Unraveling: a United Methodist Grief, a Far Greater Story

27 days until “Unraveling” arrives in the world. Thanks for joining me here where I’m sharing moments, memories, and reflections of “Coming Out and Back Together” on the road to April 23rd.

Long before I ever heard of a Rorschach test, I was making meaning of “ink blots” around me. On the wall of the living room in the house where I was raised, there were many such blots to ponder. Behind the sofa, the plaster had peeled in a pattern that looked like a map of the United States, with a very prominent section that resembled Alaska. But depending on the amount of sunlight in the room, sometimes the wall looked more like a map of Europe. There were also some peeled sections on the ceiling. When I lay on my back with my head toward to the television, the peeling image resembled a woman with her hair in a bun on the top of her head. And when I turned the opposite direction, it seemed more like a man with a very pointed chin who was laughing. Gazing at these blots was fun and a free way to pass the time and be creative.

Perception is influenced by experience, location, and imagination. Perception shifts and changes. Two people can look at the same peeling plaster and have very different interpretations. One person can look at the same photo years apart and have very different reactions.

In February 2019, two years after I surrendered my United Methodist clergy credentials, I ventured to St. Louis for the Special General Conference of the UMC. At that time, I was serving a United Methodist congregation again as a lay person. I mostly managed to not get too caught up in titles and positions, and just focused on doing ministry. By all accounts, I was doing great work, leading a church in rebuilding a strong program for children, youth, and families. There were constant reminders though of the denomination’s harm and hypocrisy.

There were also regular suggestions that this Special General Conference would usher in a more just and inclusive church, and that surely, I would re-enter the ordination process. I never seriously thought I would ever again pursue United Methodist credentials, but I did think that the outcome of this conference would influence my future. Would it make it more comfortable to remain in the denomination that had received my credentials with such a lack of grace and yet readily said yes to my gifts and calling as a lay minister? Or would it push me away even further?

I didn’t expect it to be all roses, but I wouldn’t have gone to St. Louis had I any inkling of just how thorny it all would be. There were some beautiful moments. I reconnected with former colleagues I hadn’t seen in years. I got to catch up with friends and professors from seminary. There were moments of laughter and even joy. There were shared meals and holy hugs and honest conversations. And there was grief, the depth of which I had never known before.

When the results of the vote on the Traditional Plan (reinforcing the UMC’s anti-LGBTQ+ position and policies) were projected on screen, my heart broke. Not a clean break, but a slow jagged one, piercing my entire being. And that breaking was captured by a photographer and that photo was shared immediately and widely through the press. It went all around, including to my grandmother who I hadn’t spoken with in years.

The grief of that moment was greater than that moment. It was all the years I’d lost to self-hatred and internalized homophobia. The depression that sought to destroy me. The relationships and opportunities lost. The ministry and the credentials surrendered from a desire to no longer hide and a hope of one day loving myself unconditionally and living a life without shame.

For days, weeks, and even months that photo popped up everywhere. And seldom, if ever, did those bringing it up in front of me, ask how I was doing or feeling. People cut it out of printed newspapers and brought copies to church on Sunday. People emailed me links with the latest version of the story. People tagged me on social media, just in case I missed the most recent post. People, strangers and friends alike, sent messages letting me know I was wrong for asking the church to change its beliefs or expect others to accept my sin. I received anonymous hate mail to my house. One large envelope included only the photo with a target drawn around my face.

I was fearful. I was sad. I was angry. I was confused. I was lost. I was losing hope. I was grieving with a heart so broken it was becoming almost impossible to breathe.

By grace, I was able to reach out and connect with the right people, finding and embracing the help I so needed. It was devastatingly painful and extremely freeing to realize that the United Methodist Church was not a safe place for me, ordained or not. I had to leave again. And I had to get over worrying about others’ opinions of doing so. The shame I was carrying was not mine. It belonged solely to the institution.

And in that that realization I made one of the wildest, bravest decisions I have ever made. I moved to Florida. I started a new chapter. In a new place. All by myself. And even when a global pandemic began and all the isolating and social distancing and uncertainty took hold, I kept believing and living. And I built a life I once could only dream of from afar or from the floor where I lay as a child staring at peeled plaster images on the walls and ceiling. I found community, belonging, acceptance, a job, ministry, and beloved queer family in and with Metropolitan Community Churches.

Those years of living on the Gulf Coast, I experienced healing water and refreshing waves. I rediscovered my voice and my passions. And heard a calling to live with authenticity and creativity. And the loudest call I’ve ever heard…to share my story.

Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together is my story. It’s a weaving of 21 pieces, curated by liturgical season, that tell my story of coming out as lesbian and leaving ministry in the United Methodist Church. It will be released on April 23^rd, the same day that the 2024 General Conference of the UMC begins in Charlotte, North Carolina. This is not a coincidence.

While my life is no longer hanging in the balance, I remain interested in the denomination of my birth, baptism, confirmation, and commissioning. I long to see a UMC that is a beacon of grace and inclusion, working to build beloved community rather than against it. I share my story because I am called to do so. And I share it that those who vote and make decisions never forget that their words and their silence, their actions and their avoidance hold life-giving and death-dealing power.

My perspective on that photo is ever shifting. Depending on where I am in the room and who surrounds me, sometimes it feels like unbearable loss and others like sweet liberation. Thankfully, more and more, it feels the latter.

That photo captures my grief. It does not tell my story. Unraveling tells my story.

Pre-Order your copy here.

Water-fully Yours,

Rebecca & 10 Camels