SPEAK OUT

MARCH 20, 1998 Gay People's ChronICLE 11

On the scene of the church trial of Rev. Jimmy Creech

by the Rev. Dr. Mel White

As jury selection for the trial of Rev. Jimmy Creech began and ended in less than three hours in the First Methodist Church in Kearney, Nebraska, the unsung heroes and sheroes of that amazing day were gays and lesbians who had the courage to come out five, ten, fifteen years ago to the very men and women who, decades later, would be trying Creech for disobeying the Order and Discipline of his church by marrying a lesbian couple.

Outside, the early March chill factor held steady at 27° below zero, while inside, the lights from at least half a dozen television crews flooded the entrance with heat and light. My partner Gary and I dashed across the church parking lot, ankle-deep in icy slush and freshly fallen snow, through a cordon of television, radio, and print reporters, into the rapidly filling gymnasium where the front two rows of prospective jurors sat waiting.

As we entered the gym, witnesses for the prosecution and the defense were signing in; but there were other witnesses standing ready in the memories of those jurors, unseen witnesses living and dead, lesbian and gay witnesses whose words still echoed, whose smiles still lingered, whose tears still flowed in the minds and hearts of those thirty-five United

Methodist clergy in the jury pool.

Creech's chief counsel, Doug Williamson, brought these ghosts to life with his question to prospective jurors.

"Have you known any gay people," he asked them, "and if you have, how have they affected your life?"

Suddenly, they were there in the gymnasium with us, all those lesbians and gays from the past who had influenced the lives of these United Methodist clergy men and women, walking up and down the aisles of that ad-hoc courtroom, telling their haunting, hopeful stories. And as we watched, Bishop Hadopp and his court, sitting before us on stackable chairs behind folding tables underneath the basketball hoop directly over the little wooden cross and the burning candle, finally listened to the jurist's replies.

"My older sister is a lesbian," jurist number one said quietly, “in a long-term relationship with another woman.

Maybe I imagined it, but it seemed that for the first time that day, everybody present at the trial leaned forward to listen.

"When Sis came out to us, my mother was confused," the clergywoman confessed, "and so was I. But we are family. Today, my mother is a member of P-FLAG [Parents, Family, and Friends of Lesbians and Gays]. My sister and

COMMUNITY FORUM

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absence of tension; it is the presence of justice." I think we are living in a time of much tension because there are only certain pockets of justice. We understand clearly, whether we like admitting it or not, that as gays and lesbians we are slighted of real peace by things we excuse as small inconveniences. But as long as the tension stays comfortably away, and the conflict is not firmly established, no change need be fought for.

King was in a very comfortable position in Birmingham. He was head of a church that boasted a number of highly educated parishioners. He was a third generation college graduate, with a Ph.D. He was a pillar in the black community, and when segregation is the norm, that is the only community that really matters. With the exception of some slight inconveniences, his life was pretty smooth. Yet when those with inconveniences not so small grew tired of the slights, King was compelled to act—not because it was convenient for him to do so, but because it was the right thing to do. And that it what true leadership requires.

Were it not for an organization like the Human Rights Campaign, small inconveniences would only escalate. Since 1968, many of the battles for advancement have been redefined and we know that we are in a

place of tension between those who have power and the powerless, whether that is economic or social. Justice, through hard work, commitment, and stepping up for those who can't quite do it themselves is the only balm for this tension. In small ways, there are demands for peace. We also have to challenge the broader leadership when it is wrong, especially when issues central to who we are are downplayed, and compromises are formed without integrity.

I got involved with this particular national organization because I agree with lobbying political leaders on rights that concern my career, health and safety. I am not interested in having others set an agenda where my voice is not represented. I feel entitled to be heard.

I hope more of you feel the same. I also know that HRC is only one vehicle through which our issues are addressed. But for right now, who I am is political, and right ethical and moral behavior demands that I speak up when federal legislation that addresses our needs is being created. I know this is not always easy. Some will say, 'Now is not the time to rock the boat. Why do we have to talk about that?whether 'that' is racial bigotry, classism, sexism or heterosexism and homophobia. But I submit to you a very used, but true, rebuttal: "If not now, when?"

Indeed, brothers and sisters, "when" is now. George Walker Cleveland

I are close friends."

"In seminary," another clergy began, "I had three close friends who were gay."

"And how did that affect your life?" Williamson asked.

"I had to face my fears and deal with them, honestly," he replied.

"Did your friends go on to be ordained?" Creech's counsel asked.

"Yes, two of them," he answered, "and years later, they are still proving their call by their effective ministries."

"My ex-husband is gay," a second clergywoman offered, and I swallowed hard, fearing the kind of story that might caricature and demean gay men and lesbians who had entered into heterosexual marriage, hoping to resolve their secret struggles.

"How do you feel about him today?" Williamson asked.

"Oh, we've maintained a close relationship," she assured him, and I felt ashamed that I had assumed the worst. "We've spent a lot of time struggling to make sense of it all," she confessed, "but we are still friends."

"When I was young, and a member of a very fundamentalist church," a third clergy woman began, "a close friend confessed that she was gay. Unfortunately, I wasn't ready to understand her pain."

"What happened?" the counsel asked.

"I lost her as a friend," the woman answered, and you could feel the lingering pain in her voice. "What would you do differently next time?" he asked.

"I would love her no matter what," the clergywoman answered without hesitation, "and I would be there for her."

A former military chaplain remembered his service days before "don't ask, don't tell❞ went into force. As an officer he felt it necessary to turn in the young recruits who confessed their homosexuality, "but I couldn't help but be

touched by their personal stories," he added. One clergywoman admitted that in college the only man she had felt safe with was a gay man. Several clergy knew lesbian and gay couples in their congregations living together in loving, loyal, long-term relationships. Other United Methodist clergy had gay neighbors who had become close friends.

One remembered sadly having a "best friend" in college who threatened suicide, and then "just disappeared."

At least four different Nebraska clergy waiting to try Jimmy Creech admitted that they knew ordained gay ministers in the United Methodist Church.

"Have you asked them to turn in their credentials?" Williamson questioned. “Have you considered bringing charges against them?"

In turn, each potential jurist answered, “No.” "And why not?" the defense counsel asked. "Because they are good ministers," each replied, "and good friends," several added.

No cameras were allowed in the courtroom that day. No tape recorders were rolling. I had to paraphrase these testimonials from my sketchy notes. But the heart of each story was clear.

These good clergymen and women from Nebraska had been permanently changed by the lives of lesbians and gays who had dared to tell their stories to friends and family. By coming out, they had left permanent, positive memories in the hearts of thirteen men and women selected for the jury.

Now these jurists have dared to follow where their heart led them. They just might help save the church.

Mel White is the justice minister for the United Federation of Metropolitan Community Churches in Dallas, Texas. For White's video on the Creech trial, send $10 to Video 3, Box 4467, Laguna Beach, Ca. 92652.

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