My congregational family and I have a generational gap, in some cases two whole generations. I am the only person under 50 in a congregation where everyone, with the exception of my spouse,  is 70+.

 

 

As infuriating as that can be at times, it is still something of which I understand. My parents had a 22 year age difference between them. It means my grandparents on my father’s side were like someone else’s great grandparents. They came from another time and another place. I did not expect them to understand the 1970’s much. 

 

 

I also know that, like my grandparents and I, my congregation and I are not even from the same place. My congregation were almost exclusively born and raised locally. They did not have the exposure that I have had.

 

 

There is no less than or greater than, we are equals. Where we come from and when is vastly different.

 

 

Some of the books I read would send them into heart attacks and strokes. Marcus Borg’s The Heart of Christianity was as wild and crazy as they could manage.

 

 

They know how they did things, the way they raised children, how one behaved and acted and dressed, how things were done …. It means they are embarrassing at times, like grandmas and grandpas, who in a restaurant, tell the parents of the children at the next table to make their kids listen or quiet down. It means they don’t often have time for new fangled ideas and technology and all that young mumbo-jumbo. It means they see no good reason why Onward Christian Soldiers is not a perfectly good hymn to sing on Sunday.

 

 

 

Everyone wonders why I don’t just pack my things and leave. I can tell you why. Love.

 

 

 

That is why, I returned to church after leaving over feeling I was not fed. I realized how I was not fed in some ways and I was full up in others. They serve me old-fashioned heaping doses of what no new theology fills me with. Love.

 

 

As much as they struggle with new fangled ideas like using female pronouns for God or may reject newer theological discourses, they have not really struggled with me and have not rejected me. They have taken me in and loved me.

 

 

 

Yes, me, with my same-sex partner who I call my wife without batting an eye. Certainly, it was new and took some getting used to. Yet, when my baptism was stalled it was they, who do not like conflict and hold clergy in that old-fashioned place clergy once occupied, who stood up for me and along side me.

 

 

They treat my wife and I no differently than they treat any married couple and even feel comfortable making little jokes, you know, like my wife wearing the pants or about me sleeping outside if I keep it up. They do not pretend we are “friends” or pretend we are “sisters”. They know who we are and they accept and embrace us. When I finish speaking, they turn to my wife and say, “you should be so proud”.

 

 

No, they do not have a marriage policy in place. It will likely be a struggle for them. Yet, I also know they love us. No, they have not become an Affirm United congregation, but by and large,  I could not be more affirmed in a Metropolitan Community Church.

 

 

I have been spiritually fed and nourished many times and in many places, but love is hard to come by in this world. I was a little orphan waif, who many times had new teachers and theology and new things to learn, but always felt alone. They said “we are not alone” and they meant it.

 

 

They also see the Spirit in me, the me that I am. They encourage me, with full knowledge, to listen to that call that has been with me so long. The same call that others saw and encouraged until they knew I was gay.

 

 

When I speak, whether it is at a group study, my monthly café, or from behind the pulpit, they know my message may be hard for them. They know it will stretch and push and pull them. Yet, they not only welcome it, they invite it.

 

 

Oh, it means I have to read more and engage theological discussions elsewhere to be stretched or pushed. Yet, I know I have a family to turn to with what I have learned or wish to share.

 

 

I may not have a church home for much longer, but I do have a family.

 

 

The church I attend, the entire charge perhaps, is dying. It ranges from either dead and not yet buried or in death throes. And before the congregation as a whole dies, I will attend many a more funeral of its family.  

 

 

Yet, I will not turn my back or run as they die. I will stand alongside them, like they have stood beside me. I should return their gift of supporting, encouraging, appreciating and loving despite believing differently, coming from different places and whole other generations.

 

 

They, who others might think know so little, have taught me well.

 

 

A new life may be born, before the old dies, as it dies or after.

 

 

I will still be among the mourners when it passes away.

 

 

I am a butterfly who they have not felt the need to rip the wings off of, they are in their coccoon which I do not rip open.

 

 

Why?

 

 

Love.