One by one, mothers, friends and family members spoke, each for one minute, about someone they loved, someone who had a great capacity to serve God and neighbor, and a deep desire to do so through the church, someone who would be denied by the vote we had just taken.
Each testimony drew me in closer, saying, look, pay attention, there’s so much more to see here. Can you see the special beauty in this woman? Do you see how wondrously she is made? Can you feel how much peace this man brings into a room? Can you hear the wisdom in his words? How much poorer we will all be without them.
I was a brand-new Presbyterian in 1989, and a youth delegate to the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA). It didn’t seem like much of a privilege at first, just long days of lifeless business that seemed of little interest to anyone, but which delegates were obliged to endure.
Still anyone could feel the tension growing over the weekend as we approached a debate and vote scheduled for noon on Sunday. The issue at hand was this: Would the Church permit LGBTQ+ persons to serve as deacons, elders, and ordained ministers?
I really didn’t know what to think. The church was unfamiliar ground to me. I knew little then about church policies and politics and even less about the Bible. I didn’t yet know how to weigh its importance, so I wasn’t sure how to figure out where I stood.
During the convention, I roomed with a campus minister who was, by necessity, in the closet. In our room after we turned off the lights, she talked about how she had to hide who she really was to serve God and the young people on her campus.
I thought about another Presbyterian clergywoman, Rev. Janie Spahr. I met Rev. Spahr at a small gathering in the parlor of a local church in Durham, N.C. In 1980, after coming out as a lesbian, she was forced to resign as Executive Director of Oakland Council of Presbyterian Churches. Later the denomination barred her from serving as a minister in San Francisco and Rochester, New York. Taking in her short cropped hair, flashing eyes, and quick laugh as she told her story, I remember thinking, If anyone was ever called by God as a minister, it is Janie Spahr. She was at the same time serene and joyful. She radiated a spirit of love, even toward the people and institutions that had denied her, a spirit that, it seemed to me, could only have come from God.
So as the Presbyterians began to debate the ordination of gay and lesbian members, I drew on these stories of gifted women who would be allowed to be ministers only if they suppressed an essential part of who they were. It seemed clear to me that this was not a lifestyle choice for either of them. It was just who they were. They surely would not have chosen the stony road they trod if they had had any other choice.
For thirteen hours, people on each side spoke with passion and urgency, pleading for the delegates’ vote. One side rested on a literal interpretation of homosexuality as sin. The other side built its case on the commandment that Jesus said summed up all the rest: Love the Lord God with all your heart, mind and spirit, and love your neighbor as yourself. The very soul of the church, each side insisted, was at stake.
At one a.m., the delegates voted to uphold the ban on ordaining ‘homosexuals,’ and referred the issue for more study. I knew even then that more study was nothing but a dodge.
In that early morning hour, across the great hall, some people wept while others celebrated. Some hung their heads in relief, others sat in stunned silence. It seemed to be all over. People began to stand up, stretch and gather their things. Then the hall went quiet, as if the whole room was breathless. Dozens of people lined up behind each of three microphones on the stage to speak for one minute about a person who whose myriad gifts were rejected by the church.
Their stories helped me to see beyond an undifferentiated group and to apprehend the beauty and complexity of individual human beings who were made in the image of God, whose hands God surely could have taken, and who wanted only to share their gifts with the church they loved. Who was I to stand in their way?
After an hour of testimonies, the last person spoke. We sat in a wearied hush. Now the double doors at the emergency exits swung open into the dark. A quiet procession of LGBTQ+ people walked solemnly through the convention hall. A wave of people rose to their feet in silent respect.
At each table, where people sat representing their local church and Presbytery, a choice had to be made. I didn’t know if anyone from my Presbytery would choose to stand. I didn’t know if I would lose the Presbytery’s favor if I did. My legs were like water but I had to stand, if only weakly. For me it wasn’t a political act, but a simple gesture to acknowledge that we belonged to each other.
I sometimes forget that there was a time when I was afraid to stand up. These days, I can be judgmental toward those who can’t or won’t. I have to remind myself of how little I once knew and how scared I was that I might have something to lose. Remembering that helps me find compassion for people who may be now like the person I was then.
Things got worse before they got better. In 1997, the General Assembly voted to require of ordained church officers "fidelity in the covenant of marriage between a man and a woman, and chastity in singleness." The next year they voted, 313-to-236, that homosexual practice was a sin, and adopted an amendment to keep ‘active homosexuals’ from serving as ministers, elders, and deacons.
In 2011, twenty-one years after I participated as a youth delegate at General Assembly, the Presbyterian Church (USA), voted to change its constitution ‘to approve the ordination of openly gay men and lesbians in same-sex relationships as ministers, elders, and deacons.’ Having long before left the denomination because I knew I would neither pass their orthodoxy text nor sign their oath not to perform same-sex marriages, I wasn’t there through those intervening decades. I can only begin to fathom the price they paid.
Now, decades later, the United Methodist Church has turned down the same rutted road. I tremble to think the toll it will take.
