Are We There Now?
Rev. David Takahashi Morris
November 13, 2005
Our church has joined the many Unitarian Universalist churches who
“stand on the side of love,” as our Association President Bill Sinkford
says. Last year we put a banner outside
our church proclaiming that this church as an institution supports marriage
rights for all committed partners, regardless of sexual identity. It’s a public proclamation of who we see
ourselves as being.
Today we’re celebrating another proclamation of identity, the declaration that we see ourselves as a Welcoming Congregation, affirming the lives and loves of all people regardless of gender orientation.
It has been a long quest. This church first began the Welcoming Congregation process more than 10 years ago, when the Unitarian Universalist Association first introduced the program. Though we have come close to voting on it more than once, it was only last year that we were able to make the declaration official. It’s well worth celebrating. And people who’ve been engaged in the process the whole time would be justified in asking: Are we there now?
Unitarian Universalists are often accused of confusing talking about an issue with doing something about it, of equating proclaiming change with making change. Actually I don’t think of this as a malady confined to religious liberals; it seems common in other circles as well. But I can’t deny that we’re afflicted with it sometimes. We think it’s important to declare ourselves. And sometimes, we make the mistake of thinking that proclaiming something makes it so.
When I celebrate weddings—regardless
of the genders of the partners or whether their marriage will be recognized by
the state of
That takes a lifetime of devotion, a lifetime of commitment, a lifetime of the small daily choices and actions that turn “love” from an abstraction into a living reality.
Sometimes, proclamations are important to make. When people face a constant barrage of condemnation and disdain from both private and public voices, it is important for us to proclaim that we stand for a more inclusive vision. It is a form of “coming out,” having the courage to claim our true identity even though we know that identity will not be universally welcomed and affirmed. This church supports marriage rights. We are a Welcoming Congregation.
This summer the marriage rights banner was stolen, and our church leadership supported replacing it as quickly as possible. If you haven’t looked at the banner lately, you ought to today. It’s quite beautiful, really, similar in design to the lovely new altar cloth Lynn Heath made for this morning’s service. The sight of it alongside our Jeffersonian portico stirs my heart with pride and hope, and while I know we are not all equally comfortable with it, I also know it has been important in bringing some of you into our church community in the past year. I’m glad to have it back. I’m honored to stand beside those words.
Like the banner, our Welcoming Congregation declaration is a promise we dare to make in public, a promise that when you enter these doors you will find a certain kind of community.
Are we there now? Are we a Welcoming Congregation? Like the partners in a wedding ceremony, we need to be reminded that our promises are true as statements of our aspiration. The full truth of our celebratory words can only emerge gradually over time.
These signs bring people to our door, but the people who come in are looking for and needing something more than signs. People who live under oppression are suspicious of promises of support. Many gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people, both newcomers and those who have been part of liberal congregations for many years, have grown weary of a steady diet of the watery soup of “tolerance,” which acts like a smiling mask inviting people in but keeping them at arm’s length, hiding misgivings and reservations instead of naming them honestly.
They ask those of us who are heterosexual: Will you really stand with me? Will you risk the cold shoulder or condemnation of a neighbor, a colleague, a friend or family member with me? They ask their heterosexual fellow church members: How will you show—to the world, to the congregation, to your children—that my life, my love, my partnerships are genuine and sacred? To say we’re a Welcoming Congregation is to accept that we might not be trusted yet, and to commit as a church to being accountable for proving that we mean what we say.
We read Robert Weston’s praise of doubt together because doubt is a constant companion on the journey toward being a Welcoming Congregation. Doubting the cultural message of heterosexual supremacy put us on this road in the first place. GLBT people who have been hurt too many times may doubt the sincerity and depth of our commitment. Even the most committed supporters may find ourselves doubting the validity or value of some aspect of the work. And we will encounter the honest doubts of people who sincerely and thoughtfully disagree with the goals of the Welcoming Congregation program.
To be a Welcoming Congregation isn’t to make those doubts disappear; it is to commit to accepting their reality and engaging with them honestly and openly and with compassion.
One of the obstacles on our way to becoming a Welcoming Congregation has been the recognition that people still encounter vestiges of heterosexual privilege, blindness, and even homophobia here in our church. We have wondered whether it was right to make these declarations, knowing that we are not yet a completely safe place for those in sexual minorities.
The truth, I believe, is that no such completely safe place exists. Homophobia and heterosexual privilege are woven into the fabric of our culture, just as white privilege and class privilege are woven into it. Those messages are internalized at a very early age regardless of our gender orientation. As a Welcoming Congregation, we can’t realistically promise to make all of that disappear—but we can promise not to pretend it isn’t there; we can promise not to deny that we are affected by our culture’s norms, we can promise to accept responsibility for acknowledging and grappling with our internalized lessons and attitudes.
To be a Welcoming Congregation is to commit to a journey of discovery and transformation, and to accept honestly that we are embarked on that journey, not done with it. It is to commit to a continuing process of education, learning more about those who are different from us, learning more about ourselves. Along the way we will all stumble and make blunders. We will say things that are inadvertently hurtful. We will forget the impact our habitual forms of expression have. We’ll catch ourselves—or get caught—creating separations when we think we’re being inclusive.
One place I still consider myself a beginner is in my understanding of issues around transgender identity. I was reminded of this in contemplating our meditation hymn, “We Are Dancing Sarah’s Circle.” When we sing “brothers, sisters, all” at the end of each verse it’s meant to be inclusive: We are all brothers and sisters. But many transgender people identify themselves neither as one nor the other. For them, my reading of the line is exclusive, not inclusive. Instead, “all” becomes a third category, the one that actually includes them.
There is always something more to learn.
I’ve said that claiming the Welcoming Congregation designation is like coming out. When a person comes out about their sexual identity, they are not claiming to have resolved all their issues, their internalized oppressions, their fears about others’ responses to them. Coming out is a declaration of commitment to wholeness, not a claim that we’re already there.
That’s how I understand our decision to name ourselves a Welcoming Congregation. We are committed to wholeness, committed to welcoming, committed to the journey. It’s a commitment well worth making, a commitment with immense power to change our own lives and ultimately to contribute to transforming the world. To give you a sense of the power I mean, I want to close with these words by the Rev. Kendyll Gibbons, words she wrote for National Coming Out Day.
“There comes a time—to break the silence.
There comes a time—to move beyond the fear.
There comes a time—to speak one’s truth, even if it will not be welcome.
There comes a time—to call into question what has gone before;
To resist the weight of the past.
There comes a time—for the singing of a new song,
For a different way of being,
For the claiming of power.
There comes a time—when the truth shall at last make us free.
One day, blessedly, the practiced lie dies on our lips,
And the truth becomes more precious than the same, and the pretending ends.
There comes a time—when somehow courage finds us, or we find courage,
And we dare to know who we are, and what we love.
There comes a time—when friends are there,
Holding us so gently in their love
That all at once the impossible is possible,
And we cross over to the other side of whatever bondage held us.
There comes a time—when the truth at last makes us free,
And in that moment is the salvation of the world.”
May love be the truth that makes us free. May this be our time. Amen.
Benediction
Adapted from a prayer at the close of a peace rally, by Max Coots.
After the words, a quiet.
After the songs, the silence.
After the crowd has scattered, only the trampled grass recalls the gathering.
Peace and justice have need of you after the words and the music and the gathering.
May we find the depth for dedication to justice.
May we have the will to be solitary apostles for love and for wholeness.