HUU Community Cafe

Harrisonburg Unitarian Universalists - Announcements & Dialog

Why HUU Becoming A Welcoming Congregation Matters

by

May 1, 2011

Four members of our congregations shared from their hearts “Why it Matters to Me That Harrisonburg UU Becomes A Welcoming Congregation.”

Singing for Our Lives – David Lane

I want to tell a story this morning, a story that took place in Salt Lake City in the summer of 1999 at my first Unitarian-Universalist General Assembly.

The first night we were there, I entered the convention center (amusingly named the Salt Palace for its towering entrance shaped like a salt shaker) – I entered for what was called the Opening Celebration (part business meeting, part worship service, part trooping of the colors as it turned out).  But never having attended a GA, I had no real idea what to expect.

The program for that evening (here it is) tells me that the celebration began with homage to Ute and Shoshoni peoples who had made the Salt Lake Basin their home long before latter day saints, Mormon or UU, arrived).

After that came The Banner Parade – with hundreds of brilliantly colored designs representing congregations from every corner of North America (the banner that now hangs behind me was the one that Grayson and I together carried that year).

And then came Stories of Two Congregations, stories meant to introduce that year’s GA theme (”To Help One Another”).  But instead of moral uplift or ethical admonition, these stories focused on the lived experience of actual congregations, of folks like you and me facing in their own communities and in their own lives the impact of senseless bigotry and inexplicable madness.  These stories were told by the UU minister from Columbine, Colorado, and the UU minister from Laramie, Wyoming.

Laramie and Columbine.  Young lives suddenly and horribly ended.  Families shattered by grief.  Whole towns overwhelmed by shock and disbelief.  But these were also stories of what people were able to do “to help one another” in a time of unimaginable anguish, people moved by conscience and compassion, people no different than you or me.  And after these stories were told, we were invited to sing.

Sing?  How could we sing and what could we sing in response to such terrible tragedy?

But we did sing.  Lyrics suddenly appeared on huge screens all around us.  And moved by the same recollection, the same grief, the same connection to what had happened, as if the victims had been our own friends, our own brothers and sisters, our own children, all 4000 UUs there that night stood, joined hands and voices, and sang from the heart the truth of who they really were.

They sang: “We are a gentle, angry people.  And we are singing, singing for our lives.”

Our lives, yours and mine.  And their lives, lost but remembered (Matthew Shepherd’s life and the lives of the lost children of Columbine).  And all lives, far and near, and yet to be lived or already past.  Lives to which we in that moment of astounding community were connected and for which we were somehow responsible.

There it was – the real power of religious community: the power that binds together, that includes everyone in the same human family, that welcomes each of us home – old and young, male and female, black and white, gay and straight.

We are all one family – that was what my first GA showed me about the UU faith community, both there in Salt Lake and back here in Harrisonburg.

For when I returned home and I walked through that door again, I found I really was home.  I was just as connected and just as welcome here with 40 or 50 UUs as I had unexpectedly discovered I was with 4000 UUs in Salt Lake.  Just a smaller sub-set of a larger welcoming community.  In both, the same power of inclusion and affirmation and family connecting everyone.

That’s why identifying ourselves as a Welcoming Congregation matters to me.

It’s not about correctness (political or otherwise).  Or even about credentials and recognitions (as important as they may be).

It’s about knowing who we are as a religious community and about sharing that truth with everyone who comes through our doors, everyone seeking a welcoming religious home.

It’s about being able to say:

We are a gentle, angry people.
And we are singing,
yes, for our lives.
And for ALL lives.

Richard Carl Wolf

Sometimes someone’s words stay with you for years and years.  When I was in high school, there was a big controversy over the publication of a certain editorial in our school paper.  In addressing that controversy, our principal told me “truth doesn’t matter.”

Three years ago today, the Christian calendar observed May 1st as the feast of the Ascension.  It was the last day of my work as a pastoral associate with a large, Roman Catholic parish.  As I was getting ready for the Noon Mass, I was informed that my position was being eliminated.  Actually, the position continued.  But the true objective, eliminating me, was achieved.  It was a mixed but great blessing.

A downtown church, we were known for being welcoming, inclusive, and liberal, as much as Catholics can be.  Many LGBT singles, couples, and families were members, similar to our membership here yet on a different scale. But very different from here, the unspoken rule was to stay in the closet, or at least right at the closet door.  Being completely out was unacceptable.  And being out to the extent of witnessing for equal rights or civil protections was out of the question.  Making reference to LGBT issues in a Sunday service:  never.

Even though that parish was the most progressive place I’d ever worked, the restrictions around acting with integrity and honesty had begun to weigh more and more heavily on my conscience.  Why did my home life and civic work for LGBT rights have to be so divorced from my church work?  Over time, the frequency of my speaking out had increased..  For examples,  I questioned why we hosted meetings for PFLAG (parents and friends of gays and lesbians) but could not consider hosting meetings for other LGBT organizations.  I called attention to bishops’ attempts to officially deny baptism for the children of gay or lesbian parents.. But even as I received support and encouragement for these steps over invisible boundaries,  I had an intuition that my catholic days were

numbered.

As I grieved the sudden loss of job and church career, I readily found a new spiritual home with First Unitarian Church of Rochester.  At 1st U, within amazing Louis Kahn walls, a broad representation of abilities, ages, cultures, genders, and sexualities mirrors that congregation’s commitment to local and global human rights beyond the church walls.  Some examples: 1st U not only displays, outside, a “Standing on the Side of Love” banner, but is performing no marriage ceremonies until any couple in New York can marry. Also, LGBT individuals, spouses, partners, and family members are routinely referenced in the sharing of joys and concerns. And, at 1st U, you can hear preaching that includes personal, LGBT, family-life stories.  By something I’d call “Grace”, I was provided  with a community in which to celebrate and practice my new-found personal and spiritual liberation.

Since moving here last summer, UU fellowship has been more of a lifeline for me than ever.  With the exception of our “Standing on the Side of Love’ sign being inside rather than outside, I’ve found many parallels with my 1st U of Rochester experiences.  We use inclusive language in our services and in promotional and resource materials. We routinely reference same-sex spouses or domestic partners.  And while I’ve heard that we do hold commitment ceremonies for same-sex couples, that’s probably a strong enough witness in a state where non-discriminatory marriage law is further away than in New York.

I’m grateful to have found this place to be and work, more publicly,  toward people’s  inclusion of people of ability, age, culture, gender, or sexuality.  I’m grateful for the Unitarian Universalist Association, historically at the forefront of advancing civil rights, which resources and guides our efforts.  Most of all, I’m grateful for that stuff (or is it a thing) called Grace that’s brought me here,  where personal truth is integrated with committed social action.

Truth does matter.  That’s why HUU becoming a Welcoming Congregation matters to me.  Truth matters.

Jeanine Sellers:

I began to understand the concept of a welcoming congregation around 1984 in the small village of Lucinda, Pennsylvania where I grew up with my parents and my eight siblings.  Lucinda was, and still is, a very homogeneous and isolated place.  There are no traffic lights.  There is one post office, one gas station, one hardware store, one auto-body shop, one grocer and one church.  Everyone there is white, German or Irish Catholic.  At the time, it seemed that everyone there was also straight.  The memory of how wrong I was is 27 years old and still vivid.

I was in the bathroom getting ready for Mass on a Sunday morning.  My Dad knocked and asked to come in.  He closed the door behind him and said, “You look nice, honey.”  I thanked him – thinking how strange it was that Dad and I were in the bathroom together.  He then blurted out, “Honey, there is something I need to tell you….your brother, Chris, is a homosexual.”  I burst into tears.  Dad grabbed my sister Mary Ann in the hallway and asked her to take care of me, because he didn’t know how to handle my sobbing.  As reckless as my Dad’s parenting may have been in that moment, he did the best he knew how and I have long since forgiven him.  My brother Chris saw me crying and followed me to my room, sat down on my bed and said, “I am sorry you are sad, but I can no longer apologize for who I am.”

At a distance of years, it seems ridiculous that I reacted as I did when Chris came out to our family.  But I forgive that girl who simply didn’t know what she didn’t know: people often fear what they do not understand.

This news was a shock for me and an adjustment for us all but my parents proved to be remarkable.  I cannot say the path was always smooth, but Chris brought his partner Peter home and we quickly grew to admire and love him.  My family became their first welcoming congregation and they have now been together for more than 25 years.  My family also welcomed Chris and Peter’s gay and lesbian friends over the years and these relationships continue to enrich our lives.

In the summer of 2010, my nephew, Alex, graduated from high school in the same rural county where I grew up.  He decided to tell my mother, his grandmother, first.  He took her to their favorite coffee shop to share the news, “Nana, I’m coming out of the closet.”  My Mom was honored that he felt comfortable telling her.  Alex’s anxiety about coming out was lessened because we were his welcoming congregation.

When I started working with this task force, I questioned the need, thinking, “We are already a welcoming congregation, why do we need recognition?”  But working toward it has increased my consciousness about issues affecting the LGBT community and the challenges they face.

A beautiful alignment happens when a community – whether a family or a church – stands together and invites everyone to be their authentic selves.  The benefit flows not only to those who are welcomed, but to the congregation, which grows stronger through its commitment.

“To be rather than to seem,” is an ancient saying that has resonated as I thought about my wishes for our church as we work for this recognition.  May all who come here feel comfortable being rather than seeming to be.