A thank you, and a story, for everyone who has taught me to stand up for justice
I got a couple phone calls on Tuesday saying something was going on at the church I used to attend. To make a long story short, I attended a church in town (a Methodist and United Church of Christ church—in small towns, even seemingly completely different Protestant faiths tend to combine to make churches viable) for about five years, and during that time, the church began to grapple with whether to become an Open and Affirming/Reconciling congregation—publicly welcoming, in other words, to GLBT people. Ultimately, the process was so painful for me that I left, just before the church voted the idea down. I have since really missed going to church, and I miss some of the people. I even tried to go back after S came into my life, but she didn’t feel comfortable there—looking back, I now suspect that she sensed my discomfort.
I knew the minister was retiring, and that the church would be calling an interim, UCC minister (I still get the bulletins—in fact, in her last bulletin message, the minister had noted that she hoped the congregation would rethink and revisit the O&A decision. I’d felt a sense of hope when I read that bulletin, but I still did not want to go back.
When I finally called back some of my friends from the church, I learned that a dynamic and highly qualified interim minister had applied and been interviewed, and that the pastoral relations committee had recommended her appointment. But, during her second interview, she had disclosed that her husband had undergone a transition, and was now a woman.
Somebody left that interview (which included board members as well as the search committee) and spread the word. Panic, rumors—you get the picture. In essence, all of the educational efforts the O&A group had put forth had clearly done very little to reach people in their hearts. Now, the board would vote on whether or not to approve the recommendation of her appointment—and unbelievably, unethically, perhaps illegally—her partner’s gender identity was going to play into how some people would vote. So, the church board and the search committee had called a special meeting to discuss the candidate.
Two of my friends wanted me to come. I thought, at first, that I shouldn’t—what right did I have to weigh in, when I’d bailed on the congregation? But one of my friends said to me, “This is about the future of this town, not just the congregation.” I decided to seek some clarity in prayer. Up until 10 minutes before the meeting, I was walking around town, praying for guidance. And then, strangely, inexplicably, a car pulled up next to me, and someone got out quickly to run into a store on main street. I turned to wave (I wave at everybody here), and it turned out to be a man named H, who was the first person to ever invite me to church.
I took this as a sign. I could tell that he and his wife were on their way to the meeting and were just making a quick stop. I could tell, also, that they were taking in the significance of this chance meeting. They had been vocally against making the church Open and Affirming—even though they had been by far the most welcoming of me, as a person, when I arrived at the church. I’d always felt this was a great contradiction. Somehow, seeing them in the midst of my prayers seemed like a clear direction.
So, I walked to my car, as the meeting was beginning in fewer than five minutes, and I drove to the church. I sat in the parking lot for another five minutes, feeling terrified. And then I prayed, Spirit, if I I’m supposed to be here, then please help me to really listen, and, if I’m supposed to speak, to say what I’m supposed to say.
When I walked in, I could see the worry on many people’s faces. I knew what was going through their minds. I also saw the two people who had called me to invite me smiling. I realized suddenly that my presence might keep people from saying what was on their minds—perhaps they would temper any hateful comments, at least a little bit. But also, I wondered if my presence would keep the conversation from moving toward a solution.
The meeting had already begun, so I took a seat next to one of the men who had been most vocally opposed to the Open and Affirming process. My heart was beating hard. The facilitator, who I know fairly well, talked at first about the process: the committee had made a recommendation, and the board would vote on July 11. The congregation as a whole does not have a say on interim ministers—only their elected representatives can make the decision. Still, due to the rumors flying around, there was clearly a need to have a congregational conversation.
The facilitator put some rumors to rest: the candidate’s spouse had transitioned three years earlier. The family was still intact. The teenage children were coping. Both parents are currently employed with the UCC church, but looking for more permanent employment. The interim minister candidate was interested in a more permanent position, if the placement worked out. The family would live in the parsonage, but the children would commute 45 to school, because they did not want to switch schools. The spouse is employed at a church camp and would be seeking employment either in their old community 45 minutes away or in our community.
After the facts were discussed, there was a conversation about the children—one person implied that they might not fit in here, because of what the family has been through; another said he was disappointed that they wouldn’t be “full” members of the church, as we needed more children. There was some discussion about whether it was appropriate for her to ask to be eligible to apply for the more permanent position, and also some questions about who exactly had made this decision. It became clear that people were spinning their wheels, trying to find some way to make the candidate seem less desirable and not talk about the “real” issue.
And then, things got weirder. One man said, “How are we gonna dress her, or him?” One of the women who had called me said, in no uncertain terms, “She will dress herself, that’s not appropriate.” Others looked at each other uncomfortably. A young mother wondered how she would explain “this” to her children. She said otherwise she had “no problems with anybody,” it’s just that she couldn’t figure out how she would talk to her kids about it.
The conversation went on. Some people in the room kept returning the conversation to her qualifications and the fact that we should not even be discussing her family or her spouse; if she was the best candidate, we need to hire her. Others kept returning to how the family would fit in here, to why she wanted to come, to what she would “force” the church to do.
“We might split over this issue,” one person said. “The open and affirming issue is dead now, and this will bring it back up.”
“If we’re meant to split, though,” said the facilitator, “that’s exactly the kind of thing an interim minister will help us to determine.”
A friend who was clearly on the side of justice said she hoped people would “pray over this, and do what was right;” a woman who has always been on the other side said, “Amen to that!” then began to whisper to the people sitting around her. Apparently she was already sure how those prayers would turn out, if she made them.
And then, at the end, the facilitator said, “Well, it sounds like everyone’s questions have been answered. The council will vote on July 11.”
At which point, I took a deep breath and raised my hand.
I am not sure exactly what I said. I was aware at certain points that some people in the room were crying. I remember talking about my own prejudice against transgendered people—how, when I first encountered them in the early 90s when I was coming out, I didn’t think they belonged in “our” community—their issues, after all, were totally different from ours, I would argue.
When a friend came out to me as trans—I’d thought he was a butch lesbian—I had been hard on him, very hard. It had been ugly. That friend is dead now; he took his own life years later, after we had reconciled—the process of transitioning was simply too hard for him.
And then, I talked about the students I knew who had transitioned before or during their time at the college where I teach, and how they had educated and challenged and inspired me. I said that they were among the bravest people I knew, and that they were having impacts I could only imagine having—working with homeless queer youth, teaching in a reservation school, working toward a nursing degree. I talked about transgendered people I’d met who were attorneys and teachers and social workers—how all of them had told me unequivocally that living between genders had affected how they practiced their work and lived their lives.
I said that I'd had to search my heart and face my own prejudices around this issue and so many others, that I'd had to encounter my own privilege often in my life in uncomfortable ways--and that I believed Jesus called us to do just that.
And I said that I had great admiration for the hopefully-soon-to-be-called minister. I said I wasn't brave or open enough to see beyond gender, but obviously, if she had kept the marriage alive through her husband's transition, she was a better person than me, and most of us.
In the end, I said, “The Jesus I know loved everyone. You pushed me out of the church. It hurt. Don’t make the same mistake again. If you are going to say yes, you need to really say yes, and open your arms. Don't do it halfway. This is an opportunity to open the doors wider, to make amends for mistakes this church has made in the past.”
I don’t know what will happen, but I said what I needed to say. Instead of feeling the old worry and fear and rejection, when I walked out of the doors of the church, I felt, instead, empowered and whole, like the Spirit had been speaking through me. The gratitude I felt, and still feel, was profound.
Note: This blog entry is written in memory of L, and also in gratitude for all those who have taught me to stand up: thank you J, I, and T, especially, for all the ways you’ve helped me to understand trans identity and to become the advocate God wants me to be!
I knew the minister was retiring, and that the church would be calling an interim, UCC minister (I still get the bulletins—in fact, in her last bulletin message, the minister had noted that she hoped the congregation would rethink and revisit the O&A decision. I’d felt a sense of hope when I read that bulletin, but I still did not want to go back.
When I finally called back some of my friends from the church, I learned that a dynamic and highly qualified interim minister had applied and been interviewed, and that the pastoral relations committee had recommended her appointment. But, during her second interview, she had disclosed that her husband had undergone a transition, and was now a woman.
Somebody left that interview (which included board members as well as the search committee) and spread the word. Panic, rumors—you get the picture. In essence, all of the educational efforts the O&A group had put forth had clearly done very little to reach people in their hearts. Now, the board would vote on whether or not to approve the recommendation of her appointment—and unbelievably, unethically, perhaps illegally—her partner’s gender identity was going to play into how some people would vote. So, the church board and the search committee had called a special meeting to discuss the candidate.
Two of my friends wanted me to come. I thought, at first, that I shouldn’t—what right did I have to weigh in, when I’d bailed on the congregation? But one of my friends said to me, “This is about the future of this town, not just the congregation.” I decided to seek some clarity in prayer. Up until 10 minutes before the meeting, I was walking around town, praying for guidance. And then, strangely, inexplicably, a car pulled up next to me, and someone got out quickly to run into a store on main street. I turned to wave (I wave at everybody here), and it turned out to be a man named H, who was the first person to ever invite me to church.
I took this as a sign. I could tell that he and his wife were on their way to the meeting and were just making a quick stop. I could tell, also, that they were taking in the significance of this chance meeting. They had been vocally against making the church Open and Affirming—even though they had been by far the most welcoming of me, as a person, when I arrived at the church. I’d always felt this was a great contradiction. Somehow, seeing them in the midst of my prayers seemed like a clear direction.
So, I walked to my car, as the meeting was beginning in fewer than five minutes, and I drove to the church. I sat in the parking lot for another five minutes, feeling terrified. And then I prayed, Spirit, if I I’m supposed to be here, then please help me to really listen, and, if I’m supposed to speak, to say what I’m supposed to say.
When I walked in, I could see the worry on many people’s faces. I knew what was going through their minds. I also saw the two people who had called me to invite me smiling. I realized suddenly that my presence might keep people from saying what was on their minds—perhaps they would temper any hateful comments, at least a little bit. But also, I wondered if my presence would keep the conversation from moving toward a solution.
The meeting had already begun, so I took a seat next to one of the men who had been most vocally opposed to the Open and Affirming process. My heart was beating hard. The facilitator, who I know fairly well, talked at first about the process: the committee had made a recommendation, and the board would vote on July 11. The congregation as a whole does not have a say on interim ministers—only their elected representatives can make the decision. Still, due to the rumors flying around, there was clearly a need to have a congregational conversation.
The facilitator put some rumors to rest: the candidate’s spouse had transitioned three years earlier. The family was still intact. The teenage children were coping. Both parents are currently employed with the UCC church, but looking for more permanent employment. The interim minister candidate was interested in a more permanent position, if the placement worked out. The family would live in the parsonage, but the children would commute 45 to school, because they did not want to switch schools. The spouse is employed at a church camp and would be seeking employment either in their old community 45 minutes away or in our community.
After the facts were discussed, there was a conversation about the children—one person implied that they might not fit in here, because of what the family has been through; another said he was disappointed that they wouldn’t be “full” members of the church, as we needed more children. There was some discussion about whether it was appropriate for her to ask to be eligible to apply for the more permanent position, and also some questions about who exactly had made this decision. It became clear that people were spinning their wheels, trying to find some way to make the candidate seem less desirable and not talk about the “real” issue.
And then, things got weirder. One man said, “How are we gonna dress her, or him?” One of the women who had called me said, in no uncertain terms, “She will dress herself, that’s not appropriate.” Others looked at each other uncomfortably. A young mother wondered how she would explain “this” to her children. She said otherwise she had “no problems with anybody,” it’s just that she couldn’t figure out how she would talk to her kids about it.
The conversation went on. Some people in the room kept returning the conversation to her qualifications and the fact that we should not even be discussing her family or her spouse; if she was the best candidate, we need to hire her. Others kept returning to how the family would fit in here, to why she wanted to come, to what she would “force” the church to do.
“We might split over this issue,” one person said. “The open and affirming issue is dead now, and this will bring it back up.”
“If we’re meant to split, though,” said the facilitator, “that’s exactly the kind of thing an interim minister will help us to determine.”
A friend who was clearly on the side of justice said she hoped people would “pray over this, and do what was right;” a woman who has always been on the other side said, “Amen to that!” then began to whisper to the people sitting around her. Apparently she was already sure how those prayers would turn out, if she made them.
And then, at the end, the facilitator said, “Well, it sounds like everyone’s questions have been answered. The council will vote on July 11.”
At which point, I took a deep breath and raised my hand.
I am not sure exactly what I said. I was aware at certain points that some people in the room were crying. I remember talking about my own prejudice against transgendered people—how, when I first encountered them in the early 90s when I was coming out, I didn’t think they belonged in “our” community—their issues, after all, were totally different from ours, I would argue.
When a friend came out to me as trans—I’d thought he was a butch lesbian—I had been hard on him, very hard. It had been ugly. That friend is dead now; he took his own life years later, after we had reconciled—the process of transitioning was simply too hard for him.
And then, I talked about the students I knew who had transitioned before or during their time at the college where I teach, and how they had educated and challenged and inspired me. I said that they were among the bravest people I knew, and that they were having impacts I could only imagine having—working with homeless queer youth, teaching in a reservation school, working toward a nursing degree. I talked about transgendered people I’d met who were attorneys and teachers and social workers—how all of them had told me unequivocally that living between genders had affected how they practiced their work and lived their lives.
I said that I'd had to search my heart and face my own prejudices around this issue and so many others, that I'd had to encounter my own privilege often in my life in uncomfortable ways--and that I believed Jesus called us to do just that.
And I said that I had great admiration for the hopefully-soon-to-be-called minister. I said I wasn't brave or open enough to see beyond gender, but obviously, if she had kept the marriage alive through her husband's transition, she was a better person than me, and most of us.
In the end, I said, “The Jesus I know loved everyone. You pushed me out of the church. It hurt. Don’t make the same mistake again. If you are going to say yes, you need to really say yes, and open your arms. Don't do it halfway. This is an opportunity to open the doors wider, to make amends for mistakes this church has made in the past.”
I don’t know what will happen, but I said what I needed to say. Instead of feeling the old worry and fear and rejection, when I walked out of the doors of the church, I felt, instead, empowered and whole, like the Spirit had been speaking through me. The gratitude I felt, and still feel, was profound.
Note: This blog entry is written in memory of L, and also in gratitude for all those who have taught me to stand up: thank you J, I, and T, especially, for all the ways you’ve helped me to understand trans identity and to become the advocate God wants me to be!
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