They met last week in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to pursue their mission to help people “reconcile faith, identity, and sexuality.” Next year, they will meet in Atlanta, and I hope to attend.
I will soon be 74 years old, but I am still learning about these things: faith, identity, and sexuality. And there is a lot more that I need to learn, not only as a pastor to a LGBTQ inclusive congregation but also as a person seeking more light on what it means to honor God, follow Jesus, and live in the fullness of the Spirit.
It has taken me a long time to learn what little I know about queerness and Christ. I suppose it is fair to say that for many years I was not eager to learn, open to learn. But then, like many people, a series of unplanned and unprovoked events occurred.
A senior administrator at the college where I taught entered my office and closed the door. “I’ve been watching you,” he said to me, by which I later concluded he meant, “I can trust you with what I am about to say.” He proceeded to tell me he was gay and preparing to come out of the closet with this prediction: “I will lose my wife and children, my job, and my church.” And he was right about all of that.
Over the next decade, several students at the college, after their graduation, also went public with their queer identity. Several confided in me, as a minister. One, a physician, ended up attending to one of my sons after his admission to a hospital. He went the extra mile in his treatment of me and my son.
Then Leah died. She had been my best friend growing up in Murray: at the high school, in the band, and especially at church. I did not know it at the time, but she was gay. She did not know it, either. Few people in those days, the 1960s, knew about any of this. After college, she connected with an intense Christian fellowship, perhaps a cult, who convinced her to marry; which she did and knew immediately it was not the right thing. She spent her entire working career in Arizona, as a therapist in the state prison system. She moved back to Murray to retire, reconnected with me, got sick, and died. I went to see her while she was sick. “I love you, Dwight,” she said more than once.
Somewhere in this decade of discovery, I launched and led the Academy of Preachers. Hundreds of young people, ages 14-28, attended our preaching festivals. They were, I thought then and think now, the most ecumenical gatherings of Christians in the United States: Evangelical and Orthodox, Catholic and Protestant, male and female, liberal and conservative, and yes, gay and straight. When some complained about the sexual orientation of the participants, I simply said, “We ask, ‘Do you have a call to gospel preaching, and do you have a mentor?’ We never ask who anybody is sleeping with.’” It was the best I could do, and for the most part it worked.
Then came Providence Baptist Church. I was retired, renting a place in Hendersonville, and attending their Sunday services on Zoom. It was the time of COVID. Then their interim pastor resigned, and I agreed to be their Sunday Preacher. I quickly learned of their connection to the LQBTQ community in western North Carolina, helping to birth the local chapter of PRIDE.
“We need to go full inclusion,” one gay member said to me. How shall we do that? I responded. “Let’s pass a policy statement for the church.” So, we did, one year ago. The television station in Asheville was interested and did two short news pieces on our very small church. But that brought us to the attention of people seeking a safe place to worship, fellowship, and serve. Today, they constitute almost one half of our gathered congregation and serve in every capacity possible. This week, on Wednesday night, they are taking the lead in the launching and leading of our new ministry. FLOURISH, it is called, and it consists of contemporary music, storytelling, prayer, and fellowship. I will be there, and so can you, if you live close enough; or you can tune into my FB page to watch the live stream.
I don’t know how things will go with FLOURISH, and I sure don’t know all the issues of scripture, tradition, reason, and experience; but for me it will be one more step in my own journey to “reconcile faith, identity, and sexuality” as a person committed to walking in the way of Christ.
They met last week in Albuquerque, New Mexico, to pursue their mission to help people “reconcile faith, identity, and sexuality.” Next year, they will meet in Atlanta, and I hope to attend.
I will soon be 74 years old, but I am still learning about these things: faith, identity, and sexuality. And there is a lot more that I need to learn, not only as a pastor to a LGBTQ inclusive congregation but also as a person seeking more light on what it means to honor God, follow Jesus, and live in the fullness of the Spirit.
It has taken me a long time to learn what little I know about queerness and Christ. I suppose it is fair to say that for many years I was not eager to learn, open to learn. But then, like many people, a series of unplanned and unprovoked events occurred.
A senior administrator at the college where I taught entered my office and closed the door. “I’ve been watching you,” he said to me, by which I later concluded he meant, “I can trust you with what I am about to say.” He proceeded to tell me he was gay and preparing to come out of the closet with this prediction: “I will lose my wife and children, my job, and my church.” And he was right about all of that.
Over the next decade, several students at the college, after their graduation, also went public with their queer identity. Several confided in me, as a minister. One, a physician, ended up attending to one of my sons after his admission to a hospital. He went the extra mile in his treatment of me and my son.
Then Leah died. She had been my best friend growing up in Murray: at the high school, in the band, and especially at church. I did not know it at the time, but she was gay. She did not know it, either. Few people in those days, the 1960s, knew about any of this. After college, she connected with an intense Christian fellowship, perhaps a cult, who convinced her to marry; which she did and knew immediately it was not the right thing. She spent her entire working career in Arizona, as a therapist in the state prison system. She moved back to Murray to retire, reconnected with me, got sick, and died. I went to see her while she was sick. “I love you, Dwight,” she said more than once.
Somewhere in this decade of discovery, I launched and led the Academy of Preachers. Hundreds of young people, ages 14-28, attended our preaching festivals. They were, I thought then and think now, the most ecumenical gatherings of Christians in the United States: Evangelical and Orthodox, Catholic and Protestant, male and female, liberal and conservative, and yes, gay and straight. When some complained about the sexual orientation of the participants, I simply said, “We ask, ‘Do you have a call to gospel preaching, and do you have a mentor?’ We never ask who anybody is sleeping with.’” It was the best I could do, and for the most part it worked.
Then came Providence Baptist Church. I was retired, renting a place in Hendersonville, and attending their Sunday services on Zoom. It was the time of COVID. Then their interim pastor resigned, and I agreed to be their Sunday Preacher. I quickly learned of their connection to the LQBTQ community in western North Carolina, helping to birth the local chapter of PRIDE.
“We need to go full inclusion,” one gay member said to me. How shall we do that? I responded. “Let’s pass a policy statement for the church.” So, we did, one year ago. The television station in Asheville was interested and did two short news pieces on our very small church. But that brought us to the attention of people seeking a safe place to worship, fellowship, and serve. Today, they constitute almost one half of our gathered congregation and serve in every capacity possible. This week, on Wednesday night, they are taking the lead in the launching and leading of our new ministry. FLOURISH, it is called, and it consists of contemporary music, storytelling, prayer, and fellowship. I will be there, and so can you, if you live close enough; or you can tune into my FB page to watch the live stream.
I don’t know how things will go with FLOURISH, and I sure don’t know all the issues of scripture, tradition, reason, and experience; but for me it will be one more step in my own journey to “reconcile faith, identity, and sexuality” as a person committed to walking in the way of Christ.
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