My Scarlet Letters

Read as part of a storytelling evening at the William Way Center, Philadelphia, PA on March 20, 2014. This is a simplified version of events as I was telling it to a largely un-churched audience.

Hester Prynne and I have something in common. Hester, the main character of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s classic novel, The Scarlet Letter, was forced to wear a scarlet A on her chest, a sign of her sins and of her tarnished reputation. I wear a scarlet GMC, a sign of my association with Germantown Mennonite church, the congregation I began attending in 1996, and have been pastoring since 2010.

When I started attending GMC, the congregation was in the process of being removed from the denomination, because they welcomed queer folks into membership. The end of that relationship was imminent, but people were still pretty hopeful that allies in the denomination would stand up against the conservative wing of the church. I didn’t know much about the struggle when I started attending the church—and if I’m really honest with myself—I didn’t care. What I cared about was that I was finally in a safe space to be angry, to ask questions, and to cry. I didn’t have to worry about judgment from the congregation when I said that God was really pissing me off–because God was pissing them off too.

A year after I arrived, the congregation was indeed removed from the denomination. Denominational leaders came to the meetinghouse to share the official news with us. And because after a year with them, I was so connected to the folks to the congregation, I could not stay away from this meeting. My friends—gay and straight—were hurting, and would be devastated by this news. I had to be there with them.

I went to this meeting, and cried tears of anger with the congregation as we heard the news. I watched with disbelief as Ken, a gay man in the congregation, insisted that these church leaders finish what they started, and walk him out of the church. If the denomination was removing this congregation from fellowship, they would have to show us what it meant. They would need to understand for themselves what they were doing to the body of Christ.

After we heard the news, and the conference ministers left, we sat together, then did what Mennonites do—we sang.

No storm can shake my inmost calm
While to that rock I’m clinging
If love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

I never would have imagined that night as a 23 year old woman, sitting in that room, singing and crying with this congregation, that I would end up in seminary, called to pastoral ministry.

But it was the folks, and especially the gay men, from the congregation that said to me, many times, “Why aren’t you in seminary?” and “You know you are called, right?” They recognized in me the call to the ministry that I couldn’t—or rather didn’t want to—see. It was the people of GMC that gave me my scarlet letters, sent me off to seminary, and told me to wear them with pride.

When I entered seminary, it didn’t occur to me that it would be that difficult to find a job in the denomination. Even though Germantown was no longer a member of the Mennonite Church, we still considered ourselves Mennonite–being the oldest Mennonite church in the western hemisphere, we are the Mother Church after all. But others within the denomination began to name for me the difficulty I would experience. One pastor I met said to me blatantly, “How in the hell do you ever expect to get a job in the Mennonite church with GMC on your resume?”

I could feel the scarlet GMC burning on my chest for the first time. I knew there was truth in what he said. My spirit was crushed. Could I get a job?

It was tempting for me to try to cover up the scarlet GMC, to hide where I came from, to downplay the people that nurtured me to new faith. But I just couldn’t do that. I couldn’t hide where I’d come from, even though I was advised by folks in the denomination to do so. This congregation was my community, my family, and because of the bonds we had and the gift they were to me, I couldn’t hide my letters.

Wearing my letters comes at a cost. Before interviewing at Germantown, I interviewed for a job at a little Mennonite church just outside of Philadelphia. And the main reason I didn’t get it is because they were worried I’d bring the queers with me. If they couldn’t handle the scarlet GMC, they were not ready for me to be their pastor.

By God’s grace I was called to be the pastor at Germantown Mennonite. I pastor at one of the few Mennonite congregations that can, at this point, handle my scarlet letters and the congregation that gave me the scarlet letters.

There is a cost to being an ally. There is a cost to associating with a congregation that had the audacity to baptize and welcome queer folks into membership. It has limited my opportunities. It has been the source of some awkward conversations with search committees.

But, when I look at what my friends, Randy and John, have dealt with in their lives—coming out while they were pastors, losing their credentials, being publicly shamed and condemned; when I look at my two gay interns, Patrick and Doran, who are clearly called to work in the church but who have so few opportunities; or Russ and Charlie and Brittany who have prayed for a safe place to be out and Christian– I think a few awkward conversations, and some limited opportunities are well worth it. It is the least I can do, to say thank you.

This scarlet GMC, the label I’ve been given as an ally, comes at a cost. But, my friends, the benefit far outweighs the cost. The gift I’ve been given at Germantown Mennonite has saved me, given me hope, and has shown me the way of Jesus, a way I couldn’t see anywhere else.

Like Hester Prynne, I lovingly embroider my scarlet letters, embellish them with the beauty that has been shared with me in my congregation. I could choose, like the minister in the Scarlet Letter—Arthur Dimmsdale—to be silent about my associations. But, we know what happened to Dimmsdale. That kind of denial and silence will only result in death.