Marriage equality, civil discourse, and disruptive ministry
The church where my family and I have made our home for the past almost-seven years has sometimes been called the “Wedding Church.” The sanctuary is rustically beautiful, evoking an inverted boat hull, and if the sermon isn’t to your liking, you can always just watch the play of the sun through the windows behind the pulpit. If it had become my church home before I got married instead of a few months after, it might’ve been a hard decision whether to get married there or in my parents’ back yard. Many couples feel the same way, and so, almost every summer weekend, there’s a wedding in our sanctuary, sometimes of members of our community and sometimes of others who are drawn to the beauty of the place.
We are grappling now with the question of whether to allow same-sex weddings in that beautiful sanctuary. These discussions are not easy, since there are strong opinions on both sides within our community. So much of the decision-making process in our country and culture converges around conflict. Whoever shouts the loudest, or crafts the most salient soundbite, or gathers the slimmest of majorities,wins. Churches are not immune to this, of course, but within ours, we are at least trying to use a different process. We strive to govern by consensus or, if that becomes impossible, to at least take the time to hear each other out and, if we can’t agree, to come to a better understanding of the perspectives we all bring. I grew up for awhile in the Moravian church, and I still think of this in terms of the motto of that denomination:
“In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, love.”
Such a process isn’t easy. It’s a slow and arduous business, really taking the time to listen and try to understand the views of those with whom we disagree in our very core. It would be easier to say, “majority rules, who cares about those who disagree? It’s our way or the highway.” Or to try to find a community whose beliefs carbon-copied mine, where I didn’t have to hear words I find hurtful from the mouths of people I’ve learned to care about, or go about the process of trying to enact change inch by inch. But, I’ve come to believe that such work is worthwhile, that it’s healing work, that it’s - I don’t know how else to say it - God’s work.
A few weeks ago, thirty or so of us gathered in a circle after the Sunday worship service, and we talked about the kind of church we want to be. Before we started talking many, maybe most, of us didn’t know where the others stood. Many of us discussed the reasons we feel called to open our doors and our hearts more fully to all who want to commit to the covenant of marriage, no matter their orientations. Some expressed a yearning to push the boundaries, to try to effect change in the wider church community. One brave soul spoke of his heartfelt desire to preserve traditions that he sees slipping away, and of what he fears we will lose with that change. For more than an hour, stories were poured out, and we listened to each other, really listened, with civility and respect, with love and hope. We heard stories of parents who had learned with difficulty to accept their children, of a nephew who watched closely the graceful example of his aunt and her wife, of siblings who ached that their brothers or sisters weren’t allowed to marry those with whom they’ve built a life. And as I listened to this outpouring of stories, I realized that, if we had all agreed, we never would’ve bothered to have the discussion, and never would’ve gotten to hear these stories.
I was proud of the way so many of us want our community to grow more open, more accepting, more loving. I was proud of the eloquence with which my husband, one who normally prefers to sit attentively on the sidelines and listen, told his own story. I was proud that we have built a community where the sole voice of dissent has the courage to do so openly, and that we all listened to his viewpoint respectfully, tried to understand, and searched for stories that pushed back gently, but without attack. I was proud that, by treating each other with compassion, we reminded ourselves that what unites our community is much bigger than this or any other single issue. And most of all, I was proud of the way two children, raised in our community, reminded us all of what they have learned about a God whose love is unconditional.
Our pastor had preached that day about “disruptive ministry,” and how the proposals on same-sex marriage that motivated our discussion are one source of disruption in our community. He preached about how disruption can be tiring, frustrating, painful, but that it is the wind and the fire of the Spirit moving. At the beginning of our meeting, as he reminded us of the history of this issue in our congregation and in the wider church over the course of his ministry, it was clear that he is tired. He doesn’t want to have to rehash old arguments for another twenty five years, or lose any more members on both sides of this issue, or continue to walk the line between his ordination vows (which still forbid him from officiating at a same-sex wedding) and what his heart says is right. But, it was also clear that he finds hope in the way our denomination is moving forward with baby steps. And he seems uplifted by our Session’s consensus (is that the word when everyone agrees? Or is it “miracle?”) on new proposed policies that open our doors a little more widely.
None of this is to say that an hour of talking and listening on a Sunday afternoon makes this a perfect process, or means that everyone is satisfied with the outcome. Last night, Session unanimously passed a new, more open policy that will allow same-sex weddings in our church. Many of us, myself included, feel that this is cause for celebration, but there are still those who disagree, who don’t feel heard, or believe change is being forced too quickly. Some of them are leaving our community, others are staying with heavy hearts. But those of us who on both sides who are staying will be back next Sunday, listening to the sermon and each other, or at the very least gazing quietly out that picture window.
