What I've Learned Since St. Louis

The view from the bench I was lying on after leaving the arena in tears following the GC2019 vote to adopt the Traditional Plan.

From Jenny Bates: It’s been one year since the Special Session General Conference 2019 in Saint Louis and it’s just a couple of months until General Conference 2020. And as I sit here in this moment and deal with the storm of emotions in my chest and head, I wonder, what have I learned since St. Louis? What can help this dull ache in my heart slowly heal? I’m not an optimist by nature, so I don’t think there always has to be a lesson, but what if in this case there was? Or at least, what has changed since this happened?

Here are nine things that I’ve learned since that consequential moment.

1. I have learned the importance of community.

I got tattoo in June after GC2019 of the logo of the church I call my home, my space, Open Worship. Not because I am 100% devoted to this church as an institution or that I think I will always be here, but because I wanted to always remember the people and community with me to get through the pain of feeling fear and abandonment by a place I thought would be MY place. My church community that wept with me, held me, and encourages each other through times of uncertainty and hope. We all sit together in audacious hope and love that if nothing else, our community will continue to support and love one another in whatever means we can.

2. I have learned how to deal with fear.

I was afraid before St. Louis. I was afraid it wouldn’t go the way I hoped. I was afraid my Church would betray me. And it did. It did exactly what I was afraid of. Those fears were realized, so what could I do now? I could let the next fears consume me. What would happen to my local church? Should I even try for candidacy? What if they say no?

I stood in my shower one day and said ”f*** this.” I decided while I would respect my fears and acknowledge them, I would not let them stop me. I would feel them, and then move on despite them. I saw too a community that wasn’t afraid. Queer people like JJ Warren who spoke truth to power in St. Louis and the people who attempted to access the floor and chanted songs and phrases about how they would not be ignored or silenced; they had fear, but they did the what they needed to do despite that fear.

After St Louis we’ve seen so many queer people who now continue to follow their call of ministry despite being told the larger Church does not support us. We’ve seen a queer community that refuses to let go of the church that abandoned them. We’ve seen new things being created by people who believe that something can happen out of this, like the Young Prophets Collective, which looks towards the future of our church as truly inclusive and liberating for all. We’ve seen Bishops and Conferences and churches say, we are afraid of the future, but we will also live and do what is right, despite our fears.

3. I learned to say goodbye and let people go.

People left the Methodist church because of GC 2019. Queer people felt abandoned by their Church, and by extension, God, and have left the Church. We must own that, own the damage caused. We must feel the guilt, apologize, and reconcile these facts that we have failed people and communities.

And then we must let go.

We can pray for those people, wish them well, give them directions to go if they ask, but we cannot ask them to stay in a place that has been the source of so much hurt and pain. We can be here if they return, but we cannot force them to come back to the Church. We must let them go with love to find their new home, a space where they can hear and feel the love of God and shine. We stay in solidarity at a distance, if the distance is what they need to heal.

We do not abandon them—we allow them to create distance.

4. I learned the depth of my own strength and have seen the strength of others.

I decided to become a candidate for clergy.

I realized my fears had been stopping me and now that the worst in relation to the UMC had finally happened, I could just move forward. Either my church and conference would see my strength and my call, would support me and believe in me, or they wouldn’t. I couldn’t control that, but I had to step out in faith in myself and God and try. I would not let my fear or the fears of others (read: homophobia) control my life anymore.

On the days when I don’t have the energy to do it myself, I go to my favorite place, Cole Chapel, during lunch and just beg God to help me find my strength, give me strength to get through this—because I can’t give up, but there are days when I don’t know if I can go on. And so far, God has given me that strength and fire, from myself and from others.

I’m not the only one doing this, either. There have been many brave and resilient people who have spoken up after General Conference. We’ve seen the strength we hold to get up after a crushing below, to dust off and stand up, and we’ve seen it again and again.

5. I’ve learned the sound of my voice and the passion that burns in my heart.

Equity and liberation are the song of my heart and, I believe, the song of God’s heart, too. Fighting and calling out institutions that continue to ignore the voices of the oppressed and marginalized is what I am created to do. I’ve learned that sometimes I am the person who needs to force her way to the table and sometimes I am the person who needs to remove myself from the table so that others can take the space which I once occupied. I’ve learned that going into the LGBTQ spaces and just existing as the queer voice that is still in love with God and expresses that love can be powerful. Being a queer Christian that admits and says the church lies when it comes to God’s hatred of queer people and we won’t allow it to continue unchecked is powerful.

I’ve learned, like my professor Dr. Stephen Sprinkle said, to be like my God and be in the margins with my people instead of being secluded in church spaces.

6. I’ve learned there’s a bunch of other queer Christians and Methodists out there.

I’ve searched for them and I’ve found them at Union Coffee in Dallas, reconciling churches, gay prides, queer variety shows like Glitterbomb, my classes, and even on Twitter. People who are fighting the same fight for equity, or who at least understand the weight and pain. People who get why it matters when you don’t gender God or what it means as a queer person to receive communion from another queer person, both knowing the deep-seated fear about being denied that sacrament because of who you love and who you are. People who love each other and God and even church with their fullest hearts—beyond the pain people put them through in the name of God.

7. I’ve learned what a true ally is.

The person who listens when you say you are afraid. The person who listens when you tell them the truth. The ally doesn’t tell you “shh, accept this,” or “you’re just being selfish and asking too much” when it comes to equality or justice. The ally is the person who holds space with you while recognizing their own privilege and viewpoint and listens when you tell them their view is obscured by their privilege. Allies sit with you when their privilege (and pensions and jobs) are threatened. Allies stay with you when it’s months later and the hot topic has changed. Allies stand with the queer community when it costs them church membership or tithes because they see and realize the power of being a voice for inclusions and affirmation. Allies recognize this fight is your fight but stand with you in the way you ask them to, to help change the world.

8. I’ve learned that sometimes the thing to do in a painful period is just live your life.

St. Louis ended and as a person who doesn’t make their living being paid by the church, I had a life waiting for me. Demands of my “real job” met me at the door as soon as I went to work the next morning, with an exhibit I was coordinating opening that week. I had a paper due in class. I buried my granddaddy. I watched three of my beautiful friends marry thee loves of their lives and two announce pregnancies. Our lives don’t stop because we’re hurting, so being present with our pain and not letting it control us is important. Living as fully as we can says a lot about our individual strengths. On the days when you can’t be strong, get your love and support from others. Its not to say it doesn’t hurt, nor that I don’t think about it, but it’s realizing I can’t give up.

Sometimes that’s all you can do: just not give up.

9. I’ve learned my true meaning of God with us, God before us.

God with us in the pain, God with us in the uncertain futures. God giving us hope when we have none for the future. God telling us that They have faith is us, even when no one else does. God loving us, when it feels like no one else does. God with us, the queer Methodists, Christians and wider community.

God is in the margins. God is in love with God’s creation, including the queer people.

St. Louis hurt and still hurts. I don’t know if I can ever go back to that city or to a General Conference again. But like one of my favorite songs (by the band Amber Run) says: “I found love where it wasn’t supposed to be, right in front of me.” In a moment when the larger church wanted to tell me that I don’t belong, that God doesn’t love me as I am, I was reminded that I am loved by God and so many people. I’ve seen the love of God right in front of me, standing with the pain and the fear, holding a space that says “I know you, and I love you. I will be with you in the pain and uncertainty.”

I heard the call that would change my life: to share that love with others, with those who were desperate to have someone help them understand and be reminded of that deep love. And I’m following that call.

Jenny Bates is a member of Open Worship and a founding member of Glow by Open. She is a student at Brite Divinity School and is currently pursuing ordination as a deacon in the United Methodist Church.