I woke up at 3:00 a.m. in the well-used Community Center of Bernal, New Mexico, for the first day of my recent pilgrimage to El Santuario de Chimayo in northern New Mexico. After a quick morning prayer and stretching exercises, and a delicious meal of breakfast burritos, my companions and I set out on the road to Las Vegas, the first leg of our journey to Chimayo, by 5:00 a.m. It was chilly outside because the sun had not risen yet. The sun rose a few minutes after 5:30 and within a half hour started to warm up the earth. Why Chimayo? The sacredness of Chimayo among Christians comes from the very earth itself that is said to have healing powers, whether one comes with physical pain, emotional needs, or spiritual wounds. I, along with a band of 31 other men of all ages, walked over one hundred miles in five and a half days. Even though I went on my first pilgrimage over 13 years ago, and have been on many religious pilgrimages since then, the first day of a pilgrimage is the most nerve racking. I openly wonder if my aging body will be up to the physical challenges, and if my spirit will shun or embrace the mysteries that I will encounter along the way. Each morning, questioning my sanity, I knew that I could only complete it one day at a time, one step at a time, to quote my 12-step friends. Pilgrimage begins simply with the first step forward, followed by another, and nothing is ever the same.

Seventeen years ago I awoke early one morning and began my coming out pilgrimage. Though I had long imagined what it would be like coming out, the very act of coming out of my closet brought both unbridled joy and literally scared me to death. It was these polar opposite feelings that effectively stopped me from leaving the closet’s narrow, loathsome confines. I was paralyzed emotionally, wanting to embrace the emotional, relational, intellectual, spiritual, and physical attraction to men, yet could not accept being gay because I believed society’s and my church’s hateful condemnations against the “homosexual lifestyle.” To keep my mind from dwelling on being gay, I busied myself with the academy where I worked, the denomination I served, and the family I loved, to fend off any rumors that I could be gay. But one morning, after a year of counseling and months of strategizing, I simply left the house I shared with my wife and kids, and moved to a small studio apartment, never to return. Even though I was consumed with fear that I would lose my place in the institution of higher education where I worked, be defrocked as a minister, and lose my family, I nonetheless could no longer live the lie I was trying to live. I wanted and needed to live life as fully “me”: a dad, professor, writer, pastor, partner, and pilgrim who happened to be gay. As pilgrimage starts with a step forward, so does coming out.  And nothing is ever the same.

I live a pilgrim life, both as a Christian pilgrim and as a gay man. I live in the amazing parallels between these two movements of body, mind and spirit. Both pilgrimages start from a beginning point; are more about the journey than the destination sometimes; use stories as a way to navigate the way forward; require taking good care of ourselves; and lean forward toward reaching a destination and a life radically reformed. The close parallel of an actual pilgrimage and coming out is more than mere metaphor: an intentional pilgrimage provides concrete, tangible, markers by which one can discern where one is located on the map of coming out.

The Beginning Point: A pilgrimage is privileged opportunity, because not everyone gets the chance to go on an actual pilgrimage due to a lack of time, money, or other practical impediment. It is also an extreme challenge physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.  To walk twenty-miles, day after day, is not part of my normal routine. As a white Presbyterian pastor, I am the loco gringo (that’s my pilgrim name), who speaks little Spanish among brothers to whom it is their first language. As the stranger from North Carolina, I am the guest, not the host, and I am honored to be one who goes on pilgrimage with them. From the start I immerse myself in the deep waters of the rich, dark, mysterious Catholic life of northern New Mexico. I am inundated with new sights, prayers, rituals, and songs (in Spanish). While my body is weary my mind is wide-awake, keeping me from getting a good night’s rest before I begin an actual pilgrimage. What keeps me awake are “What If?” questions demanding my attention:  What if I get a blister on the first day of pilgrimage? What if I stumble and hurt a knee or pull a muscle? What new spiritual insights will I receive that will change my world as I know it? What will be different about me at the end of pilgrimage?

The day I decided to step over the threshold of my self-imposed closet was simultaneously horrific yet exciting.  I was horrified at the prospect of leaving all I had worked for: a happy family with a wonderful wife I loved, and two adorable children.  I was working at my dream job at a major university, and was ordained a pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Yet I was putting it all in jeopardy because I simply was not completely happy with my life.  I felt incomplete, like I was living a lie.  In this configuration of being “family” I could not fully give myself to a relationship in which I could be wholly myself.  I was excited about the prospect of no longer wasting energy in holding together the closet of gloom, and giving myself over to other life projects (being fully myself) that eluded me. The pilgrimage of coming out meant that I could embrace the person God made me to be whole-heartedly for the very first time.  But how would I be different in being unapologetically me? Would I recognize myself? Would my family recognize me?

The Journey:  The first day of the pilgrimage is all about the physical for me, with my mind and spirit lagging except to buoy my exhausted body.  Bernal to Las Vegas is roughly 20 miles, and fairly flat.  The cool morning air gave way to New Mexico’s dry heat. Walking over a mountain pass would not come until day three, which is good because by then I was almost fully physically adjusted to the act of walking many miles. I began to adapt my life to the rhythm of the pilgrimage: every morning begins with thirty minutes of silent contemplation, which I throw myself into, listening to the syncopated rhythm of many shoes hitting the soil with a full moon casting an eerie shadow. Later, in English but more often in Spanish, we sang songs of praise to God the Father, “El Senor,” Christ the King, “El Christo Rey,” and Mary, “Madre Maria.” As a Protestant, I fumble through the recitative prayer of the Rosary, learning to keep up with where we are with the bead count by my last day.

Unlike the pilgrimage to Chimayo, I do not remember the day I put myself into a closet. The closet was already fitted and built around me before I was aware of it. From the first day when I was twelve years-old and realized that I was attracted relationally, emotionally, physically, and intellectually to boys my age, I was stuck in not knowing what to do with the new sensations and feelings in me. There were no stories on television, movies, children’s stories, or young adult books to help me navigate through this sea of new feelings and thoughts as a young boy who was gay. After years of therapy, struggling with a sense of abandoning my family, fearing reprisal from my denomination, I left one morning after breakfast, never to return back to the house-as-home.  That night I moved into a rented one bedroom studio apartment in Chapel Hill, NC, not too far from the children.  I was excited yet scared, wondering aloud at times, “My God, what have I just done!” The heavy, complicated lock on my gay closet fell off the closet door. I took the first few steps, and soon miles, away from the shadow existence of a claustrophobic life into the bright sunlight of hope.

Stories: Over the six days of being together on pilgrimage, there was plenty of time on the road and off the road to talk with one another about what we missed about home, gather in small groups to discuss the conditions of the trail, how our bodies were faring, or dreaming about a hot shower (and a cold beer) aloud. While we awoke at 3:00 a.m. and were on the road by 5:00 a.m., we were off the trail and sat down wherever our feet landed, massaging our sore limbs and lancing blistered feet by 1:00 p.m. or a little later each day. “No pain, no gain” made more sense on pilgrimage. On the pilgrimage, in between the first thirty minutes of silent contemplation, and another thirty minutes of praying the rosary or singing songs, there was always time for talking. We share stories of either previous pilgrimages, or gossip about people who had been on pilgrimage before but were not able to be with us this time. While Facebook makes sharing personal stories on a one-to-one basis difficult, pilgrimage provides a precious opportunity to share intimate stories of life.  On pilgrimage I find people more willing to share stories of profound vulnerability, to sigh deeply, because they know they will most likely not meet the other pilgrim ever again. We share stories of a love life gone awry; harrowing tales of inclement weather on previous treks; the “good, bad, and ugly” parts of family life back home. I listened intently to stories from those who walked this trail before, wanting to hear which is the longest day for walking, or the height of an upcoming mountain pass we would be crossing. Stories bind us together as a community of brothers.

The stories of other gay dads, married, with children was the only way I could navigate my way out of the closet. I studied carefully how society at large and the Church in particular reacted to out gay men, learning from others how I might be perceived and treated in my community. I devoured David Leavitt’s The Lost Language of Cranes, empathizing with the closeted gay father figure who would find solace in the dark confines of adult movie theaters, as he secretly envied the open life of his gay son. I freaked out when viewing the dramatic British movie “Hollow Reed,” as the gay dad and his partner try to save the life of his young son who was being physically bullied by his former wife’s boyfriend. While there seem to be plenty of stories of single young men, stories of gay dads were rarer. Perhaps I need to create an “It Gets Better” series of gay dad stories for dads who are in the process of coming out as an emotional map.

Taking Care: After a long day — 3:00 a.m. wake-up call, walking, eating great meals, participating in worship along with morning and evening prayers, and showering–there is always time at night to check feet for blisters and ankle sprains, shin aches, and knee problems.  There are people pre-assigned on pilgrimage to carry a medicine bag full of ointments, bandages, moleskin,  and Ben-gay cream for sore limbs. I watch the care and healing touch of Roger who gives me a new understanding of brotherly love as he massages a foot, carefully threads a needle and then lances a blister, applies a bandage to keep the wounded site clean. On this pilgrimage, two men unfold a massage table, in which all pilgrims are given the gift of a massage of thigh, shin, calf muscle, and feet with cocoa butter.  All we have to do is bring our towel to spread on the bed itself, and the magic begins!  By the end of the pilgrimage young men take care of the feet of us “older men,” a practice they learned from their elders.

Along the coming out pilgrimage trail it is important to take care of ourselves as we walk along harrowing stretches of darkened roads, the once-comfortable hiding place of the closet falling down around our ears. While counseling is helpful through this crisis of change, it is extraordinarily helpful to have others who have come along a similar pathway to walk with us. Bandaging bruised egos, and reminding ourselves that another person’s crisis is not our problem simply because we’re “out” is a great help. Lancing a blister, where we keep butting up hard against those who call our “lifestyle” sinful is a gift. Pulling out splinters from the shards of the wooden closet of hate I used to live in makes moving forward easier.  And a massage is simply icing on the cake.

Reaching Destination: Throughout the weeklong pilgrimage to Chimayo I depended upon rituals, prayers, and songs to buoy me along the way, helping to redirect my attention from my tiredness to realizing the beauty around me as I walked.  I gained insight to the audacious nature of God by simply realizing that Jesus himself was a pilgrim throughout his known ministry, never owning a home but living life on the road, depending upon the goodness of others. The late-Brother Roger of Taize rightly called Jesus the Pilgrim God. There is nothing so magnificent yet disheartening as getting to our destination. The morning of our last day together, walking nine miles is incredibly bittersweet. I know I’ll never walk with this exact band of people again.  I won’t have the opportunity to sing the songs we’ve been singing all week with my friends. I’ll miss someone preparing every meal for me throughout the week. The confraternity of men happens but for a brief moment in life, then disappears.  It is illusory the rest of the time.  Over one hundred and sixty people walked over one hundred miles over five days, up and over mountain passes, through chapels and churches, in the hot northern New Mexico sun.  At El Santuario de Chimayo we enter the small sanctuary itself, half filled with cheering and singing pilgrims from other parts of New Mexico, with the Mariachi-like band playing “Que Viva Christo Rey!” An official of the Catholic Archdiocese of Santa Fe places rosaries from the Camino de Santiago de Compostela around our necks. Various crosses, images of Our Lady of Guadalupe, and other memorabilia are gathered in central place during our closing Mass together. Go in peace.

I’m now out of my once constrictive closet. The boards, nails, screws, and locks were left in garbage cans along the way. I self-identify as a dad, a pastor, a writer, a  professor, a partner, and a pilgrim who is gay.  In my daily prayers I quietly voice my gratitude to God for making me who I am. I love who I am today. Still ordained in the Presbyterian Church (USA), I now work at another university, teaching ethics and world religion to new students every semester. My children are grown. My former wife and I are friends, and my partner and I live in the countryside with our dogs. And now I write several blogs on my stories of being a gay dad, my letter to those in the closet to come out and move on. Perhaps take time to swim in the ocean of full acceptance, where the water is just fine. The pilgrimage of coming out is arduous but richly rewarding in the end.

When I was a kid I remember playing hide and seek with my brothers and other friends in the neighborhood. I grew up in the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas surrounded by trees and wooded areas, so I would find a place where the leaves and branches would hide me. When the seeker passed by it would take all of my energy to stay completely still and control my breathing so as not to be detected. Even though the seeker was the one moving, hiding was by far the more difficult activity. The lesson was clear: hiding requires a lot of energy.

By high school I had long given up on the game of hide and seek. I started attending Federated Church in Placerville, California, where the local Methodist and Presbyterian congregations had joined together once the population had fallen following the Gold Rush. I loved the youth group. I made the decision to be baptized and to join the church. It was also in high school that I began to consciously realize that I was different than the other kids. I had crushes on other boys in my class, but I didn’t dare tell anyone about it or even less act upon it. At that point in my life I did not know any gay people. My family has no gay uncles or any lesbian cousins. Will and Grace would not be on television for several more years. I remember sitting in church and asking God just to take my feelings and thoughts away.

But I also wanted to join the ministry. Church was a very important part of my life. I attended Triennium, went on numerous youth group mission trips, and drove myself to church as soon as I got my license.
When I was twenty, during my sophomore year in college, I finally came out to myself. However, the year before the Presbyterian Church ratified G-6.0106b. I knew that as I was opening the door to being honest with myself it meant I would be closing the door on my desired profession. To be honest I became very angry with the church. I stopped attending church services, studying the Bible or even praying. If the church didn’t want anything to do with me, then I did not anything to do with it, or with God.

I moved to Sacramento and began working in public policy and politics. In my mid-twenties friends invited me to begin attending Westminster Presbyterian in Sacramento. By God’s grace I found a congregation that welcomed me and loved me; they frankly did not care about my sexual orientation, and they chose the leaders of their church based upon their gifts–in open defiance of the official policy of the PCUSA. When the church’s nominating committee called me to serve as an elder on session I accepted.

It was an honor to serve the church again, and whether it was decorating the church for Easter and Christmas, helping plan, set up and tear down our annual fundraiser for a non-profit in Sacramento that helps homeless women find housing and employment, organizing communion servers, heading up the annual stewardship drive, playing in the bell choir, and serving as a scripture reader, church was a place where I could worship and be with amazing people as we worked to both grow in our understanding of God and improve our communities.

I served as one of our commissioners to presbytery, and in 2009 a retired minister in the church asked me if I would consider putting my name in to be a commissioner to General Assembly. After much prayer I decided to do it, knowing that the General Assembly would again be discussing allowing people like me to serve openly in their churches. After being selected by the presbytery I reached out to every church in the presbytery, offering myself up to meet with their sessions in order to listen and learn from them about their priorities.

In traveling to over twenty churches in the Sacramento Presbytery, I discovered that the churches are much more complex than the issue of the ordination of LGBT individuals. Presbyterian churches do not fit into neat categories, but are rather diverse and complex communities of people who are striving to discern the will of God and improve their communities. They did not fall into neat dichotomies of liberal and conservative, but were both as wonderful as God created them and frustrating as people who run them.

Of course at General Assembly we discussed passionately, and the media focused on, allowing LGBT individuals to serve their churches. But we also discussed investing in our youth missionary programs, our commitment to environmental stewardship in cleaning up the Gulf Coast, our dedication to providing assistance to people around the world following natural disasters, and how the church should best organize itself moving forward.

When I had the opportunity to address my fellow delegates, I spoke about how we should allow our brothers and sisters to serve their churches in the open–honestly. My heart lifted as I heard seminary students speak about how they longed to serve a church that was inclusive, and young people took the microphone to talk about their vision for a church that would be truly open. It impressed me that so many straight allies were spending their time and their own resources to advocate for my behalf, and if they had the courage to stick up for me, then I better put my time and energy into defending myself.

Although the General Assembly voted to allow for LGBT people to serve openly, the real test was going to be getting a majority of the presbyteries to approve the new rules. I talked to many elders and ministers about what it would mean to the church to allow people to serve the church openly, and that we as a church will be stronger the more inclusive we are, but the energy I put in was nothing compared to my straight allies who used their time to convince their fellow elders and ministers about what an inclusive church would mean.

The day that the Sacramento Presbytery voted on whether or not to accept the new ordination standards proved to me once again that the Holy Spirit truly exists. I woke up early to make the drive to Chico. I prayed that my fellow commissioners’ hearts would be open, and together we would move forward on the best course of action for the Presbyterian Church.

We discussed and debated, and in true Presbyterian fashion, we voted. To be honest, I did not think we were going to prevail, but when the moderator announced the results I think everyone in the room was stunned. The Sacramento Presbytery had flipped and had joined other presbyteries from around the United States to support changing the ordination standards.

I was in shock. After lots of hugging, handshaking, and pure joy, I made the drive back to Sacramento. Spring was just arriving in the Central Valley, and the mustard was blooming in the fields. After a long and dark winter, a new spring was arriving in the Presbyterian Church.

Of course the rest is history. A majority of presbyteries voted to support the change in ordination standards. And something happened the next day: the sun rose. Children went to school, people went to work, and life for the most part continued to go on just as it did before.

But life changes when you do not have to hide anymore. The energy that it takes to hide suddenly can be used to do God’s work. When we are honest with each other, it means we can love each other, and the more people who are allowed to participate in the church, the better we do at discerning God’s will. The church is still imperfect, and I know it always will be. But with each step towards inclusion–from taking a strong stance against slavery to allowing women to serve our church–our congregations only get stronger.

I am still working on how it is best for me to serve the church, but I know now that the Presbyterian Church is better for its decision towards inclusion, and I am more willing to commit my time, talents and treasure to it because the people in it love me for who I am–all of who I am.

Katie has been serving the Church of Reconciliation in Chapel Hill, NC, for ten years in an unordained position, remaining a candidate under care.  New Hope Presbytery voted to approve her ordination in February.

Over the past several years, I have participated in an ecumenical group of clergywomen and educators from churches in the Triangle (NC) area.  Part of our time together involved working with writing coach Carol Henderson.  Through random prompts and the intentional work of compiling and publishing our stories of God’s call upon our lives (Wide Open Spaces: Women Exploring Call Through Stories and Reflections), Carol provided us with the space, the resources, and the courage to delve into the depths of our spiritual journeys.

One of the poems that Carol brought to our attention is “I used to be, but now I am” by Thomas Berrigan.  The poem itself is good, and listening to the reflections of others after encountering it is even better.  As I was preparing for the oral exams and now as I prepare for my ordination, I have found myself reflecting quite a bit on what was, what is, and what will (or, might) be.

When I went for Final Assessment in August (2011), one of the CPM members asked me what I gained from this extended preparation stage.  I answered that when I came out of seminary, I would have told you that I was indeed prepared to enter the ministry.  Now, after a decade serving post-seminary, I can with confidence say that I know much less now than I thought I knew then.  I learn every day – mostly through my mistakes; I grow every day – in my relationship with God and with those whom God has placed in my life; and, I am reminded “control” is no longer a viable word in my vocabulary – obedience, trust, hope have replaced it.

I used to be one who believed we could change people’s minds, but now I am able (in my best moments) to allow others to be who they are, where they are, and trust that is enough.  Sometimes, I’m even able to allow myself that same space.

At first, it seemed like there must have been a way to get people on the same page, to be of one mind about the ordination of LGBT people – if we could just work hard enough or find the perfect words to say.  We stood at different microphones at Presbytery meetings – some with poise, some with tears, some with deep-seeded anger, and we said the same things year after year after year.  The vote count did switch.  Some people changed their minds, for sure.  Yet, I wonder if Amendment 10-A passed because we came to know each other – our joys, our struggles, our hopes, our fears.  We served alongside, listened to, and prayed with one another.  We saw the heart of God within each other and could no longer deny the unity with which we have been bound together within the Body of Christ – in spite of, or perhaps because of, the immense diversity of background and perspective and thought within our denomination.  Our challenge now will be to continue learning to live into the unity we have been gifted with in Christ.

I used to be focused on the goal of ordination, but now I am keenly aware that the most amazing part of becoming approved as an inquirer or candidate or teaching elder was NOT reaching that milestone.  Rather, learning to trust God and God’s promise; relying upon a community of support; and, experiencing grace-filled moments with people – especially those with whom I disagree – have been the most meaningful experiences of this journey.

After New Hope Presbytery approved my ordination, the almost 100 people from the Church of Reconciliation (the Rec) who attended the meeting gathered in the narthex of First Presbyterian (Durham), where we were meeting.  There were lots of hugs and smiles and tears.  And, in the midst of that, a retired pastor from South Africa, who attends the Rec and has faced his own struggles and challenges, whispered to me, “welcome to the club.”  It was the most troubling statement made to me that day and in the days since.

Surely, I heard it in the lighthearted manner in which he meant it, and I also heard it as a challenge to my ministry, to the Presbytery, to the denomination.  As communities of faith and as leaders (ruling elders, teaching elders, deacons) in the church, we are called to go outside of our traditionally insular communities – trusting God’s promise to journey alongside of us, relying upon people we know (and don’t know) for love and support, and acknowledging and experiencing grace-filled moments with all of God’s people, including and especially with those with whom we only share a common faith in Jesus Christ.

I used to be disheartened by the polarization and divisiveness in the church, but now I am brimming with hope for the future.  February 18, 2012, was a remarkable day – right up there with our covenant union ceremony and the birth of our daughter.

One of my pastor friends described the Presbytery meeting that day as some kind of crazy Holy Spirit moment, and I’m not sure there is any more theological way to talk about it.  There was a balcony full of Rec folks and standing room only on the floor – with people young and old – in slings around their mom’s shoulders and in wheelchairs guided by beloved friends; there were men and women, people of many races and birthplaces; there were Republicans and Democrats, conservatives and liberals, and even those who are so frustrated with any side that they can’t find a place where they belong; there were rich and poor – in Spirit and in resources; there were believers and doubters, evangelists and quiet servants… and, yet, there was ONE Body… One Body of Christ, united by the only thing that can ever bind us together – the Holy Spirit’s gift of faith in Jesus Christ as our Lord and Savior.

That vision of God’s beloved community… the notes of support and compassion in advance by those who most assuredly voted no… and, the grace of that family gathering cast out the fear and cynicism and hopelessness from my heart and filled it with a love that could not be contained.  And, I know I was not the only one who experienced this blessing.

New Hope Presbytery was church that day.  We were a provisional example of the Kingdom of God – not because we hid who we are, not because we kept silent to avoid conflict, not because we were resigned to the state of the Church and had given up.  We witnessed to the Kingdom of God because we came together, with prayer and love and integrity.  We welcomed each other as God’s beloved children – witnessing to the Beloved One who came to set us all free.

My hope and prayer is that we will glimpse more and more of these moments as we continue to listen to God’s call upon our lives.

Many people ask me when it was that I first felt a call to ordained ministry. There barely is a time that I did not feel one. Trinity Presbyterian Church, a congregation just outside of St. Louis, MO, was the congregation of my birth. I was lucky enough to have some amazing pastors in that place who nurtured me in faith and saw a calling before I could put words to it. When I was in high school I was also trying to figure out who I was sexually, but did not feel confident or safe enough to explore that part of who I was in this context.

It was in college that I came out of the closet, to my family, to my church, to myself. It was a messy and good process — and through it all I knew even more that I was called to ordained service, helping to create a place where those who went after me had an easier time, being used as an agent of healing in this denomination that needed it so very badly.

And so after college, after working a few jobs that filled in some time, I couldn’t put this calling on hold any longer. I knew I couldn’t be closeted, I knew that would be too dangerous for my soul.

And so, despite the fact that only one other person had been ordained “out,” I believe God put in my heart no choice but to try. I began my process in the Presbytery of New York City and went about completing my education and passing the requirements. In actuality the committee and presbytery that nurtured me was a good one — but it wasn’t without imperfections. In being a first in recent memory, much education was done on my back. Much waiting and little communication was the story of my process. And through it I lived through a level of anxiety that I hope to never experience again.

But it could have been a thousand times worse. No charges were filed against my committee or presbytery. I had so many mentors and friends and colleagues who loved me through the process. I had those smarter than myself who guided me through the legal questions those of us who are LGBTQ have to live with. There were many saints who believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. I wish I could name them all… David, Janie, Lisa, Jon, Bill, Peg, Barbara, Anne, Cheryl, Nancy, Sam, Tricia, Doug, Chris, Pat…  so many more. In this sense I was not alone in the least.

I thought I had been called to parish ministry for many years. God, however, had other ideas, and I my first official “call” was as the Minister Director of Presbyterian Welcome, a local organization working for LGBTQ people in the Presbyterian Church. It was a bold thing, whether the presbytery knew about it or not, to ordain me into this position which has an open mission to change the church. I thought this was a starter call; I was a community organizer and activist, although I wanted to be a pastor. Little did I know at that point that through this work I would be a pastor, indeed, but to those who were also trying to change the church, those who are LGBTQ and still believe in the power of the Reformed tradition through the Presbyterian Church (USA). I work now with those who are going through the ordination process and who happen to be LGBTQ. Many are in New York City but they span throughout the country. I find ways for us to gather together in faith, community, and support. I have found that to be a pastor to them provokes activism, as we have to change policies so that we can all live into our calling. When you care about and love people you have to fight for them.

After these many years my calling has solidified and grown into this place and this time, and I couldn’t be more grateful to be called, right here and right now on the shoulders of so many who have gone before me and with the dreams of those who will come after.

I am a cradle Presbyterian, currently a member of Morningside Presbyterian Church, a welcoming and inclusive congregation where I serve as choir member and food pantry worker.  I was brought up in the church with warm memories of being raised “by the village-congregation” — as life in small towns is centered around the church.  My Aunt was the organist, my Grandmother a ‘pillar’ and founder of Presbyterian Women.  My sister is now an ordained Minister of Word and Sacrament serving a church in Virginia.

As a young married woman with a family, I wanted my daughters to have the same church grounding and powerful experiences I had had.  They attended Sunday school and youth meetings; I sang in the choir, served on the pastor search committee, was ordained an elder, and chaired the worship committee.  But there was a dark place – an unresolved longing in my life.  I turned to God “who makes all things new” to fill the void and surround us with loving care.  After struggling for several years I came out to my dear husband and best friend, then to our daughters.  We separated households but not lives.  Time passed and Ben remarried.  Our daughters have grown into beautiful, gracious, broadminded women. And I have been building a life with Mardee Rightmyer for 14 years.

Perhaps the most touching reminder of God’s love and renewal came through Ben.  He asked Mardee and me to come to North Decatur Presbyterian Church the Sunday that he was to be ordained as an elder – not just as witnesses, but to be the two people invited to come forward to stand with him and lay-on-hands.  This was a tangible reminder that we are part of the reformed and reforming world where God indeed makes all things new.

This has not been true for my daughters.  The younger generation who has lived through G-6.0106b and watched people they love struggle to live faithfully in a church that has dismissed their gifts and even denied their church affiliation, has left the church they deem unprincipled. Even with the repeal, my daughters feel they cannot be part of the larger church that limits scripture and is more interested in contentious intra-church quarrels rather than doing the work of God.

Reformed and reforming – still hopeful for the future generations that will be the church.

Simply defined, grace is the belief that God’s love is freely given.

There is nothing we can do to earn God’s love and there is nothing we can do to lose God’s love.  It is a gift that must simply be accepted or rejected. God’s grace is the hope within me that has sustained my faith journey for my entire life. God’s grace has been more than sufficient. And in the assurance of that grace, I consider it a privilege to share my story with you.

The facts of my birth are rather mundane. I was born in Fairmont, West Virginia on Wednesday, May 14, 1952, about 8:00 in the evening. (Don’t worry; I am not going through all 60 years!) The story of my birth, on the other hand, is unique: my Mother gave birth to me on a gurney in a hospital elevator all by herself. My father, a minister, was at church for the Wednesday night service.  All the rooms were full and the nurse, wanting to give Mother some sense of decorum, had put the gurney in the elevator with the doors propped open. But following the set guidelines of what she had been taught, the nurse left Mother to do other things, saying she would be back in about an hour to check on her.

I share this story because it is symbolic of my life.  I have spent most of my life caught in the tension of the expectations of who I was to be as a “preacher’s kid” and now as a Christian educator against the life I live in my personal relationships. Along with those expectations were the “set guidelines” of the faith tradition, first passed down by my family and then reinforced by the structures of church hierarchy, versus my innate understanding and life experiences of who I am as a lesbian.

In 1986, while working as a church educator at Eastminster Presbyterian in Stone Mountain, I reached the breaking point of this dichotomy. I could not live with the split in my life, so I went as far away from everything and everyone as I possibly could, to try to figure my life out. I had always wanted to go to Africa but I ended up in China as a Volunteer in Mission teaching English. I was assigned to an agricultural university and lived in a dorm with 37 African men!

God does have a sense of humor!

Behind the dorm was a soccer field with a track surrounding it. Every night after supper, I would walk the track, praying, “God, either heal me or give me peace.” It became a mantra that I repeated over and over every night. Then in January of 1987, on a cold crystal clear starry night, I heard God speak to me in a voice as audible as any one speaking,  “Mardee, I love you just the way you are.”  A peace came over me that night that, now 25 years later, has never left.

Outwardly, over the last 25 years, the journey doesn’t look much different – the fighting about sexual orientation has not been resolved and the debates over “right” theology versus innate understanding are as strong as ever. And yet, I’m still in the church.

Inwardly, as I seek to be the person God created me to be, my mantra of hope has become a statement of conviction. As I have responded in the assurance of God’s grace, my split life has converged to make me whole.

And now God has added an AMEN to my story. Just last year I was called back to Eastminster in Stone Mountain – this time as an out lesbian with my wonderful partner!

When I was 18, I told my mom I was gay.  She immediately responded that she loved me completely and always would.  She then added, “Only two things pain me.  I think you would be a wonderful father and I hate to think of you not having that experience.  And do you know the Presbyterians don’t ordain gay people? “  This has often been the starting point for my call story, but the real beginning came long before this.

One of my earliest memories is sitting at a window, crying inconsolably.  I was probably about two- or three-years old.  It was a Sunday morning and my family had gone off to church without me.  I had been sick and they let me sleep in, tended to by a beloved congregant from the church, where my father was the pastor.  I loved being in church.  Partly, I’m sure, because I was the chubby, sweet-natured youngest child of the young pastor.  But also because there was something there for me that I felt, in church, always – more than being at home, more than being a second-generation PK.

Even to this day, it is hard to put words to it.  Home.  Peace.  Sanctuary.  Communion.  Belonging.  I discovered it didn’t have to do with the structure of a particular church, because the feeling followed me even when I went through periods of not going to church.  When my parents split up, I started missing some Sunday’s.  But when not in church I spent those mornings watching INSIGHT, a morals drama produced by the Paulists.  Or DAVEY AND GOLIATH, the claymation story of a boy and his dog and his developing Christian discipleship.  Or Kathryn Kuhlman, with her mouth seeming to overflow with teeth as she proclaimed joyfully, “I Believe in Miracles!”

So there I was, at 18, mustering all my courage to say I was gay and learning that that was enough to keep me from being ordained.  When someone comes out, when they stake out their identity in sharp relief from the dominant norm, it is, in a sense, like a baptism.  You experience a death and resurrection – the hiding, fearful, lonely person dies so that the more fully actualized, more fully human, more fully oneself person — that innate infant goodness implied by being created in the divine image — is resurrected.  The empty closet (and believe me, the closet can be a tomb) stands as a witness to a life reborn.  And yet, in this great moment of coming into wholeness I was, as so many of us were (and still are) condemned to a life of clipped wings and exclusion.  An existence where my greatest hopes would go unfulfilled, my calling, unanswered.  I was out of the coffin but not out of the box.

So I continued in film school and from there worked in the film business, followed by some years in corporate banking, and finally delving into conflict resolution work as a mediator and a trainer.  All along the way I found myself a bit like an itinerant pastor.  I didn’t go around bringing up God, but clearly God sent many (many) people in my direction to hear a bit of the Good News they weren’t going to church to hear.  In late night talks in my college dorm, or in smoky gay bars, or at production wrap parties, or in stolen moments of humanity on Wall Street, I found people longing to hear about how they fit into this marvelous mystery of Creation and consider, for a moment, that what I said about God loving them might be true.  It proved for me what Calvin wrote about every human possessing an “instinctive awareness of God. “  Or as Augustine put it, “You have made us for Yourself and our hearts are restless until they rest in You. ”

Conflict resolution was the closest I had come to being able to bring the reconciling power of Christ’s love into my work.  But I felt restless.  I knew there was something more I wanted to talk about – needed to talk about.  To witness.  And while still convinced it was impossible to serve the church, I decided to follow in the steps of my father, grandfather, great-great grandfather, my sister, and my cousin, and to enter seminary.  They, of course, had all gone on to be ordained and serve in the pastoral ministry.  “What are you going to do?” was the most common question I was asked when I entered Union Theological Seminary in the City of New York.  “I don’t know,” I would reply.  “But I don’t believe God’s brought me this far to leave me.”

I considered other, more friendly denominations.  If the Presbyterians didn’t want me, I felt, I can not want them, too.  And yet, I kept finding that among my new Union friends, the ones who seemed particularly in touch with God were all Presbyterians.  And I was constantly surprised by how deeply…well, Presbyterian I was.  But my a-ha moment really came when my good friend John Martin told me that he was at an orientation for those seeking ordination and that it was highly recommended to have an “ordination buddy” to journey with through the long process.  He wanted me to be his buddy and to that end, he had heard stories of openly gay and lesbian candidates being ordained in NYC.  That next week, Presbyterian Welcome was sponsoring a panel discussion on the very topic with the Reverends Mieke Vandersall, Ray Bagnuolo, and Cheryl Pyrch.  I could feel the excitement rising within me throughout the evening.  The possibility of it all.  Hope.

It is amazing how a small morsel of hope will keep us going for years.  Just as that tiny taste of crust during communion can fill an empty heart to overflowing or sate the starving soul, just knowing that not even a handful of people had been able to answer their call gave me hope that one day I might be able to answer mine.  I suppose I was lucky, in retrospect, that my wandering was closer to thirty years than to forty.

Now here I sit.  In the manse of the church brave enough to not only call an openly gay person in a relationship, but a candidate for ordination when so many churches these days restrict their searches to experienced clergy.  Sausalito Presbyterian Church is a church who believes God’s grace is bigger than our still-limited understanding of sexual orientation.  And my mother, Marge Work Lunan, an ordained elder of the church and PFLAG warrior mom, who labored for years to bring to the church the hospitality God commands of us, and who, upon finally leaving, exhausted, called herself a Presbyterian-in-exile, can return.  For now the Presbyterians do ordain gay people.

As to my mom’s other concern about not experiencing the joys of parenthood, five years ago my partner and I adopted the most amazing, beautiful, brilliant and funny daughter ever, Eliora (Hebrew for “God is my light”).

All in all, my mom was right.  It was a painful shame to think of going through my life without having these two profound experiences.  And my heart overflows with gratitude to the many, many people, LGBTQ and allies, support and advocacy organizations, congregations and presbyteries, pastors and lay people, well known and anonymous, who through the many, many years of our thorough and often painful discernment as the Body of Christ, kept moving the various parts of the church forward as guided by the Spirit.  Some have left the church.  Some have shuffled off this mortal coil.  If only I could gather them all in one moment to say, “Thank you!”

Certainly it proves what my mom has said all along: “Listen to your mother!”

I grew up in the Presbyterian Church, in a pretty “normal” and supportive family.  I have been blessed to always feel love, support, and encouragement from my parents, extended family, and church family.

I have been attending the same church since I was five years old.  I continue to attend, along with my family, because I want my children to experience the love of God just as I have throughout my life.  I have always felt my church was a second home.  It’s been a place where I could praise, make friends, care for others, and be cared for.

I joined my first choir in elementary school, and learned to love singing by participating in musicals, concerts , and choir tours with my friends and caring adult leaders.  I learned what a gift music can be to others—how comforting it can be to those who feel alone, rejected, or in pain.  When soothing my own children, I often fall back on songs I first heard in elementary school.  I learned what an amazing bond music can build—those praise songs I learned in middle school connected me to people all over the country, and still connect me to our youth today.  In my brief stint in our adult choir, I saw that a common love of music brings people together, but it is love for each other that enacts prayer chains, throws baby showers, and brings home cooked meals to the door.

That’s the kind of church I belong to.  Not the largest in thedenomination, but one of the most giving and supportive.   I can’timagine attending anywhere else.  Sitting in the congregation as a child, watching a beautiful bride walk down the aisle, I alwaysimagined myself exchanging vows.   Standing holding the baptism banner, I would imagine seeing my own babies baptized.  When meals were brought and visits were made when my parents were sick or in need, or watching my mom be a deacon, I thought about being a deacon myself one day.  Note: a deacon, not an elder.  My brain is just not built for session meetings!

I was in college when I met the love of my life.  As love sometimes does, for me it unfolded slowly.  We were friends for several years before falling in love, but when I fell, I fell hard.  She is just the right person for me.  I can’t imagine loving anyone else.  I don’t know if it was because I’d never really thought about being lesbian, (as I told my wife early in our relationship, “I just always assumed I was straight!”) or if it was because I had such confidence in my family and friends, but “coming out” was not that hard a process for me.  My parents and family were supportive and loving, our friends were happy for us, and my church embraced my wife just as they had always loved and cared for me.  A few years into our relationship, we were blessed with the opportunity to be foster parents.  Our church family has loved every child who has come through our home.  They’ve rejoiced in our two adoptions, cried happy tears at our son’s baptism, and blessed our union as we stood at the front of the sanctuary, just as I’d dreamed I one day would.

During the time we were building our family, I was asked to be a deacon.  Our church has always been on the forefront of the equality issue, so I would not have been the first openly gay person in a committed relationship to be ordained, but it was still an intimidating thought.  I didn’t want to be the cause of any more strife in our church family.  I didn’t want anyone to be “in trouble” for supporting my ordination.  I did want to be a deacon, however.  I felt I deserved the right to serve my congregation just as anyone else did.  I knew I would serve the office faithfully and to the best of my ability, and that my sexuality had nothing to do with what kind of deacon I would be.  If my church family was willing to have me serve, and session was willing to approve my nomination, then I would be honored to be a deacon.  My nomination was approved and passed without much fanfare, just the same support shown to all new deacons by the congregation.  I did attend session when we were examined and was touched by the love and supportive words of the elders, particularly one gentleman I had known well, as I frequently babysat for his children when I was a teen.  He is more the “strong, silent type” but the statement he made on my behalf brought me to tears.

I truly enjoyed my chance to serve as a deacon and hope to do it again someday.  I applaud the churches across the country that are opening the doors so that all may freely serve.  I hope that, by the time my children are adults, marriage equality will be an issue for the history books.

The call to be a minister first appeared in my heart and consciousness during my early teens.  The awareness that I was gay began a little earlier than that, although I did not know what all that meant—only that I was somehow different than other young men as a sexual being.

These two parts of my life journey, however, grew disproportionately.  The call to ministry took priority—sensing that God was leading me strongly.  My secular and religious education was focused on the goal of seminary and eventually ordination.  The early part of my religious education toward this goal taught me that homosexuality was against God’s purposes and sinful, and having no other points of view to consider or a role model to follow, I accepted this perspective as a fact and suppressed my sexual orientation and was ordained in the Presbyterian Church.

I entered into a heterosexual marriage based on an honest emotional love for my wife and became the proud and loving father of three daughters.  It was my hope that my homosexuality would disappear, but the deeper sexual orientation lingered and strengthened.

In my 40’s, after much study, counseling, and prayer, I finally came to accept my sexual orientation, but chose to remain quiet about it lest I lose my ordination—I was fully dedicated to being a minister.  This undoubtedly took its emotional toll, and I went through a painful divorce.  On the other hand, I have been in a committed and nurturing relationship with my partner, Jerry, for 32 years.  I have also had the love and support of my daughter, Sarah.  Not once, since my acceptance of being gay, have I questioned my call to ministry or the fact that God created me as a gay man.

I served joyfully and faithfully for 21 years in four parishes, for 20 years in two presbytery executive positions, and retired 14 years ago.  Colleagues and Christian friends who fully knew me have loved and encouraged me enormously thus alleviating most of the pain of remaining silent about my sexual orientation.  During these years I have been able to work from within the church for change.  I served on the General Assembly Task Force on Human Sexuality and on advocacy groups such as Presbyterians for Lesbian and Gay Concerns, and, eventually, as a Commissioner to the 2010 General Assembly that changed the ordination standards.

I am thankful that God has given me the grace and strength to live my life as a gay man and my call to ministry, and every breath now seems to come more freely even though there is yet much work to do and misunderstanding and hurt to heal.

The Rev. Robert H. Fernández, Honorably Retired, Sacramento Presbytery

A few months ago, something unjust was going on at my daughter’s middle school. She’s 14 now, and I’ve been politely given some direct info about what I am and am not allowed to do (sending in photos for the yearbook or community service slide shows are a no no).

So when I decided to speak up about the school injustice, knowing full well that it would probably cause her some “pain” from the coach and other players, I did it anyway.

“I’m sorry,” I told her in the car that day after the vice principal talked to me. “I just couldn’t sit quietly. It’s wrong.”

“No mom. I’m glad you did,” she said. “I don’t care if it changes things. They need to change.”

So yes, this is the story of my life. Speaking up. And out. I don’t march, usually, and I rarely make signs, though I do post a lot on Facebook and Pinterest which these days is about the same thing. But the truth is, since my partner and I decided to become parents back in 1996, we promised to live our lives openly and out and have never looked back.

When we visited Grace Covenant in Overland Park,  (GCPC) KS, in the early 2000s, we came in through Vacation Bible School. We figured there was no better way to find out how an open two-mom and two-kid family would be treated. It left me with some questions overall, about the church, but I was assured GCPC welcomed us while some other churches, one mega nearby in fact, still wanted to welcome us with the hope that Christ would transform us in their midst. Code words. Transform. As in change - not for the church, for us.

We joined Grace, and I instantly got on the outreach committee. Yum.  My favorite. Exactly what I believe we should be doing – working outside the church walls. I was content.

Then one day a call came asking me to serve as an elder. For lots of reasons, I wasn’t that keen on the idea. Let’s just sum it up by saying, I’d served on the board of another church of another denomination and left disillusioned. At the time the call came, I really didn’t understand that much about the greater Presbyterian Church or the regulations regarding ordination. My partner, Karen, was at a presbyterian church in Wichita when we met in 1983, and had served as a youth on many boards and committees and even at General Assembly. Both of us still had questions about Grace Church … was the “acceptance” just a pet project of the pastor, as one member suggested, or something embraced by the Church as a whole?

It wasn’t an easy decision… and more than once I wondered what the price would be.  Still, I said Yes.

Suddenly there were meetings and more meetings, not for me as an elder, but for the congregation to discuss this business of me becoming an elder. It probably served me well that I wasn’t a lifelong presbyterian. There were big meetings in the gathering hall where it was explained, though my name was never used. These meetings were full of interesting comments both for and against my ordination as an elder. At one a little old lady stood up and asked, “but what will you tell your children?” There were people there way ahead on this issue, people way behind on this issue, there were those who were afraid, and those who thought we were stirring up dust that needn’t be disturbed. A lot of people said nothing but I am quite sure the book clubs and dinner groups were buzzing.  I became closer to the younger people, and the older people and the people I didn’t know all that well who took the time to write me a note of support or just said a kind word in the hallway. A few, my friends who would draw closer and closer as time went on, said this:

“LeAnne, we will stand with you, and behind you, and beside you, and most importantly we will stand in front of you whatever comes.”

And they did. And. They. Do.

It was a big deal. Bigger than I expected or imagined. I recall being at church one day when, by courier, more legal papers arrived that had to be signed for. Legal papers?  I remember feeling the wedge draw between myself and friends who went to a nearby church that sued our church, and eventually left PCUSA. I didn’t want it to be personal, but there’s nothing quite as personal as having people you know “vote” on something that is Who You Are.

My own real-life neighbor went to one of these opposing churches. One day we stood on the front lawn and discussed it. She and her sister left the church that sued our church.

After a long, detailed conversation about church law, she said: “I’m pretty sure we are supposed to love thy neighbor.” Hmm, very literally! With that, we laughed and went back to pulling weeds.

Over the years since that day, all the “court” battles and votes that were fought on “our” behalf, life has gone on. No longer is there ever a question of where we, Grace Covenant, stand. Ever.

We are looking for a new pastor at our Church. Quietly, both my partner and I were asked about serving on the search committee. We didn’t need to. We know, KNOW, that our church family will call someone open and affirming.  It’s not even a question.

My daughter is going through confirmation this year. The whole issue of the vote and our Church came up in one of her classes and she asked about it – she was too young to remember when it happened.

“That was me,” I told her. “I was the first elder, openly gay, elder elected here and our church went through a lot to make that happen because the people at this church believe in justice.”

It was painful but it opened the door – now I look on the boards and see all kinds of people serving as deacons and ruling elders… everyone in the family can serve, not just some. Teenagers, sons and daughters of longtime families of Grace, all know they are welcome and have the same rights and responsibilities. And all they have to do is say “yes.”

And I’m so glad for the people who stood – behind, beside, with and in front.

LeAnne Stowe and her partner Karen live in Overland Park, KS and are the parents of Sara and Sam. They have been members of Grace Covenant Presbyterian Church since 2003.