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Why do so many otherwise wonderful pastors, churches, and Christians cave when it comes to standing up for their LGBTQ loved ones? Because, as in politics, the base rules. Most people I know are pretty naive about this.

Let’s take the evangelical base, for example —what is it? The evangelical base operates mostly behind-the-scenes, composed of older, more conservative members who are generous financial contributors. (Or younger ones, imbedded in close-knit families with conservative elders, who disapprove when anyone gets out of line.) Though the base is often out of public view, it is well-known to the church leadership and exerts a powerful influence over them. How? The base will withdraw their funds in a heartbeat if someone crosses the line, for example, on LGBT.

In fact, the evangelical movement itself operates, increasingly, behind the curtain. Sometimes its presence is obvious. Everyone knows the Southern Baptist Convention (the largest Protestant denomination) is evangelical. Fewer realize that the evangelical movement affects all sectors of Protestant Christianity. So what may seem to be a nice, unaffiliated “non-denominational” or “community” church, is usually, in fact, tied to Evangelicalism. In fact, so-called progressive evangelicals cannot maintain their evangelical standing and funding unless they toe the line (often in the most tortured ways) on LGBTQ. And many congregations in the old traditional mainline Protestant denominations (Episcopal, Lutheran, Methodist, United Church of Christ, etc.) are still influenced by more or less powerful evangelical lobby groups. Christian older media (book publishing, television, radio, contemporary worship labels, etc.) is heavily-tilted evangelical. So in the trenches,even many seemingly liberal or progressive churches will be powerfully influenced by the evangelical base, especially at the local level.

Wherever the far-flung evangelical movement holds sway on the religious landscape (even where the influence is cloaked): as in politics, the base rules.

In the meantime, don’t be misled. Often public-facing evangelical leaders — including one who prefer other monikers than evangelical — present a softer image on issues like LGBTQ. But the base rules even the most progressive leaders under the evangelical umbrella. These leaders cannot cross the base without being punished. Toe the line? Sure. But cross it, and the electric fence that bounds evangelicalism (and all organizations that depend on it) zaps them … hard.

I realized this by crossing the evangelical base on LGBTQ without fully appreciating its influence (or perhaps overestimating mine). I founded a pretty good church in a “contemporary worship/culturally relevant” denomination, Vineyard. It was a denomination (we preferred to call it a “movement”) known for harboring progressive-leaning pastors, pastors who started pretty good churches in secular-leaning college towns like Cambridge, Iowa City, Ann Arbor, Columbus, New Haven, and elsewhere. (Of course by “progressive” in this otherwise-conservative context I mean, ordaining women, not denying climate change, agreeing White Supremacy exists and sucks — not exactly wild-eyed progressive radicalism.)

But by advocating an end to traditional exclusionary LGBTQ policies (like forbidding marriage to gay couples) I saw — up close and personal — what happens when the evangelical base is aroused. When the base is aroused, pastors, denominational officials, and local congregants who are otherwise considerate and supportive, fall quickly in line. Really good people hit the electric fence, get zapped, and back off. And this happens all the time.

It’s always a different set of particulars, but the underlying dynamics are nearly universal. In my local evangelical church, on its way to full-inclusion in 2014, someone outed a pastor on my staff, Emily Swan, when she fell in love with the woman who would become her wife. Denominational officials were informed, and without contacting me or Emily to even verify their information, headquarters sent our board a letter demanding that we: 1. Promise never to perform a gay wedding; 2. Promise never to ordain a gay pastor; 3. Fire Emily (or convince her to fall in line); and 4. Promise not to publicly criticize their (as yet unannounced) policy forbidding gay ordination and marriage.

As the senior pastor responsible for executing such policies, I refused, respectfully. I had already made it crystal clear (through a paper presented at the Society of Vineyard Scholars in 2013, and a book published later that year) that I could not, in good conscience, enforce policies I considered harmful to LGBTQ+ people.

Behind the scenes, the denominational officials who signed that demand letter were powerfully influenced by their own base. In 2012, when I spoke with the new national director of Vineyard about my changing views on LGBTQ, he assured me that Vineyard would maintain a “big tent” approach. (It had no official national policy on LGBTQ at the time.) By 2014, the dynamics were different, as exemplified by the demands-letter. One official who signed the letter, a dear colleague-friend at the time, told me that major donors to his mega-church where threatening to pull their funding — if I, far way in Ann Arbor, were allowed to have an openly gay pastor on staff. Another signatory told me that he thought Vineyard was on the “wrong side of history” on this. Yet another, having heard my presentation months earlier, told me that he was “convicted by the Spirit” by my approach, while adding, “but the Lord has shown me it’s not my issue to pursue.” You’d think these colleagues might have refused to sign such a letter — which was a successful attempt to dislodge me from leading the church I founded — but they understood that the organization would suffer big losses if they didn’t.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a similar dynamic unfolded — driven by the evangelical base in our own congregation. Our church board, at first, voted unanimously to refuse the denominational demands, standing by Emily. When Emily gave her “coming out” sermon — necessitated by the demands-letter that couldn’t be kept secret — she was received with a standing ovation from the congregation. But a group of big donors objected and the board, unaccustomed to a crisis of this scale, backed down. The usual mess ensued, and rather than prolong the fight, Emily and I started a new fully-inclusive church, rather than bow to the denominational demands.

When the base is aroused, the organizations that are financially beholden to it, notice. Good people — including those who, on paper, support full LGBTQ inclusion — hold their noses and make decisions they might not otherwise make, “for the greater good.” Which, of course, means, for the good of the ruling majority at the expense of the vulnerable and expendable minority. All this is attributed to godly concern for the “unity of the Spirit” — a unity blind to the suffering of sexual minorities, and thus not of the Holy Spirit.

This happened in 2014. Within a year, a handful of other evangelical pastors or leaders made similar moves around the country. They all faced some version of what happened to me and Emily.

Danny Cortez was a founding pastor of a Southern Baptist congregation who had changed his mind on LGBTQ — then his son came out as gay. Danny publicly stood by his son, using my book as theological justification. I never felt more honored before or since. He was put on trial in Nashville (Southern Baptist Headquarters.) During the trial, some who eventually voted to expel him privately thanked him and told him they agreed with his stand. No doubt, they justified their action on the grounds of the “greater good” served by preserving what they mis-named, the “unity of the Spirit.”

A few years later, a much more prominent evangelical, Eugene Peterson, met with a similar fate. Peterson was an evangelical publishing star, translator of the wildly popular The Message Bible, author of many other books, a beloved figure, retired from ministry. But he had the temerity to admit in an interview that he supported marriage equality. The Evangelical Machine (pardon my pejorative) was aroused, the largest Christian bookstore chain pulled all his books and within 24 hours, Peterson had recanted. I cannot judge him because I do have a sense of the withering punishment (much of it hidden and intensely personal) that he must have been facing — in his case, along with the vulnerability that attends advanced age.

Why mention all this? Why not let the sleeping dogs of yesteryear lie?

I mention all this to reveal the punishing boundary enforcement mechanism that keeps any organization tied to the broad evangelical movement in line today on LGBTQ. This includes, not just the obvious cases — like Southern Baptists, whose policies are well known — but also the soft-edged non-denominational churches and para-church ministries, whose policies are hidden (even not easily-admitted upon questioning). Many of these organizations do great good and have much to commend them. They may be “conflicted” about LGBTQ, now that the suffering of sexual minorities is not as hidden as it used to be, but they also know that they cannot renounce their stigmatizing policies without severe consequences. They choose not to suffer these consequences, allowing the suffering of sexual minorities to continue.

I mention all this for those who are sexual minorities or fancy themselves LGBTQ supporters, and think their great pastor is not like those meanies who are hard on LGBTQ people. Any pastor dependent on the good favor of the evangelical movement for his/her professional well-being, is ruled by the base when the issue is gay marriage or ordination. And remember, the base may be invisible to you, operating behind the scenes through the church board, or the major-donor club. So if your pastor speaks softly about his love for the LGBTQ community, understand that his base carries a big stick and will use it to keep him in line when the time comes. Often he will comply with a mostly-clear conscience, thinking it necessary for “the greater good.” Again, this will be the case, despite anything he or she might say privately or even from the pulpit to express warm support for you or your LGBTQ loved one.

Thus it is, and will be for the foreseeable future: as in politics, the base will rule.

Until, that is, enough people say to the base, you’re not the boss of me. And let whatever chips fall wherever they may. That will mean leaving the base (and its funding) behind. It will mean a thrilling and rewarding (OK, and possibly a grueling or disappointing) venture into the wilderness of the church landscape, to start something new. But it’s a wilderness where the God who really loves LGBTQ people — and wants the harm to stop — can be found.