“All will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of thing shall be well…”
“Oh God, our help in ages past…”
“May the Lord bless you and keep you…”
I am grasping, God. Grasping for the right words to say, for the right prayer to pray, for some expression of petition that might sway the inevitable decision tomorrow.
The only words I have for how I’m feeling are ones like tension, anxiety, and fear. There is a persistent tug of something that feels like the anticipation of grief. Tomorrow’s decision is out of my hands. It feels so big.
It’s also been coming for a long time. The question of LGBTQ inclusion has hung over the United Methodist Church since the 1970s. And tomorrow is the day that something will happen. I’ve heard people speculate in every possible direction. There will be debate and rhetoric and statements and speeches and prayers and pleas. People will quote the Bible and famous theologians. They will talk about what any and all of this means about for the future of the United Methodist Church.
The truth is that this decision has nothing to do with lofty ideals or hypotheticals or position statements.
It has to do with people’s lives.
For the last ten years, I’ve sat across from people in the LGBTQ community as a therapist, walking with them as they wrestle with life-or-death questions like “Is being gay a sin?” or “Can I really change myself?” or “Should I be ashamed of who I am?” I’ve watched as these brave people have shed the shame-inducing rhetoric of their upbringing and embraced their personhood, their worthiness, and their right to love. I have seen the healing that comes from both internal and external acceptance. I have seen no power in Creation greater than that.
Let me say it again, out of the deepest conviction of my heart: When people experience love and acceptance, they heal, grow, and flourish. Shame kills. Love nurtures. There is no truth that brings us closer to God’s mercy than that.
And so now, God, I pray that this deep truth might in some way be enacted in this decision that feels so deeply personal, so life-and-death, for so many.
And here, God, I must remain humble. I recognize that there are people praying just as hard and long and passionately as I am in hopes of a very different outcome. What I see as limiting, hurtful, and shame-inducing they see as right, just, and holy. And oh God, I weep for that difference in perspectives. I weep that our limited view sees your goodness and mercy as something to take sides on, to debate right and wrong on. After all this time, we’re still not there, we still don’t see eye-to-eye. Be patient with us, God. In our own way… we’re trying.
And in my weeping, I must also recognize my own privilege. As a straight, cisgender person, this decision truly isn’t about me. My privilege will allow me to pursue ordination and get married in the UMC, if I so choose. I am not the one who who will be shunned and denied and made to feel unworthy. But that only makes me more angry. Why must people I love be rejected and shamed when I can walk into any United Methodist congregation in the world with ease? I don’t believe–I can’t believe–that this is what Jesus meant when he described God’s kingdom.
So here we are, watching and waiting. Breathing and praying. Hoping and trusting. Putting the fate of the denomination we love in the hands of a few hundred people, believing that they can enact your will. Understanding that no matter what happens, you will carry us through to our next chapter.
Most of all, God, I ask that you surround our LGBTQ family in love. I pray that they know, regardless of the outcome tomorrow, that they are accepted, cherished, and supported.
I still don’t know what words to say to make it right, God. So for now I’ll just wait.
And hope.
And trust.
And know that, no matter what happens tomorrow, there will be something to be grateful for.
Amen.
