Unraveling: The Light Shining Through

Last week much of North America was focused on the Solar Eclipse. Millions of people searching for the perfect place to experience this phenomenon. Traveling to get close to the Path of Totality. The duration of totality just 4 minutes and 27 seconds.

All the eclipse-ing got me thinking about the light shining through rather than the light going out.

The last time I wore my clergy robe was December 2016. My sermon the second week of Advent was about the Ghosts of Christmas Past. I talked about how the past can be a place of shame and source of fear. How waiting is an anxious action. How hope can leave us feeling vulnerable and exposed.

In that sermon, I came out as lesbian for the first time in such a public way. And I shared that given the reality of the United Methodist Church’s prohibitive position on LGBTQ+ clergy, I made the decision to surrender my credentials rather than subject myself to more harm. And that this decision, while excruciatingly painful was in fact an act of hope. A hope that is not passive or idle, but rather honest and subversive. For me the hope was that by coming out of the closet, facing my fears, and confronting my ghosts, I would finally be able to love and accept myself. A gift that is far more valuable than any credentials the church might present.

Do not be afraid became my mantra. My prayer. My cry. Two months passed from the day of that sermon until the day I surrendered my credentials. Those days and nights passed by so slowly. The grief and sadness growing. The loneliness, the rejection, the silence, and the shame all increasing with every click of the clock.

With every shallow breath and each trembling step, I reminded myself to not be afraid. That I had been called to this decision. That the Spirit had affirmed in powerful ways this was the right and holy decision for me. That this decision was leading to life I had been waiting and hoping for. But even when you’re confident in a choice, that doesn’t negate the deep emotions and real challenges of going through it.

After worship that Advent Sunday, despite just wanting to go home and hide, I went to Coffee Hour. That’s where I had the transformative conversation with Grace that I wrote about a few weeks ago (read here). And that’s where the clergy robe really began to unravel.

Clara, a beloved church mother and dear friend of Grace, called me over. I took the chair next to her. She said, “I couldn’t hear all of your message. Will you tell me again what you shared?”

I sighed. And offered a shortened version.

Her eyes swelled with tears. She raised a fist in the air and cried “oh, this church…” She leaned in to hug me and her lips grazed the collar of the robe. "How can they not see that you are called to this?"

When I got home that day I took the clergy robe off for the last time ever. I took it to the basement and hung it over the office door.

After many months, around the time of Annual Conference where I would have been fully ordained, I realized I needed to get the robe out of everyday sight, but didn't know what to do with it other than put it in the closet. I refused to put it in a closet.

So, I put the robe in a box and kept it on a shelf with other UMC related stuff. Walking across the basement floor barefoot I stepped on a piece of broken glass. As I sat tending to the wound, with hot soapy water, a towel, ointment, and a band aid I found myself wishing for an easy way to tend to wounds inflicted by the United Methodist Church. That’s when I noticed Clara’s lipstick marks were all over the collar from that day she leaned in to comfort me.

Another year would pass before I held the robe again. It was Spring time. Hope was blooming. Healing was happening. The life I risked it all to find was feeling possible and close. And there were still really difficult days. On one of those days, I went to the basement and pulled the robe from the box. I held it. I let my tears fall over it. I cried myself to sleep on it. And when I woke up it was pouring rain and I took the robe out into the back yard. I let it catch as much rain water as it could before falling from my lap. And then I put it in a trash can filled with dirt and left it out in the elements for days. When the rain stopped I went to retrieve it. It was soaked. Heavy. Muddy. Smelly.   

The light was brilliant. The sun shining brightly. I hung the robe over a chair to dry. I checked on it several times a day. Days later I went outside with an old pair of scissors. Cutting the robe into small pieces and sections. Once it was all unraveled I carried it to the dumpster. That walk was like letting go of a dream that had become a nightmare. A calling that felt like a curse. That walk felt like freedom. Like reclaiming my power. Like realizing we can feel fear and not be overcome by it. Like I could bust any ghost that came my way. Opening that dumpster felt like loving myself. Like saying no to things, titles, positions, places, and expectations that do not fit and that hide who we really are.

There was one small piece of the robe that didn’t go in the dumpster. It went into my pocket. The piece with Clara’s lipstick marks. It’s still in my pocket some days. On days of struggle. Or doubt. Or fear. Or grief. Or joy. Or celebration.

Next Tuesday, April 23, 2024 is a day of celebration. It’s the day Unraveling: Coming Out and Back Together is published. It’s the day my story comes into the light.

It’s my story of answering a call to ministry, pursuing ordination, embracing my queer sexuality, and making the unbelievably difficult and amazingly liberating decision to walk away. It’s a story leading us to question if healing flows from garments or from the unraveling of power and tradition. Is it our faith that makes us well or our desire to live in authenticity and wholeness?

It’s not simply a United Methodist story, but it is intentionally released on the first day of the 2024 General Conference of the UMC. I am no longer a United Methodist AND I still care deeply about the denomination that brought me to unraveling. My prayer for the UMC and all those making decisions for the future is that they will be open to unraveling. I have learned that the gift of unraveling is becoming. May the UMC become what God calls us all to be.

Unraveling is a story of light shining through. Will we pursue this light like we did a glimpse of those fleeting moments of eclipsing totality?

Be sure to follow us on Facebook and Instagram. On Monday, April 22, the day before publishing, I’ll share an Unraveling Prayer. And on Launch Day I’ll go live around 12noon on FB to read the poem Unraveling that is the inspiration for it all.

Water-fully Yours,

Rebecca & 10 Camels

Oh and if you haven’t already, order your copy of Unraveling here.