We Need a Little Christmas

It dawned on me - apropos of nothing - in the days between the Supreme Court rulings on DoMA and Prop-8 and our Pride celebrations here in New York last year that Christmas and the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots are roughly opposite each other on the Earth's orbit.  I liked that idea.  For people who observe them both, there are definite parallels in the emotional and physical build-up that occurs in the weeks prior, with much anticipation and even some anxiety for those of us upon whom others depend for the experience to be a positive one.

Bishop Dietsche on the Episcopal
float at NYC Pride

The similarities grew stronger for those of us in the New York area with the election of a new bishop, the Right Rev. Andrew Dietsche, who bears a striking resemblance to St. Nicholas. He and his wife on the Episcopal float lent an authentic presence to the giant sign behind them proclaiming "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" given his supportive actions for our community in his first year in the episcopal seat.

Fresh from the news that same-gender couples in New York and other states with marriage equality would soon be eligible for federal benefits, we gathered on the street with some new faces and some who we last saw at the prior year's march, and began our time together in prayer.

And we were in need of a celebration. Our city in recent weeks had seen a rash of violence against gay men, culminating in the death of Mark Carson.  The other diocesan bishop in town (across Fifth Avenue) responded with yet another bulletin insert decrying the advance of marriage equality to same-gender couples.  The wait for the SCOTUS rulings -- though they ultimately ended up in our favor -- did little to settle the nerves. Not to reinforce stereotypes, but I was reminded of the scene in the musical/movie Mame, where a family fallen on hard times scrounges together whatever they can find to make a celebration in the face of adversity.

So we danced, waved, and marched down Fifth Avenue, just as our sisters and brothers in Sacramento, New Orleans, Pittsburgh, and Houston (to name a few) bore witness to their own neighbors about the love of God which our church offers.

And then Monday came.  Figuratively, at least, because some march attendees weren't even home yet when the cold reality of the world was thrust at them in the form of a screaming anti-gay tirade on the subway.  The rest of us went back to meetings and spreadsheets, diapers or -- for many of us -- the help wanted section.  And -- like that once-wealthy family who had fallen on hard times --  I wondered what it would take to preserve the feeling of solidarity and power that was so strong just days before.

The answer, if you ask me, lies within all of us.  The way to keep the message that God loves you -- with the gender you claim and the orientation you feel, not the ones the church and society has long said you should -- alive, is to be that message to one another, and to the world. Not once a year, but every day.

We've decided, together, to make the church safe and inviting to all, no exceptions.  Who is going to tell those who haven't heard that news yet, and who are feeling they are without love and without worth?  We can't wait for next year's Pride, because unfortunately some of them won't make it that long.

In parts of the country where this work has been going on a long time, and victories like marriage equality aren't even so new anymore, there's an air of battle fatigue. People have told me, repeatedly, when I raise this issue, that "we marched in that parade, back in the 'eighties!" as if that means the work is done.  Dude, that's great, but someone who was born in the 'eighties didn't see you there.  She needs to see you today.

What I and the leadership of Integrity is asking you to pray on and consider, is how you (No, not her.  You.  Well, her too.  But right now, this is about you.) can be Integrity, right where you are.  It doesn't have to mean going to a chapter social for bad coffee once a month or running for a committee position.  We're inviting you -- here and now -- to blow the doors off that model if it doesn't work for you.  We want to know what you think will work for your parish, for your diocese, for your community, that queer kid you know who thinks all religion is evil.

As we have mentioned in prior posts, we are actively looking to recruit Diocesan Organizers who are connected to what is going on in their area and will work with us to connect with more bishops, congregations and ministry organizations.  We need thoughtful writers to share first-person witness on how LGBT inclusion intersects with their own faith stories.  We need voices representing the church at marriage equality events, protests and rallies.  We need people to simply speak up when people say Christianity and LGBT folks can't or shouldn't mix, and say, "Well, actually...."

Maybe you're already doing these things.  If you are, we want to know about it, so we can tell others the good news.  And we want to know how Integrity can help you do more, reach further, and feel like you're part of a bigger picture.

We've been told -- and we believe -- there are many folks out there who would consider (or reconsider) a church home if they were convincingly told a place exists where they would be truly safe, welcomed and even celebrated.  We know such places exist, because we've seen them.  To bring the two together, thousands on thousands, one at a time, will take the effort of all of us.  We want to know what you're willing to bring to the table.

Are you a current, active Integrity member?  If you have thought about it, used to be.... please prayerfully consider recommitting.  Is your parish connected to either Believe Out Loud, our Parish Partner Program, or both?  Maybe they would be if they knew it was important to you.

These are both annual commitments and we know they slip people's minds, but we need your support and involvement just as much, if not more, today as ever.

Again, the rest is open to discussion.  If this message has touched you even a little, please introduce yourself to your Provincial Coordinator and let them know who you are, where you are, and why this work matters to you. 

We recently published our updated Mission and Vision. In case you missed it, here they are again:

Our Mission

Integrity USA's mission is to inspire and equip the Episcopal Church, its dioceses, congregations, and members to proclaim and embody God’s all-inclusive love for LGBTQ persons and those who love them.

Our Vision

Integrity's vision of its success is that The Episcopal Church thrives as a beacon of love, justice, and compassion, where ALL PEOPLE are equally embraced and empowered.

If that sounds like a lot of work, it's because it is.  To make it reality is going to take commitment from a whole lot of us, but it can be done.  The Christmas story sounds pretty far-fetched, too, but somehow, in spite of human nature and great odds, we make it real by being just a little bit kinder to one another every year, if only for a few days.  Like Christmas, the good news message we share at Pride could be extended further, to more people and more places, so that what we know about God's love extends to all genders and orientations and classes and colors, and becomes real to those whom we meet who have been taught to think it was not possible.

All you have to do is believe.

Christian Paolino is the Chair of Integrity's Stakeholders' Council and Diocesan Organizer (Newark). A graduate of William Paterson University and The New School, he blogs at The Verge of Jordan.

Toward a Hermeneutic of Abundance: A queer response to discourses of parochial scarcity in the Episcopal Church

Eastertide in the Western Church has come and gone. The shift of liturgical season seemed remarkably quick this year, as each Eastertide seems to get shorter and shorter as the years go by.  My liturgical plate during Holy Week was unusually full this year, as was requisite of my duties at Christ Church in Cambridge, MA, and each liturgy leading-up-to and during the Triduum seemed to guide me through the mysteries of our faith in a new way. And here we stand, on the other side of the cross—liturgically, at least.

Yet, I have a secret to share with you: I find myself still standing in that one place we live our entire lives of Christians—within the unsettled fear and doubt of Holy Saturday—and for reasons that may not seem typically discernable. 

Detail of "Church for Sale" by Ed Kohler
Some Rights Reserved. Used under Creative Commons License

This afternoon after church I had the pleasure of serving on an inquirer’s discernment committee under the auspices of the Diocese of Connecticut. Today was our final meeting, so we addressed issues I have, in my own thinking, ignored or tried to ignore; issues that diocesan discernment materials make quite plain, namely the future of the Episcopal Church. I was confronted, due to the language of the diocesan materials, with the reality that the church is getting ready for a number of involuntary changes, the shapes of which are not yet apparent. As numbers seem to dwindle in certain parts of various Provinces, fundamental questions are being asked about what it means to "do" church, and what that could look like in an era that may have significantly fewer parishes. 

Now, I am in no way attempting to tout the falling numbers line that many critics of the Episcopal Church seem to relish. I don’t actually know what these numbers look like, so I am unwilling to make predictions about the future of our tradition. Diocesan discernment materials, however, both in my own diocese and elsewhere, make it clear that the extant parish model is causing significant doubts within diocesan leadership, doubts that are, therefore, all over the ethos of such discernment materials. 

While the discussion we had on this issue was fruitful, prayerful, and eye-opening, the only thought ringing through my mind as I left was "you poor walking anachronism; why couldn’t I have been born a decade earlier?"

The discussion unsettled me in that it asked all of us to asses our vocational goals, and it forced me to really think about what those goals might look like. Yet, not only did our conversation cause me deep distress about the future of my ecclesial vocations—as both a musician and one considering ordination—it struck me in a such a manner so as to remind me of the fears I encountered as I came of age during the recent economic crisis. 

The moment I left home and began my undergraduate studies, the economic situation took its tragic downward spin. Everywhere I looked, whether within the academy, the musical community, or as I searched for part-time work, the ethos was the same, saturated by a gloomy hermeneutic of scarcity. I must admit, even within my own place of privilege as a white male student, this gloom wounded me terribly; to this day I continue to suffer moments of the same absolute terror I experienced nine years ago. This terror has come to figuratively re-closet me—it forces me to keep my hopes and dreams held close, though without the confidence or means to pursue them, lest I lose them forever in the murky seas of scarcity. 

Now, after having discovered something precious and, dare I say, fragile, I fear for its continued existence. When I was seventeen I fell in love with the idea of the liturgy; when I was twenty I began to practice it as a musician at the Episcopal Cathedral in Seattle—it was then that I fell in love with the liturgy itself. It was the liturgy, particularly manifest in celebrations of the Eucharist (celebrations of total abundance in the midst of scarcity) that made Christian theology begin to make sense. The life of the liturgical church transformed Christianity (which I had for years disliked just short of total abhorrence) into a real, truthful, salvific orientation. In that space, in that community, both sonically, physically, and cross-temporally, the Incarnation became something I sought to see in the world around me. Without the liturgy, in liturgical space, and within a tradition that called me into its vast historicity and kaironic community, it becomes more difficult to seek the face of the Risen Lord in the world outside that space. Its very queerness set it apart from everything else in the world around me, and it provided an antithesis to the broader ethos of scarcity. 

While I respect and understand the need to explore what it means to "do" church without the structures we are used to, without sacred buildings, without our Anglican legacy of musical transformation, without choirs, and, dare I say, without full-time clergy (a matter to which many of the newer discernment materials point), I worry that a hermeneutic of scarcity is the only thing propelling us to navigate these ideas. I find it an incredible opportunity to think about what our baptism is really about, yet I find there the same hermeneutic of scarcity which was omnipresent when I came of age. Now, it threatens to engulf that very thing which I love the most—the one thing in the world that makes sense to me as a queer man. 

We—members of the LGBTQ body— have sacrificed and continue to sacrifice much for our place within the Church. As our stories become stronger threads in the tapestry of the Christian narrative, welcomed into the life as fully-recognized members of the Body of Christ, we need to ensure that what we're fighting for survives. We have managed to begin a re-acknowledgement of our tradition's queerness by the virtue of our presence and by the virtue of what Christianity stands for. We fought for a place to worship; now, will we let this uniquely queer space continue to exist? 

While the situation is doubtless different from diocese to diocese, we should begin to ask ourselves what the role our renewed presence within the ecclesial body might look like. While the narratives of scarcity seem to take over, we, as LGBTQ communities of faith, should steadfastly resist them, resounding the Eucharistic hermeneutic of abundance as we continue our work within and outside of the Church itself. We fought (and continue to fight) for a home that was always our home, even if not always dogmatically. Let us make sure the home for which we fought continues to stand—to ensure that our unique, queer, liturgical abundance continues to speak.

Sean R. Glenn Integrity's Diocesan Organizer for Massachusetts. He is a composer and conductor of sacred choral music, and holds a Masters in Theological Studies from Boston University and a Master of Arts in Music from the Aaron Copland School at Queens College. His home on the web is www.seanglenn.com.