Our Church: “Wanna Be a Deacon? Then Sign This Anti-Gay Statement”

After my wife Cat and I had spent six years as members of our very first church home, we were asked to sign a document asserting that under no circumstances should anyone involved in a same-sex relationship be allowed to hold “any position, of any authority whatsoever” at that church.

We had both been elected deacons of the church—which is how we learned that you couldn’t actually become a deacon at our church until you signed this paper.

I actually thought the Deacons Committee lady was kidding when she laid copies of the anti-gay statement before us. We knew this lady. She was in the weekly small group Bible study Cat and I had attended for years. We liked her.

“Ha, ha,” I laughed. “Wouldn’t it be funny if there really was such a document?”

Looking slightly confused, our friend said, “There is. This is it.” She nudged the papers a little closer to our side of the table. “You have to sign this.”

I looked at Cat. Cat looked at me.

Whoops. The train we were on had just swerved toward Crazyville.

We both bent to read the document.

Done with that, I asked our friend, “Do we really have to sign this in order to become deacons? Are you actually not kidding?” I’m a fairly private person. Plus, I’m sane. So I like to keep to a minimum signing my allegiance to clumsily articulated amalgams of theological proclamations and discriminatory hiring policies.

“No, I’m not kidding.” She smiled sweetly. “You have to sign it. All deacons have to sign it.”

“But … that doesn’t really make sense,” I said. “Why would we have to sign something like this before we’re deemed worthy to man the donut table between services, and help pass around the collection plate? That’s a little  … draconian, don’t you think? Actually making someone sign their name to something? Isn’t that just a little too … Joe McCarthy? You understand how that feels a little extreme, right?”

She didn’t.

“Plus,” I went on because what the heck, “Cat and I have been members of the church for six years. In all that time, I’ve never once heard anyone associated with this church say a single thing about homosexuality. Never a word about it from the pulpit; never in a meeting; never in a class; never in the bulletin; nothing on our website; never a word about it in our Bible study class. Total silence. And yet this issue is so important to the church that you can’t become a deacon here unless you sign something specifically about it. Doesn’t that seem a little weird to you? If we’re going to believe in a position about something as strongly as we clearly believe in our position on this matter, shouldn’t we, at least every once in a while, say something about that belief? If we believe it, we should preach it. People in the congregation have a right to know the rules of the club they’re in. It’s not fair that we’re just learning about this now.”

“Well, I’m sorry that you weren’t aware of our church’s position on this. But this is what we believe. And you both have to sign this if you want to become representatives of our church.”

“But we’re talking about being deacons, right?” piped in Cat. The slight hint of maniacism I detected in Cat’s voice almost made me feel sorry for the woman across the table. “It’s not like we’re being named pastors of the church. We’re talking about being deacons. Visiting shut-ins. Helping put out chairs at meetings. That sort of thing, right? Nothing that has anything whatsoever to do with who should or shouldn’t be hired at the church. Just deacons, right?”

But, alas, our choices turned out to be exactly two: Either sign the “no homosexual should be so much as a door greeter or janitor at our church” document — or, by virtue of not signing it, fail to qualify as deacons.

“Please let us be deacons without signing the paper,” we begged the powers-that-be at our church (almost all of whom were in our Bible study group). “We love this church. We’d love to help with it. It’s not like we’re going to be in a position of hiring anyone at the church anyway. Isn’t it possible to allow us to serve as deacons without our having to sign the paper?”

Yeah, that’d be a no.

Which put us in the weird position of being members of a church, the leaders of which had decided — had publicly decided — that we weren’t morally suitable to be deacons.

Don’t you just hate it when you’re reduced to the status of second-class citizen in your own church?

I’m joking now, but at the time it really hurt. It’s rough being told you aren’t spiritually qualified to visit shut-ins, help with the services, greet people at the newcomers’ table.

And it was really rough when the pastor of the church — someone I considered a personal friend, whose house Cat and I had often visited, with whom I’d been going to lunch once a month for years — put in the lobby of the church, next to the doors leading into the sanctuary, many stapled copies of a paper he wrote about how people who don’t hold the “correct” view on homosexuality are, ipso facto, heretics.

Sigh.

Anyway, within a month we left that church, which had always meant so much to us. Lots of good, good people there. But in the end — and to a person — they much preferred our leaving the church, rather than allowing us serve it without first signing that paper.

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