I am going through a large backlog of my unpublished drafts. Many are like this one from 2013: lamentations of a public matter and how I addressed (or failed to address) it.
Immediately, I felt sad.
Morbid curiosity led me to the mall yesterday to see the crowds at Chick-fil-A. My first observation was that the tiny parking lot next to the food court entrance was very full. As I rounded the corner from entrance, I could see that the crowd was quite large. As I got closer I observed that several lines snaked around the eating section and the kiosks that populate that area of the mall.
I felt sad for my gay friends…all Christians by my count. I felt sorry for the community, wrapped up in something so self-righteous and meaningless, while their downtowns crumble, their breadlines grow and their children die of unnatural causes. I felt sad that this kind of thing equals joy in their lives. I felt sad for their kids…what if one of them is gay? They will know and/or fear that their parents hate them.
An adulthood formed by Christian disciplines of prayer, confession and absolution also forced me to look at myself.
Jerry
“Jerry W. sucks dicks!”. I said this in seventh grade. That’s also when I learned the word “f*gg*t”, though I didn’t really know the difference between boys and girls; hadn’t reached puberty yet (even singing first soprano in 7th grade choir); and couldn’t tell you what the word meant. At lunchtime, we’d [physically assault each other] and call each other f*gg*ts. Jerry was Asian in a very white world, which I now know is part of the issue. That’s probably why he didn’t kick my ass, even though he was much bigger. In any case, he got it a lot worse than others. Before I even knew what I was doing, I was disparaging people for their sexuality.
In eighth grade, Jerry had moved on. There was no one new to pick on. I became the easy target: skinny, acne-ridden, voice-changing, etc. I got called “f*ggot” a lot. I got my first real crush on a kind girl named Clara while also being disparaged for my sexuality. The label didn’t apply, of course. But sometimes the truth takes a while in setting you free. In the meantime, the meanness and frequency of the name-calling caused me to pretty much shut-down socially. I didn’t eat lunch for 6 years.
When I returned to the place of my upbringing, I wondered if people recognize me as the finger-pointing jerk taunting Jerry. Or will they remember me being on the other end of the taunts? Before returning home, I always thought of myself as a ‘victim of Bluefield’. Chick-fil-A has led me to see the mirror more clearly, that I was once that ignorant fool calling names and bashing someone for something I didn’t understand.
There was another kid who played clarinet in the band and ate lunch with the girls, though he never seemed to date them. He got called “f*gg*t” a lot, too. I now understand that there were probably real homosexuals in my school. The prevalence of the word must have been a real struggle for them. There are other ‘victims of Bluefield’ out there. To them, I am sorry for everything I did that may have made your adolescence a living hell.
Seeing the people at Chick-fil-A reminded me of junior high: people sneering and name-calling, disparaging another for their sexuality. I wonder how aware they were of the effect of their presence in that line.
Small-Town Ticket Out
There were a few moments from that Jr. High/High School era that were my first steps out of that form of hatred. Firstly, my UMYF group was small, attentive and gracious. I recall that we once had a conversation about whether homosexuals should be allowed to adopt children. I debated with another classmate. We both agreed that homosexuality was wrong, but I took the position that they could still be fit parents. Looking back, I’m kind of amazed at myself for that position. It’s not like I thought about it a lot or had any other exposure. I just knew that all parents were sinners and that my sinner parents were very loving. From a Wesleyan Quadrilateral perspective, I used reason and experience to state my case.
The other ‘moment’ was my social isolation. Initially, I developed a self-loathing and an anger that still hasn’t left me. In the long term, I also developed a keen sensitivity to those left out and mocked. Through time, I have become more and more sensitive to the struggles of the LGBT community. Certainly, it is always second-hand sensitivity. But sometimes I feel it quite strongly, even though I don’t fully understand. Additionally, I was reading the other day about Theory of Mind, which, in part, seeks a neurological understanding of empathy. Somehow, we are genetically predisposed to identifying and even feeling the experience of another. The Church calls this compassion. I’ve come to understand that compassion is one of the foremost expressions of the Christian faith, and conversely, a lack of compassion denotes both a lack of love and a lack of faith. Perhaps my view of scripture is skewed as a result but I resonate strongly with those Jesus-episodes in which he shows compassion. Lately, I’ve been moved to consider that Jesus was also compassionate towards those who would later crucify them. He looked upon the city of Jerusalem and wept for it. Not for his own imminent demise, but for the sad condition of that unholy city. The ‘sheep without a shepherd’ are not just those out in the adoring crowds, but likely included those in the Sanhedrin gripped by a lack of compassion. My own isolation has led me to compassion for the LGBT community. I am having a harder time having compassion for those lost in mockery and scorn. This is my current growing edge.
Three Years of Truthiness
In college, one of my more exuberant classmates, ‘experimented with gayness’ for a week. He had gone down to New Orleans for Mardi Gras. In a drunken stupor, he followed ‘the nicest ass in the south’ all through the French Quarter, only to realize that that ass belonged to a man. So K. came back boisterously wondering if he was gay. It might have been all a ruse to get attention, but in the course of this experiment, K. began trying to hug every dude he could get his hands on. It made a lot of people uncomfortable. Actually, most of what K. did made people uncomfortable. One day, K. burst out of the dorm and said “Raines…I need a hug.” So, I hugged this ridiculous clown of a guy. It was pretty good for a man-hug. He said, “you’re the only Christian on this campus that would hug me”. The irony was that I had grown a bit more intolerant of homosexuality…as an idea. I even concocted a connection between homosexuality and pedophilia. No one told me that…but the atmosphere of conformity at school fed my ignorance and my distrust. King College was such a cloistered community, that even in the 1990’s, I can’t think of any out-and-honest gay classmates. But K. was an outcast in the eyes of the mainstream KC community. Most of my hall mates were as well. Alongside my ideological shift against homosexuality, my empathy for the outcast was growing. Another window opened. But it wasn’t until after college that I came to grips with the scorn and rejection of homosexuals that was lurking inside of me.
The Feminine Hands of Justification
Joining the US-2 program in 1998 was the pivotal moment for my faith. I had wanted something tangible, faith-based and important. I had been interviewing at children’s homes following graduation. I felt a particular call to that environment. I had always loved kids and wanted a place that fit my need for service and my personality. The GBGM assigned me to two years of service at Epworth Children & Family Services. Before I arrived there, I met the other US-2s who would be serving at the same time. There were two other guys and 21 women, and these women were out there! I had never been around such a collection of feminists in my life. I already believed in gender equality, but these gals were feisty! They were not like King College girls. Several of them were also gay rights allies. I found myself rather intimidated by them, while also madly in love with them. It was the gay-rights matter that challenged me the most. I was comfortable talking about race, gender, poverty, violence, etc. But issues of sexuality forced me to confront my own ignorance, as well as my own discomfort. I secretly argued with many of their assumptions, but also secretly felt that I was wrong. At the same time, I was dating someone who did not respect my sexual boundaries. The implicit pressure from her plus my infatuation with my US-2 classmates plus an unexpected confrontation with homosexuality equaled a vortex of confusion that was as strong as any I had experienced in adolescence. I just wanted to serve kids. Why did I have to talk about gays, too?
There were some boys at Epworth who had been genuinely struggling with their sexuality. Victims of abuse, I learned, often experience further sexual dysfunction throughout their lives. I had the unfortunate task of teaching about Sodom & Gomorrah to a group of these boys without any preparation. I tried to sympathetically teach the story and be honest about how it has historically been interpreted. A few days later, I entered the boys facility while they were doing art. Immediately, one of the boys picked up a pencil and said “TELL ME I’M NOT GOING TO HELL FOR BEING GAY OR I’LL STAB YOU IN THE EYE WITH THIS PENCIL!” Strangely, I didn’t fear for my safety, even though the kids in that unit were prone to violent outbursts. I simply told the boy that God loved him and I didn’t think he was going to hell. My desire for that boy to be at peace overtook any desire I had to condemn him. That was one of the earliest times that my pastoral instincts really kicked in. I pitied his self-loathing. “Go and learn what this means: “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.”” This is why I had to talk about gays.
During the mid-term and end-term US-2 reunions, the GBGM invited a former campus minister to be our chaplain. I didn’t really like the guy. He kept mixing religions and talking about ‘native peoples’ as if he wasn’t white. Our initial meeting with him, he broke out what looked like a huge wad of marijuana. I thought, “Nooooo…this is my vacation, I don’t want to get high”. Turns out it was sage, with which he ‘cleansed the air’. I didn’t really need that crap. I just wanted to talk about the Epworth kids and have my hard work and sacrifice validated. He also talked about the “queer community” as if they were a race of people. He would invite us to pray for our constituents. I would pray for Tamika or Jonathan (not their real names). He would pray for gay students. After I shared about my experiences at Epworth, this guy came up to me. He said something along the lines of how I was digging into the depths of the human experience. He was kind and encouraging and wise. He also told me that the root word for humanity was the same root word for “shit”. That happens to be my favorite word and I burst out laughing. He kept trying to make his point but I couldn’t stop laughing. He understood and graciously let me laugh. In our two weeks together, that was the only thing he said to me directly. Others spent a lot of time with him and it was through them that I learned that he himself was gay. He had left the ministry so that he could be open about it. Turns out, he was still best friends with his ex-wife, a legendary woman from the US-2 world. At the end of my term with the US-2 class, we gathered in the bland ballroom of the hotel, bags packed ready for the airport. It was our last night together, and many of us were quite sad. The campus minister shared a brief communion service with the group. I knew from the very outset of this moment that I would be receiving the body and blood of Christ from a gay man. I received the bread and the juice and without fanfare consumed them together. I was okay. It was right for me to receive that. It was right–and evidence of this man’s pastoral ability–for him to share something so intimate, so distinctly Christian with us. I felt the same as I felt when I was baptized as a young adolescent, the same I felt when I was ordained: that it was an important moment: holy, significant, lacking fanfare but rich in meaning. Any reason I may have had to protest were swallowed up in the sanctity of the sacrament.
The forgiveness of my sin of intolerance came to me via feminists who were gay allies and the kindness of a strange man who I didn’t like but came to respect. What these people did for me, to include me with all our differences, helped me understand something plain but profound about love: we don’t have to agree, but the manner in which we treat one another, especially the one different from us, is an extension of our understanding of God’s grace. The UMC teaches that, at confirmation, an agreement is made between the church and the new member. The church’s end of the deal is to “increase their faith, confirm their hope, and perfect them in love”. Through the US-2 program, the church perfected me in love, that I may come to love my LGBT neighbors as I love myself. The feminists and the gay, outcast clergyman showed incredible patience and respect for me. I would have that done to me a million times over. So must I do for others.
My Current Dilemma
I’m home when I drafted this post. Part of my personal ethic says ‘once you know something you can’t pretend not to know it’. In fact that is a biblical principle from Paul’s understanding of the law in Romans. I know that disparaging homosexuals is wrong. I know that sneering, denigrating, showboating and ignorance are not fruits of the Holy Spirit. I know that people will not turn away from these sins without some prodding. Yet I still lack some faith when it comes to effectively leading people out of this mindset. One can only talk so long about a generic form of diversity.
Perhaps the best approach is the same as my US-2 classmates’ approach with me: stay gentle, do not shy away from the specific topic, love people as they struggle and show them a more perfect way.
There’s more: I also have taken issue with the attitudes and actions of some of my clergy colleagues. Their ideology on the matter is not my main concern. I was really embarrassed by the tactlessness, the crassness, the hypocrisy and the self-righteousness of their activism. Have they no gay parishioners? Have they no parishioners who are parents of gay children? Are they so naive as to think no gay people live in their small towns? Did they deliberately mean to come off as unthinking as they did? Did they mean to treat human dignity like it was a high school football game…where you pick a team and yell whatever you want and get some sort of kick out of your team ‘winning’ (whatever that means)? Did they really mean to slam their church doors in the faces of their gay parishioners, their parishioners’ gay children, their own children (should they be gay)? How on earth are they and me preaching the same gospel, reading the same scripture, representing the same church? Does ‘sacred worth’ not mean anything to them? Our righteousness is, indeed, like filthy rags. All the more reason to desire mercy over sacrifice.
