Reflections on Stonewall from a Retired Gay Episcopal Priest

Last week marked the 50th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots.  On June 28, 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn, a Greenwich Village gay bar.  Such raids were fairly common. Folks would run or get arrested (or both), and life would go on.  But on that memorable night, Stonewall patrons — led by a group of transgender women of color — didn’t run, and instead, they resisted arrest, sparking two days of violent protests. After the Stonewall Uprising, protestors were motivated to organize against the unjust treatment of the LGBTQ community by police and society at large, leading to New York’s first gay rights march a year later.

Over the last half-century, the LGBTQ community has come out, stood up, held hands, and followed the way of freedom. Like Jesus and the first disciples, many of us bid farewell to our homes, families, jobs, churches, and reputations. 

Jesus teaches us about a way of life that is all-too-familiar to the LGBTQ community.   When refused hospitality by a Samaritan village, two of his disciples asked: “Lord, do you want us to call a bolt of lightning down out of the sky and incinerate them?” Jesus responded:  “Of course not. Let’s just move on.” The gay community knows all-too-well what it means to kick off the dust of rejection and keep walking. 

On the road to Jerusalem, Jesus encountered three types of people.  And to each, he explained a different cost of freedom in Christ. 

To the one who said “I will follow you wherever you go,” Jesus offered a reminder that he would face a life of insecurity.  The LGBTQ community knows what it’s like to lose jobs, homes, families, friends, and even their lives because of their sexuality and gender identity. 

To the one who said “Let me first bury my father,” Jesus’ response, “let the dead bury the dead,” seems curt and insensitive. Yet, the gay community knows what it’s like to not be welcome at family funerals.  And not only that, but we know what it’s like to bury each other when our families have rejected us.  

To the one who said “I will follow you, but first excuse me while I get things straightened out at home,” Jesus said, “Don’t look back. Carpe Diem. ”  As most LGBTQ folks know, once you’ve opened the closet door, it’s really hard to close it again.  

I vividly recall, coming out 45 years ago, the first time I told someone I was gay, the first time I walked into a gay bar, marched in a Pride Parade, and visited Provincetown, MA. Contemplating the recent election of two openly gay bishops, I recognize how much has changed since I came out in the ordination process, made public witness during the 1995 Episcopal Church heresy trial, was installed as the first lesbian cathedral dean, and stood for Episcopal election. When I read wedding announcements in the Sunday Times, I remember lobbying for marriage equality and weeping when the Supreme Court rendered its decision on same-sex marriage. And watching the Democratic debates this past week, I marveled at the sight of a young, married, gay Episcopalian from Indiana running for President of the United States.  

As I reflect on the fiftieth anniversary of Stonewall, I am reminded of John Fortunato’s Embracing the Journey. An intimate, courageous and hopeful book — written in 1982 by a gay, Episcopal, psychotherapist — it was an early treatise on holding sexual identity and Christian faith together.

Recalling one night during a particularly challenging time, Fortunato described a conversation with God.  Imagining that God was sitting on the couch right in front of him, Fortunato spoke:

“You know, sometimes I think they’re right, that being gay and loving a man is wrong.”   

God smiled and said quietly, “How can love be wrong?  It all comes from me.”  

[But Fortunato needed more.] “Sometimes, I just want to bury that part of me.” [he] said, “just pretend that it isn’t real.”  

“But I made you whole,” God replied.  “You are one as I am one. I made you in my image...You’re my son...Nothing can separate you from my love…”

“What do I do with all this?”  [Fortunato] asked..“What do I do with them?”  

And in the same calm voice, God said, “I’ve given you gifts.  Share them. I’ve given you light. Brighten the world. I empower you with my love.  Love them.”

“Love them anyway?” [he] moaned.  “But how?”  

“You begin by just being who you are.”  

“Is that all?” [he] asked fearfully.  

“No, you must also speak your pain and affirm the wholeness I’ve made you to be when they assail it.  You must protest when you are treated as less than a child of mine.”

“Is there more?” [he] asked.  

“Yes,” God said gently, “And this is the hardest part of all.  You must go out and teach them. Help them to know of their dependence on me for all that they really are, and of their helplessness without.  Teach them that their ways are not my ways, and that the world of their imagining is not the world I have made. Help them to see that all creation is one as I am one, and that all I create I redeem.  And assure them by word and work and example that my love is boundless, and that I am with them always.”

“You know they won’t listen to me,” [Fortunato] said with resignation.  “They’ll despise me, They’ll call me a heretic and laugh me to scorn. They’ll persecute and torment me.  They’ll try to destroy me. You know they will, don’t you?”  

And God said softly, “O, yes, I know.  How well I know.”

If that’s not the way of Jesus, I don’t know what is.  

When I was younger, I had a vision that everybody who was lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered would turn purple at the same time.  Then my vision grew. I envisioned that everybody who had a lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered spouse, parent, or child would turn purple.  I envisioned that everybody who had a lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered doctor, dentist, pharmacist, lawyer, accountant, realtor, insurance agent, teacher, hairdresser, legislator, rabbi, or minister would turn purple.  And I envisioned that everybody who had a lesbian, gay, bisexual, or transgendered relative, friend, neighbor, student, employee, or employer would turn purple. By the time I was finished, the world was a beautiful tapestry of richly woven purple: the conversation had changed, the hearts of the people had changed, and the policies of our governments had changed.

As I matured, I came to understand that it wasn’t going to happen that way.  God doesn’t do our liberation work for us. We had to turn ourselves purple. We had to change the conversation, win the hearts of the people, and secure our rightful place in family, church, and society one-step-at-a-time by being open and true to who we are.  And God would be with us in the trenches. That is the promise of salvation.  

Yes, the LGBTQ community has come a long way over the past fifty years.  Some would say that we’ve become too established, comfortable, and even hetero-normative.  Personally, I don’t agree with this perspective. However, as tempting as it may be, we cannot enjoy our victories and ignore the pain and injustice still faced by others.  

I am grateful for those who, in every generation, stand up and walk together in the face of oppression and in the name of love with their faces toward Jerusalem. Let us also pledge to continue the work of proclaiming God’s justice, love, and mercy for all God’s people.

Honoring the Life of Marge Christie: A pioneer and a 'laughing prophet'

Excerpts from a June 8 sermon at Christ Episcopal Church, Ridgewood

What can I say about Marge Christie that hasn’t already been said in newspaper articles, speeches, commendations and facebook posts? Marge was admired, respected, liked and loved by so many.

Not surprising.

She was a capable leader, advocate, organizer, board member, fundraiser, and politician (with a small “p”). She was a trustworthy friend, a considerate neighbor and a faithful parishioner. She was an attentive aunt, cousin and sister, and a devoted wife, mother, grandmother, mother-in-law, daughter and daughter-in-law. And in all of these roles, Marge generously gave and received love.

Marge knew herself to be a beloved child of God, and no matter how frustrated, irritated or angry she got with someone, she believed that everyone — no exceptions — is loved by God. Marge understood what it means to love God and neighbor; and through love, this remarkable woman changed the world. She moved the arc of justice and the way of kindness a little further on the path to God’s shalom.

Marge also loved stories. She loved to hear them, and she loved to tell them (in great detail). I still treasure the many hours spent with Marge listening to her stories, sometimes over and over again. She would often say, “Did I tell you about the time….” and then before I could say anything, Marge would be off and running with some story about her childhood, her children, her marriage, or her favorite non-familial topic, the church. Listening to Marge’s stories was better than taking a class in Episcopal Church history; and in her file cabinet, she had an archive of the justice movement.

So today, I want to tell you a few stories that describe the Marge Christie I knew and loved.

Marge was a respected and accomplished leader in our church before women were permitted to serve in many leadership roles. Her service began in 1970 when women first were seated as general convention deputies. She would often talk about watching with pride those first women take their place on the convention floor. Soon thereafter, Marge was elected to serve as a deputy from the Diocese of Newark and served for 13 consecutive terms, until her last convention, when as first alternate, she sat beside her granddaughter, Caroline, who was elected deputy at age 17.

From her deputy position, Marge worked tirelessly for social and economic justice, including the ordination of women and LGBT folks, reproductive choice, and marriage equality. In an interview for the Episcopal News Service, Marge recalled in July 1974 being on vacation at the Jersey shore, she read a front-page article in The New York Times saying some women were going to be ordained as priests in Philadelphia. She assumed that her bishop George Rath would be among the consecrators and wrote him a congratulatory letter. Bishop Rath wrote back explaining that he would not participate because he was waiting for the church to make a legislative decision permitting women’s ordination to the priesthood. In response, Marge said “That was a disappointment. You do have to be a pioneer sometimes and take some risks.” And so, she went to the ordination of the “Philadelphia eleven,” and returned home to move the church’s legislative process forward.

When women’s ordination was finally authorized by the General Convention in 1976, an angry male priest gave Marge a clergy collar saying, “Now you can get ordained and wear this collar.” Marge graciously accepted the collar but declined to wear it, except once for an after-hours hospital visit. You see, Marge never wanted to be ordained. Rather, she understood herself to be ordained through baptism to the first order of ministry — the priesthood of all believers.

For over forty years, that clergy collar hung proudly in her study alongside her deputy badges, yellow ribbons signifying senior status, and name tags from just about every meeting she ever attended. Her clergy collar was often the occasion for Marge’s telling of the story of women’s ordination in the Episcopal Church. And that clergy collar became a symbol for Marge as she continued to work for the full inclusion and just treatment of all God’s children in both church and society.

Marge loved to travel. For a woman who lived her entire life in Northern NJ, she traveled to almost every continent on earth, often in the name of the Episcopal Church, and frequently in search of sunshine. I still can see Marge sitting on the beach, sailing a boat, driving in her convertible, or lounging on her back deck in early spring as she “worked” on her tan. By the end of her life, I think Marge’s legs were permanently embedded with the tint of sunshine.

One winter, Linda and I convinced our two mothers to take us on vacation to Jamaica. Our week was filled with eating food foreign to our mothers’ taste buds; driving all over the island on the left side of narrow, winding roads with our mothers laughing and screaming in the back seat. We read on the beach during the day; played card games at night; and yes, “worked” on our tans. Marge simply couldn’t get enough sun. My mother (five years Marge’s senior) would quietly whisper to me: “She’s going pay for all that sun exposure someday.” I don’t think she ever did.

Born in the 1920s and living till almost 2020, Marge was a woman both of her time and ahead of her time. As much of a feminist as she was, Marge was also a traditional homemaker who valued family more than anything else. While she had a short career as a secretary, she had a long vocation as wife, mother, and community volunteer.

It was always important to Marge that she be home in the evening and on weekends. I can recall more than one occasion when Marge complained about evening church meetings. She said it wasn’t good for family life, and it interfered with Jeopardy.

When George got sick, I had the privilege of seeing yet another side of Marge. She sat day and night by George’s bedside at Valley Hospital. And when he died, she said goodbye and shed her tears; and then, meticulously planned his funeral, supported her children in their grief, established a scholarship fund in his memory, and began a new chapter in her own life.

So how do I remember Marge? She was one of the most compassionate, faithful, practical, creative, playful, optimistic, and loving individuals I’ve ever met.

I will remember her lying on a beach, walking through a convention hall, standing at a podium, and sitting at a card table. I will remember her beaming over George and bragging about her children - Linda, Stewart, Dave, and Ross; her daughters-in-law - Cathie and Rosemary; and her precious grandchildren - Vanessa, Kyle. Emma, Graham, Caroline and Lauren.

I will remember Marge marching for women’s choice, LGBT rights, healthcare for all, world peace, and urban justice. I will recall her speaking at the United Nations, the New Jersey statehouse, and our nation’s capital.

I will remember Marge presenting dozens of women and men for ordination to all orders in the Episcopal Church, always reminding each of us of our first ordination through baptism.

I will remember Marge carrying her General Convention blue book around for weeks as she read every word of it. I will remember her crafting a resolution, working a room, chairing a committee and moderating a debate.

I will remember Marge giggling during silent breakfast on a women’s retreat, wearing silly t-shirts, riding a camel in the desert, speeding down highways in her convertible, sailing in brisk winds, decorating her house for the holidays, jumping in ocean waves, and dancing at weddings and Diocesan Conventions.

I will remember Marge chatting with friends over breakfast at the Daily Treat or while packing up boxes for Northporch. I will recall her playing “Jeopardy” or “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me” as if she were a contestant. I will remember her recounting the details of Long Beach Island family vacations, complete with card games, ice cream, sunfish regattas, and croquet opens. I will remember her driving cross-country with me when I moved to Ohio.

I will remember Marge accompanying Linda and Rosemary to their wedding in Canada and looking at her own wedding picture as she sat by George’s hospital bed.

I will remember her praying with the 8 o’clock congregation on Sunday mornings followed by brunch with Bloody Mary’s and reading of the New York Times from cover to cover till she fell asleep in her chair.

In all these ways and so many more, I will remember Marge Christie as fully present to life.

In the Gospel of John (John 14:2) we are all assured of a place in God’s eternal realm. I like to imagine what each of our “rooms” in God’s mansion might look like.

Here’s how I see Marge’s room. It’s spacious and sun-filled, with an unobstructed view of the ocean. There’s a little convertible parked outside with Marge’s beaded baseball cap hanging on the rear view mirror. There are lots of books on the shelves, and photos of family and friends on the walls. There’s the sound of classical music on the radio and jeopardy on the television. There’s a card table readied for the next game of bridge, argentine rummy, or oh shit. There’s a bottle of Carlos Rossi wine chilling in fridge with a plate of Cheese Whiz and Ritz crackers. On the desk, there are carefully organized stacks of heavenly reports to be read, marked and inwardly digested; and sitting by the front door, are bags of canned food ready to go to heaven’s nearest food pantry. There’s the smell of Marge’s open-faced, buttered, steak sandwiches simmering on the stove. And there’s the sound of laughter has Marge catches up with all those who have gone before her.

Louie Crew once called Marge, “The Laughing Prophet.” In a birthday message, he penned: “Prophets tell us what we’re doing wrong and warn us, “Rethink! Rethink! But laugh?! Marge, clearly you do both. You even hinted how. In reflecting on General Convention 2006, [Marge] wrote: ‘I picked up a thought somewhere which helps me to keep the actions in balance: ‘Searching for God is the first thing and the last, but in between such trouble and such pain.’ [Louie responded]: Your rich laughter models how to survive any trouble and pain as we search for God.”

It’s so true. Marge’s rich laughter, combined with her passion for justice and her love for us all has helped many of us survive trouble and pain as we live our lives in search of God. As one who has been deeply touched by Marge’s laughter, passion, and love, I am profoundly grateful.

So to the woman who loved beach time and sunshine, loved her church and her home, loved her friends and neighbors (nearby and far away), loved her children and grandchildren, loved her George, loved her life, and loved her God, I say thank you and bless you. Servant well done!

Dearest Tracey: A letter from Mom

Many of you know that my mother lived and died with dementia.  I learned a lot from being her daughter. She was a tough, determined, brilliant, beautiful, self-made woman who lived and died with grace and grit. In April 2017, nearly two and one-half years after her death, Mom wrote me a letter that I want to share with you today.

But first, let me explain.

Shortly after I was diagnosed with FTD, I attended my beloved colleague group for the last time.  At our annual gathering, we always studied with a scholar. That year, gathering in Santa Fe, the scholar was Kayleen Asbo, a renowned storyteller, mythologist and depth psychologist.  The topic was Dante’s Divine Comedy.  In an interactive presentation that included art, music, psychology, mythology, religion, literature and history, we walked (actually galloped) through this epic poem.  It was amazing and exhausting.

According to Dr. Asbo, Dante’s masterpiece is a story of revelation, remembrance, and reconciliation and exploration of love, loss and longing.  This 14th-century poet provides us with a model of what to do with personal and collective grief.

During the first session, we were introduced to Dante’s spirit guides to help navigate and interpret his journey through the inferno, purgatory and paradise: Virgil, Beatrice and Bernard of Clarivaux.  Dr. Asbo asked us to identify our guides. My list included a couple of mentors, a few friends, a therapist, a spiritual director, and my mother.

At the end of our time together, we were invited to take some quiet, reflective time and write a letter to ourselves from one of our guides, an ancestor, a person of wisdom.  We were to begin with the phrase, “What I want you to know is….”

By this point in the conference, I was a mess.  Exploring Dante’s story surfaced a lot of the love, loss and longing I was feeling as I began my journey with dementia.  I didn’t really want to write a letter to myself. I just wanted to feel sorry for myself. But I sat down with my computer and began to write.  Blinded by tears, I wrote a letter from my mother, which was odd, because my mother rarely wrote letters, at least not to me. At the end of our assigned time, I closed the document.  

Later that afternoon, on the high road to Taos, one of my dearest friends suggested that we share our letters. I agreed. He had written a letter from his father. After reading it, I asked: “Is this what your father would really say to you?”  He replied: “It’s what I wish he would say to me.” Aspiration and realty - two sides of the same coin.

He then read my letter, and with tears in his eyes, he said, “Wow.  This is amazing. She really spoke to you. Aren’t you lucky.”

I decided I should read the letter since I couldn’t recall what it said.  It was amazing. She really did speak to me. I am lucky. In fact, I am blessed by such a good guide.  

So, while it is a very intimate letter, in honor of Mother’s Day, I have decided to share it with you.

Dearest Tracey,

I haven't written you many letters over the years, but I'm writing to you now. I've heard the news of your diagnosis. I'm so very sorry that you've inherited the family illness. It's not much of a legacy to leave with you. I wish we had talked about it some before I died. I wish that I had gotten all the testing that you've had so that we both might have gotten a better understanding of this disease. Isn't it coincidental; I always wanted to be a brain surgeon, and we both ended up with brain disease.

It's a sad thing to lose your ability to think and speak. I know how frustrated I got at the beginning, but it does get easier as time passes and the disease progresses. And then there comes the time when you know it's over and you want to go home. I'm glad you were there for me then. I'm grateful that you honored my wishes as you did. I do wish that there was an easier way to die with dignity. May it be so for you.

I miss you. I miss not having spent enough time with you as an adult. I enjoyed your companionship, and I loved getting to know Emily. Please give her my affection. As you walk through this time, don't be afraid - no harm will come to you.

There will be good that comes out of it. May it be so. Know that I'll be watching over you, and when the time comes, I'll welcome you home with a big hug.

Love,

Mom

Those of you who are fortunate to have living mothers, make sure you ask them to share their wisdom with you.  And those of you whose mothers have died — what messages would they have for you from the realms of eternity? Maybe you should invite them to write you a letter and find out.

And to all the mothers reading this blog, Happy Mother’s Day! What story or message can you share that your loved ones might really need to hear someday?

60 Minutes | Tracey & Emily to be featured on May 5

The episode of 60 Minutes that Emily and I recorded earlier this year was just announced for Sunday, May 5 at 7:00 p.m. Click here to view the episode preview featuring another family affected by this disease.

Press Release from The Association for Frontotemporal Degeneration, May 3, 2019 — 60 Minutes will introduce millions of television viewers to frontotemporal degeneration (FTD), the most common dementia for people under 60, in a segment scheduled to air on Sunday, May 5.

Reporter Bill Whitaker spoke with persons living with FTD, their care partners, and FTD experts for his report, entitled "The Cruelest Disease You've Never Heard Of: Frontotemporal Dementia."

The Association for Frontotemporal Degeneration (AFTD), the country's leading organization focused exclusively on FTD, provided 60 Minutes producers with background information on the disease as they prepared their story.

FTD differs from more Alzheimer's in that it does not primarily affect memory. Rather, it causes irreversible progressive change to an individual's personality, behavior, movement or language.

FTD "robs us of the very essence of our humanity, of who we are," Dr. Bruce Miller of the University of California San Francisco tells Whitaker in the piece. Dr. Miller is a member of the AFTD Medical Advisory Council.

FTD tends to occur earlier in life, when people are typically more concerned with raising a family and advancing their careers than coping with dementia. To highlight this reality of FTD, the piece will profile Amy Johnson, a mother of four young children whose husband Mark was diagnosed with behavioral variant FTD in early 2018.

There are no approved treatments for FTD, nor is there a cure.

AFTD helped to connect 60 Minutes with Amy, Dr. Miller, and The Very Rev. Tracey Lind, who is living with the primary progressive aphasia form of FTD.

"We are grateful to all who shared their story with 60 Minutes, just as we are grateful for everyone in our community who share their stories every day to bring awareness of this disease," said AFTD CEO Susan L-J Dickinson. "The more widely known FTD becomes, the sooner we can realize a world with compassionate care, effective support, and a future free of FTD."

AFTD works to raise awareness of FTD, provides help for families affected, and promotes research targeting viable treatments and a cure.

60 Minutes airs on CBS.

SOURCE The Association for Frontotemporal Degeneration

THE UNEXPECTED GIFT OF HUMBLE SERVICE

Thus says the Lord:

Do not remember the former things,
or consider the things of old

I am about to do a new thing;
now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

Isaiah 43.19

Isaiah’s words are true, so true.  God is always doing a new thing in our lives, even when we don’t perceive it. I’m living proof, and I’m grateful to all of the caring friends and generous strangers that have helped Emily and me make sense of our new reality — a life complicated by dementia.

I’m discovering that since I can’t return to the past, and since I can’t predict or control the future, I have to live in the here-and-now.   And when I live in the moment, I’m fairly content and calm. Thus, I’m finally coming to understand why Jesus said, “Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own.”   

I also think that’s why, in the Gospel readings leading up to Holy Week and Easter, Jesus affirmed Mary’s decision to wipe his feet with an extremely valuable ointment. She seemed to understand the virtue and value of being present to the moment. This act was particularly notable when we consider how dusty and dirty Jesus’ sandal-clad feet must have been. He then went on to wash the feet of his disciples, an extraordinary act of servanthood and hospitality. It’s possible, even, that Jesus washed Mary’s feet in return, based on what we know about Jesus’ equal treatment of men and women.

During Holy Week, Christians everywhere participate in ritual foot washing as part of their Maundy Thursday celebrations, commemorating the last supper and following Jesus’ example of generous and humble service.

In 2009, Emily and I walked the Camino de Santiago together.  I’ll never forget the woman we met along the road, who was walking at a very fast pace (as she had a limited amount of time to finish her journey) but stopped and tended to my blistered and bruised feet, massaging them with a rich, healing balm, caring for me just as Mary did for Jesus.

Over the past two years, such acts of humble service and kindness have become an unexpected gift of living and traveling with dementia. The physical therapist in L.A. who voluntarily spent two and a half hours teaching me how to safely navigate stairs and maintain my strength as the disease progresses. The person who made special arrangements so I will always have a place to swim laps. Friends and strangers who send books, share articles and include us on their prayer lists. Even the airline staff who respond with patience and compassion when I become anxious and overwhelmed in busy airports.

What if each one of us decided to treat each other as precious gifts, seeking to serve one another humbly, recognizing that each of us is a manifestation of God’s Spirit and an integral part of Christ’s Body?

What a grand celebration life would be.