Orthodoxy in Dialogue occasionally publishes anonymous guest articles when the author presents a compelling reason to do so. Today’s author writes: “The choice to contribute this reflection anonymously is simply to share my personal experience, not to engage in dialogue about specific jurisdictions, places, or people. I hope that my narrative might inspire clergy and faithful alike to allow the Holy Spirit to guide an honest, open, and Christ-centered conversation in the Church on this issue.”
The lenten period for the feast of the Dormition of the Theotokos was always somewhat unwelcome to me. As a child, it meant the winding down of summer and the return to school which I so hated. As an adult and a teacher, those emotions did not change all that much. This was a time to treasure those precious remaining days of summer. Somehow, eating just the salad at a barbecue or going to church every night for Paraclesis felt like a letdown, or maybe something to blame for all the unfulfilled expectations I had hoped for during summer break. It wasn’t until much later in life that I was able to appreciate the blessings that this holy time offered.
Events leading up to August 15, 2022 have now and forever changed this summer fast to a very different and unexpected reality for me. To explain this somewhat cryptic and provocative statement, I need to rewind to the very beginning for some context. I was born and later baptized at a small, ethnic Orthodox church. My father’s family was Aromani and my mother’s Albanian. They were the first in both of their sets of siblings to be born in America. Less than a generation earlier, my grandparents and other faithful people generously gave the “widow’s mite” so they could establish a church. That was the foundation story I was taught to cherish and still respect.
The Church was my life. My family had a flower shop business. I would often go into work with my father on a Saturday so that I could walk to the church, which was nearby, and help the priest with chores. I think I was more at home there than in my own house. When I was 16, my father passed away after an illness. When I was 17, a young, energetic priest arrived with a vision to catapult the small, ethnic “village” parish into a vibrant, mission-driven faith community. I was blessed with a good singing voice, and now with proper direction and guidance, I became the chanter of the community. When I was 22, my mother became seriously ill with cancer. I was her primary caregiver, which forced me to table many of my own developmental needs. She died when I was 25. By my early 30s, I was ready to slowly begin inching out of the “closet” as a gay man. Through it all, the parish was my center, my support, my mother, my father, my home. And there I remained throughout the ebb and flow of life, faith, and many personal challenges.
Fast forward to Pascha 2022. Those of you that share my vantage point of years truly appreciate what a fast forward that is! That young priest had retired after a 40+ year tenure, and the institutional church presented a new pastor who arrived at Pascha to serve the community. He was embracing, and led with a smile. The parish welcomed him with open arms. I too was captivated, only tempered by the guardedness that any gay man in a prominent role in an Orthodox parish is burdened with. As we got to know each other, I was definitely impressed with his engagement with and receptiveness to this new community.
At the same time, I began to have some concerns regarding his positions that only one working so closely with him would initially notice. Strict rules about who could be a godparent and whether he perceived their life to be sufficiently virtuous or not, rigidity around confession as a prerequisite to Holy Communion, and other such fundamentalist ideas vastly differed from what my experience in the Church had been. It seemed to disavow God’s boundless love and mercy. I was genuinely confused. I could not understand how someone so loving and welcoming in demeanor could also maintain religious principles that seemed rigid and closed.
My confusion became tension and then anxiety. The unspoken refrain of gay men from my generation is the constant voice saying, “Would they still like me if they knew I was gay?” Although by nature an introverted and reserved person, I was “out” to family and friends in the parish, in the larger community, and colleagues at work, because I strive to live my life with authenticity and integrity. I was trying to build a pastoral relationship and friendship with this new priest and became concerned that, were he to find out I’m gay from someone else, he might feel deceived. I also knew that telling him directly exposed me to the risk that he might not be accepting and to subsequent consequences.
By mid-July last summer, that tension had compelled me to speak directly to the priest and tell him who I was. One afternoon, I strategically planned to be working outside in the church garden while he was inside baking bread. I asked him for a few minutes to speak with him, and he called to me a short while later. I don’t remember my specific words, despite it being a script I had rehearsed several times, but I said something in the nature of “Father, I just want an opportunity to share with you a part of myself that you may not be aware of.” He immediately asked if I wanted him to get his epitrachelion (which implied confession) to which I said, “No…this is not something that I put in the category of a confession.” He pressed me further, saying, “Let’s bring God into this conversation.” I repeated again that this was not an issue I was seeking confession for, but just wanted to share. He persisted in treating our dialogue as confessional, and in deference to his authority I ultimately relented and knelt before him as he recited the confessional prayers over me in a language I did not understand. I felt uncomfortable, disrespected, and betrayed, even. This was not how I had intended it to go. At the same time, the little church boy within is always compliant, and certainly would not exclude God from any conversation.
We sat down to talk. I told him I was gay. I still wonder if he anticipated that to be the issue. I think he expected tears and repentance and a desire to change. I calmly told him that I was very happy with who I am, have grown to be confident in God’s love for me in the way I was created, and that even though I happen to be single, I would welcome a relationship if that opportunity were to arise. That messed up his paradigm for sure. I asked him if he had ever encountered gay people in the Church before, and he said he did but they were always willing to try to change. I affirmed that I had spent the first half of my life trying to change and could certainly confirm that it is not possible, and rhetorically added, “Have you checked in with those other people lately?”
On the most practical and political level, I was the chanter who led the congregation in their responses. We did not have a choir, so my role was pivotal. I was also from one of the founding families of the community, and very well regarded. If I left the parish, it would certainly be a controversy. He said I was most welcome to stay and be the chanter, and added “Forever!” with a laugh, but “just” that I could not receive Holy Communion from his hands. He said he needed time to speak with his spiritual father and the Metropolitan. He said, “Let’s give God time to work.” I took him at his word in the hope that he was sincerely open to learning about this issue. I agreed to continue with my role in the parish through the Feast of the Dormition, not receive Holy Communion, but that we needed to reconvene then. He agreed.
The following weeks are really a blur to me. I vacillated between truly believing he was prayerfully exploring this issue pastorally, and feeling exploited in that I was good enough to chant and serve, but not good enough to receive Holy Communion. I emailed him a couple times over those weeks to try and discern what he was thinking. He would make odd statements to me like, “Any sign from God?” I realized the sign he was expecting was the flash of a sword from heaven to slay away my gayness. How naive I am, I thought. I am waiting for the arc of a rainbow from heaven to lead him to a broader understanding of God’s love and mercy for all of humanity. That was a difficult time, but I felt that by remaining those weeks and not receiving I was doing the “right thing” and engaging in the dialogue in good faith.
Finally, the Feast of the Dormition came. That morning before Matins I said, “Father, I’m expecting we’re going to have an opportunity to talk after Liturgy today.” He nodded his head. That conversation again began with, “Any sign?” I pointedly replied that if he expected I was going to become heterosexual, that was never going to happen. He tried to distance himself from the issue personally by casting blame on our bishop and saying that he was given no choice, and could not commune me unless I were to repent and try to change. I replied that I have no choice either and that I could no longer serve and worship in this community. I didn’t expect that I would start to cry so heavily, but I did. I stood up and left.
Walking out that door was the end of life as I had known it for over 50 years. One year later, I can certainly acknowledge the blessings that have come to me with the opportunity to visit other communities and reassess how I want to serve. My family and many other families chose to leave the parish over this issue, while others, even some of my relatives, have chosen to stay. I try very hard not to judge others’ motives, but at its essence, choosing to stay feels to me like an endorsement of the premise that I or anyone who is gay is not worthy to receive Holy Communion. I certainly knew most of the clergy in the region from the various jurisdictions. Even a few I’ve known their whole life. Only two had the courage, compassion, and humanity to even acknowledge my profound loss with a simple statement such as, “I’m sorry for what happened to you.” Most just ignore reality if they have to encounter me directly. That unwillingness to “take a side” or engage the conversation is most disheartening. Apparently, the witness of my life of service has little value in their eyes.
So today we celebrate the Feast of the Dormition, my one-year anniversary of exile from my “home” and “family” which was my parish community. Sometimes I really can’t believe that this happened to me. Not because I somehow should be spared what marginalized people everywhere must endure, but more like the shock of noticing that a blow has become a mortal wound, and then recognizing, “Wow, I guess this is it.” Then I look at what is happening in society, politics, and government, most often under the banner of “Christianity,” and it at least places my situation in a larger context. So many of the LGBTQ family have countered the rejection by those who call themselves the Body of Christ with a strong and blatant rejection of Christ and His Church. I used to say that I often experienced more discrimination from gay people for being a Christian, than from Christians for being gay. Sadly, that no longer holds true. Richard Rohr, in his book, Falling Upward, laments the failure of the Christian Church in the last millennium to exemplify the Icon of God for which it was established. “The truly one, holy, catholic, and undivided church has not existed for a thousand years now, with many tragic results. We are ready to reclaim it again, but this time we must concentrate on including—as Jesus did—instead of excluding—which he never did…. The only thing he excluded was exclusion itself.”
Orthodoxy in Dialogue is the world’s most widely read forum for the discusssion of Orthodoxy, sexuality, and gender. See the extensive Sexuality and Gender section in both Archives linked above, and especially An OCA Diocese’s Gay Purge of 1977.
The author holds a BA in Psychology and an MA in Education. He has worked as an educator in both public and private educational settings for 30 years.
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