cost in human lives is far too
great to be a good thing. We’ve lost
a lot of the independence of small
communities. For the most part, they
continue on a blind descent into
some kind of modern hell. The patterns
of rural life have disintegrated
into a cheap imitation of suburban
life. The kids are involved in the
same shit that the urban and suburban
kids are. They don’t have much
of a sense of community anymore.
They lose their grocery store, they become
just a collection of old people
living off what years they have left
and wondering what their kids are
up to a thousand miles away. There’s
a center of life that has disappeared,
and I’m not sure what anybody can
do about it anymore. (Fellows, p. 168.)
Postmodern ministries that welcome
all people— regardless of sexual orientation—
need to hear this guy’s sense of
loss and discomfort with the suburbanization
of rural America because he
speaks for many, many people. Our
ministries must fundamentally attend
to the losses, wounds, and quest for
wholeness in others— something we
were never very adept at, and now we’re
obliged to do it regardless of residence.
Toto, We’re Not in
Kansas Anymore
Our ministries must anticipate the
multiple losses of those in agricultural
areas whose ways are becoming
increasingly outmoded, and whose
dominant experience (like Dorothy) is
one of loss. It’s more than daughters and
sons who leave for college and never
return. It’s the awareness that your town
is dying, its autonomy yielding to the
life-support of “regional communities”
and regional institutions. It’s the guilt
of shopping at WalMart, knowing
you’re killing Main Street. It’s the erosion
of “community values” because everybody
has cable, commutes to The
City, and increasingly has access to the
world via the internet. It’s the advent
of segregation-as-a-problem in rural
America now that Latinos are doing the
work. For 52% of students in Dodge City
public schools, English is not their first
language. With cultural diversity, theological
hegemony crumbles.
There is a pervasive sense of loss and
grief throughout the land, though it’s
sometimes masked by fervent nostalgia
to “take America back,” albeit to “the
way we (never) were.” Many opponents
of welcoming ministries operate from
this sense of loss and grief. Reconciling
ministries that are true to their calling
must care for those complex wounds,
heal those losses and love those communities
in pain. It doesn’t matter if you
disagree with their pain; if pain is their
dominant experience, it is all they know
and you must minister to it.
Our ministries must also anticipate the
reverse migration of “ex-rural” lesbians
and gays who flocked to urban gay ghettoes
and now return to “the midwest”—
which is apparently anyplace “far” from an
international airport. The trend has already
started, so look for it in towns near you.
The Dallas Morning News reported
the phenomenon in May 1999 rather
positively under the headline “Out in
the Country.” So accustomed were we
to thinking homosexuals were dependent
on The City that the subhead trumpeted
the real news: “more gays and lesbians
are feeling at home away from the
big cities.” After 13 months, the Advocate
acknowledged the trend, borrowed Dallas’
headline, but changed the subhead
to send a different message to predominantly
gay readers: “life in rural areas
can still be dangerous for gay men and
lesbians, but it’s not without its rewards.”
For those— like the Advocate—heavily
invested in the urban gay ghetto, reverse
migration signifies a triumph of the gay
liberation movement of the past 30
years, yet registers as dissolution of the
insular gay community and its clout.
Ironically, it will register as the same
loss that small towns have known for a
century, except among urbanites who
believe they share nothing with those
beyond The City. Embarrassingly for
them, The City will find its best emotional
ally in farm folks it has often disregarded,
though it will often shield its
awkwardness at that unexpected intimacy
through defense mechanisms
(like alerting us to the dangers beyond
The City). Like Michelangelo Signorile,
who tells all queers to come out of the
closet unless “trapped in a homophobic
town or a rough city neighborhood
where they beat up on queers” (Queer
in America, p. 363.), we shouldn’t focus
so much on geography, but on the ignored
losses, unhealed wounds, and
22 Open Hands
unaffirmed lives that fuel the tension and
violence between straights and gays,
between The City and Everywhere Else.
Families and Capitalism
My Reconciling group in Kansas
hosts a video series every year.
Typically, we include films that represent
sexual minorities, church, and society.
Unlike older films like Mass Appeal
and Priest, newer films like Beautiful
Thing, The Truth About Jane, and In the
Gloaming teach us that families are the
primary site of cultural change when it
comes to welcoming sexual minorities.
Today’s films teach American culture that
the church is irrelevant in the area of ministering
to the human and communal
emotions surrounding sexual fulfillment
and belonging. Family, though,
is a vexing thing in America precisely
because, in the view of John D’Emilio:
…The relationship between capitalism
and the family is fundamentally
contradictory. On the one hand, capitalism
continually weakens the material
foundation of family life, making
it possible for individuals to live outside
the family, and for a lesbian and
gay male identity to develop. On the
other, it needs to push men and
women into families, at least long
enough to reproduce the next generation
of workers. The elevation of
the family to ideological pre-eminence
guarantees that capitalist society
will reproduce not just children,
but heterosexism and homophobia. In
the most profound sense, capitalism
is the problem. (D’Emilio, p. 474,
“Capitalism and Gay Identity.” See
full citation at the end of the article.)
Ideologically, capitalism drives
people into heterosexual families; each
generation comes of age having internalized
a heterosexist model of intimacy
and personal relationships. Materially,
capitalism weakens the bonds that once
kept families together so that their
members experience a growing instability
in the place they have come to
expect happiness and emotional security.
Thus, while capitalism has knocked
the material foundation away from family
life, lesbians, gay men, and heterosexual
feminists have become the scapegoats
for the social instability of the
system. (D’Emilio, p. 473.)
Some scholars date the American
advent of postmodernism and global
capitalism to 1973, which coincides
nicely with urban gay liberation movements
and reactionary church efforts to
re-enslave us. Similarly, pop culture responded
to the terror of post-national
global realities (like OPEC influencing
gas prices), which are implicitly to
blame for any difficult reality that follows
them, with the nationalist nostalgia
of American Graffiti, Laverne & Shirley
and Happy Days—life before the ’60s. In
so many ways, we revel in romanticism,
nostalgia, and scapegoating in order to
deflect any critique of our economic
choices that create the instability we
fundamentally dislike.
Reconciling City and Farm
We can experience cultural instability
on the farm, in the city, or
in the suburbs which increasingly overtake
the entire country. We embody
welcoming ministries when we acknowledge
the varied ways that instability
wounds, in the process welcoming
each person regardless of where they
call home or their sexual orientation.
Dorothy triumphed not by attacking
her enemy, but by embodying compassion
to a flaming Scarecrow and attending
to his immediate wounds, only
accidentally melting evil away.* As
boundaries continue to erode between
city and farm, ministry must involve
seeing the world from The Other’s perspective,
and ultimately by engaging
The Others as if they were Me. The more
that urbocentric logic indoctrinates us,
the more difficult it will be to see the
world from The Farm, to set aside our
urban concerns for wounds from smaller
places a continent wide.
It is already so. The reverse migration
of lesbians and gays into the
heartland marks a deconstruction of the
city/farm opposition. Deconstruction
teaches that, in any oppositional pair,
the first term is privileged and does violence
against the second term— even
when that term is unspoken and merely
implied as in our movement’s urbocentric
focus. Deconstruction tells it the
way it is, reminding us that— wherever
we live— thinking with The City does
violence to The Farm as surely as
straight culture does violence to gay
cultures. The advent of this “farm edition”
of Open Hands some 30 years into
the gay liberation/welcoming church
movement exposes the fundamental
urbocentrism of that American movement,
signals the end times of The City’s
hegemony, and hints at what must
eventually become an act of confession
and contrition for our own apartheid.
Reverse migration will also stage reunions
for small town America like the
one in Jesus’ parable of the so-called
“prodigal,” elder sibling, and welcoming
parent with welcoming people,
morally-indignant people who stayed
responsibly put, and the sexual exile
now returning successfully and proudly
home. Will there be complete welcome?
Or resentment about comparative
mobility and success, about dreams
pursued and dreams deferred, about the
inexorable suburbanization of America
we all experience amid the global
economy and global culture? You need
not look Somewhere Else—to Sherman,
Texas or Burlington, Kansas or Alpine,
Arizona— to answer these questions. Like
Dorothy, look in your own backyard for
the way you and your community treat
the person from the Other Place.
Notes
*Ed. note: Remember when Dorothy threw
water on the Scarecrow, it hit the wicked
witch, who melted.
Dahir, Mubarik. “Out in the Country: Life
in rural areas can still be dangerous for gay
men and lesbians, but it’s not without its
rewards.” The Advocate, 20 June 00.
D’Emilio, John. “Capitalism and Gay Identity”
(467 - 476) in The Gay and Lesbian Studies
Reader (New York: Routledge, 1993.)
Fellows, Will. Farm Boys: Lives of Gay Men
from the Rural Midwest. (Madison: University
of Wisconsin Press, 1996.)
Precker, Michael. “Out in the Country: More
gays and lesbians are feeling at home away
from the big cities.” Dallas Morning News,
16 May 99.
Brian Watson lives in
Wichita, Kansas, thinks
all over the place, and
works with the Reconciling
Ministries Network
through Viceroy and
Reconciling Kansas. His
take on Field of Dreams is temporarily
on-line via http://community.webtv.net/
reconcilingkans/RK
Spring 2001 23
GOD
,
S APOLOGY
A short story set in the
South Dakota Badlands
Dayna Clay, a young bisexual woman recovering from major
depression, has been drawing strength and gaining insight from
the region—the South Dakota Badlands—to which she recently
relocated, as well as from a budding relationship with Kayla
Drake, a lesbian student at Black Hills State who grew up in the
area. Invited to accompany Kayla to a Sunday morning church
service, Dayna reluctantly accepts.
To her passenger’s surprise, Kayla steered not toward
town but in the opposite direction. Dayna glanced
back the other way. “We’re not going to that little
church in Interior?”
“Nope.” Kayla shifted gears. “An even smaller church in
an even smaller town.”
“Smaller town?” Dayna laughed. “That hardly seems
possible.”
Kayla accelerated. “You’ll see.” They rode for a while in
silence, the road twisting and turning with abandon; then,
her tone one of practiced nonchalance, Kayla spoke again.
“I take it you’re not much of a churchgoer.”
“You could say that.” Dayna rolled down her window: it
was shaping up into another
warm, if windy, late-October
day. “I do remember my last
time, though. Distinctly.” She
looked off toward some
faraway formations. “Didn’t
exactly make me want to join
the flock.”
“What happened?”
“A friend invited me. Kind
of…like today.” Dayna paused,
lost in thought.
“And?”
“And…and the minister,”
she continued, calling his
image to mind, “this tall, young guy— good-looking, I guess,
in a white-bread way— he had a little chalkboard up there
next to his whatchacallit, his…his lectern. And at some point
during his sermon, he walked over to it and wrote the word
PRAY, vertically, in capital letters. And then he said, ‘The
word itself tells you how to do it. P is for Praise: always
begin by praising the Lord. Next, R is for Repent: beg for His
forgiveness. A is for Anything else. And finally, after you’ve
done all of that, you may talk about Y: Yourself.’”
“Interesting,” Kayla said. “But kind of patronizing.”
“I was all of thirteen, and I felt talked down to. Oh, and
then he told us, ‘A lot of folks do it the other way around.
But those people aren’t PRAYing, are they? They’re YARPing!’”
Dayna shook her head. “He thought he was really
funny, really cute.”
“There is no ‘right’ way to pray,” Kayla said, her manner
diplomatic. “I mean, I’m sure a system like that works fine
for some, and if it does, more power to them. But there’s no
need to go…enforcing it on others.” She started to slow
down the car. “God meets us wherever we are.”
It was, as promised, a smaller town than Interior—so
small, in fact, that Dayna didn’t realize they were in it until
the vehicle had come to a complete stop. There were eight
buildings in all, none more than a story tall. The term “onehorse
town” came to mind, but the place appeared to be a
horse shy of qualifying. And as for the church, not only was
it minuscule— the size, roughly speaking, of a larger-thanaverage
work shed— but everything about it was abbreviated:
the door was barely taller than Dayna, the sole stained-glass
window was no bigger than an old LP album cover, and the
truncated symbol atop the
short, squat steeple looked
more like a plus sign than a
cross. Perhaps, Dayna thought,
that last detail was a good
omen; where organized
religion was concerned, she
was overdue for a positive
experience.
They entered the church,
sat down on the second of
three long benches and waited
while the room continued to
fill. The congregants greeted
one another with a kind of
restrained familiarity, though no one, Dayna noticed,
bothered to approach Kayla or her. Setting aside the
photocopied program— a single white sheet, folded in the
middle—Dayna looked up at the white candles, the velveton-
felt dove banner and the simple, wooden altar, and she
silently vowed to keep an open mind.
Soon the minister, a round-faced man of about fifty,
stepped up to the front and bid the twenty-some worshipers
welcome. He then led them in a “Call to Awareness,” an
Sustaining
the Spirit
An excerpt from Unplugged, a novel
Paul McComas
opening prayer and a hymn, sung a capella by
the choirless congregation. The hymn—
something about following in the footsteps of
Jesus— was pretty; if not for her sore throat,
Dayna would have joined right in. She relaxed
a bit. So far, so tolerable.
The pastor sat down, and a slightly younger
woman stood to read aloud three passages of
scripture. The first, from Psalms, was a kind of
fan letter to God, praising this, that, and the
other thing about the Almighty. But it was a
verse of a different nature early in the passage—
“My tears have been my food, day and night”—
that caught Dayna’s ear; reflecting, she heard
little else until the psalm had ended.
The second reading, from Paul’s epistle to
the Something-or-others, failed to impress; its
rhetorical structure was so confusing and its
syntax so convoluted that by the end, Dayna
was left wondering what, precisely, had been
said. The piece could have used a good editor.
The third and final reading, from Luke,
chronicled a rather poignant encounter
between Jesus and a naked, raving man
possessed by demons. Christ found the wretch
in a graveyard, “living amongst the tombs.”
When he asked the man his name, the demons,
speaking through their host, replied,
“My name is Legion, for we are many”— a nice
bit of writing, Dayna thought, divinely inspired
or not.
The story rang a bell; she had either heard
or read it somewhere before. More to the
point, she understood it, felt it. Dayna didn’t
believe in demons, but she certainly knew the experience of
being seized and tormented and robbed of her true self by
internal forces beyond her control. As the lector described
Christ’s successful effort to heal the man, Dayna picked up a
pencil, scrawled across her program the words MENTAL
ILLNESS? and showed it to Kayla, who considered it before
nodding in assent.
Another hymn was sung and an offering taken (Dayna
and Kayla each tossing a couple of bucks onto the plate),
and then the pastor began to preach. His style was quasicharismatic;
he didn’t pace— he hadn’t the room—but rather
stood in place, arms alive and fingers flying in earnest
accompaniment to his words. He spoke with such intensity
that he sometimes seemed to be shouting, although in
truth, not once did he raise his voice.
Expounding upon the passage from Luke, he stressed the
ability of “each and every one of us” to change, by the grace
of “God through Christ Jesus,” no matter “how far gone,
how damaged or despairing, how wayward, misguided or
lost.” As a few congregants began to chime in with the
occasional “Amen,” Dayna’s mind drifted yet again; staring
at the worn, planked floor, she contemplated the recent
changes in her own life….the healing and, yes, the grace that
she had received.
“The Lord provides us such a firm foundation that no
one is beyond hope, no problem beyond help. Through
Him, the alcoholic will put down his bottle and drink no
more; the addict will forsake his drugs and make pure his
body’s temple…”
But what was the source of this healing, this grace? Was
the force at work in her life God, or simply nature? For that
matter, was there even a difference between the two?
“…the adulterer will learn fidelity; the belligerent will
practice peace…”
Maybe that was the answer; maybe it was just that
simple. Maybe…
“…the homosexual…”
Dayna’s head snapped up.
“…will renounce his base corruption and sin no more.”
She glanced over at Kayla, whose own disappointment,
though muffled, was apparent. Seething, Dayna stood,
moved to the edge of the bench and looked at the pastor,
whose eyes, like everyone’s now, were riveted upon her.
“Love your neighbor,” Dayna all but spat at him, then
turned and stormed out the door.
With anger to burn, she stalked past Kayla’s car and
across the parking lot of a long-defunct Tastee-Freez, finally
coming to a stop in the middle of an old dirt road, the
Photos: Paul McComas
24 Open Hands
closest thing to a main drag this piddling burgh had. Hands
in her pockets, she glared down at the earth under her
boots, the wind blowing her short bangs to and fro. Spotting
a rock, she stooped to pick it up; glancing over her
shoulder, Dayna found herself wondering whether that
stupid plus-sign cross was within her range. Instead she
spun on one heel and, as hard as she could, cast the stone
into the ground.
Dayna squinted into the wind. Part of her wished that,
like the Dayna Clay of old, she’d stayed in the church and
shouted the man down; another part of her wished she’d
stayed away. She wasn’t welcome there; never had been,
never would be. What on earth had made her think…?
“Dayna.”
Kayla, too, now stood in the road, perhaps ten yards
behind. Her arms hung at her sides; she looked shaken,
unsure. As they peered at one another across the dead space
between them, Dayna couldn’t shake the notion that Kayla
and she were characters in some western movie. There was
no denying that this place looked like a ghost town… and all
the more so with every one of its two dozen citizens tucked
away in church. The crowning touch— as the wind picked
up and the women began walking toward one another,
showdown-style— was the lone tumbleweed that, behind
Kayla and off to the right, began bumpily rolling by.
It was almost enough to make Dayna laugh. But not quite.
“I’m as shocked as you are,” Kayla said, stopping just in
front of her.
“Oh, I’m far from shocked.”
“He’s never talked that way before. At least, not that I’ve
heard.”
“Was it because we were there? Together?”
“I…don’t know.” Kayla moved to place an arm around her.
“Someone might see.”
“Let them.”
“God might see.”
Kayla held her at arm’s length and looked Dayna dead in
the eye. “God,” she said, her chin quivering but her voice
steady, “put you in my life.”
Equal parts moved and confused, Dayna softened.
“That’s sweet of you to say.”
“It’s true.”
“Guess I’ll have to take your word.”
“You believe in God…don’t you?”
Dayna sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. I try…but they
don’t make it easy. The Almighty’s PR people are doing a
piss-poor job of representing their client, y’know?”
“I know.” Reaching out, Kayla took Dayna’s hand; they
left the road and headed back across the lot. “There’s this
church in Rapid City that’s…better,” she said. “Guess I’ll just
go there from now on.” Then, softly: “Kind of a trek from
here…”
“I believe in something,” Dayna went on. “Sure; call it
God. Yeah, I guess I do. It’s just that the two of us, God and
me—we’re not exactly on speaking terms.”
Kayla turned toward her. “Why’s that?”
“People always talk about how we ought to repent for
our sins, tell God we’re sorry.” She kicked a jagged stick out
of her path. “And I suppose I see some point to that; it’s
good to be held accountable for your actions. But I also
think that every relationship ought to be a two-way street.”
“What do you mean?”
By now they had reached the car. “This is probably some
kind of blasphemy,” Dayna said, “but as far as I’m concerned,
God ought to repent to me.”
Kayla opened the driver’s door and got in. “What for?”
Sitting down beside her, Dayna closed her own door and
stared at the dashboard, trying to decide how much to
reveal. She wasn’t used to having someone with whom she
could talk like this. “I don’t want to go into any detail; not
here. But it involves something that happened to me when I
was a child. Something…God-awful. Something I prayed
would end, prayed for weeks— for all the good that did me.”
“But God didn’t cause it.”
“Didn’t stop it, either.” She turned away. “This may be
pride talking, but I can forgive someone who lets me down.
I can focus on the good and excuse the rest, as long as they
say, ‘I’m sorry.’ She looked back at Kayla. “But God’s never
said anything of the kind.”
Kayla stuck the key in the ignition. “Not in so many
words.”
“What do you mean?”
She started the car. “Look at how you’re feeling— I mean,
compared to before. Look at the…the hope and the healing
you’ve received.” Kayla grabbed her companion’s leg and
gave it a shake. “Dayna, look at who you’re with! If all of
that doesn’t add up to an apology, then I don’t know what
does.”
As Kayla shifted into gear, Dayna began to reply but then
stopped, reconsidered, remained silent. Kayla’s was a novel,
even off-beat way of looking at the world, quite different
from Dayna’s own. But the girl did seem to have her shit
together, so maybe there was something to what she’d said.
Maybe she had a point.
The thought lingered, potent and persistent, as Kayla
turned her car around and drove them away from church,
out of town, and back down the winding road home.
Paul McComas is a fiction
writer and writing
instructor whose acclaimed
book of short stories,
Twenty Questions (1998,
Fithian Press), is in its
second printing. The novel
from which this excerpt
comes, Unplugged, will be
published next year. Paul
and his wife, Chris, an
M.Div. student at Garrett
Evangelical Theological
Seminary, are members of
Wheadon United Methodist
Church, a Reconciling
congregation in Evanston,
Illinois.
Spring 2001 25
26 Open Hands
A few months ago I agreed to write a tribute to the work
of John McNeill on the occasion of his retirement from
conducting retreats at the Kirkridge Retreat Center in
Bangor, Pennsylvania. For 25 years John has been conducting
Christian retreats for gay and bisexual men in January and,
alongside Virginia Ramey Mollenkott, for gays, lesbians, bisexuals,
and transgenders in the summer at this retreat center
in the Poconos. As the deadline rapidly approached—and
passed—for me to complete this tribute, I thought about researching
John’s life and his contribution to our community.
I began to worry about my tendency to over-commit. I became
anxious.
This morning I realized that if I had any contribution to
make in honoring John’s legacy, it would not come through
researching his life, but through a reflection on the tremendous
impact he has had on my own life and what I suspect is
his much larger impact on the spiritual growth of the GLBT
movement over the past 25 years.
I first took part in John’s ministry at Kirkridge in January
1987. My ex-lover had died from what was reported as viral
encephalitis the previous year. I later learned that the cause of
death was AIDS-related. I went to get tested— perhaps the good
news was that I only needed to be tested once. I believe my
friends— those who knew of the results— thought I was handling
it very well. I continued to go to work and do all the
normal things I did on a daily basis. However, I was actually
in a state of depression as I tried to sort out my life and my
recent discovery of my mortality.
During this devastating period, one friend who was aware
of John’s ministry at Kirkridge suggested that we go there
for the January gay and bisexual men’s retreat. I, like so
many others, came to the mountain at Kirkridge wounded
and troubled and not sure what to do at that point of my
life.
I don’t remember much about that weekend. I know that I
did share with my small group that I recently learned I was
HIV-positive. There were others at the retreat struggling with
the same diagnosis. It was, however, the first time I had been
able to say those words in relation to myself. As my denial
subsided, I began to acknowledge the reality of what I was
experiencing.
The climax of the January retreat at Kirkridge is the “fishbowl,”
when men selected by their small groups tell that part
of our life story that often goes painfully unexpressed. I did
not enter the fishbowl that first year. It took another year before
I was able to tell my story, feel its pain, and reflect upon
its meaning. However, I knew that something had changed at
that first retreat and that a process had begun changing my
despair— to hope, to action.
I have seldom missed one of those winter retreats at
Kirkridge since. They are always full to capacity of the largest
meeting hall there, just over 100. During these times, upon
the mountain, I have witnessed so many others who came
there as I did— feeling broken by life, unsure of their direction,
weighed down by the stigma associated with being gay,
battered by religious or secular communities or families as
they tried to come to terms with the very nature of their being
and their spiritual and moral selves.
For 25 years John McNeill has provided a place and space
for GLBT people to mend from the scars and wounds of a
homophobic culture. The retreats at Kirkridge have become
for many of us an oasis on this often lonely journey. Through
the dialogue of small groups, the sharing of the stuff of our
souls, and the gentle and profound life example of John and
other leaders, we began to see new possibilities for our lives
and realize new visions of our transforming mission. We began
to develop a new understanding of our place in the cosmos
and of God’s gracious love for the world.
From year to year, John brought his manuscripts to the
mountain and blessed us with his journey. These writings were
later published as Taking a Chance on God: Liberating Theology
for Gays, Lesbians, and their Lovers, Families and Friends (1988),
Freedom, Glorious Freedom: The Spiritual Journey to the Fullness
of Life for Gays, Lesbians and Everybody Else (1995), and his
autobiography, Both Feet Firmly Planted in Midair: My Spiritual
Journey (1998). We who were with John on the mountaintop
at Kirkridge were privileged to journey with him to new realms
of freedom as we began to unravel new understandings of a
God who so loved us and a Christ beyond the dogma of a
Church too often lost in its institutional processes and rules
to give witness to that love.
John forged for us on the mountain at Kirkridge a community
of Catholics and Protestants, and frequently of the overchurched
and un-churched, where we could come to see how
Taking A Chance on God for Us
The Legacy of the Reverend John J. McNeill
Ralph Williams
For information on Kirkridge retreats, see ad on page 13.
RETREATS
John J. McNeill at Kirkridge
Spring 2001 27
the Christ was greater than the denominations and religious
organizational structures that attempt to influence and control
through hierarchy and fear.
John’s first book, The Church and the Homosexual, published
in 1976, had set him on an inevitable collision course with
the hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church. In this work he
not only questioned the traditional teachings of the Catholic
Church on homosexuality, but also began to suggest a possible
positive purpose for homosexual orientation within the
created order. As a result he became one of the first gay Christian
voices of this modern era to be silenced by the church
and later kicked out of his religious community. Since then,
many other gay and heterosexual persons have also felt the
wrath of their denominations for making the simple assertion
that GLBT people are neither intrinsically evil nor incompatible
with the teachings of Christ.
In relating his story at Kirkridge retreats, John describes his
struggle between obedience to the Jesuits, his religious order,
and the need to heed the personal call of God to pursue his
ministry with GLBT persons. For John, as for many of us, this
was no easy decision, for we find that our religious communities
and traditions are the places where we first come to a
knowledge of God and are spirituality nurtured. In his story,
John tells of his years in silenced obedience to the Catholic
Church and his eventual decision to be faithful to God above
the dictates of religious structures. As a result he was dismissed
from the Jesuits. This rejection, however, resulted in his freedom
to pursue his priestly ministry of a God who often calls
us to go beyond the bounds of religious institutions.
From Jan (I’m the mom.)
It all began in the summer of 1975. My husband Wayne had
just graduateed from seminary and received his first pastoral
appointment. I went to volunteer at the United Methodist camp
near our home. I had been a camper and staff member there
for many years and it had always been a place of ministry and
refuge for me.
Bob, the new camp director, and I got along well from the
start. I liked the way he was running the camp. We both had an
affinity for the children, the environment, and John Denver
music. But even more, we had common understandings about
the nature of the church, Christian community, and how our
faith should be lived in the world.
Bob and I soon became good friends. I met his “friend,” Rick,
who was a Christian educator at a church in our conference. I
quickly came to appreciate the emotionally intimate nature of
their relationship and wasn’t too surprised when, soon after
the summer camp season was over, Bob told me that, in addition
to being his friend, Rick was also his life partner.
John’s courage to openly and publicly reject the stigma
and prejudice fostered by many contemporary church organizations
against GLBT persons has been a model for many in
the Christian community. For those of us who have been lucky
enough to meet John on our journey— even for the brief period
of a weekend retreat— our journey has been enriched by
his courage, integrity, wisdom, and vision. John has inspired
an awakening of our spiritual and sexual wholeness and holiness
which has not only led to personal transformations but
has provided necessary fuel to the movement for full and unconditional
acceptance of GLBT persons within the larger religious
community. John’s vision helped us as GLBT people
to realize that we can fully and completely claim our birthright
as people of God.
John’s witness—encouraged by his partner of more than
30 years, Charlie Chiarelli— has helped us move from our initial
struggles with self-acceptance toward affirmation of our
spiritual gifts as gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender peoples.
With these gifts and the lessons from our own struggles, we
must now reach out more deliberately and intentionally to
the poor and dispossessed and bring
the enlightened love and acceptance
of God to our own often-rejecting
religious institutions.
Ralph Williams is currently the Lay
Leader at Foundry United Methodist
Church in Washington, DC and is
founder of its GLBT Group.
FAMILY
Gay Godparents—
“What’s the Big Deal?”
Jan Thomas, Anne Thomas, Rebecca Thomas
Left to right: Rick Sawyer, Wayne Thomas, Jan Thomas, Annie
Thomas, Bob Galloway
28 Open Hands
The relationship of Bob, Rick, Wayne and I grew over the
next few years. We went camping together, celebrated holidays,
and saw each other through a lot of changes. I went to
graduate school and got my first camp director job at a seasonal
United Methodist camp in northern Michigan. Wayne was
moved to new ministry assignments. Bob’s mother died. Rick
was fired from his Christian education position when some
people in the church figured out that he was gay. Bob decided
to follow what he knew was God’s call to the ministry, even
though that meant leaving the United Methodist Church which
had been his spiritual home for his entire life to that point.
When our daughter Anne was born a few years later, it didn’t
take Wayne and me long to decide that we wanted to ask Bob
and Rick to be the godparents of our child. We thought that
the most important job of godparents was to help us impart
our faith understandings to Anne and any other future children.
There was simply no one else who shared those understandings
to the same degree that they did.
We asked them and they readily agreed. In the next few years
we had another daughter, Rebecca, and they and we moved
several times, but we again found ourselves living near Bob
and Rick in east Tennessee during most of the girls’ growing
up years. We had visited and kept in touch while we were apart,
so we easily resumed our friendship. The times and experiences
we shared over the next few years immeasurably broadened,
enhanced and blessed the growing up experiences of our girls.
When Rebecca was a toddler, Bob and Rick had a guy with
AIDS living with them for awhile. He and Rebecca immediately
bonded. She crawled all over him and he liked her. Rebecca was
quite timid when she was young, and it was wonderful to have
her form an attachment with someone else. And Rebecca’s
unconditional acceptance of him was a blessing to one who
had been rejected by many of the people in his life.
The summer that Rebecca was seven years old there was
an arson fire at the offices of the Metropolitan Community
Church in Knoxville, where Bob was the pastor. Before we went
to help with the cleaning up, we had to explain to her that
there had been a fire and that someone had set it on purpose.
“Why would someone want to do that?” she asked. So then we
also had to explain to her that some people believe that it is
bad to be gay and that they do mean things to gay people. I
will never forget the incredulous tone in her voice when she
said, “You mean that some people think it is bad for Bob and
Rick to love each other? That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever
heard!”
All of us were part of a group that started the Community
of St. Ninian, a small intentional Christian community with a
special ministry of hospitality. We bought a house where people
in transition, mostly gay and lesbian, could stay for up to three
months. We had a weekly dinner and worship, as well as some
social events. The girls were exposed to so many interesting
people through this group! We also participated every year in
the Gay Pride and the Martin Luther King Jr. Holiday marches.
Anne loved to be part of those events. She always wanted to
help carry the St. Ninian banner, even though in the early years
she was only a few inches taller than it was.
Bob and Rick were involved in confirmation for both of the
girls. Rick was Rebecca’s mentor (part of the United Methodist
confirmation program). Most of the Community of St. Ninian
were present to witness Anne’s confirmation.
At the last Detroit Annual Conference session there was a
quiet demonstration during the General Conference report, in
solidarity with those who were hurt by the actions of the General
Conference pertaining to homosexuality. I was really proud
that Rebecca (all on her own; we didn’t even discuss it) chose
to participate, carrying a brightly-colored sign that said
“equally incompatible.”
As I think of the people we’ve met and the experiences we
have shared over the years, I cannot express the immeasurable
richness that Bob and Rick have brought to all of us. It
has been a blessing to see the girls grow and blossom over the
years. But what I really am thankful for is that Anne and
Rebecca have made their own decisions about their spirituality
and the positive Christian values they want to live by. Bob
and Rick were an integral part of that. They are truly soul
friends to all of us.
Jan Thomas is Director of Outdoor and Retreat Ministries in the
Detroit Conference of the United Methodist Church, the mother of
two remarkable young women. Her husband, Wayne, is associate
pastor at First United Methodist Church in Royal Oak, Michigan.
Left to right: Bob, Rebecca, Anne, and Rick at Rebecca’s 10th
birthday party.
Rebecca and Anne with Rick at Lake Powhatan
Spring 2001 29
From Anne
When asked, “What was it like growing up with gay godparents?”
I am never quite sure how to respond. How can
I say what it was like when I don’t know any other way?
To me it was a normal occurrence. So they were two
guys who love each other—so what? That doesn’t make it
any more or less right; it just is.
I can still remember the first time that I realized that
to some people it wasn’t a normal thing. We were cleaning
out the offices of the church where Bob was a minister
after someone tried to burn it down. I didn’t really
understand why it had happened other than it was because
the church served a predominately homosexual congregation.
To me it seemed like a rather stupid reason.
After that I was more careful about whom I told about
my godfathers. Most people didn’t care, but some did and
they treated me differently. It bothered me at the time. I
couldn’t understand why people would stop talking to me
because they were gay. For a while I was mad at my
parents for choosing people outside the box of normalcy
that is so important in middle school. However, it only took
me a little while to realize that if friends had problems
with who two very important people were in my life, then
they weren’t really my friends and I shouldn’t care if they
liked me or not. After that I became less and less concerned
with how people reacted. While it still bothered
me a little, it was not because they weren’t comfortable
with me. It was because they were so hateful and closeminded
about something that really doesn’t matter.
There are so many happy memories with Bob and Rick
that I hardly ever think of the friends that started treating
me differently because of them. My most outstanding
memory, or actually group of memories, is that of our yearly
camping trips. We would pick a location convenient to all
of us and meet for an extended weekend. During these
vacations we would go hiking, sightseeing, listen to typical
Appalachian music, make music of our own around the campfire,
cook the biggest, sweetest s’mores I’ve ever eaten,
but mostly just enjoy each others’ company. I also remember
numerous trips to the East Tennessee Fair. The fair
usually coincided with my parents’ wedding anniversary,
so, in order to give them a night out, Bob, Rick, Becca, and
I would make a trip to the fair. There we would ride the
rides and usually gorge ourselves on funnel cake, snow cones,
and a number of questionable culinary delicacies.
All in all, my memories of life with gay godparents don’t
seem to me to be any different than life with heterosexual
godparents, other than the fact they have taught
me to be more open-minded, accepting of others, and generally
more sure of who I am.
From Rebecca
I have often asked this question over the years as I got
older. So what if my godparents are gay? It does not mean
that they are less worthy of being called my godparents.
While I was growing up, I just thought of this as my
normal lifestyle, and as I look back on it I would not trade
my life for anything. I also would not be the person that I
am today if it were not for my godparents. They helped me,
along with my family and friends, to shape my value system
and what I believe in. Some of these values include
getting to know people for who they are on the inside, honesty,
trust, faith, and forgiveness.
My godparents were an important factor in my life while
I was growing up. Some of my best memories are when I
was with them. Some are when my family and my godparents
would go camping together. Others are Saint Ninian
get-togethers—a fun night where we played games, chatted,
ate, and had good fellowship.
While I was growing up, I just thought that this was
normal because I did not know anything else. Even though
I am older now, as I look back on it I still do not see what
the big deal is. My godparents are just like everybody else.
They have feelings just like everyone else, work just like
everyone else, and do the same basic things that everyone
else does. The only thing that is different is their sexual
orientation, and no, it is not a disease or something to be
avoided. What is so wrong about that? Why can’t we just
look at people for who they are on the inside and what they
believe in instead of getting caught up in things that do not
really matter?
It seems that, if people could just learn how to do this,
instead of making assumptions about things they have no
clue about, then it seems like this world would be in a lot
less trouble than it is. Who knows? You may be missing
out on a great friendship. Are you willing to risk it for some
“stereotype” that is out in the world? I sure am glad that
my parents did not listen to it because I cannot imagine
what my life would have been like if I did not know nor
have my godparents in it. The only thing that I can say for
certain is that it would have been a lot different, and I like
my life just how it is now.
If there is one thing that I would like to get across, it is
this, what’s the big deal? I sure am glad that my parents
decided to get to know my godparents for who they really
are so that I did not miss out on getting to know a couple
of really neat guys. The only question that I have left to ask
is this: Are you willing to take that chance?
Anne Thomas is a junior at Baldwin-Wallace College Conservatory
of Music. She is 20 years old and is a music therapy major.
She was a reserve delegate to the United Methodist jurisdictional
conference from the Detroit Conference.
Rebecca Thomas is a senior at Farmington High School. She is 17
years old and her hobbies and interests include dance, church activities,
cooking, and the Detroit Conference United Methodist
Youth Council.
30 Open Hands
Our academic year opened with Neal Plantinga speak
ing on truthfulness. Why is truthfulness important?
One reason is that it provides freedom, freedom to
both the truth-teller and the truth-hearer. It is in order to promote
this dual freedom that I write.
This year’s first issue of our campus paper Chimes featured
an article by Jeremy De Roo speaking about homosexuality.
Why is it important to talk about homosexuality? One reason
is that real people, people in this campus community, struggle
with their sexuality every single day they choose to breathe. It
is in order to create more space to breathe that I write.
The debate on homosexuality and God’s plan for relating
to people of all sexual orientations rages on within the church
and on my campus. Sometimes there really is rage, there is
stubbornness and yelling. Sometimes the debate is carried on
in a quiet, subtle, whispered way. Regardless, the debate always
seems to favor a battle scene of sorts rather than a civil
dialogue. Every time “gay” is used to insult someone, new
darts are thrown. Every time someone quotes a scripture verse
to condemn, rather than listening to the stories of those around
them, arrows fly through the air.
Part of the difficulty with this issue thus far at Calvin College
has been that the environment here discourages honesty
and dialogue and storytelling. We Christians who are supposed
to be recognized by our love harbor hate and mistrust for
those who think differently than us on this issue. This hate
and mistrust is felt by all, but especially by the homosexual
members of the community. This breeds fear, which in turn
encourages non-heterosexuals to hide and keep their mouths
closed. I write to be honest, to promote dialogue, and to make
my story available to those who want or need to hear it.
What is it like being gay at Calvin College? It is not a fun
ride, full of support and encouragement. Being gay at Calvin
College is walking down the hallways, wondering if you pass
anyone who has the same feelings you do. Being gay at Calvin
College is fear of rejection if anyone were to know your secret.
Being gay at Calvin College is hearing the subject of homosexuality
debated year after year on a purely theological
level. Being gay at Calvin College is waking up each day and
wondering if God made a mistake when he made you. Being
gay at Calvin College means struggling with serious depression.
Being gay at Calvin College sometimes makes a person
wonder if life is worth living. Being gay at Calvin College is
the most unpardonable, the most untouchable, the most unspeakable
thing to be.
My first year and half at Calvin found me agreeing with
the traditional, evangelical view of homosexuality as sinful. I
believed, as the church wanted me to believe, that I could
either change my sexuality or repress it. I prayed, read books,
attempted to change my desire, and prayed some more. The
only change that manifested itself in me was that I became
progressively more depressed. Every waking hour I told myself
that I was wrong and sinful. Every time I recognized the
beauty God placed in men around me, I told myself that I
shouldn’t think that way. Imagine the effect of beating yourself
up inside every time you see someone who is attractive.
Now imagine not having people to talk to about your internal
conflicts.
When I was at my breaking point, God provided. Christian
friends and counselors told me that it is okay to be gay. I came
to realize that my sexuality is an integral part of who I am. I
would not be Benjamin Paul McCloskey if I were heterosexual.
I did not choose to be gay. How God made me gay, I don’t
know…but he did. This gay creation of God is the same creation
he loves dearly and sacrificed himself for. That must
make me pretty darn special, I came to realize. Not more special
than any other of God’s children, but special nonetheless.
Even by the most conservative estimates, there are at least
seventy-five students, faculty, and staff in our community who
are not heterosexual. Every year, we lose some of these people.
CAMPUS
What Is It Like Being Gay
at Calvin College?
Benjamin P. McCloskey
“It is Christian heroism—
a rarity, to be sure—
to venture wholly
to become oneself,
an individual human being,
this specific individual human being,
alone before God,
alone in this prodigious strenuousness
and this prodigious responsibility.”
—Soren Kierkegaard,
preface to The Sickness unto Death
Spring 2001 31
Gay student after gay student, both male and female, has left
this place feeling alone. Some leave to seek counseling. Some
leave just to get out of this place. Some gay students graduate
every year and continue to deal with this issue outside of our
community.
Each person in this community has the right to live their
lives the way they hear God calling them to live—and to live
that life without fear. The fear of abuse and misunderstanding
of every kind is real to every person who is not heterosexual.
Replacing fear with honesty can create a safe place for
people to exist and be happy. This community has a moral
obligation to create a safe space for me and for every other
gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person in the community.
If that space is not created for us, we become obligated
to create our own space in the community.
I have sincerely struggled with this issue alone with God.
Now, I am a walking example of the fact that one can sincerely
love God and still be homosexual. My personal relationship
with God has actually improved and blossomed and
grown since coming to accept my sexuality as being a part of
who I am rather than as something to be fixed or changed.
Although I could, I do not want to debate the ethics of
accepting homosexuality. I want to be able to tell my story
and help to create that safe space for honest dialogue, rather
than argument. Lorrie Menninga wrote in Chimes that we can
do better thinking about the issue of homosexuality when a
human face is attached. I write that you may attach my face to
this issue.
Benjamin P. McCloskey is a senior civil engineering student at
Calvin College, a Christian liberal arts school in Grand Rapids,
Michigan. He hopes to attend graduate school in the fall to work
towards a master’s in city planning. This article first appeared in
Chimes, the campus student paper, and subsequently the WOW
website.
“This is a photo of two of my housemates and me putting up
the sign for our intentional Christian community house.
Left to right is Ryan Vander Haak, Laura Hofman, and myself.
I know, I look too butch for a gay guy, but what can you do?”
32 Open Hands
Welcoming Communities Movement News
OPEN AND AFFIRMING
Euclid Avenue Congregational Church, UCC
Cleveland, Ohio
This urban church, 50% Euro-American and 49%
African American, has as its stated mission “to welcome all
people, to be a multiracial, multicultural, open and affirming
congregation. To provide an active witness of God’s love and
justice as followers of Jesus Christ.” This year’s new outreach
ministries include: tutoring, substance abuse prevention (using
the disciplines of Kenpo martial arts), a prayer and meditation
group for women, and a support group for the “sandwich
generation” (those who care for both their parents and children).
The church offers a presence for and with the LGBT
community and is a PFLAG meeting site.
RECONCILING
Gobin Memorial United Methodist Church
Greencastle, Indiana
Gobin Memorial is located on the campus of
DePauw University, 35 miles east of Indianapolis in rural, westcentral
Indiana. The congregation has a proud history as a progressive
voice in a conservative community. The church’s
decision to become Reconciling is in keeping with the
congregation’s long history of progressive advocacy for justice
and peace. This bold church of 400 members has sponsored
prayer vigils to spotlight racism at local correctional facilities,
hosted community-wide forums on racism in Putnam
county, and was instrumental in founding a health clinic and
a food pantry in Greencastle.The congregation’s Reconciling
statement takes the United Methodist Book of Discipline’s language
on the sacred worth of all individuals as the foundation
for its Reconciling ministry.
WELCOMING & AFFIRMING
Old First Church
Middletown, New Jersey
Old First Church, a 312-year-old church, originally
Baptist, became dually aligned with American Baptist Churches
of the USA and the United Church of Christ in 1963. On October
1, 2000, the 75-member congregation voted to amend their
church constitution to reflect the approval of the “Welcoming
and Affirming/Open and Affirming” statements of the two
denominations. The Rev. Dr. E. Kenneth Nichols saw the vote
as one more link in a three-century-long chain of support for
social justice causes, such as the church’s early involvement in
the anti-slavery and temperance movements, with black members
included as early as 1800. Through the years they have
also had a public presence working for civil rights, peace, and
the environment. The moderator for the voting meeting explained,
“The statement will confirm our congregation’s already
manifest commitment to and love for all people, including
those who are homosexual.”
PEOPLE AND RESOURCES
Marilyn Alexander has been confirmed as executive director
of the renamed Reconciling Ministries Network, as well as
executive publisher of Open Hands. She had been serving as
interim since Mark Bowman’s departure in 1999. More Light
Presbyterians has launched a new national outreach and educational
project for LGBT/Q Youth and Young Adults. Mt. Auburn
Presbyterian Church in Cincinnati, Ohio, has adopted
a policy which calls same-gender partnerships “marriage” in
defiance of a Presbyterian ruling that such unions not be construed
as marriage. Amendment O to the Presbyterian Book of
Order, which would have banned church leaders from blessing
same gender couples, failed to be ratified by the required majority
of presbyteries. The Open and Affirming Program
(UCC) will now be listing UCC-related ONA campus ministries.
The Lutheran Volunteer Corps has affiliated itself with
the Reconciling in Christ program. St. Paul Reformation
Lutheran Church in Minnesota has called out lesbian Anita
Hill as pastor, ordained April 28 and installed the following
day. She began serving its Wingspan Ministry for LGBT people
in 1983, then became the church’s pastoral minister in 1994.
The Other Side, a progressive Christian magazine, will feature
transgender Christians in the May-June 2001 issue. Visit its
website: http://www.theotherside.org.
UPCOMING EVENTS
May 25-27. More Light Presbyterians annual meeting, “Open
Minds, Open Hearts, Open Hands,” University of Texas, Austin.
Visit the website for details: www.mlp.org.
June 10-29. CETLALIC, an Alternative Spanish Language
School in Cuernavaca, Mexico, is again offering programs for
gay men and for lesbians this summer. For information, visit
its website: www.cetlalic.org.mx or contact coordinator Antonio
Ortega at infor@cetlalic.org.mx.
July 25-29. Reconciling Ministries Convocation 2001-Revival!,
University of Puget Sound, Tacoma, Washington. Phone
773/736-5526 or e-mail RMN@rcp.org for information.
August 9-12. Christian Lesbians OUT (CLOUT) gathering,
“Your Silence Will Not Protect You: Celebrating Spirit, Seeking
Racial Justice,” Black Mountain, North Carolina. For information,
e-mail clout@seorf.ohiou.edu.
September 20-23. 2001 Conference of the National Association
of Catholic Diocesan Lesbian and Gay Ministries,
Charlotte, North Carolina. Contact Kevin Campbell at
kcnewman@worldnet.att.net or 704/334-5128.
JOB LISTING
The Other Side, a progressive Christian magazine, is seeking a
full-time outreach coordinator for its Philadelphia office. Call
800/700-9280 or e-mail search@theotherside.org for details.