Growing up in a Catholic church in Utah in the late 60s, that wasn’t going to happen. That’s not to say I didn’t grow up in a spiritual and involved household—I mean, I thought everyone had priests to dinner regularly. My mother was heavily involved in the parish and we went to church every Sunday and more. She instilled in me a real love of the Sacred, and I wanted to be up on the altar, doing stuff the boys got to do! But in retrospect, even as a kid, I don’t think I was so much standing up FOR something, as defining myself as something DIFFERENT from everyone else. Maybe because of that, it created in me a real cultural identity as A Catholic. When I hit High School, we moved back to Texas and I became quite active in the church youth group, as had my brother before me, guitar in hand.
I did the usual growing-up stuff. I went away to college, and faith (or faithful practice) became something wrapped in lavender to take out later—when I might need it. I checked off the expected milestones: college degree, job, marriage, kids... Time to go to church, again. As ever, the easiest way to get involved was with my guitar. Folk choir was both a means for worship and an excuse to get tied up in “backstage” processes so that I didn’t have to examine my faith or think too hard about things spiritual. By singing, I was “praying twice,” as the saying goes, so I was set.
Or was I? I actively felt something was missing, something didn’t quite fit, I just didn’t know what. Then I fell in love with my best friend. Considering that her name was Susan, life got really complicated. At a time when I needed spiritual guidance the most, I couldn’t talk to ANYone. “How could this happen??? This is not in THE PLAN!” Amidst a tumult of shame, denial, guilt, and fear, I prayed. Alone. And I thought I would be torn in two.
Eventually, with counseling and love, we made it through the divorce, as a family; and thankfully, we remain close.
But this is not a coming-out story. It is a coming home story.
Faith-wise, I remained in an uneasy closet: you could say, “The Church of Don’t-Ask-Don’t-Tell.” While my liberal friends in choir knew about Susan, clergy didn’t. This situation became increasingly difficult as we planned our wedding in that brief window of time, the summer of 2008, in the shadow of Proposition 8.
Our wedding was scheduled on Sunday afternoon, so I figured I could attend an early service close to our hotel. Familiar rhythms of the Liturgy calmed my pre-wedding-jitters. Until the Homily. Three weeks before the election, and that church, like many, was in full swing, preaching for passage of Prop 8. I had been mostly shielded from this in my somewhat liberal-leaning home parish. Suddenly, on what was supposed to be one of the happiest days of my life, I was listening to a sermon that left me thunderstruck. The pastor spelled out the intrinsic evils of homosexuality, gay marriage, and the damage both would do to the community. The church was standing-room-only, and when the sermon was over, to my pain, many cheered. I was crushed. I stayed for the Eucharist—that’s what I came for—and then I left, in tears.
But God is good. That afternoon, my children walked me down the aisle, where their father waited as my best man, and I was joined by Susan, my radiant bride. My friends from the choir were there, joining other friends and family to celebrate our most joyful union.
Three weeks later, we were devastated by the passage of Prop 8, and we were fearful that our marriage would be annulled.
Susan learned from the Episcopal Blogosphere that St Paul’s was hosting a post-Prop-8 healing service, and she encouraged me to attend, even though she would be out of town. So, somewhat apprehensively, I went. Little did I know that during the service I’d be asked to stand up with all the other married same-sex couples, be formally recognized and… openly CELEBRATED, in the middle of church! It was enormous.
The following weekend, Susan and I attended our first Mass at St Paul’s together—almost defiantly holding hands as we walked in. Would you believe, no one batted an eye? When Dean Richardson began his sermon, he was looking right at me, intimately, saying, “God loves YOU, just the way you are, and wants YOU to be happy.” Tears of amazed joy filled our eyes. After mass, we were recognized as newbies and enthusiastically welcomed by several people at coffee hour. As we were headed to our car, I remember seeing two older gentlemen we’d met, walking away from the Cathedral, sweetly holding hands. I grabbed Susan and said, “I want to be like them, later. Here.”
I’d like to say I never looked back, but in reality it took 18 months of soul searching, guilt, doubt, encouragement, and What-is-an-Episcopalian classes for me to fully immerse in my new home. I discovered that this was a community where I didn’t have to check my brain—or anything else—at the door (well… maybe my guitar). I’ve come to embrace the words of the late John Cogley: “I do not look upon this move as a ‘conversion’ since I have not changed any of the beliefs I formerly held. Rather, it is a matter of finding my proper spiritual home.” I was received at Easter 2010 and soon began training as an acolyte. Now, I think I can say I’m a full-fledged Altar Boy!
I love St. Paul’s for the inclusive love you’ve shown us and the home you’ve given us. Earlier this year, our marriage was blessed, right up at that altar. It’s hard to articulate how meaningful that was, to be welcomed as we are—full members of this family. Because you let me be entirely myself for the first time, and I don’t have to keep anyone or anything at arm’s length, I can engage my FAITH more completely… and more critically, thanks to all the program offerings.
Why do we choose to be generous? Because we want everyone who’s ever felt apart, who’s ever felt left out, or felt excluded for whatever reason, to experience this community and the opportunities YOU provide for a deeper relationship with God. I believe when you’ve been given such a wonderful gift (and THAT relationship is the best gift of all), you pay it forward: In kind, in service, in money, in whatever way you can.
So, we give in thanksgiving for all we’ve been given. For the promise that this Cathedral will always be there for the next member of the family who will come through those doors, coming home for the first time.
Thank you.
Lisa Churchill
EDITOR’S NOTE - In order to keep the witnesses as short as possible without loosing their power, these texts are heavily edited by the time they make it to the pulpit (not to mention to keep them under 10 minutes!). But you can imagine how hard it is to see important parts of your life fall to the cutting room floor so to speak. So this year we thought it would be fun to post the original, longer versions of each witness on the blog. The “extended cut” if you will. They tell a more complete story with more personal details. Thank you to all of our witnesses who so courageously share a part of their lives with us so that we might be opened up just a little more to how God is working in our lives and in the life of St. Paul’s.
Do you have a story to tell about why you are thankful to St. Paul’s? Email Chris Harris at harrisc@stpaulcathedral.org – we’d love to share them here!
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