not allow anyone else to carry it alone. Because St. Paul’s is a church that welcomes and affirms the gay-lesbian-bisexual-transgendered community, the Vestry (the elected governing body of the congregation) determined it was also the parish’s cross to bear. Together, we decided that we would be as public as we needed to be to stand with Barry, Walter, and the Diocese of Newark during the course of the heresy trial.
Shortly after making this decision, as fate would have it, I read an essay by lawyer and Episcopal layman William Stringfellow. The essay, entitled, “Living Humanly in the Midst of Death,” is about why people resisted the Nazis. It captures what I believe to be the essence of resistance to oppression: “To exist, under Nazism, in silence, conformity, fear, acquiescence [and] collaboration—to covet ‘safety’ or ‘security’ on the conditions prescribed by the state—caused moral insanity, meant suicide, was fatally dehumanizing, [and] constituted a form of death. Resistance was the only stance worthy of a human being, as much in responsibility to oneself as to all other humans, as the famous commandment mentions.”7 Stringfellow argued that while resisting oppression ensured risk and peril, nonresistance or acquiescence “involved the certitude of death—of moral death, of the death to one’s humanity, of the death to sanity and conscience, of the death that possesses humans profoundly ungrateful for their own lives and for the lives of others . . .”8
For the first time, I had words to express what I knew in my heart. To exist in a homophobic society in silence, conformity, fear, acquiescence, and collaboration; to hide in our closets for fear of being caught, rejected, fired, abused, disowned, disinherited, ridiculed, and despised; to covet “safety” or “security” on the conditions prescribed by the state or the church causes moral insanity and the death of one’s soul. To come out, to state honestly and clearly who one is and who one loves is not to flaunt one’s sexuality, but rather, to be faithful to one’s integrity, to choose freedom over oppression, and to claim life in the midst of death.
On October 15, 1995, I broke a pact I had made with God, the world, and myself when I came out in the pulpit. The unspoken bargain I had made went something like this: if I had to be gay in this society, then I would be the very best gay person I could be, and I would never do anything to embarrass anybody or make anyone feel uncomfortable about my sexuality. The heresy trial caused me to realize that this was a pact with the devil, not with God. So in a crowded sanctuary, in front of newspaper reporters and television cameras, I spoke aloud from our ten-foot-high pulpit the truth of my life. I turned myself purple on that Sunday morning, finally answering The Question. I’ll never forget the closing words of my sermon: “And now, to answer your question, God: No, I will not pass! Yes, I am ready and willing to claim who I am and to live and die for my faith!” And the people responded with thunderous applause and a loud Amen!
As Dean of Trinity Cathedral in Cleveland, Ohio, I live in the center of the institutional church. As a priest and pastor, I carry the keys to unlock and open the church doors so that the stranger passing by may enter. I preach the word of God so that those who listen may know the good news of God’s justice, love, and mercy for all creation. I stand at God’s table and make Christ known in the breaking of the bread and the pouring of the wine so that God’s hungry people may be fed. And I pronounce God’s blessing upon those who seek it so that they may experience the gift of God’s creative love.
It would be very easy to exclude people: to make some feel welcome and others not, to feed some and turn others away, to bless some and curse others. Like any human being charged with such a daunting task and awesome responsibility, I run that risk each and every day.
Whenever I am tempted to lock up God’s house, to gate God’s table, or to refuse God’s blessing, I am confronted with The Question. The memory of my own exclusion, separation, and alienation, and that of my ancestors in flesh, faith, and spirit jolts me. These memories, painful as they may be, remind me of Jesus’ mission in this world: to bring the love of God to those who seek it; to show the way to God to those who want to follow; and to extend the covenant of promise and salvation to all God’s people.
A long time ago, I was asked a question I could not answer: would you have died for your faith or denied it by passing? I have struggled with this question ever since. It has shaped my life and directed my ministry. It grounds my theology and informs my ethics, provoking me to listen to the voices from the edge and pay attention to the fringe. It is at the heart of this book. Thirty-five years later, The Question still holds me accountable. I hope it always will. In the life, death, and resurrection that surrounds me everyday, I am beginning to glimpse my answer.
One
It was born on a winter day . . .
The Light of Darkness | CLEVELAND, OHIO, 2003
the Light
of Darkness
I am a fool for holiday lights. I love the candles of Advent, Hanukkah, winter solstice, Christmas, and Kwanza. I enjoy seeing holiday lights as I drive through various communities, noting the diversity as I move from one neighborhood to another. I also like festive downtown office buildings and department store windows. And I even appreciate what some people call “tacky” Christmas displays—the bigger, the better, I say, setting aside for the season my concern over energy conservation.
I am particularly fond of a suburban home in Mahwah, New Jersey, with a decorated pond and a singing Elvis on the roof. But my all-time favorite was an unassuming cottage located across the street from a Fraternal Order of Police Hall in Cuyahoga Heights, Ohio. This cottage was so well lit that it could be seen for miles, even from the freeway. As we neared the house, there were literally dozens of people crossing the street, walking up the driveway, and paying two dollars apiece to ooh and ahh at the array of thousands of sparkling lights in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Among the various displays were an American flag, a jack-in-the-box, and a gingerbread house. There were numerous Christmas trees, choirs, snowmen, and Care Bears. There was a crèche complete with the holy family, attending shepherds, barn animals, and angels by the dozen. And of course, there was Santa Claus and his playful elves and reindeer. The entire display was constructed of twinkling, multicolored holiday lights. Christmas carols were blasting out of stereo speakers, and volunteers collected money for local charities.
As we walked away, I asked myself, what makes folks go to all of this effort and expense? Moreover, I wondered, what makes people like me travel a distance in the cold of the night to witness such extravagant displays of holiday cheer? The answer is quite simple. We need light. During the bleak midwinter, we human beings develop a craving for light. When the sun retires, we light candles and turn on artificial lights; when the trees are a leafless brown, we bring fresh evergreens inside; when the cold wind blows, we drown out its howling with music; when the harvest is over and the fields are bare, we feast; when the days are short, we party long into the night. No wonder we overindulge at the holidays; we’re trying to compensate for the dark and barren days of the winter season.
I love decorating my own home for the holidays. I look forward to putting candles in the windows and lighting the Advent wreath. I like the ritual of picking out and cutting down the “perfect” tree that is never perfect when we get it home. I enjoy the challenge of stringing lights on the tree, only to realize that at least half of them don’t light up when they are plugged into the socket. I love hanging the ornaments, especially the shiny red bulbs with gold crochet made by my grandmother. And I really relish the moment when we turn off the other lights and turn on the tree lights. If left to my own devices, I will play Christmas music on the stereo
