Living Theology
in the Metropolitan Chicago Synod
Volume 8, Number 2
Summer 2003
Human Sexuality in the ELCA:
Perspectives on the Struggle
Diane
V. Bowers
Ross Merkel is the pastor of
St. Paul Lutheran Church in Oakland, California. Saint Paul, an ELCA congregation, is a growing, joyful church
with outstanding worship, education, fellowship, and service to the
community. I have been a member of St.
Paul’s for five years. About a year
ago, in the middle of a dialogue sermon, Ross made a statement that no one in
the congregation could have anticipated.
Speaking from his heart, he said something that made listeners do an
intellectual double take.
Now, given the discussion in this issue,
you might be expecting to read that Ross announced to the congregation he was
“coming out.” But that isn’t what
happened. You see, everyone in the
congregation already knows that Ross is gay.
Ross came out to the congregation eight years ago, and the people of St.
Paul stood by him through the ecclesiastical trial, and they stood by him when
he was defrocked, and they demanded that he remain as their pastor. With the quiet support of a sympathetic
bishop, he did. Ross’s orientation is
really not an issue for this blended congregation of gay and straight, families
and singles, old and young, Black, White and Asian, physically challenged and
physically able.
Ross’s statement was much
more provocative than a simple declaration of personal orientation. What he said is this: “If I were not gay, I
wouldn’t be a pastor in the Lutheran church.” With this statement he subverted
the listener’s expectation by criss-crossing conventional social and religious
categories.
From a young age Ross knew
that he was “different,” and he knew that society judged that difference very
harshly. Society called the feelings he
had “deviant,” “bad,” “unacceptable.” Growing up in the church, however, he
consistently heard the message of the worth of each and every human being. As a young man, a deep experience of the
grace of Jesus Christ called him back to the church, and he determined to share
that message with others by becoming a pastor.
Ironically, the church that taught him about grace and soothed his
wounded spirit also required that he hide his orientation.
The statement, “If I were
not gay, I wouldn’t be a pastor in the Lutheran church,” is a Christian
statement. What is more, it is
profoundly Lutheran. Lutheran Christians are blessed to be the
bearers of a grace-filled tradition of paradox,
of holy simultaneity. Lutheran theology
lifts up Jesus’ paradoxical message that the Reign of God is truly and
completely both now and not yet. Deep
in our bones, we affirm Paul’s teaching that we are simultaneously sinners and
saints. Our daily experience of life in
the world confirms that it is in weakness, when we are most dependent, that we
find strength and are made strong.
The paradox of Ross’s
experience is that the grace of Jesus Christ was mediated by its earthly
vessel, the church, to a man whom the church rejected. The power of the church’s message that all
are loved and valued by God was stronger than the church’s power to counteract
its own message.
Five years ago I moved to
the West Coast in order to begin my doctoral studies in Systematic
Theology. After finding a place to live
and registering for summer French, I set about finding an ELCA congregation to join. I visited the two closest, and another some
distance away, and then I looked in the phone book. St. Paul’s ad caught my eye and I visited the following Sunday.
I had been looking for a
congregation with a lively and successful alternative worship service, and I
can’t say that St. Paul fit that category exactly. Their worship is more traditional, the music is
organ-driven. But the service was
definitely alive. People sang enthusiastically to the Cornell
setting. Towards the back I heard
tambourines, and some people around me seemed almost ready to sway—pretty out there for Lutherans!
There was energy and Holy Spirit in the air, and the sermon was powerful.
After church a member talked
with me during coffee hour, but I could barely hear her above the conversation
around us. It seemed to me that the
entire congregation stayed for coffee…and stayed, and stayed. No one wanted to go home! My host told me
all about St. Paul’s history, about the many ministries that St. Paul supports,
and how active the members are. As I
was leaving she said to me, “You’ll be back.”
I joined St. Paul because of the excellent preaching, the lively
worship, and the warm and friendly fellowship.
And in addition to that, I joined because of the people who fill the worship
space. Along with gay and straight
people, I saw two folks in wheelchairs and one with a mental disability. I saw different colors and all ages. What I saw was a small pre-view of what I
imagine the reign of God will look like.
And I joined St. Paul to participate in civil disobedience. I wanted
to be a member of the only Lutheran congregation I knew of that had an out, gay
pastor and was still in good standing with the ELCA.1
Supporting my lesbian and
gay sisters and brothers in the fight for their full acceptance in the church
is a matter of personal honor to me.
Let me go back a little. My
parents were missionaries in Liberia, Africa, which is where I was born. I say this to illustrate that my parents are
thoughtful and religiously engaged Christians, and at the time, theologically
conservative. Still, they did not
impress upon me any perspective about homosexuality at all, pro, con, or
neutral. It just never came up.
By the time I entered
seminary in 1991 I had met a few gay people.
I was familiar with the biblical injunctions, but just didn’t see what
the fuss was about. The newly formed
ELCA was in the throes of its 1991 sexuality study controversy, and I read the
study thoroughly and found it helpful.
It was during my years in seminary that the category of “homosexual”
began to be filled with content—a real person, a real friend, in a real crisis.
I met David during my first
semester of seminary and was immediately drawn to him. A Mennonite, he was gentle, funny, devout,
easy to talk to. He came from a large
family of seven brothers and had served in leadership capacities in his
congregation from boyhood. When David
decided to become a pastor, his congregation rejoiced and happily sent him off
to seminary. David and I became great
friends.
One night, shortly before
Christmas break, David came to my room with something important to say. He was shaken and tearful but resolute. He told me that he was gay, and that, having
spent his entire life fighting and denying and trying to change, he was finally
accepting it, and was going to stop hiding.
He said he knew what this would mean.
His congregation would throw him out and he would no longer be a candidate
for ordination. His mother would reject
him. He had no idea how his brothers
would react, and if he would be cut off from all, or only some, of his family:
his brothers, sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews. He had everything to lose by coming out—his place in the family,
his place in the church, his vocation and ministry.
David told me how much he
desperately wanted this to not be true, and how he had tried to change. Knowing that it was expected, David had
dated women. As an adult he had even
become engaged. He told me, “I really
did love my fiancée. She was my best
friend. For a while I convinced myself
that this could be enough—for me, and for a marriage. But when we would go out together to a restaurant and my head
turned for an attractive man, and I felt nothing like that for her, I knew I
couldn’t do it. And it would have been
incredibly unfair to her.”
David was feeling suicidal,
despairing. He told me that some days
the only thing keeping him alive was a little squirrel that played in a tree
outside his window. In the mornings he
watched this little squirrel, and seeing its zest and appreciation for life, he
would think that perhaps it could be worth staying alive.
While I hadn’t guessed that
David was gay, I wasn’t surprised or shocked to learn it—it made emotional
sense, and clarified some parts of our relationship that had confused me. On the other hand, I was deeply moved. I feared for his life, and grieved for his
pain. A shift occurred inside of me
that evening, as several areas of tension in the debate around homosexuality
slammed into focus. The first: David
was not making a choice to be gay. He
had fought it all his life. Second:
David was one of the finest people I’d ever met, a devout servant of Jesus
Christ and a child of the church. He
wasn’t harming anyone. Third: that the church would reject such a
one as him was a travesty. It was
unjust. Since that time I’ve been a
member of the cause.
I wouldn’t have joined St. Paul, though, if it had only been about
a cause. I needed a church, a
community, and a pastor. So what is it
like being a member of a church with a gay pastor and a membership that is
around 20% lesbian or gay? Since it’s an experience that most Lutherans haven’t
had, it’s natural to be curious. At St.
Paul, that the pastor is gay and many
of the members are, is not an issue.
It’s known, it’s accepted, it isn’t surprising, no one’s caught off
guard or uncomfortable. I’m as likely
to ask a male friend in the choir how he and his boyfriend are doing as I am to
ask a female friend the same thing. It
doesn’t feel weird.
On the other hand, people at
St. Paul are very aware that homosexuality is
an issue in the larger community. Gay
and straight members of the congregation march in the annual Pride Parade in
San Francisco. St. Paul is a leader
among the Bay Area churches in promoting the cause of ordination for gays and
lesbians. St. Paul actively and
financially supports two ordained positions filled by members of the LGBT2
community.
The fact that the pastor is
gay and the congregation is mixed gay and straight has made St. Paul strong,
and helps it to be a welcoming place.
The trauma of Ross’ ecclesiastical trial several years ago brought
people together in the way that shared adversity does. The diversity of sexual orientation at St.
Paul makes it a comfortable place for other kinds of diversity, including
varieties of ethnicity, income, physical ability, and even faith. St. Paul harbors a Jewish family, a couple
of Buddhists and a few agnostic spouses, who come for the fellowship.
There’s a tendency among
those who are apologists for a cause to try to illustrate that the group in
question is “really just like you and me, with just this one small difference,”
and I want to resist that tendency. St.
Paul and other communities like it are different from other congregations in
ways that reflect their constituencies.
Just as a church with a large Vietnamese population would reflect
Vietnamese culture, so the larger life of St. Paul reflects the gifts,
peculiarities, and consciousness of gay culture.
St. Paul reflects gay culture’s emphasis on the liberation of
masculine emotion, and love of celebration.
St. Paul reflects lesbian culture’s intense concern for gender and power
issues, and the placing of relationships, children, and health ahead of
career. Women and men in equal numbers
host fabulous coffee hours; the altar guild counts men and women as members;
and choir members are as vigilant as the choir director in keeping the language
of its anthems inclusive.
Yet, if you were to sit at a table of lesbian, gay, and straight
folks at a Wednesday night supper, you’d hear complaints about politics,
new-baby updates, and discussion of whether the sanctuary needs
repainting. Enthusiastic compliments on
the chicken casserole and Caesar salad would be paid to the chefs. It’s a conversation you could hear anywhere,
in any church basement.
It’s important to say that
sexuality really isn’t at the center of St. Paul’s life—Jesus is. Worship is.
Ministry to sisters and brothers is.
That might sound remarkable, but it’s also refreshingly, appropriately
unremarkable. It’s people being
Christians, bringing the gifts they have to the table to share. When volunteers put together the annual
“Mystery Writers Dinner” fundraiser, it’s about raising money for a women’s
shelter. When Ross preaches, he
preaches about the grace and power God gives so that we might live in
freedom. When the choir sings a gospel
anthem and raises the roof, the praises are in Jesus’ name and for his glory.
I know that some would say
to me, “But right is right and wrong is wrong.
Doesn’t the bible condemn same-sex sexual acts?”3 And I would
respond, “Yes. Yes it does. And I respectfully, carefully, disagree with
the bible.” I also disagree with verses in the bible that condone slavery, bar
women from public speaking and leadership, and prescribe death by stoning.
The bible is a collection of
stories that bear witness to revelatory encounter with God. God’s Word is found within the human
words. But as Martin Luther reminds us,
we don’t worship a book,4 we worship Jesus Christ, and what we
believe we know of God must be viewed through the lens of the cross. Therefore I take seriously the bible’s
bedrock, prophetic message of justice and equality for all people. When necessary, I critique the bible in
light of the bible.
To me, the ethical
implications of being lesbian or gay versus straight are about the same as
being left or right handed. That is to
say, there are no intrinsic ethical
implications. It is what it is. Are there social and structural
implications? Sure. Scissors manufacturers have to make two
kinds of scissors. Left-handed people
have to learn to shake hands with the majority right-handed world. It’s not an insurmountable difficulty for
either side.
Ross Merkel is my
pastor. Since I’ve been ordained and
gone to a new congregation, he’s still my pastor, and also a friend and a
mentor. I can’t remember many
conversations with Ross about sex or sexuality. He’s actually kind of an old-fashioned guy, and will joke about
sex, but really doesn’t want to dwell there.
We talk about the joys and frustrations of ministry, and a shared love
of German and Martin Luther. At the
pastors’ pericope study we back each other’s interpretations of Pauline
theology. Ross, by the way, loves Paul,
and would preach on the second lesson all the time if he had his way.
The ELCA does not recognize
Ross Merkel as a pastor. He was removed
from the roster in 1994. Yet he leads
the largest, growing urban ELCA congregation in the East Bay. When new members are asked why they joined
the congregation, Ross’ preaching and the inclusive community are the number
one reasons given. Ross has been an
adjunct professor at Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary in pastoral care,
and because of his persistent vision, five congregations together with St. Paul
support a full-time youth minister and a full-time nursing home chaplain.
Ross’ statement “if I were
not gay I would not have become a pastor” reveals the heart of the Christian
faith: the rejected one is become elect; the despised one is called and
empowered to bear God’s gift of grace to many.
The one who was a stumbling block for many is become the shepherd of
many, a strong building block in the family of faith. Surely you see it—is this not an image of Jesus Christ? Ross
Merkel’s journey, and the journey of many like him, follows in the footsteps of
the cross. Why does the church persist
in opposing their resurrection? For they are rising and have already risen. The church must run to the tomb and see.
Pastor, Christ
the Victor, Fairfax, CA
1Since that time other congregations in California,
Kansas, and Minnesota have called “out” gay or lesbian pastors and have not
been removed from the ELCA’s fellowship.
2Shorthand for “lesbian, gay, bi-sexual and
transgender.”
3 I’m careful to say, “same-sex sexual acts” rather
than “homosexuality.” The bible clearly
does not condemn homosexuality, a modern concept that references the
orientation of an entire person. I do
acknowledge that a few verses in the bible condemn same-sex sexual acts. One ought to also recognize the specific
context of the reference.
4“Here [in scripture] you will find the swaddling
cloths and the manger in which Christ lies, and to which the angel points the
shepherds. Simple and lowly are the
swaddling cloths, but dear is the treasure, Christ, who lies in them.” Martin
Luther, “Preface to the Old Testament,” Martin
Luther’s Basic Theological Writings, ed.
Timothy Lull (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1989) 119.