A few years back, when furor erupted in the Episcopal Church over the election of an openly homosexual bishop in New Hampshire, I finally felt secure enough about my own sexuality to take a stand against bigotry and exclusivity. In the tiny rural Episcopal mission church where I worshiped at the time, a sort of “don’t ask, don’t tell” but loving environment, I was faced with what I saw then and see now as living, breathing primal ignorance. Seated at the table with 10 or so others for Bible study that Sunday morning—including one other homosexual male and a lesbian—our study was interrupted by the late arrival of two regulars, who looked like something the cat had dragged in. As their tale of explanation unfolded, they made apparent their utter, irrevocable sadness over the news of Gene Robinson’s election. To them, it was all about his sinful lifestyle, one they saw as chosen. Even the priest leading our study, someone I considered a friend and who knew my sexuality, commented that a Bishop should be held to a higher standard. He later recanted to me that position.
The latecomers had, in fact, been awake most of the night, and they looked it. After listening to their nonsense for a few minutes, where neither my gay brother or lesbian sister had the courage to speak up—she even went so far in her usual misspoken explanations about things to compare homosexuals to thieves and murderers, something like “well, some people don’t want to associate with thieves and murderers”—I commented to the person sitting to my right, “I sure would hate to be a newbie walking in on this conversation.” Then, something in me said, “now’s the time, Harold, speak up”. Fearful, yet disgusted and offended by the ignorance I was hearing, I finally directed to the woman of the couple, “V., you do know that you’re talking about me, don’t you?!” “Well, I thought…”, she said—frankly, I don’t remember what else she said, but it somehow suggested that in her compartmentalized heart and mind she had set me apart, to some degree, because she knew me. I had led Morning Prayer many times, but I don’t know how she and her husband felt about that.
I don’t remember what else I said to her as we disbanded for worship. I do know that I felt incredibly strong that day, and to be honest, proud of myself. What did I really do, except pull back the curtain on myself, revealing something that everyone already knew? Don’t ask, don’t tell? Not good enough. Later that afternoon, I received at least one phone call from a fellow worshiper, a heterosexual, reaching out to me, and in the mail later in the week, a note of affirmation from someone who had been absent for this defining moment in my life and surely in the life of that little gathering of pilgrims. A few weeks later, J. & V. left that little church for their home church in a larger nearby town, an old parish that has spent years earning the sadly well-known moniker applied to many Episcopalians, “the frozen chosen”.
I am reminded that when asked about the ugliest word in the English language, Carl Sandburg, American poet, historian, novelist and folklorist, and Poet Laureate during the defining days of civil rights, replied, “exclusive”. There are many things exclusive—churches, organizations, neighborhoods, stores, schools, families, indeed, entire cities. Today, while searching the internet for Mr. Sandburg’s exact statement about exclusivity, I discovered a sermon from the pastor of Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Rather than give my own spin on Rev. Booker-Hirsch’s miraculous words, I’d rather that you read his sermon.
http://www.northsidepres.org/worship/sermons/sermon/104
My goal this morning was to explain to myself what I understand about the story in John’s gospel, John 4: 27-42, about the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well. In part, it is a story about reaching out to strangers, especially those who are somehow different than we are, and in the case of historical Jews and Samaritans, a story of exclusion that has deep roots. This is a lesson about deep-seated fear and distrust, choosing to hide in what we perceive is our safe zone, a characterizing of people based on time-honored codes of rejection. If we are blessed enough to be able to arm ourselves with the trappings of experience and learning, if we are blessed to have learned what all world religions teach about compassion and love, we have a choice—to engage or not to engage.
27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, ‘What do you want?’ or, ‘Why are you speaking with her?’ 28Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29‘Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah,* can he?’ 30They left the city and were on their way to him.
From the meditation for today found on the website Forward Movement (http://www.forwardmovement.org/), the writer comments—“I know a bishop who says that every congregation in his diocese claims to be "friendly." His honest and humorous retort is, "Yes, because everyone who finds you unfriendly has gone elsewhere!" The writer continues that “…the ministry of hospitality is important in the life of the church. Welcoming and conversing with guests, following up with newcomers, and embracing a process of community integration are part of sharing the gospel.” This is a simple, straight-forward statement. But it is bereft of the real challenge of the church, and that is welcoming everyone, regardless of gender identity, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, socio-economic status, or other worldly condition. Here’s where the rubber hits the road. Here’s where reaching out to strangers feels unnatural, fear-evoking.
I have a tough enough time myself walking up to a stranger at church. I suffer some insecurity that sometimes causes me to wait for someone else to extend a hand—in church! At a gathering of homosexuals where shopping for mates can be part of the agenda, I can understand, even though reticence in such circumstances is still about fear of rejection. But in church? Why should anyone be afraid of rejection in church, regardless of where you live, with whom you choose to be most intimate, or how much extra change you have?
We are all fairly comfortable at nodding and smiling, exchanging an innocent greeting, “good morning,” or in the case of those churches where “the Peace” is exchanged, greeting one another at the appropriate point during worship with “God’s peace” or “the peace of the Lord”. Sometimes people stick close to their comfort zone by greeting in the name of the Lord only those people they know. Some people cast their eyes toward the floor when they shake hands, or they offer a limp, lifeless paw. In the church where I currently worship in Santa Fe, newcomers are encouraged to identify themselves during the announcements and at coffee after church. How long are we newcomers? During my novitiate no one came up to invite me to coffee. And over the past few months, I have failed to behave any differently, nodding and smiling surely, but not taking that important step—“Do you have time for coffee?” What’s that all about? Maybe I’m hung up on my own sexuality, or worse, my worthiness—this worshiping in a church where the Rainbow Flag flies proudly, along with the flag of the Episcopal Church, from the pole in the center of the grounds.
So we can set aside the Samaritan woman or man, or not. I remember a time probably 20 years ago when the Dean of the Episcopal Cathedral in Houston laid low the pretense that causes anyone to shun those who are different. The Cathedral then and now was the home to lots of well-heeled Houstonians, some who traveled many miles to the heart of downtown for Sunday worship, and it was a beacon for the homeless of downtown Houston. I certainly didn’t know much about the seeming outcasts who gathered outside the iron fence of this historic church, or were brave enough to come inside the fence, or scarier yet, the front door of this impressive, Victorian masterpiece of architecture, Tiffany window, regal trappings, antiphons and all. For a very short time in the mid 80s, after I had been laid off from my oil company job, I volunteered in a church program that served the people of the streets. Today, I am remembering a middle-aged woman, probably schizophrenic, who often wandered up the aisle after worship had begun. That day 20 years ago, she had walked to the front pew on the right and almost immediately became restless while the Dean held forth on the Gospel. I don’t remember all that she did, but I know people were aware, and many, including me, were uncomfortable. The Dean stopped his sermon and said, “Annie, you’re safe here.” And miraculously, she sensed the truth of his words.
In the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, Jesus offered her water that quenches eternally and finally, and the peace that passes all human understanding. That I should know this peace and be so quenched is my prayer, and knowing this, that I should extend my own hand in peace, unafraid and confident that we are gathering at the same well day in and day out, even when we don’t see or smell the water. Thanks be to God.
Don’t Leave Me Out—Normangee, Texas (January 26, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
The latecomers had, in fact, been awake most of the night, and they looked it. After listening to their nonsense for a few minutes, where neither my gay brother or lesbian sister had the courage to speak up—she even went so far in her usual misspoken explanations about things to compare homosexuals to thieves and murderers, something like “well, some people don’t want to associate with thieves and murderers”—I commented to the person sitting to my right, “I sure would hate to be a newbie walking in on this conversation.” Then, something in me said, “now’s the time, Harold, speak up”. Fearful, yet disgusted and offended by the ignorance I was hearing, I finally directed to the woman of the couple, “V., you do know that you’re talking about me, don’t you?!” “Well, I thought…”, she said—frankly, I don’t remember what else she said, but it somehow suggested that in her compartmentalized heart and mind she had set me apart, to some degree, because she knew me. I had led Morning Prayer many times, but I don’t know how she and her husband felt about that.
I don’t remember what else I said to her as we disbanded for worship. I do know that I felt incredibly strong that day, and to be honest, proud of myself. What did I really do, except pull back the curtain on myself, revealing something that everyone already knew? Don’t ask, don’t tell? Not good enough. Later that afternoon, I received at least one phone call from a fellow worshiper, a heterosexual, reaching out to me, and in the mail later in the week, a note of affirmation from someone who had been absent for this defining moment in my life and surely in the life of that little gathering of pilgrims. A few weeks later, J. & V. left that little church for their home church in a larger nearby town, an old parish that has spent years earning the sadly well-known moniker applied to many Episcopalians, “the frozen chosen”.
I am reminded that when asked about the ugliest word in the English language, Carl Sandburg, American poet, historian, novelist and folklorist, and Poet Laureate during the defining days of civil rights, replied, “exclusive”. There are many things exclusive—churches, organizations, neighborhoods, stores, schools, families, indeed, entire cities. Today, while searching the internet for Mr. Sandburg’s exact statement about exclusivity, I discovered a sermon from the pastor of Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Rather than give my own spin on Rev. Booker-Hirsch’s miraculous words, I’d rather that you read his sermon.
http://www.northsidepres.org/worship/sermons/sermon/104
My goal this morning was to explain to myself what I understand about the story in John’s gospel, John 4: 27-42, about the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s well. In part, it is a story about reaching out to strangers, especially those who are somehow different than we are, and in the case of historical Jews and Samaritans, a story of exclusion that has deep roots. This is a lesson about deep-seated fear and distrust, choosing to hide in what we perceive is our safe zone, a characterizing of people based on time-honored codes of rejection. If we are blessed enough to be able to arm ourselves with the trappings of experience and learning, if we are blessed to have learned what all world religions teach about compassion and love, we have a choice—to engage or not to engage.
27 Just then his disciples came. They were astonished that he was speaking with a woman, but no one said, ‘What do you want?’ or, ‘Why are you speaking with her?’ 28Then the woman left her water-jar and went back to the city. She said to the people, 29‘Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done! He cannot be the Messiah,* can he?’ 30They left the city and were on their way to him.
From the meditation for today found on the website Forward Movement (http://www.forwardmovement.org/), the writer comments—“I know a bishop who says that every congregation in his diocese claims to be "friendly." His honest and humorous retort is, "Yes, because everyone who finds you unfriendly has gone elsewhere!" The writer continues that “…the ministry of hospitality is important in the life of the church. Welcoming and conversing with guests, following up with newcomers, and embracing a process of community integration are part of sharing the gospel.” This is a simple, straight-forward statement. But it is bereft of the real challenge of the church, and that is welcoming everyone, regardless of gender identity, sexual orientation, race, ethnicity, socio-economic status, or other worldly condition. Here’s where the rubber hits the road. Here’s where reaching out to strangers feels unnatural, fear-evoking.
I have a tough enough time myself walking up to a stranger at church. I suffer some insecurity that sometimes causes me to wait for someone else to extend a hand—in church! At a gathering of homosexuals where shopping for mates can be part of the agenda, I can understand, even though reticence in such circumstances is still about fear of rejection. But in church? Why should anyone be afraid of rejection in church, regardless of where you live, with whom you choose to be most intimate, or how much extra change you have?
We are all fairly comfortable at nodding and smiling, exchanging an innocent greeting, “good morning,” or in the case of those churches where “the Peace” is exchanged, greeting one another at the appropriate point during worship with “God’s peace” or “the peace of the Lord”. Sometimes people stick close to their comfort zone by greeting in the name of the Lord only those people they know. Some people cast their eyes toward the floor when they shake hands, or they offer a limp, lifeless paw. In the church where I currently worship in Santa Fe, newcomers are encouraged to identify themselves during the announcements and at coffee after church. How long are we newcomers? During my novitiate no one came up to invite me to coffee. And over the past few months, I have failed to behave any differently, nodding and smiling surely, but not taking that important step—“Do you have time for coffee?” What’s that all about? Maybe I’m hung up on my own sexuality, or worse, my worthiness—this worshiping in a church where the Rainbow Flag flies proudly, along with the flag of the Episcopal Church, from the pole in the center of the grounds.
So we can set aside the Samaritan woman or man, or not. I remember a time probably 20 years ago when the Dean of the Episcopal Cathedral in Houston laid low the pretense that causes anyone to shun those who are different. The Cathedral then and now was the home to lots of well-heeled Houstonians, some who traveled many miles to the heart of downtown for Sunday worship, and it was a beacon for the homeless of downtown Houston. I certainly didn’t know much about the seeming outcasts who gathered outside the iron fence of this historic church, or were brave enough to come inside the fence, or scarier yet, the front door of this impressive, Victorian masterpiece of architecture, Tiffany window, regal trappings, antiphons and all. For a very short time in the mid 80s, after I had been laid off from my oil company job, I volunteered in a church program that served the people of the streets. Today, I am remembering a middle-aged woman, probably schizophrenic, who often wandered up the aisle after worship had begun. That day 20 years ago, she had walked to the front pew on the right and almost immediately became restless while the Dean held forth on the Gospel. I don’t remember all that she did, but I know people were aware, and many, including me, were uncomfortable. The Dean stopped his sermon and said, “Annie, you’re safe here.” And miraculously, she sensed the truth of his words.
In the story of the Samaritan woman at the well, Jesus offered her water that quenches eternally and finally, and the peace that passes all human understanding. That I should know this peace and be so quenched is my prayer, and knowing this, that I should extend my own hand in peace, unafraid and confident that we are gathering at the same well day in and day out, even when we don’t see or smell the water. Thanks be to God.
Don’t Leave Me Out—Normangee, Texas (January 26, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis
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