'Sometimes, divorce is necessary.' Fight for LGBTQ inclusion may finally split United Methodists

Lindsay Schnell | USA TODAY

Show Caption Hide Caption LGBTQ’s fight for civil rights, explained LGBTQ rights have come a long way in the U.S. But the community still faces threats in the form of legalization, discrimination and even violence.

Nica Sy felt devastated as she stared at her laptop screen. How could the church that had baptized her, raised her, nurtured her and encouraged her to explore ordained ministry say she was unworthy, just because of her sexuality?

Sy, 20, a Filipino American college student who identifies as a lesbian, had watched a livestream of a global gathering of the United Methodist Church where church leaders voted to continue a ban on same-sex marriages and openly LGBTQ people from serving as clergy. Liberal leaders within the church had pushed for giving individual churches and clergy autonomy over such issues but were narrowly outvoted.

“That was a really monumental moment, the rejection of who I am,” Sy said. “But I also had this feeling of, ‘I’m not gonna let this happen to my church.’ ”

Her reaction wasn’t unique – and it might be a preview of what’s to come.

After years of debating gay rights, the United Methodist Church is probably headed for a big split. Months after global Methodist leaders voted against LGBTQ rights this year, five bishops representing the Western Jurisdiction of the United Methodist Church released a statement Nov. 6 in support of LGBTQ clergy. Church leaders are debating whether to fracture into two organizations – one liberal and one conservative – before the denomination's next annual gathering in 2020.

“Unity is a high priority for many of us, and we watched it fall apart in front of our very eyes," said the Rev. Erin Martin, the Columbia District superintendent who oversees more than 40 Methodist clergy in the Portland, Oregon, metro area, of the vote against LGBTQ rights in February.

She took a deep breath to steady herself.

"It felt as though something died that day within the United Methodist communion,” she said, her voice cracking. “We may not be able to hold together.”

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Methodists have debated LGBTQ rights for years

After Southern Baptists, Methodists make up the nation’s second-largest Protestant denomination, totaling more than 6.8 million members, including former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, former Attorney General Jeff Sessions and Beyoncé. Baby boomers make up the majority (38%) of the congregants, and 94% of them are white, according to the Pew Research Center.

At the denomination's annual convention in 2016, Martin said, everyone could sense fissures over the subject of sexuality. The church, she said, was “struggling for a consensus." She worried that the Methodist movement might be on the brink of a tipping point. February's vote confirmed it.

“For those who aren’t part of the church, this confirms their worst suspicions that Christians are narrow, critical and full of hate and condemnation,” Martin said.

Threatening to split isn't new for the United Methodist Church. At the conference in 2004, delegates voted overwhelmingly (869-41) to remain united despite disagreements over human sexuality. But leaders on both sides said the situation has become untenable, and separation is probably the only way forward.

Legislation in favor of splitting the denomination has been submitted before next year's global gathering, including a proposal calling for "an amicable separation" that would divide the United Methodist Church in two.

The Wesleyan Covenant Association, headquartered in Reynoldsburg, Ohio, is a group within the Methodist church that subscribes to what the Rev. Keith Boyette, president of the organization, calls a commitment to the "historic Christian faith," or a more traditional take on Methodism. At the meeting in February, the Wesleyan Covenant Association endorsed the ban on LGBTQ clergy and same-sex marriage.

Boyette, 66, said he's sad to think about a Methodist church split, but "it would be sadder to me if we remained mired in continual escalating conflict, which prevents the church from focusing on its primary mission, which is to make disciples of Jesus Christ."

"We're distracted from that in many ways because we're consumed by this conflict," Boyette said.

He said he believes the church will divide in spring 2020: Either it'll be a soft split, the result of an agreed plan of separation, or a hard split, in which some churches and pastors decide they've had enough and no longer want to be part of the United Methodist Church. Boyette roots for an amicable separation.

"We're done fighting," he said. "Let's find a way to release each other and go forward, and pursue the vision we each have."

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There’s been an outpouring of support for the LGBTQ community since the adoption of the ban in February. Immediately after the vote at the conference, the Rev. Donna Pritchard, one of the lead delegates from Oregon, took a microphone and told everyone that Methodist churches in the West would “continue to be a home for all of God’s people.” That night, leaders opposed to the ban gathered in a St. Louis hotel ballroom to assure each other they had no intention of excluding the LGBTQ community.

The loudest support came when bishops of the Western Jurisdiction – which covers Alaska, Arizona, California, Colorado, Hawaii, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Oregon, Utah, Washington and Wyoming – released their letter Nov. 6.

Bishop Elaine Stanovsky, one of the five bishops who signed the letter, attended the convention in February. For her, the vote, and its potential long-term implications, are heartbreaking.

“For many of us, there was a sense that the church that raised us and formed us and gave us our identity and our vocations abandoned us,” said Stanovsky, who has been ordained in the Methodist church since 1983.

Stanovsky has essentially put her career on the line. By refusing to adhere to the ban on same-sex marriage and LGBQT clergy – which includes Stanovsky declining to process complaints against LGBTQ clergy – Stanovsky could be put on trial within the church. It’s a risk she’s “absolutely willing” to take “without a moment’s hesitation,” Stanovksy said.

“The [LGBTQ] people at risk, many of them I’ve known for decades. Some of them I’ve ordained, I’ve appointed them to their churches,” she said. “These are not nameless, faceless people, they are in my community. I often ask them to do hard work under persecution, so I better have their back.”

There’s been no response from the church at large. A spokesperson for the United Methodists declined to comment, saying the General Conference is the only body that can speak officially for the church.

The majority of Methodists support same-sex marriage, according to the Public Religion Research Institute. In a survey in 2017, PRRI found that 54% of all Methodists “favor allowing gay and lesbian couples to marry legally.”

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LGBTQ clergy 'not going back' in the closet

For Sy, a University of Washington junior, acknowledging her full identity has been a long process. After starting to question her sexuality around 13, she said she “really came out to myself” at 16. For the past four years, she’s been slowly coming out to family and friends.

Sy was raised United Methodist and has attended Beacon United Methodist Church in south Seattle since birth. She works on campus at The Wesley Club (named after John Wesley, the English cleric who founded Methodism), a student-run, LGBTQ-affirming Christian community. She’s considering a career in ordained ministry, a vocation that hadn't felt off-limits because of her sexuality.

“Especially in the Northwest, I’ve always felt UMC is supportive and protective of queer people in the church,” Sy said. “That’s all I had previously known.”

An hour south of Portland in Salem, Oregon, the Rev. Wendy Woodworth has been the pastor at Morningside United Methodist Church since 2013. Woodworth, 56, who identifies as part of the LGBTQ community, spent most of her life closeted, a walking, talking example of a “don’t ask, don’t tell” lifestyle.

Though Woodworth has been with her wife, Lori Alton, since 1993 – the same year she got ordained – Woodworth was once “extremely cautious in terms of sharing within the United Methodist community.” For years, Woodworth introduced Alton as her friend or roommate.

But being married is not a private matter, Woodworth said, so shortly after she and Alton tied the knot in 2016, she shared the news in a letter signed by other Methodist LGBTQ clergy. She didn’t worry about her job so much as the vulnerability she displayed in finally revealing the truth of her identity. Her honesty, she said, deepened her relationship with her congregation. She received no hate mail or pushback.

“Rather than my sexual orientation being a hindrance," Woodworth said, "what I’ve been asking is, what does it mean for this to be an asset in my ministry?”

Woodworth, who was in St. Louis during the vote in February, said it was difficult to watch her peers vote against inclusion, but she’s undeterred, based on the bishops’ letter and decades of support from her fellow Methodists.

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"It’s not about whether the church rejects me. For me, it’s about God loves me, God has called me into ministry. Nothing the church says can change that,” she said.

She has no intention of returning to a life of secrecy.

“We’re not going back,” Woodworth said. “You can’t put a marriage certificate in the closet.”

Imagining a new Methodist church

When the Rev. Valerie Jackson left the Southern Baptist church, she vowed to never be part of an oppressive structure again.

In 2009, Jackson started at Iliff School of Theology, a graduate Methodist program in Denver. Drawn to the faith after filling out a welcome card left in a pew at Park Hill United Methodist Church, Jackson said she remembers being struck by a question on the card: Did the visitor have a partner, and what was his or her name?

“That blew my mind,” Jackson said. “Usually it’s asking if you have a husband or a wife. On top of that, this place was intercultural – there were whites, blacks, Latinx, Asians. It’s like, ‘Oh my God, this is church, everybody is here!’ ”

When she began the church clergy ordination process, she found “a hiccup of a phrase” in the Book of Discipline, a text of rules and regulations for Methodist clergy. Jackson read that homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching. She was dumbfounded.

“It actually shocked me to discover that we still had this fight to fight, because I joined UMC because inclusion was already happening,” she said. “So I was stunned to discover that denominationally, we had not overcome this issue.”

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Jackson complained to God in her prayers, asking why she’d been led to another oppressive structure.

She pressed on, certain that God had called her to a life in ministry. She declined to introduce her partner as such, but “everybody knew we were together,” she said. After February's vote, everything changed.

“I went back to Denver and openly, verbally declared the truth that I am a triple threat: I am woman, I am black and I am queer,” she said. “And it was almost like a new birth. It created this amazing synergy in my faith community.”

Jackson, 58, said she's not that upset that a denominational split is likely. She wondered if it’s because she’s not a “cradle Methodist,” someone who was born into the faith. She said her experience with breakups – Jackson has been married twice – allows her to imagine life on the other side.

“Sometimes,” she said, “divorce is necessary.”

Sy, the college student, expressed similar feelings. Yes, there was an initial ache over the vote. She felt it deeply, as did her mother, Cecille Corsilles-Sy, who raised her daughter to be Methodist. When the news hit, there were a lot of tears in their home.

“This is the church that raised and nourished me,” Sy said. “That that same community could also do this thing that so clearly hurts and rejects me, yes, that’s painful. But I also know this church made me who I am. And I know what this church is and can be.”

She imagines a new Methodist church, where everyone feels welcome and liberated. A church that represents the intersectionality she experiences every day as an LGBTQ woman of color. A church that can engage with a younger generation less inclined to identify as religious but still hungry for spiritual connection. There have been times Sy’s wondered if it’s worth staying and fighting. She said those questions and doubts are good, because they push her deeper into her faith and reinforce that she does want to be part of the Methodist community.

“Queer people are not responsible for making that change in the church,” Sy said. “But we can reclaim what it means to be Methodist.

“It’s a breaking up, yes. But it’s also a breaking open. And there’s a lot of potential there.”