My finger hovered over the “post” button on Facebook, knowing that once I clicked it, the majority of my 302 “friends” would know something they hadn’t known about me for all of my 49 years. I re-read the words. I called a friend and read her the words. And then I pushed the button.
“I haven’t said much about this—well, nothing about this—on Facebook that is,” my post began. “But those whom I am closest to know it—and in light of what happened in North Carolina today, I’ve gotta say it: I’m in love with a woman. A beautiful woman. I want to understand—I truly do—how our relationship threatens anyone. I’m still the same Annie who was twice married to men. And now, at least in places like NC, I no longer deserve those same rights and privileges if I decide to marry a woman. What’s happened there makes me sad and angry and a whole lot of other emotions. It doesn’t feel right to be silent. This isn’t just an issue for some ‘unknown’ gay person in NC or anywhere else. It’s likely an issue for someone you love… someone like me.”
Within seconds, someone posted “amen.” The rest of the day, the “likes” rolled in along with dozens of comments. All of them were positive. I heard from two high school friends who are devout Christians, one of whom was angry that many supporters of North Carolina’s decision to ban gay marriage and civil unions hold up the Bible as proof that they are right in their beliefs. “We have never served a God who hates. Be happy, my friend,” she wrote.
By the next morning, nearly 90 people had offered virtual hugs, pats on the back, and profound messages of support. I wasn’t shocked or surprised, knowing the people in my life, and that many of them are based in Iowa, one of six states that grants marriage licenses to same-sex couples. Of course, I’m also under no illusion that everyone I’m connected to is celebrating. The silence from the other 200 or so might actually mean they are biting their tongues, or that they have better things to do than weigh in on my sex life.
Like my high school friend, I believe in a God of love. I could even make the argument that I’m a Christian, though many likely wouldn’t agree. I grew up Catholic, but for nearly 15 years, I’ve belonged to a church called “Unity.” I cringe at even using the word “church” to describe it because it’s very un-churchy church. It’s rooted in Christianity, yes, but it teaches that the spirit of God that lived in Jesus also lives in all of us—that we each have the potential to express the perfection of Christ, just as Jesus did, by being more Christlike in our everyday lives.
Recently, I was driving in a remote area of Colorado where it seemed the only station I could get was a Christian station. A commercial told me to stay tuned because a minister was going to talk about the sin of homosexuality. I turned the volume up, readjusted the seat belt, and settled in to listen to this guy’s take on, well, me.
The preacher explained that everyone struggles with sin, that all of us, including him, are sinners. He said we wouldn’t judge people who are struggling with, say, the sin of gossiping, and therefore we shouldn’t judge people who are struggling with the sin of homosexuality. We should support them, encourage them, cheer them on, just as we do others who are trying to get their act together.
He then went on to read a long letter from a woman who had left the church because she bought in to the idea that she could love the Lord and her girlfriend—have her cake and eat it, too, so to speak. But eventually she realized that was too good to be true. She was faced with choosing God or choosing this woman she loved deeply—and she chose God. Now she was miserable. Suicidal even. “All of these other sins I understand. But why is it a sin to love someone?” she asked. She was so hoping this preacher could help her understand.
His “help” came in the form of pulling out Bible quotes that, he says, make it clear that homosexual behavior is a sin—passages such as Leviticus 20:13: “If a man has sexual relations with a man as one does with a woman, both of them have done what is detestable. They are to be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads.”
Well, that oughta help her out of her depression, I thought.
He wrapped up his sermon answering the question, “Are homosexuals born that way?” The preacher determined, yes, it’s quite plausible that people are—then he likened it to any other birth defect.
I laughed at this conclusion, but I suspect the woman who wrote the letter wasn’t laughing. I imagine that since she was turning to a preacher on the radio, she doesn’t have the support that I have for loving a woman—not just support from some 90 Facebook fans but from my minister, too.
No, instead I think it’s possible this letter writer is in a garage somewhere with the door closed, idling her engine and hoping to meet the Lord.
(c) Annie L. Scholl 2012
