28 August 2009

. . . and such a long journey . . .

A hard time we had of it . . .

At the end . . .

Sleeping in snatches

With the voices singing in our ears, saying

That this was all folly.

And I would do it again, but set down

This set down

This: were we lead all that way for

Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,

We had evidence and no doubt. I have seen birth and death,

But had thought they were different; this Birth was

Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.

from The Journey of the Magi, T. S. Eliot

I’m not anonymous. After a while, Central Denver seems like a small town. And as was the case in the small town where the first parish I served was located, I have precious little anonymity. I'm as much pastor to the community-at-large as I am to the community of St. Paul. And so, as I was walking Noah through Cheesman Park this morning, someone I didn't quite recognize called out, "Father! Congratulations on the votes last week! Your hard work paid off.” I waved, smiled wanly, and stammered, “Oh. . . yeah . . . um . . . thanks.” I would have preferred this morning to have been left alone, anonymous. And then I started to cry. Again.

They seem so long ago, the votes of ELCA Churchwide Assembly that granted (that is the right term, sad to say) LGBT people in a same-gender, committed, life-long relationship full inclusion into the life and ministry of our church body. But it’s only been one week since all that happened, a week that’s felt like an eternity. The only other time I can recall feeling the way I do now is the time after my dad died. I’m in a daze. I constantly forget where I am and what I’m doing. To those around me, I seem preoccupied, and I don’t like to talk much. And if I have to talk about last week, if I have talk about anything, I have to fight back the tears. And there are moments when I just start to cry – for no reason.

Part of what I’m feeling, no doubt, is a sort of “let-down.” For seven long years I journeyed as the only “out” gay man, the only “out” gay clergy person, and as one of only two queer people among the fifteen members of the ELCA’s Human Sexuality Task Force. And now, suddenly, it’s all over. In large part that work has defined my life for the last seven years. More than that, the whole struggle for full inclusion into the life and ministry of the church has defined much of my past thirty years. It was thirty years ago, nearly to the date, that I entered seminary, and what a shock it was – to discover that the worst “thing” to be there was gay. I wasn’t about to accept that, and so I began, quietly, insistently to function like an undercover agent, working from the inside to subvert what seemed to me to be the church’s denial of the full import of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. And now, in large part – the work is done and a thirty year journey is complete. It has been a journey that even up until last Friday afternoon I did not think would be accomplished in my life-time. So why am I not rejoicing? Sure – let-down. But more than that . . . much more.

In part, my overflow of emotion is a sort of awe – or something like it. It’s what one feels when one stands with one foot in . . . eternity – with one foot in the realm of God that exists outside of time. I’m in awe that I have been allowed to play a part, albeit an infinitesimally small part, in changing the history of the church. And if that is a change for the better – then, wow – what a miracle that in spite of my many shortcomings and weaknesses I was allowed to have a part in that.

And some of what I’m feeling – well, there’s still a nagging question: What if we were wrong in what we did? I don’t think we were wrong, but still . . . what if? That's no small thing. The fallout from what we did last Friday is immense if it causes even one person to lose faith. And even if we are right, as I hope and pray is the case – still, if our actions cause even one of Christ’s little ones to stumble – as is surely the case somewhere – then we must, once more, throw ourselves at the feet of the dying Christ who says from the cross, “Forgive them. They know not what they do.”

I became aware too in the past week that for many people the actions of the Churchwide Assembly are just the beginning of a perilous journey. I spoke with one voting member of the Assembly on the shuttle to the Minneapolis airport who said that though in the course of the debates she became convinced of the rightness of both the Social Statement and the ministerial policy changes, she was not looking forward to explaining those actions to people at home. I also talked to clergy who were dreading going home to the parishes they serve, knowing full well the grief, anger, and feelings of betrayal awaiting them. In this last week I’ve also become aware that even in Reconciling in Christ congregations, there are those for whom the thought of ordained clergy in same-gender relationships is going too, too far. Even though opportunities for discussion of these matters have been ample, many people have, for one reason or another, been left behind or feel they have been left behind. I do not doubt for a second that the actions of the Task Force and the actions of the Assembly mean that much difficult work, filled with much anxiety and great pain, lies ahead.

In this past week, I have been reminded again and forcefully that, upon this earth, there are no pure moral choices. Everything we say and do carries with it unintended consequences, many of which cause great harm. We are, after all, stuck . . . in shadows of grey. There is here no pure light: our choices are always between lesser and greater evils. We are in bondage to that thing called sin, and it's true -- we cannot seem to free ourselves no matter how hard we try.

So yes, I have seen birth and death, but had thought them different. Until now. And so, once again, I pray the only prayer I really know how to pray:

Lord have mercy.

Christ have mercy.

Lord have mercy.