Jul 26 | This is what we do (Letters from the Coast)

In a small meeting room belonging to St. Andrew’s Wesley United Church, a group of Christ’s disciples gathered around a laptop screen and watched two hours’ worth of debate over a motion to begin offering full same-sex marriage in the Anglican Church of Canada.

We were few, but we were a microcosm of young and old across our national church. There were gay and bisexual people. There were trans and nonbinary people. There were a couple of allies who had pledged to support us.

Parts of it were deeply painful to watch. Parts of it were utterly disgraceful.

We held our breath as they counted the votes. Ten minutes lasted ten thousand years.

And once again, our hearts were broken by the church.

Although I had expected this outcome, it still felt like a cannonball to the chest, particularly because the vote was so close. In order for a canon change to be accepted, it must pass through two consecutive synods by a two-thirds majority in all three houses: the house of laity, the house of clergy, and the house of bishops.

The plain facts were that it did pass by a two-thirds majority in the houses of laity and clergy.

There was a holdout from, as I understand, two bishops out of fourteen or so.

Two.

Three of our country’s bishops whom we know to be affirming were kept from us by illness, including my own bishop, Archbishop Melissa Skelton, who I was told tried her best to wrangle a day pass from hospital out of her doctors, but could not.

I stood there, crying, as others wept or simply fell silent.

And then – blessing of blessings – my friend C stated firmly, “Okay. Now let’s go do some kind of service.”

“What should we do?” some of us mourned.

“I had thought of singing songs on the steps of the law courts across the street,” I mumbled.

“No. Let’s do a Eucharist. And do it right in front of the hotel,” C said.

Of course C was right. It had to be. We were Anglican. This is what we do.

And just like that, we fanned out, gathering up the snacks, books, crayons, and other things we had brought to construct our safe haven for the night. It probably took about ten to fifteen minutes. Many hands and so on.

I got separated briefly, with an armload of cookies and Kinder Eggs, but found my friends again in front of the shining fountain before the Sheraton Wall Centre, where General Synod was being held.

I dumped the food at the fountain and texted my husband to come and be with us. Another priest went to fetch elements, returning with a huge hand-crafted loaf and a bottle of de-alcoholized wine from IGA. C laid out a rainbow scarf and lit candles, and we began to sing.

“And we will walk on / Knowing God is always with us / The wilderness is holy ground

And through uncertainty / There’s so much possibility to be found.”

Voices rose and fell over the crashing beauty of the fountain, reminding us of our baptism, which, no matter where or when it happened, through the power of God’s love, happened at the river, the beautiful the beautiful river.

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” I said, leaning into every word.

“And also with you.”

My husband had arrived, and I noticed him standing off to the side. Although he is not a believer, I assumed he would join us, but he didn’t. It took me a little while to realize that he was standing sentinel, making sure that all of us were safe, and watching our body language to make sure that no-one who joined us (and there were a few) were the kind of folks we wouldn’t want to be there.

Where the sermon would have been, we shared. We spoke our truths.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been so angry. “I feel like someone shot me,” I said, and I couldn’t help my voice rising. “I am tired of this! I am tired of fighting when I know that God has blessed us!”

Others were numb. Some could not share at all.

As C shared, a woman from a Newfoundland diocese, who had told us her bishops were drafting a letter of support, came and hugged me tight, and whispered to me, “Hang in there. I’m being ordained in a year and a half, and I am coming for them.”

When we had exhausted our voices, we decided to get on with it. I counted our circle of sharing as prayers and affirmation of faith, and we prepared to break bread.

Bishop Lynne McNaughton of the diocese of Kootenay held my phone for me as I read from the Book of Alternative Services. About halfway through, the page got lost, and we went a little off-script. There was laughter.

I insisted that Bishop Lynne be the one to share out the bread. She was the only bishop that joined us. I wanted all those gathered to see that they had bishops who would not betray their vulnerability and their trust, who would feed them no matter their pronouns and no matter their loves.

As we went around, the circle sang, “All we need is here, all we need is here.”

I blessed us: “Live without fear. Your Creator has made you holy, has always welcomed you, and loves you like a good mother. Go in peace to follow the good road, and the Sacred Three to save, to shield, and to surround you all your life, all the days of your life.”

“Amen.”

C raised a triumphant hand. “Go in peace, be gay, do crimes.”

We howled with laughter. “Thanks be to God!”

I picked up the very large remains of the broken loaf. “Church! I need your help!”

It all got eaten. There were no baskets left over.

Perhaps we are the baskets left over, a living testament to there always being enough, to there always being a place at the table.

The church broke my heart, and yet somehow, at the same time, I was so, so proud to be church, in the dim electric light and crashing waves of that fountain.