Most recently the folks at Westboro Baptist Church threatened to protest the funeral of one of the school children killed in the tornado in Moore, OK. And why?  Because they say the storm was God’s wrath against a city where an Oklahoma Thunder NBA player publicly supported another NBA player who recently announced that he was gay. Word got out and the group of bikers who have become well known for blocking Westboro’s disruptive tactics stood outside the church building before and during the funeral to protect the family’s privacy.  Westboro didn’t show.

Lots of friends of mine are Baptists and I don’t know a one of them who would agree with Westboro.

These actions are always the work of a miniscule group of people – extremists who live on the fringe of normality – as evidenced most recently by the cultish leader’s granddaughter’s public renunciation of the group, exposing some of their misguided teachings.

Teachings that are far from anything I know about the true spirit of Christianity.

But Tweets like this one in response, while understandable, also go against the true message of Christianity….    

Because the Jesus I know didn’t exclude anyone.  He invites us all to the table.  No matter what.

When this is the picture of Christianity many are left with, with no countervailing reality, it will take overt demonstrations of love to counteract such messages of hate.

It’s funny, though, that you won’t hear anything on the news about another group of Christians gathering this weekend.  Lots of brands of Christianity coming together for the singular purpose of better understanding same-sex attraction and learning a more Christ-like response.  Sponsored by CenterPeace, more than 200 people will gather for a two day conference called Peacemakers, with the intent of learning to be just that.

Peacemakers in the ongoing journey of sincerely striving to reconcile Christian faith and homosexuality.

And thanks to the Northside Church of Christ in San Antonio, Texas, for hosting this event, we’ll leave on Sunday better equipped to bring peace – to create safe places to talk about same-sex attraction in our churches and in our families.

 What will happen as a result?  Just imagine….

• Imagine parents better equipped to respond to the questions of a young adolescent son or daughter who’s struggling with the confusion that naturally occurs with the development of our sexuality, only to be compounded by feelings of same-sex attraction.
• Imagine families responding to a son or daughter who identifies as gay or lesbian in ways that convey love, that maintain relationship, and keep the conversation ongoing.
• Imagine church leaders empowered to respond to the needs of families and individuals in their congregations who are impacted by same-sex attraction.
• Imagine safe places for questions to be asked, for doubts to be expressed, without fear of condemnation, without fear of being ostracized from the Body of Christ.

That’s what we’ll be talking about this weekend at the Peacemakers Conference.

We won’t make the news, and so sadly, many will go on believing that all Christians respond like the ones from Westboro.  But that’s not true.

Because there are lots of Christians who care deeply about learning a better way. 

 If you’d like to join us, there’s still time.  We’ll always make room.

For more information, visit the CenterPeace website or Facebook page, or register for Peacemakers online here.

The following post is from our friend, Brent Bailey, a Master of Divinity student at Abilene Christian University.  Brent’s post originally appeared on The Marin Foundation’s blog. The Marin Foundation is an organization committed to seeking peaceful dialogue between the LBGT community and churches.  This summer Brent will return to Chicago to intern with this organization and you can follow him at his own blog, Odd Man Out.

“We’re quickly reaching a point of critical mass in our culture in which stories related to sexual minorities are nearly ubiquitous in the media. As more states and nations legalize same-sex marriage, more public figures (even NBA players!) come out, and more prominent pastors make helpful and less-than-helpful statements about homosexuality, we’re gradually acquiring a common language that enables us to communicate and connect with one another about these significant questions. Unfortunately, as the volume of the conversation grows, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to demonstrate the love of Christ in the midst of the public dialogue.

One of the dichotomies I’ve picked up in seminary is two different ways you can read the Bible. The first is to interrogate the Bible. This involves using any of a number of lenses and styles of criticism in order to analyze what Paul actually meant, or whether the gospel of Luke borrowed parts of the gospel of Mark, or how many different ways you can translate “logos,” or what Jesus thinks about women, or whether David and Jonathan were more than friends. (You can pay big dollars at Bible college to learn to do this.) The second is to invite the Bible to interrogate you. This involves an act of faith in God’s ability to speak through an ancient book into your present circumstances. It feels intensely risky and personal and is wholly unpredictable, and it’s often gut-wrenching or breathtaking.

I recently let John 8:2-11 interrogate me. That’s the story of the woman caught in adultery, of course, and it’s a story that’s as scorned among scholars as it is lauded among laypeople. As a gay Christian who’s lodged himself into ongoing talks about homosexuality, it wasn’t hard for me to predict where I’d locate myself in the narrative: Maybe I’d identify with the woman herself, wounded as collateral damage in a culture war that often feels more concerned with arguing about laws than it is about empathizing with humans. Or maybe I’d place myself in Jesus’ shoes, growing frustrated with people who want to narrow down big narratives about faith and identity into simple Yes/No questions, and I’d brazenly refuse to play that game. Unfortunately for me during this particular reading, I wasn’t interrogating the Bible. I was letting it interrogate me, and I was thus rather surprised to find myself standing in line with the Pharisees holding stones.

Because, you see, as I’ve invested more time and energy into actively engaging our culture’s discussion around homosexuality, I’ve found myself more prone to gather stones of criticism and disapproval for those with whom I disagree. I’m finding it easier to exploit other people as case studies, or evidence, or arguments rather than to honor them as children of God, because it sure helps my position if I can support it with case studies, or evidence, or arguments. In my moments of burnout, I’m more likely to resort to asking the Yes/No questions that make it simple for me to classify whether someone’s for or against me.

Maybe what’s most shocking about the John 8 story is how little anyone actually says. After Jesus levels the crowd with his shrewd suggestion—that the guiltless ones should be the first to punish the most visibly guilty one—the other Pharisees and I have nothing to say, because even we can see how far we’ve missed the mark. Gradually, they start to walk away, and in one of the story’s most dazzling details, it’s the older folks who leave first. (We might not feel surprised they’re quickest to acknowledge their own faults.) Eventually, I’m the only chump left standing in the row with a rock in my hand, and I’d rather like to slam my Bible shut so I don’t have to feel so anxious waiting all alone in the dusty silence.

Here’s what I’m supposed to do now: I’m supposed to turn and walk away. Jesus isn’t waiting for a biblical argument, a poignant confession, or even a tearful apology from me. I merely need to walk away and wordlessly acknowledge my own wickedness alongside the other Pharisees. But here’s why I don’t: I’ve learned that it’s awful strategy to admit my fault if I’m hoping for any kind of victory in our culture war. Those who demonstrate humility or even awareness of their own flaws lose face and come across as wishy-washy and impotent. Those willing to concede the deficiencies of their position might as well raise a white flag. In the John 8 story, walking away means letting Jesus get the last word in an argument that didn’t go nearly as well as I had planned it to go.

People, the good news is that we can do this differently. It involves listening and gentleness and compassion, and it never, ever results in a woman standing exposed in the courts with her accusers thirsting for blood. We don’t win or lose, because Jesus already broke the game and initiated a kingdom in which the blessed ones are the poor in spirit, the meek, and the peacemakers. We taste the tender goodness inherent in God’s moral imperatives, and that means we neither dismiss them nor hurl them at others as a means of diverting attention away from ourselves.

It begins, I think, when we acknowledge our guilt in the midst of crises that have long ago escalated past grace and mercy, when we lay down our stones and walk away. It continues when we move from acknowledging our general guilt to naming more specific areas of imperfection, verbalizing those flashes of self-awareness to the people in our lives. (An aside for other bloggers: This is a good time in the process for us to ask ourselves the tough questions. Am I too concerned with page views and Likes? Do I aim to write something viral or something true and helpful? Do I present a version of myself that’s radically different from who I actually am?) It reaches its apex when we become the kind of people who invite such vulnerability and candor from others, even from our opponents, because it doesn’t even occur to them that they’d need to pretend around us.

One need not look far to find stones ripe for the throwing. One need not look much farther to find potential targets for those stones. What’s increasingly rare in our culture—and what the simple, piercing suggestion of Jesus calls us to—is walking away when we find ourselves poised to strike.

Much love.”

Yes, Brent – much love indeed.

Jonathan Storment, preaching minister at Highland

Here’s a guest post and book review from Jonathan Storment, pulpit minister of the Highland Church of Christ in Abilene, Texas.  Check out Jonathan’s blog, Stormented. 

“Vulnerability is the first thing I look for in others and the last thing I want others to see in me.” -Brene Brown

I hadn’t planned on staying up until the middle of the night to finish Sally Gary’s new book “Loves God, Likes Girls” I had planned on reading just enough to encourage her and tell her how much I appreciated her. But that was before I started reading.

It’s been estimated that 85% of American young adults see Church and Christians an Homophobic and against Homosexual people. But that is not anywhere near the Christian story.

I’m not even talking about how such a disproportional amount of church conversation is on homosexuality (in comparison to the very small amount of times it is mentioned in Scripture). I’m talking about the fact that Christians are not seen as being opposed to homosexuality, or any kind of sexual immorality…we are largely seen as opposed to gay people.

And to be honest that’s kind of our own fault.

But the Christian story, if it trying to say anything, is saying that gay people…or any kind of person, is not the enemy. The enemy is the spiritual principalities and powers and sin in all the forms that it takes. And when we don’t get that we can really, really hurt people.

That’s why I stayed up all night reading Sally’s book.

The Best Stories Have But’s

It’s incredibly hard to put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Because most of the time it’s so hard to get out of our own. But Sally’s disarming way of telling her own story makes you realize how much all of our stories have in common.

They say the best stories don’t use and as much as the word but, I think that’s right. The Godfather was evil but he did it for family. Steve Jobs changed the world but he was often a jerk. The best and the worst of us, are filled with the best and the worst. And Sally’s story is filled with but’s.

Her dad would go into fits of emotionally abusive rage but he also learned sign language to communicate to the deaf kid at church. Her mother was incredibly nurturing but often overprotective. Sally dated and liked some boys but….

Sally is incredibly honest and truthful about how great and hard life with her parents and church have been for her. She’s honest about her shortcomings and painfully honest about what life was like for a girl growing up sexually confused in a time when those kind of things weren’t spoken about.

But this book isn’t just about homosexuality and church, as the Father of two little girls I was convicted over and over again. She let me see how important being a daddy was for any little girl, and how important it was to be an intentional communicator to your kids.

She’s also honest about all her phobias and the quirky way she saw the world and learned how to cope with it (she’s actually afraid of the water) but as I read her book the same thought kept coming back to me…

For someone who talks about being afraid so much, she sure is brave.

Because Sally, for the past 15 years, has been willing to do what almost nobody else in the world will do. She’s being willing to be vulnerable to the entire world for the sake of the people who are out there like her.

Church and Gay People

That’s why she wrote the book, and it’s why she runs the ministry CenterPeace. Because she wants churches to know that there are people in our churches who are struggling with sexual orientation. They are our friends and our family and they’ve worked so hard to keep it secret because we’ve told them how we feel about their struggle…we just didn’t know we were talking about them.

Sally has been invited to speak to churches from all over the spectrum of Churches of Christ (and beyond). She’s spoken at our most conservative and our more progressive schools and churches because we’re waking up to the realization that this matters. And Sally’s gentle but brutally honest story helps you hear her wisdom:

Sexuality is complex and we haven’t fully explored all the possible variable that enter into this equation. Biology sets a foundation, but the impact of what we experience throughout life continues to shape and re-shape us. The dynamic interplay between chemistry, neurology and our perception of life experiences over the course of a lifetime remains to be investigated. Mix in individual temperaments, largely a biological construct, and you quickly realize there are no cut and dried explanations as to how sexuality takes shape in us. All we really know, is that we have much to learn. And at the very least, our lack of understanding should move us to greater compassion.

And that’s why everyone needs to read this book. Because Sally doesn’t try to make anyone feel guilty, she just lets you see through her eyes for a few hours. And what you see will change the way you love the people around you.

I’m proud to say that Sally is a member and leader at the Church that I work at, but I’m even more proud to say that she’s a part of our Restoration Vision. Centerpeace is one of the 3 non-profits that our campaign last year went to support…and after reading her book I’m incredibly grateful that we can play a very small role in what she’s doing in the world.

Sally’s dream is to help churches learn how to be a safe place for people to be honest. And she did that by going first.

So thanks Sally. You love God, and you’ve taught us how much he loves everyone.”

Two CenterPeace events and another thousand miles on my car later, and I’m finally back to finishing our review of Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting!  I hope you’ve enjoyed learning from Wesley’s experience and perspective as much as I have. Whatever your views regarding faith and homosexuality, this book enlightens us to the truth that we must approach the subject – and more importantly, anyone who experiences same-sex attraction – with greater compassion.

In the last section of Washed and Waiting, Hill takes on the most important issue of the book.

Shame. 

Perhaps the most important because it is shame that weighs us down.  Cripples us. Prevents us from experiencing the joy God meant for us in this life, even in the presence of great struggle.

Shame is not the “godly sorrow that leads us to repentence.”  Shame is different from guilt that convicts our hearts.  Shame is that gnawing, unable to lift your head self-loathing that leads some to live in fear and hiding.  Some to live in total rebellion and believe it’s freedom.  And shame leads others to an early grave, because the burden was too great to bear alone.

I’ve felt that shame.  It’s the feeling that makes you consider running your car off the side of the road rather than having to tell someone that you’re experiencing feelings you don’t understand.  Feelings that you didn’t ask for.

I remember all too well the looming dread that came over me when I first imagined telling anyone that I was attracted to women.  How my heart would race and my whole body would tremble with fear at the thought of someone finding out.  I wanted to carry that secret to my grave.  When I first began to discover those feelings in myself, I didn’t even know what to say.  I didn’t know how to describe or talk about what I was feeling because I’d never heard anyone say anything kind in regard to homosexuality.  All I knew was that it was a sin.  The vilest sin anyone could commit.  Or at least that’s what I believed, because the only things I’d heard growing up were hateful condemnation or making fun at someone else’s expense.  I can still see the looks on people’s faces if the subject was ever brought up, shaking their heads in complete disgust.

When all you’ve ever heard about something is how horrible it is, and then you come to realize that ‘horrible thing’ could be said about you, it’s humiliating.

Shameful. 

That’s the kind of shame that Hill’s talking about.  The kind of shame that anyone I’ve ever talked to who experiences same-sex attraction has felt.  Whether we view same-sex attraction as a struggle, as Hill does, or we’ve embraced a gay identity, at some point in all of our lives, we know shame.  And when left unaddressed, it can drive us to extremes – some to despair and suicide, others to fight against anything that remotely resembles what they believe to be the source of that pain, Christianity.

Sadly, as Hill addresses in this last section of the book, that’s not at all what God intended his sons and daughters to experience as followers of Jesus.  As Hill explains, a different perspective on how God sees us is needed to lift this unnecessary burden of shame felt by so many who experience same-sex attraction.

That’s what it took to lift the burden of shame I carried.

I also remember the day I realized that God’s love for me had never changed – no matter what circumstance I was in – no matter what my mindset or my behavior – that he had loved me the same all the time.  In the midst of darkest moments of anger and rage, selfishness and pride, and in the midst of sexual sin, he loved me the same as he did when I was in the midst of worship, singing praises to him, visibly moved by the stories of his life, or in a moment of kindness to a stranger.  He loved me no differently.  No more.  No less. 

His love is constant, unchanging, no matter how I act. 

Not like my love for people. Love that changes depending on whether the person behaves as I want them to.

When I finally got that about God’s love for me – when I realized that he sees me differently than I see myself – that he sees me only through the filter of the Cross – but more than that, God sees me simply as the daughter whom he created and delights in me just as I am – well, that’s when things began to change.  That’s when He truly became ‘the lifter of my head.’ 

That’s the truth that Washed and Waiting leaves us with. 

Henri Nouwen,      1932-1996

Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1844-1889

Through the lives of Henri Nouwen, a 20^th century Catholic priest, and Gerard Manley Hopkins, a 19^th century British poet, Hill illustrates the struggle to live a celibate life as a gay Christian.  The overwhelming feeling of shame attached to homosexuality in the time periods in which they lived made their journeys even more difficult.  And yet still today, in many cultures, for many of us who have grown up in church, the sense of shame surrounding homosexuality remains paramount.

Hill understands that shame, but encourages us to go beyond old ways of thinking.

“More and more, I have the sense that what many of us need is a new conception of our perseverance in faith.  We need to reimagine ourselves and our struggles.  The temptation for me is to look at my bent and broken sexuality and conclude that, with it, I will never be able to please God, to walk in a manner worthy of his calling, to hear his praise.  But what if I had a conception of God-glorifying faith, holiness, and righteousness that included within it a profound element of struggle and stumbling?  What if I were to view my homosexual orientation, temptations, and occasional failures not as damning disqualifications for living a Christian life but rather as a part and parcel of what it means to live by faith in a world that is fallen and scarred by sin and death?”

Washed and Waiting, p. 144-145.

 I talk to so many men and women who have lived their whole lives in shame because they experience same-sex attraction.  Because some people have believed that it was impossible for a good Christian to ever have those feelings.  And so we’ve talked about homosexuality as though it was the worst possible thing that could ever happen.

Continuing to talk about homosexuality in ways that perpetuate feelings of shame isn’t helpful.

Because the truth is that homosexuality ‘happens’ in good Christian homes, to people who sincerely love the Lord, who truly desire to live lives that are pleasing to God.

We need brothers and sisters surrounding us, reminding us that our struggles have the potential to draw us into deeper relationship with God and greater understanding of ourselves. 

And as Wesley’s closing words encourage us, 

Washed and Waiting, p. 150

Wesley Hill’s depiction of loneliness in the second part of Washed and Waiting is, to me, the most powerful part of the book. And his call to the church to find better ways to respond to our loneliness excites me.

Wesley identifies as a gay Christian, but believes his faith calls him to a life of celibacy. Understanding that same-sex attraction encompasses so much more than a sexual act, he explains that within every human being is a God-breathed desire for connection – emotional, spiritual, physical.  With someone who shares a mutual desire for us. With someone who ‘gets’ us and wants to be with us in the same way that we want to be with them.

When that need goes unfulfilled, the loneliness can seem unbearable, as Wesley describes:

            “The love of God is better than any human love.  Yes, that’s true, but that doesn’t change the fact that I feel – in the deepest parts of who I am – that I am wired for human love. I want to be married.  And the longing isn’t mainly for sex . . . it is mainly for day-to-day, small kind of intimacy where you wake up next to a person you’ve pledged your life to, and then you brush your teeth together, you read a book in the same room without necessarily talking to each other, you share each other’s small joys and heartaches.  Do you know what I mean? One of my married friends told me she delights to wake up in the night and feel her husband’s foot just a few inches from hers in their bed.  It is the loss of that small kind of intimacy in my life that feels devastating.  And, of course, this ‘small intimacy’ is precious because it represents the ‘bigger intimacy’ of the covenantal union of two lives.  It is hard for me to think of living without this.  Yes, I have dear friends – several who are so precious to me I truly do believe I would give my life for them.  One of my closest is another single guy about my age.  But I know that things will change.  He will move away or get married, and the kind of relationship we have will change.  We will still be friends, hopefully, but it will not be like a marriage”

(pp. 105-6).

            This is what the compassion of Christ calls us to respond to – the aching loneliness.  The wound of loneliness that Henri Nouwen likens to the Grand Canyon, “a deep incision on the surface of our existence which has become an inexhaustible source of beauty and self-understanding” (p. 92).  Wesley presents Nouwen’s story as a parallel.  Nouwen experienced a lifelong struggle with loneliness, as one who also believed he was called to a life of celibacy.  Yet Nouwen’s life differed from Hill’s, though, because his homosexual attractions were never publicly known during his lifetime.

Perhaps Hill’s story has even more potency because he’s made himself known.  Potency for him, personally, in that he doesn’t have to hide anything that he views as a struggle in his life.  And even though there’s risk in sharing so openly, there’s also much more potential for good – to feel less alone, to feel supported by a community of fellow believers who know all your stuff and love you all the more.

And the more we share our stories, the more we as the church wake up to the fact that these stories are right in our midst and we can no longer stand by and not respond to the unmet needs for connection and intimacy within our spiritual community.

That’s what I think is most enlightening in this section of the book – the concept “that the New Testament views the church – rather than marriage – as the primary place where human love is best expressed and experienced” (p.111). 

What do you think of that?  Of church being the place where we fill our deepest sense of belonging? Of community being the primary place where our needs for emotional connection and intimacy are met?

What would that look like?

Maybe it looks like Shane Claiborne’s Simple Way faith community, which he describes as a web of relationships among believers who love God, love people and are trying to follow Jesus.

Or like Larry James’ Central Dallas Ministries, buying apartment complexes in urban areas where people can get back on their feet.

Or maybe we form intentional communities where people who are otherwise all by themselves live together for accountability and share meals and the responsibility of family. To just have someone greet you at the door when you come home.

So you don’t feel quite so alone.

“The remedy for loneliness – if there is such a thing this side of God’s future – is to learn,” Wesley says, “over and over again, to do this:  to feel God’s keeping presence embodied in the human members of the community of faith the church” (p. 113).

I’m not quite sure yet what the remedy is for providing community for those of us who experience same-sex attraction.  But I’m looking for people who will dream with me about how we can relieve the aching pain of loneliness.

What would such a faith community look like for you?

Like all of us who have wrestled with how to resolve questions about homosexuality and Christian faith, Wesley Hill’s story is one of struggle and confusion growing up feeling different in regard to his sexuality.  Above all, though, Hill’s message is a call for compassionate understanding and a need for community within the church for men and women who experience same-sex attraction.

So much of Wesley’s story resonates with me – realizing there was something different very early on, growing up in a Christian home, not feeling safe to share what he was feeling with anyone – even those closest to him.  

Believing he had to resolve those unanswered questions about his developing sexuality all by himself. 

Hill’s journey led him to believe that as a gay Christian, scripture calls him to a life of celibacy.  Whether you agree with Hill’s ultimate perspective or not, I hope you won’t let that diminish the value of this book, for Hill’s message has great worth to us all.  It’s my prayer that in looking at different views we will do so with respect for each other’s experience and beliefs, no matter how different they may be from our own.  For our beliefs often arise out of places that only someone who has walked the same exact path could fully appreciate.

Hill’s decision to live a celibate life revolves around four core beliefs.  First, our lives are grounded in the context of a larger story, namely “…what God has done in Jesus Christ – and the whole perspective on life and the world that flows from that story, as expressed definitively in Scripture” (61).  Second, all Christians face challenges of one kind or another and feel frustration as we experience God’s transformative work in us.  Third, we don’t live unto ourselves, but rather, our bodies belong to God and to the larger Christian community.  Finally Hill sees his abstinence as participation in Christ’s suffering, yet he doesn’t elevate his unfulfilled sexual desire over the struggles of others. 

Whether you agree with Hill’s decision or not, the greater message that rings true for all of us here is the truth that we were created to be part of something bigger than ourselves.  A bigger story that began when God breathed this universe into existence and extends far beyond us.  A bigger story that also involves the present.

Reminding us that we weren’t meant to live isolated lives. 

That we live best in community. 

That everything we do or say or think or feel has an impact on those around us. 

That each one of us has a “cross to bear.” 

That there’s respect for each other’s “crosses” whether we understand them or not.  Whether you see it as a “cross” or not.  Even when you think the person’s “cross” is worse than yours.  Even if you think it’s just a result of their ignorance.  Or a result of rebellion.

And that we have a responsibility to help each other bear that burden, no matter what.

The ability to be honest and vulnerable within community is powerful.  Hill reminds us of the importance of safe places to share our hearts, to have “Christian friends – including friends [our] age, peers – who would be there for [us], who would help [us] figure out how to live with a tension and confusion that [sometimes] seem[s] overwhelming” (47).

No matter what our struggles are, even – and sometimes especially – in the church, we long “to feel the freedom of openness and the consolations of community” (45).

It’s made all the difference in the world to have that kind of community among believers in my life.

So what does community look like for you?

How can we provide a better sense of community for each other, especially in churches?

Next week we’ll explore the second part of Washed and Waiting, looking at the life of Henri Nouwen and the pain of loneliness.  Would love to hear your thoughts!

Have you finished reading Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting?  Haven’t started yet?  Uh, don’t even have the book?!  Well, there’s still time – our first post reviewing the book will be up next Monday.  And if you don’t have time to read, Until then, check out Scot McKnight’s blog post about the book. 

Last week I had the privilege of spending time with several different groups in Memphis, Tennessee.  

Church leaders wanting to know how their churches can become safe places for men and women who experience same-sex attraction.  For families impacted by the revelation that a son or daughter is gay.  For individuals who self-identify as gay or lesbian and are looking for deeper relationship with God.

Teachers and administrators at a private school, wanting to learn better ways to respond to the needs of students who experience same-sex attraction.  And to affirm the worth of femininity and masculintiy in children, without requiring conformity to gender stereotypes.

I especially enjoyed having dinner with college students at the University of Memphis Christian Student Center.  We had the rest of the evening for discussion, allowing questions that we haven’t talked about in a lot of Christian contexts in the past. Listen to the whole conversation at SOMA.

That’s refreshing.

It does my heart good to see my brothers and sisters in Christ wanting to learn.  So open to responding with the love of Jesus.  Realizing that many times our responses haven’t been loving – even when they were prompted with the best of intentions. 

Thank you, Memphis family.

No wonder Elvis called his home there ‘Graceland.’
Click to view slideshow.

I’ve made decisions about who to share the most intimate details of my life with based on how people have responded to me in the past.  But I also decide who’s safe based on how I see them respond to others.

Sometimes I know they’re safe because of the things they say. 

Sometimes I know they’re safe because of the things they don’t say.

Maybe it’s the way they communicate with me nonverbally – a facial expression that’s warm and inviting, that matches the tone of the conversation, that leads me to believe they’re truly invested in what I’m saying.

Sometimes I know whether or not they’re safe by the way they respond to others.  Maybe it’s a comment I hear them make in a class, in a small group setting, or standing around talking casually with a group of friends. 

Sometimes I know if they’re a safe place for me based on what they find humorous.  What they find funny in a television show or movie.  Or a joke told among friends.

Sometimes I know they’re safe because they don’t laugh.  Especially if everyone else does.

But if I want to know if someone’s really a safe place for me to open up and make myself vulnerable, I listen for what they’ll tolerate from other people.

Because it’s not enough to just not say hurtful things yourselves. 

I don’t know you’re really safe until I see that you’re willing to stand up and tell other people – your other friends – that what they’re saying is hurtful.

That it limits the possibility that I’ll ever feel safe with you.  

That it closes the door for future conversation.

I wonder how many doors I’ve closed by simply being silent when I should’ve said something.

Or not said something.

Besides the fact that sometimes I just don’t do the things I have good intentions about doing, I’ve been working on a book.  It’s been an exciting process – a scary process! – but one that I’m thankful to have had the opportunity to explore.  I’m anxious to be able to share the completion of the project with you over the next several months as we go to press in March.

And next summer it will be ready to read!

Until then, let’s look at some work that’s already out there….

More and more people are sharing their stories in the form of memoir these days.  Two really good reads I’ve enjoyed recently are Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting, and Justin Lee’s Torn.  While these books aren’t necessarily memoir, the authors share quite a bit of their own personal journeys in the midst of presenting their perspectives on homosexuality in general.  In doing so, they put a face on homosexuality.  So we can see that this isn’t about an issue, but real people. 

Real people we know and love. 

In our neighborhoods. 

In our schools. 

In our families. 

In our churches.

Our stories are powerful.

Because when I know your story, and I realize that your story is unique, yes, but also similar to mine, well, I look at you differently.  Suddenly I begin to care about what you think, what you feel, what you need.

That’s the power of story.

I think that’s why Jesus used stories – stories about the simplest things.  Things that people in his world could relate to.  Things like mustard seeds and fig trees, farmers planting fields and shepherds tending sheep.  Things that you and I still relate to, like waiting patiently for sons to come home.

The book I’m working on is a collection of stories about the simplest things, too.  Simple moments from my life that, all combined, had a huge impact on who I am today.

It’s not a book about how to fix yourself if you’re attracted to your own gender.  I don’t know anything about that.

It’s not a book that will tell you what to think or “do” about homosexuality.

It’s simply a collection of stories about my experience as a woman who grew up loving God, and unexpectedly found herself physically and emotionally attracted to women. 

At the end I’ll tell you some of what I think, for what it’s worth.  My perspective might be very different from what you assume it will be.  My perspective might also be very different from yours. 

But that shouldn’t end the discussion.

I’m praying it will start some really sweet conversations.

Coming in June 2013 from Leafwood Press!

(In the meantime, we’ll be reviewing the books I mentioned earlier in this post, so if you’d like to read with us, click on the icons above to order a copy off of Amazon, or  purchase a copy from your favorite bookseller.   To give everyone time to get the books and begin reading, we’ll wait a few weeks to start with Wesley Hill’s Washed and Waiting:  Reflections on Christian Faithfulness and Homosexuality.  Looking forward to exploring these books together!)

During their daily chapel assembly at a small Christian university in Tennessee, I shared my story with the student body, faculty and administrators on that campus.  In many ways, it’s a university similar to the one I attended back in the early eighties.  Every day the whole campus stops what they’re doing and they gather in an auditorium for a thirty minute time of worship.  For as much as we complained about having to attend that service when I was in school, we also came to cherish it as a time of being together.  

Of reconnecting with one another. With God.  

Of reminding us of who we were as a people and what we were really about. 

I shared my experience of being attracted to my own gender with this group of students.  I shared what it was like growing up in confusion, not knowing what to do with all those feelings, and not having anywhere that I felt was safe to share those feelings. 

I explained how miserable that was. 

I told them how hurtful it was to hear things people often said about someone being gay. 

I told them that it was the shame those comments created that kept me from telling anyone for so long.  Shame and my own pride. 

I wondered what it would have been like to share that secret with someone when I was their age.  Would my life have been different?  Maybe so. 

A slide with my contact information was on the screen behind me, in case someone wanted to talk to me.

“When I was sitting where you are,” I said to them, “I would’ve wanted so badly to talk to this woman – I would’ve wanted to make contact with this ministry – but I wouldn’t have dared to let anyone see me take out a pen and piece of paper to write down the number.  Because I wouldn’t have wanted anyone to think that I was going through the same thing.  So I would’ve prayed to memorize the number until I could write it down in private.” 

Then I asked the students in the assembly to do something. 

“What if there’s just one person in this audience who wants to write it down, but he, too, doesn’t want anyone to see him do that?  What if we all took out something to write down the contact info with, so that no one has to feel like she’s alone?” 

At first it was silent, but then slowly I began to hear the rustling of backpacks being unzipped and paper coming out and pens clipping and people looking at the screen as they plugged the number into their phones.

Everyone was writing the information down.  Even the faculty. 

The sound touched me so deeply I had to stop for a moment.  Because, you see, they were doing that for me, too.  

For the girl in me who would’ve given anything to hear someone talk about same-sex attraction when she was in college and had no idea where to turn.  

For the girl in me who would’ve been so relieved to find friends who not only didn’t turn away, but who would take out a pen and write the number down for her. 

The students in that auditorium were doing that for all of us who have grown up in environments where we didn’t feel safe to say anything about feeling attracted to our own gender. 

What a blessing to have classmates who say, at the very least, I’ll take out a pen and write this number down, so you don’t have to feel embarrassed. 

So you don’t have to feel all alone. 

The sweetest sound of kinship, of connection, of belonging I’ve heard in a long time.

(See more pictures and information about our campus visit at CenterPeace.)