On being queer and being safe

I came of age in the 90s. I knew I was queer around the same time that Matthew Shepard was brutally murdered in Laramie, Wyoming. And Wyoming is not that far, geographically or ideologically, from where I was raised in Montana. This was before widespread usage of the internet and way before the age of social media, so this publicized case was the only example I had of being gay.

At the time, I didn't know anyone who was gay (or at least I didn't know anyone who was out of the closet). I had no gay teachers or friends. Later on, a lesbian couple would begin attending our church with their daughter, but this was after my own realization of my sexual orientation. This was before "It Gets Better."  Ellen DeGeneres had come out on network television, but to a teenager in Montana, the idea that you could be accepted and even loved for who you loved, was about as realistic as living on the moon.

As a teenager, I visited an exhibition of the AIDS quilt in my hometown. Panel after panel, sized to represent graves, stretched out through the university arena. My classmates whispered in hushed voices, "they died of AIDS because they were gay."

The only image I had of what it meant to be gay was death. Brutal murder at the hands of homophobic monsters. Death by disease. Death by suicide. Death by being ostracized out of families, churches, communities. I knew that if I was going to survive, I needed to not be gay. I needed to bury that part of myself. I decided that if I couldn't be straight, I would have to be dead. So I was going to be straight.

There have been consequences for me. Depression and anxiety and pain. Bad choices. After a long time, I began the coming out process because I couldn't slowly die while living anymore. It was many small steps, and continues to be a path I walk rather than a switch that I flipped.

I have celebrated marriage equality in the capital building of Minnesota. I have marched in pride parades. I've spoken publicly about what it is to be queer, a Christian, and to be human. Just one week ago, I married the love of my life in a ceremony with over 200 of our friends and family present. I have been filled with life.

And yet, just a mere seven days after I professed my love to my wife in front of my nearest and dearest, I was reminded again of death.  That queer lives matter less than the lives of other people. That hate is real. That homophobia was not vanquished just because we can get marriage licenses and health benefits. That the fear that sometimes knots in my throat when I hold hands with my wife in public is well founded. A fear of being attacked. I have found sanctuary in gay clubs. I could have been in that club, along with any of my friends. The difference between a hate crime and other crimes is that hate crimes are intended to stoke fear in groups of people for being who they are. This attack in Orlando gives me pause when I think about attending my city's Pride festival this year. I will be looking over my shoulder and will be on guard for anyone or anything that feels threatening. I am not a child anymore, but that child in side of me who fears for her safety and her life is still there. 

I don't have a solution. I don't really have words right now. I need allies to speak the truth about the events in Orlando, that these events were not perpetrated by an Islamic Extremist, he was a homophobic sociopath. I need allies to attend to my safety and those of my community. I need allies to continue to create safe spaces for all youth to feel loved, but especially queer youth, because the world can be cruel.

Review of Queer Clergy by R.W. Holmen

Credit Cokesbury.com

Earlier this fall I responded to a call for people willing to review a new book, Queer Clergy by R.W. Holmen, that was hitting shelves in early 2014. I received an advance reader's copy. Life got a little out of hand (as is to be expected while working in a church over Christmas), so I am just now getting around to writing my review.  

Queer Clergy: A History of Gay and Lesbian Ministry in American Protestantism is a compelling history of the role of lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans*, and queer (LGBTQ) clergy in five major mainline Protestant denominations, the United Church of Christ (UCC), the Episcopal Church (TEC), the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), the Presbyterian Church (USA) and the United Methodist Church (UMC). Holmen traces the arc of history in each denomination from the first murmurings of LGBTQ clergy to the present (or until about May 2013). He uses official documents of the denominations: minutes, resolutions, policy statements, and judicial decisions, as well as personal interviews with LGBTQ pioneers in each denomination.

Holmen himself is an ELCA Lutheran with a background in law, who is an ardent ally for LGBTQ persons. He writes in the preface, "Hopefully this book will help LGBT Christians and straight allies to appreciate our past and to remember the pioneers who have led the church to be a place of welcome."   This book is a straightforward and concise history text, but for me, its real value is in naming the pioneering and prophetic queer clergy who have gone before me.  Since I am a part of the ELCA, this review will focus on that portion of the text, part III.

In this forum, it is impossible to summarize all the information packed into this section of Holmen's book. It is a rich examination of the early LGBTQ activist groups in the Lutheran church (starting in the 1970s), the early explorations of social statements regarding human sexuality (although none considered LGBTQ ordination), and the introduction of many early clergy pioneers.  After the formation of the ELCA in 1988, Holmen traces an intensifying call for discourse.  Through reporting personal interviews with those involved and citing synodical documents, he traces the heartbreaking stories of defrocking of out glory, of congregations being expelled from the ELCA for calling openly gay and lesbian pastors. He discusses the process of extra ordinem ordinations and the ultimate formation of the group, Extraordinary Lutheran Ministries (ELM), to provide a credentialing body for those clergy who had a call to ordained ministry and also happened to be LGBTQ.

A theme in this section is "Biblical obedience mandated ecclesiastical disobedience."  With rising crescendo, Holmen traces the history of resolutions and proposals until the ELCA Churchwide Assembly 2009 (CWA09) and what is referred to in ELCA circles even now as "The Vote."

This resolution is as follows, "RESOLVED that the ELCA commit itself to finding a way for people in such publicly accountable, lifelong, monogamous, same-gender relationships to serve as rostered leaders of this church."

With 559 voting yes, and 451 voting no, the moment had arrived for queer clergy in the ELCA.  Holmen writes, "the reaction among a thousand voting members and another thousand observers was muted.  The plenary hall was suddenly sacred space, and the quiet interrupted only by weeping and the murmur of prayer.  By twos and threes and fours and fives, the children of God huddled together in tears and prayer, some in joyous thanksgiving and others in grief."  I remember watching this vote from my desk at work in Boulder, CO.  I remember weeping too with joy that my denomination had found a way.  Little did I know how important this would become for me personally.

Holmen also respectfully addresses the opposition to this vote in the years that follow.  I was impressed by both his treatment of this issue, but also the conduct of the ELCA and its leaders.  He also covers the emotional reinstatement process of those clergy who were defrocked and those congregations that were expelled.

I don't find myself moved to tears by books very often, and Holmen's book did this for me.  I have a lot personally invested in this history, and as I read this text, I gave thanks over and over again for the brave clergy, bishops and allies, who went before.  I know many of the people personally that Holmen writes about, Pastor Anita Hill, Pastor Bradley Schmeling, Retired Bishop Herb Chilstrom, and others, but this book filled in the rest, and I will never stop being thankful for these people.