I am currently on the plane back to Boston. I wanted to try and write down some of my thoughts while they were still fresh. First of all, I can’t believe I’m on my way home already. It seems like I just got to Fort Worth, and then again, at the same time, it feels like I’ve been there forever. What a rollercoaster of a week. There were so many bright spots, and a looming period of darkness. But we came out better for it. And today’s wedding was a celebration of that inspiration and hope.
The theme for this year’s General Conference was “A Future of Hope” or something similar. And today, after two days of feeling completely disheartened, I saw hope. Hope of a future where one day we don’t have to be outside the conference celebrating. Hope of a future where one day we will be invited in. Hope for a future where instead of mourning outside the convention doors, holding hands in solidarity in our black, we are in all our rainbow brilliance and applauding the delegates as they reenter. Applauding the final welcoming our people. Applauding the re-membering of Christ’s body. Applauding, and celebrating with ALL God’s children. Hope for that one day where all finally means ALL.
I pray that this applause occurs in my lifetime. I pray that this applause happens sooner rather than later. But prayer isn’t enough, as I learned this week. And on this blog for the very few times I have posted. Prayer isn’t enough. We have to tell our stories. It’s only when we are seen as human beings, and not freaks of nature, or unnatural, or other hurtful words that came up this past week at General Conference that we will be welcomed with open arms to God’s banquet. So this is my story.
I grew up Catholic. My dad’s parents and my mom’s grandparents came to this country from Ireland. I feel truly blessed in the fact that my parents ensured I grew up in a loving Catholic church, unlike the cold Catholic church of their collective childhoods. Since my dad was in the Navy, I’m sure it wasn’t easy for my parents to find the liberal Catholic Church wherever we went, but some how they did. When I was in third grade we moved to Gaithersburg MD and started attending St Rose of Lima Parish. This was my home for many years.
When I was in sixth grade I started being a part of the youth group there. I fought for a junior high youth group, since the high school students didn’t want us in their youth group. I went to Religious Ed every Monday night. And starting in high school, I was at church from 11 in the morning until about 10 in the evening. I was there for mass, then a quick lunch break and change of clothes to come back for music/drama rehearsal, planning meetings, and youth group. I was very aware of people who were on the outskirts of the group and always welcomed them in. I sat with them, and learned their stories and ensured that no one would feel unwelcome as long as I was there. I always felt like the outcast: being the new kid in school whenever we moved, not being one of the popular kids in school, being ridiculed several times in elementary and middle school, not being wanted by the high schoolers when I was younger. I knew what it was like to feel unwanted, and was determined to never make someone feel that way because of my actions.
By the time I was a sophomore, I was running the drama program at my church. I was writing and directing, and often times acting in, skits that we would do for various activities. Being at St Rose was the only time I felt like I fit in. Everyone knew me there. Not only members of the youth group, but adult members of the church knew me too. I finally felt like I belonged. But there was something missing. I didn’t know what at the time, and I went through a lot of dark periods trying to figure it out, and grappling with something that I couldn’t ever quite figure out. I surrounded myself with my friends, and the girls that I formed a deep bond with are still my closest friends, and are by far the largest group of friends I maintain contact with from my high school years.
By the time I got to college, I was fairly exhausted. After being on 2 volleyball teams and the dance squad, and doing drama at school as well as all my church activities, I was ready for a break. So in college I just did volleyball. For a time. Until I got antsy. I missed being busy all the time and being involved. So naturally, I tried to find a Catholic community to call my own. Going to school in Lynchburg, VA was not easy, and finding a liberal Catholic church was impossible. This was not the church I grew up with. This was a cold environment that did not look kindly on outsiders joining. This was not a place where you hugged at the sign of peace, but rather, you simply nodded your head. For the first time, I saw Catholicism outside of St Rose and I was dismayed.
So I thought I would try to find another faith community. One that was more welcoming. I went ‘church shopping’ to try and find a place where I felt safe and welcomed. I never really found one while at college, and that was hard for me. Church was a huge part of who I was, and where I came from. The fact that I couldn’t continue that was painful. And another thing happened in college. I finally figured out that missing piece. That something that I was constantly grappling with but could never put my finger on. My sophomore year of college I made the self discovery I was gay. And this sent me into a year and a half struggle.
I couldn’t come out at St Rose because the Catholic Church sees my loving a woman a sin. My parents were brought up Catholic, so I was terrified of what they would think. My friends were all Catholic, and all straight. I was alone. And confused. And hurt. And trying to make sense of how a place that felt like home for close to eleven years now felt foreign to me. That year and a half was probably the darkest time in my life. I felt no one would understand, and I would be the outcast again. Only permanently this time.
Somehow, by the grace of God, I slowly started the coming out process. I came out to my best friend; then another friend; and eventually to my mom. Who told me that she would always love me, and nothing would ever change that, and she was sorry that I felt I couldn’t tell her. And although I finally felt safe with my friends and my parents, I still didn’t feel safe or wanted at church. I constantly felt that if people knew, they would kick me to the curb. So I stopped going to church. For about four years the only time I went to church was when I was home visiting my parents. And I was always anxious when I went. I started looking at going to St Rose as a social event, to see who of my friends would be there, rather than gaining any spiritual nourishment. This was still really hard for me.
It wasn’t until I moved to Boston that I started going to church again. And even then it was a struggle. I had a co-worker who kept talking to me about the church that he attended, Cambridge Welcoming Ministries. He would talk to me every Monday about the service Sundays, and how dinner was served afterwards, and how welcoming and affirming they are there. Eventually he mentioned the pastor by name and I realized the pastor was female. So I started to pay more attention. I’ve always been drawn to churches that allow women to be ordained, so I started to listen more attentively to Mark’s stories. Eventually he wore me down and I agreed to go to service with him.
Before I went to college, St Rose adopted a new church motto. It was ‘All are Welcome.’ Every time I heard it, however, I felt that there was no feeling or emotion behind the sentiment. It felt like an empty statement to me. Because I witnessed time after time the Catholic Church being exclusive to some, sometimes most of the members of its church. My first service at Cambridge Welcoming Ministries, the first thing Tiffany said was, “All are welcome here.” And I immediately started to cry. Because I knew that Tiffany meant it. All are truly welcome at Cambridge Welcoming. And we start every service stating so. “Whether you are gay, lesbian, straight, transgender, bisexual, questioning; whether you’re here for the first time, or the 50th time, whether you’re 5, 25, 85 or somewhere in-between you are welcome here.” I finally found a place where I belong. Where people aren’t going to judge me, for any reason. Where I can truly be myself and I am loved. A place that I don’t have to worry about being an outsider. A feeling I have never had in my life.
So when The United Methodist church this past week told me I wasn’t welcome in their church; I wasn’t prepared for how awful that would feel. I wasn’t prepared for how devastated I would be to hear that God’s grace does not extend to me, according to The United Methodist church (and specifically, one particular delegate). I wasn’t prepared to deal with the apathy I felt from so many delegates towards how broken and hurting we were. I am used to feeling like an outcast. I am used to feeling unwanted. I was, and am not, used to knowing why I am an outcast. I am also not used to others standing in solidarity with me, also being called outcasts. And that is my church. My church stands with me. My church welcomes me. My church does not ignore me. It saddens me that the greater church does not stand with me until it is too late. It disheartens and devastates me that the greater church not only doesn’t welcome me, but specifically denies me membership because of who I love. It broke my heart to be ignored by the greater church. For a church whose old motto was Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors and is now Making Disciples of Jesus Christ for the Transformation of the World, these are empty statements to not only me, but other LGBT people. To us, we hear Open Hearts Open Minds Open Doors except YOU. We hear that you make disciples of people who are straight, but LGBT people need to take a number and we’ll get back to you once you realize that being LGBT is a choice. Once you accept your hetero-ness you will be welcomed by us.
I did not choose to be a lesbian. Anymore than my best friends chose to be straight. My lesbianism is my gift from God. I pray one day The United Methodist church, and other denominations around the world, will accept this and welcome me with open arms. Until then, I take comfort in Cambridge Welcoming, and yearn for the day CWM is no longer the exception, but the rule.
Broken Hearts. Closed Doors. We Mind. www.rmnetwork.org
LOST and Found: Lessons from the Prodigal One and the TV Series LOST
