So much has happened this week that it’s hard to know where to start. As a social worker, I’m trained in the stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But, this week has been a real life lesson in those stages as we grieve the death of the United Methodist Church. The thing about grief is that it isn’t a magic formula that follows a neat and tidy order. Grief skips stages, spends inequitable time on some parts, and sometimes requires that you start all over, or take two steps back.  I’ve been through all the stages this week, and I’ve doubled back on a couple of them- all except acceptance.  I’m not there just yet.

The General Conference of the United Methodist Church voted this week not only to continue the ban on same-sex marriages in the church and the ban of the ordination of gay clergy, but they doubled down and increased the penalties for our clergy who defy the rules. I watched most of the livestream of the conference and was crushed as it progressed over four days. It was excruciating to listen to some of the speeches against allowing full inclusion for out LGBTQIA+ community. I won’t dignify some of the hate spoken against inclusion from the floor of the conference or the self-righteous cries of persecution claimed by those doing the actual persecuting.  However, there were some truly holy moments during the conference. We witnessed young people and old people; clergy and laity; and members of the LGBTQIA+ community and their allies standing together for love.  They never stopped trying- even when defeat was inevitable, even when it seemed futile.  They never gave up.  There was testimony, pleading, preaching, singing, and unbelievable courage spoken in that place. There were holy tears and holy protests.  They did not go quietly or complacently.  They stood until the end for what they believed the UMC should be.

On Monday, the One Church Plan, which would have allowed for same sex marriage in the church as well as ordination for gay clergy, was defeated in committee.  There are significantly more details to the plan, but it was our one shot for inclusion at this conference.  Monday night I found myself in the depression part of grief.  I was sad to my core and cried ugly tears. I was both stunned and unsurprised at the same time.  I think that I knew in my bones that this coming, but I desperately did not want it to.  I tried to tell myself in the week leading up to the conference that I was distraught because of the debate and the constant discussion.  I told our pastor that the outcome, whatever it would be, would be easier than the debate.  I was wrong. So. Very. Wrong. The outcome was worse.  The ugly sobs came as that plan was voted down and one of our pastors present for the vote texted myself and my daughter, “Know that you are loved.”

Monday night was Bible study.  Part of me felt that it was the last place I wanted to be after hearing scripture weaponized on the floor of the conference that same day. But a bigger part of me knew that I needed to be in church on this night and that the fellowship would be good for my soul. We’re studying Rachel Held Evans’ book “Inspired.” We talked of Jesus and how he loved the marginalized.  We talked of the Bible and how it fits into that love. We learned of thick and thin faith.  And then we were asked a question- “Why Choose Christianity?”  In the pain of the day, my initial internal response was “Good question. On this day, I have no idea why.” But I did know.  Even before I joined the church, I believed in God, and I believed in love, and I believed in hope. Christ is love. Christ is hope.  So, through the disappointment, I am a Christian because I believe in love and I believe in hope. No one else gets to define that for me.

That answer started a march toward my next stage of grief- anger. I’ve described myself many times as naively hopeful, but I don’t think that’s accurate.  I work in a field where I’ve witnessed the harsh realities of this world and the devastating consequences of people’s behaviors.  I’ve experienced enough in life to know that there is a lot of pain and betrayal and abandonment in this world.  No, I am not naïve.  I am defiant. I will not give up my hope in spite of what the world, and even the church, may throw at it. It’s defiant hope and I will cling to it. I spent Tuesday watching the livestream of the final day of the conference.  I watched with bitterness and a small amount of my renamed hope.  Most of my sadness had turned to anger, but I still cried when they passed the traditionalist plan- this plan that worsened the whole condition of our church and eviscerated the souls of so many beloved children of God.  I cried watching the anguish caught on facebook live streams, but not the official UMC livestream.  The UMC livestream was turned off for that part.  The conference ended at 6:30 pm. As it turned out, the conference had to end by 6:30 because there was a monster truck rally rolling in that night in the very same room.  Make of that what you will. 

By the end of conference, my anger was full-on.  I decided that the last words of the day were not going to be of hate.  I was not going to let the voices of 438 delegates have the final say. Those who know me well, know that I may occasionally let a cuss word slip, but profanity is not a general part of my vocabulary.  And there are a couple of words in the dictionary that almost never come out of my mouth. Friends, I let out some words that had been dormant for quite some time.  I even typed them.  I may have told my 17 year-old to get some rainbow decorations on her way home because we were going to make a statement of what I felt those 438 delegates could partake in with themselves that evening.  I may have sent a similar text to my husband requesting that he get gummy bears and ice cream because we were “going to celebrate the beauty in our midst and validate every soul’s worth that they tried to destroy today.” In that same text I may have also used some colorful verbs and nouns to convey my anger as I stated what I thought about a delegation thinking that they can determine my child’s worth.  I might have used some colorful language to describe the anger I felt at the assault lodged against our UMC pastors, and their livelihoods, and their life’s work by a group of 438 people. I am not saying that my response was a Christian one, but it was a human one.  That night my teenager cooked for us, and we blasted Lady Gaga, and we danced, and we put on pink sparkly hats, and we decorated with rainbow balloons and flags, and we played Valentine bingo, and our little family of five loved each other and celebrated each other and decidedly made “love” the last word of the day.

The aftermath of the General Conference has been a mix of emotions and various stages of grief.  I believe that beauty will rise from these ashes. Sometimes something has to die for new life to be born. I absolutely believe that we will be a church that serves and cares for all within the walls of the church, and carries that love out beyond the walls to serve in our communities and our world. It is what we are called to do.  Grace Avenue’s response to the General Conference decision was one of love, and inclusion, and yes, some defiant hope.  (I’ve linked to our lead pastor’s statement below.)  Our digital sign on Main Street proclaimed that, “All Means All” set against a rainbow background.  All of Grace Avenue- our clergy and our staff and our congregants have vowed to proclaim that EVERYONE has a seat at God’s table- without exception. For me, the sadness comes back every time I witness the pain of others as they wrestle with what this means for them and their loved ones.  At the end of the day, we are a family. It is both reassuring and heartbreaking to grieve with others who grieve. It is also holy.

That bring us to today, and today the role of my grief therapist is being played by Brandi Carlile.  She has been on my playlist non-stop since the Grammy’s and I’ve listened to her album “By The Way, I Forgive You” on repeat since early this morning.  I swear almost every song is applicable to this week. Music has a way of doing that.  It meets you where you are and transforms to speak truth to things that it was never intended to.  The title song speaks to where I think I will be someday- looking back and thankful for the pain as something beautiful was born of it.  I’ve blasted the “The Joke” numerous times over the last week and cried every time.  It speaks both to my sadness and determined defiance.  “Hold Out Your Hand” and “Harder To Forgive” were decidedly dedicated to the WCA and may or may not have been accompanied by an Unchristian-like gesture and some more profanity.  But, then I got to “Party of One,” the last track on the album.  The album cut is a solo with just Carlile singing.  Somehow hearing this song on this morning during this week just absolutely devastated me and brought back the ugly sobs.  The song is about a relationship and the struggles that come with loving someone.  She speaks of loving someone completely including the beauty, hurt, pain, struggle, and exhaustion that comes with it.  She speaks the desire to leave that relationship and be done, and then in the end, ultimately decides to come home because the love is worth it.  It ends with a repeated line of “I am yours, I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.”  And yes- I am God’s and I am the church’s, and relationships are hard, and sometimes you have to fight and struggle to figure it out and make it right.  But, this week I witnessed beautiful people fighting and struggling to make sure that the church is a home for all people. I believe that we will make it right, and we will come home together because, as the church, we belong to each other and we belong to God.  They don’t get to take that from us.

Called General Conference 2019

It’s been a strange and difficult week.  One in which I’ve found myself discombobulated, scattered, and mixing up schedules left and right.  I don’t think we’ve eaten a single meal at home this week, as that would have required planning and preparation- neither of which I’ve had the wherewithal to do. For the next few day in St. Louis, United Methodists from around the globe are gathering to determine the fate of the UMC and the LGBTQ members in their midst. To say this is personal is an understatement. I’ve felt this vote coming this week with every fiber of my being.

Last Sunday I had an anxiety attack while sitting in the choir loft at church during the 11:00 service.  I haven’t had an anxiety attack in 7 years.  As is customary, it happened when I thought I was doing just fine.  I had already listened to one uplifting sermon at 9:45 in which our executive minister stood up and affirmed all of our LGBTQ friends and family, and their place in the church. “All Means All” was the mantra of the day, and I felt so much love and support from all of our church family.  In my second worship service of the day, we opened worship with Mark Miller’s “Welcome.”  It is a beautiful and uplifting song, and as the title indicates, it welcomes all to worship together.  During the sermon, our lead pastor made the same affirmation and reiterated that “All Means All.”  

And then we were reminded that our beloved Mark Miller, who has given so much to the church with his time, talents, and gifts, cannot be ordained into ministry or have his marriage celebrated in the church.  And that was when I realized that I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t keep the tears from coming.  I convinced myself that if I could just manage not to sob or wipe away tears then maybe it wouldn’t be noticeable to the congregation. I tried to will the tears to stop with every ounce of stubbornness in me, and I dug my nails into my arms. There are times when physical pain can ease the emotions ever so slightly.  The emotions passed temporarily and I managed the rest of the service with minimal tears. I made it to my car faster than has ever happened in the history of our church-going.  Typically it takes us a good 20-30 minutes to make it to the parking lot.  I’m pretty sure that I made it in under 3 minutes flat from the choir loft to my car.  And then I sat there and sobbed big ugly sobs. And that’s how this week has gone.  I’m fine, and then out of the blue, I’m not. 

Monday night I had the opportunity to see Nadia Bolz Weber speak at the Cathedral of Hope.  The energy in the sanctuary that night was amazing.  The love, and pain, and pain transforming through love, was palpable.  During the Q and A, a gentleman stated that he was Methodist and spoke of the vote this weekend. He spoke of the heartbreak of loving his daughter who identifies as gay, and loving his church, and the despair of figuring out what to do if the vote does not go as hoped. I was sitting across the room and just thought, “Same, my friend. Same.”

Tuesday was a blur as I worked on 3 hours sleep and walked like a zombie through the day. I started binge-watching West Wing again, which always helps to remind me that there is still hope for humanity yet. Wednesday was long and choir practice helped.  But then insomnia set in and once again Thursday rolled around with far too few hours in my sleep bank. Thursday, I met a friend for lunch- almost 45 minutes late because I had written down the time wrong and had a whole lot of trouble navigating the morning paperwork that had to get done. Thursday night brought about more West Wing episodes.

Friday, I was awake by 3:00 am, but could not bring myself to get out of bed until 9:00 am. I truly can’t account for the 6 hours in between other than trying to sort out and solve all of the ills of this world only to end up more tired and disheartened.  But when I finally got up, I remembered a necklace.  It was a necklace that belonged to my Aunt Ruth and I decided that I needed to wear it. And then I decided that I needed to hold it in my hands. And then halfway through the day, I realized that it had become an unusual set of prayer beads for me.  

I came into possession of the necklace over 7 years ago when I picked it out to wear to her funeral.  It was among other costume jewelry that Aunt Ruth had given my mother toward the end of her life. I kept the necklace after that day and have worn it on occasion since.  I have no idea if the necklace was a gift to her or if it was purchased as the perfect accessory for a particular outfit.  I don’t know if Aunt Ruth liked it, or if she wore it often, or if it held any value at all for her.  But, I know that it was hers, and that it reminds me of her, and therefore it holds value for me. 

Aside from my mother, Aunt Ruth was the only Methodist in our family when I was growing up.  On both sides, my extended family was decidedly Southern Baptist.  Aunt Ruth was the most devout and devoted Methodist I’ve ever known.  She poured herself into the church and was not afraid to speak her mind if she felt things were out of order.  She had a steady sense of right and wrong that was not swayed by popular opinion, or by fear of the loss of position.  The only thing more important to her than the church was her family. My Aunt Ruth was the oldest of 5 children.  She was a wife, a mother, a grandmother, and she more than lived into her biblical name.  She was a woman of incredible strength and grace. She was fiercely loyal. She was unafraid to work hard and let her voice be heard. She was elegant and timeless, and one of the people that I admired most in my life.  There have been so many times since she died that I wished I could have her counsel or seek the wisdom she gained from a life well lived. Throughout this week, I’ve wished for her presence.  The last couple of days, I’ve felt it.  I don’t know how Aunt Ruth would feel about the vote at General Conference this week.  My guess is that it would make her sad to see her beloved church in turmoil.  I believe with my whole heart that she would fight for my Rebekah and her place in this church- the Methodist Church that she lovingly served her whole life.

This morning, I ended the week by attending a memorial service for a fellow choir member.  We celebrated her life well lived and the contributions she made to all those around her.  And then I went to pray in the prayer room at Grace Avenue, holding my newly claimed prayer beads. I went to pray for clarity, for love, for strength, for guidance. I went to pray for the delegates in St. Louis, who are currently  having hard conversations, holding tensions, searching for answers, and trying to move forward in love. 

I have been in this room at least a hundred times over the years. And yet in all that time, I never noticed the details of the stained-glass cross in the center of the window.  The stained-glass cross in the center of the window is filled with a rainbow of colors and sits under the arch of a rainbow in panes above it.  The sunlight shone so brightly through it that it glowed and cast rainbows all around. And then the sobs came- again. I sat there staring at this window that I’ve seen a hundred times, and yet somehow have never seen clearly.  I absolutely felt Aunt Ruth beside me with a loving presence of reassurance. Here I was surrounded in this place by love and rainbows and legacies of the past and promises of the future, but I could not find the words to pray- so I simply offered up my tears as my prayer.

Lord, in your mercy, hear my prayer.

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A few disclaimers before you read this:

*This was really more of a therapy exercise for me to work through my feelings, but I decided that part of that process was putting it out into the universe. It was written at two different times. Part one was a recount of trying to figure out how I got here and part two was trying to reconcile conflicting feelings. These thoughts are mine and mine only.  They are not representative of anyone else in our family or our local church. My daughter had full approval/veto options for any mention of her in this blog post before I sent it out into the world.

*It’s also important to note here that my disillusion/angst is the with the global United Methodist Church, not with our local church.  Grace Avenue continues to be the sanctuary that it has always been for our family.  I know that every single member of my family is welcomed, loved, and wanted.  I am very proud of the way that our clergy and staff have addressed the upcoming vote. They’ve made sure that our congregation is informed.  We’ve been encouraged to discuss concerns and feelings about the upcoming vote and to listen with open hearts.

*This is not a place for debate- just a place to put my thoughts.  I respectfully ask that if you wish to debate any part of this, please meet me in person for coffee and we’ll have a discussion. I’m always up for coffee.

Part 1

The United Methodist Church is coming to an important crossroads next month.  At the General Conference scheduled for February in St. Louis, the delegates from the UMC will vote on the church’s stance on homosexuality. And while I’ve attended meetings, read the plans, listened to explanations, and read countless essays and thoughts online about the positions and votes to be had, I would never claim to fully understand all of the ins-and-outs of the plans, the repercussions- both known and unknown, or the enormity of the politics behind the votes.  This is the part of the church that I never liked.  This is the part of the church that had me staunchly in the anti-organized religion camp in my 20s.  The politics, the hypocrisy, the humanness of it all.  It’s what led me to declare that I would never take my wedding vows in a church. (I’ve always believed that God has a sense of humor. We did get married in a Methodist church, but that is a story for another day.)

My husband was always much more willing than me to embrace the church.  I felt uneasy and possibly slightly angry any time that I entered a church building- which was rare, and only for holidays or funerals.  It was our oldest child, who was 7 at the time, that ultimately led us there.  She attended a week of vacation Bible camp at Grace Avenue, which seemed like a great way to introduce her to God without too much commitment. I figured that would be a good chance for her to learn some basics and then she could make up her own mind about religion down the road.  On the Friday of camp, she declared 1.) that she had learned just about everything that there was to know about God and 2.) that she wanted to sing in worship with her fellow camp attendees on Sunday. I couldn’t really say no to that since she had put in all the hard work to learn everything about God in one week.  So, we gathered our girls, a diaper bag, and my apprehension, and we went to church on that Sunday morning. We’ve said many times that we knew that this church was different from the moment we stepped into our first worship service.  I sent a message to a friend that afternoon that they would be pleased to know that lightning did not strike the church when I walked through the door. At Grace Avenue I felt at home in church for the first time in my life.  Our family started attending every week. My husband would have joined the church the first month we were there, but I was not ready. Part of joining the church was reciting vows in front of the congregation. (I’m not actually sure that is the proper name for what we did, but it seemed like vows.)  The thing was- I was not willing to recite words that I didn’t mean, and I had to be very sure that I could stand up and honestly speak those declarations before we joined the church. I spent hours in late-night conversations with colleagues who were committed to their own churches.  I hashed out my concerns and issues with the Bible and with theology.  I tried to understand the concept of the Holy Trinity.  I tried to reconcile my previous feelings about organized religion with the experience that I was having now in this particular church.  I joined the choir and was amazed to learn that the songs we sang corresponded to the scriptures and sermons each week. (Who knew?)  I found this both smart and very helpful in figuring out more about this religion thing. Finally, after months of me wrestling with it all, we stood in front of the congregation and became official members of Grace Avenue United Methodist Church– but we had become part of the Grace Avenue family long before that.

Of all the gifts that I am thankful for in my life, our church ranks up there just behind my girls.  It has welcomed us, loved us, nurtured us, and challenged us.  I have written before that I feel our church is a literal sanctuary for our family.  I have learned to pray, to worship, to believe, and to love.  I never fully understood community until we found our church.  It’s part of what makes this vote so painful. It’s hard to reconcile the love that we’ve received from Grace Avenue UMC with the stance on human sexuality taken the by the global United Methodist Church.

Early on after joining the church, we took a Methodism class.  It was there that I learned the United Methodist Church’s official stance on homosexuality.  There is a line in the Book of Discipline that deems “The practice of homosexuality is incompatible with Christian teaching.”  This means that same-sex marriages cannot not take place in a UMC church and that UMC clergy cannot perform same-sex marriages.  It also means that openly gay persons cannot be ordained into ministry. I had a hard time reconciling this with the “Open Hearts. Open Minds. Open Doors” motto of the UMC. The line on homosexuality was added to the Book of Discipline in 1972- four years before I was born. I felt some odd comfort with the fact that it was antiquated.  It was an old rule.  Times had changed.  People had evolved. Our understanding is deeper now.  In my mind, this was an inevitable change that was bound to come soon. I felt reassured knowing that there were a growing number of Methodists working to change it.

We took that class almost 10 years ago.  In the decade since, the UMC’s stance on human sexuality has continued to be debated, but remains unchanged.  This will hopefully change in February.  Human sexuality is the only matter that will be voted on at the upcoming special session of the General Conference.  Right now, it is unclear how the UMC will move forward after the vote and unclear what the UMC will look like in the future.  I’ve been caught off guard by how emotional this vote has become for me.  I’ve always been in favor of full inclusiveness in the church.  As the vote draws closer, my feelings are now raw.  It was one thing to have an antiquated rule on the books. It’s another to have people arguing against inclusion in 2019.  It’s another thing altogether when it affects your child.  I can’t adequately express the pit that I feel in my stomach or the tears that I’ve cried reading and hearing that the UMC feels that something about my child is incompatible with Christian teaching. 

It’s unimaginable to me that anyone can look at her and see anything but a beautiful, valued, worthy child of God. This child that brought us to church and has offered so much back to the church.  My child with a heart for missions. My child who will hands-down give up every other summer vacation or activity to repair houses on the annual UMARMY trip.  My child who happily sleeps on a church floor every summer and works without air conditioning.  My child who was thrilled to learn how to cut tile with a wet saw, and welcomed the challenge to build wheelchair ramps in 100 degree weather.  My child who comes back every year telling all the stories of where she saw God as she worked- and how she saw God in the people that she met. My child who volunteers for summer camps, sings in the choir, serves on the youth council, and leads Bible studies.  My child is a precious gift from God. This child- and everything about her, is not only compatible with Christian teaching, but embodies what it means to be a Christian.  She serves and loves and believes that all are worthy of God’s light and grace.  I can assure you that there is no question of her worthiness to God, but I do question whether the United Methodist Church is worthy of her.

Part 2

God speaks to us in all kinds of ways.  And sometimes God speaks to us through a book from 2013 written by a tattooed Lutheran pastor.  My beloved Jen Hatmaker ends her podcasts by asking, “What is saving your life right now?” Well, chapter 5 of Pastrix by Nadia Bolz-Weber is saving my life right now. 

Seriously, I’ve listened to chapter 5 four times now- twice by myself, once with my husband, and once with my oldest daughter. After hearing chapter 5, I bought the paperback edition.  I’ve now read, re-read, and highlighted chapter 5. It was chapter 5 that helped me to sort out some of the feelings that have been enveloping me about this vote.  It helped me to realize that my emotions are not only about my daughter, but also about my struggle with organized religion and the role that I now play in it.  I spent my 20s adamantly opposed to organized religion believing that more often than not, the church did more harm than good.  My vision of organized religion was that it was hypocritical and superficial at best, and abusive at worst.

However, when we found Grace Avenue, I thought that I was proven wrong.  I found a place where questions were welcomed, we were not expected to check our intellect at the door, differences of opinion were okay, and open discussions were encouraged.  I found a place that believed in taking church outside of the walls of a building and into the lives of people in the community. I found a place where people shared the message of love and of Jesus, not just by preaching, but by serving.  Service without strings.  Service in the name of love. I found a church that dedicated itself to eradicating homelessness in whatever form it presents itself- literally.  Grace Avenue adopted this as their mission statement, believing that every single person deserves an emotional home, a spiritual home, and a physical home. At Grace Avenue, my family was loved and nurtured, and we truly found a home. 

I’ve come to love the Methodism that I never experienced fully until we came to Grace Avenue. I’ve come to love the traditions and the rituals.  In my 20s I refused communion because I felt hypocritical taking part in a ritual that held no meaning for me. I’ve since come to cherish that sacred time. Some of my holiest moments have been taking communion with my family and kneeling at the rail hand-in-hand with my husband for prayer and reflection. Receiving communion from and offering communion to my children, my friends, and my husband are experiences that I’m truly grateful for. Communion is a sacrament that is open to everyone.  It’s an assurance that there is a seat at God’s table with no conditions or restrictions.  Everyone is welcome. Everyone is worthy. I witnessed my oldest child’s journey to confirmation. I watched as she grew in her faith, challenged beliefs, and figured out what she knew to be true for herself.  We stood beside her as she was confirmed and became an official member of the United Methodist Church. I witnessed the baptism of all of my children, and my husband- and those, again, were some of my holiest moments.  I still cannot witness a baptism without tears. It’s such a beautiful promise that we make to those being baptized.  We promise to love and support them. We promise to help them along in the journey of life. We welcome them with open arms into our faith community. 

And yet the global United Methodist Church is still debating how to love and support our LGBTQ brothers and sisters.  They are debating the extent to which they are welcome in our faith community.  Our LGBTQ friends and family are welcome to God’s table, but not to the marriage altar and not to the pulpit.  As it stands right now, my child, who has dedicated so much of her life serving as a Methodist ambassador, will not be allowed to marry or preach in the United Methodist Church.  Part of my struggle is that I am the one who introduced her to the United Methodist Church- where she is now hearing her worthiness debated on a national stage and in blog posts and in Twitter debates. My fear of organized religion being damaging and hypocritical is playing out in real time. And it’s taking my daughter along with it.  It’s rocked my assurance that I found the exception to my previously thought rule.  I do not believe that exclusion is how we serve as the hands and feet of Christ.  God deems us all worthy.  Jesus did not exclude.  Jesus invited all in. 

So, now I return to Chapter 5 in Pastrix by Nadia Bolz-Weber.  This one chapter covers so much so beautifully.  She reminds us that every human community will disappoint you and the church is certainly no exception to that.  She reminds us that God’s grace is given freely and applied to all circumstances.  She reminds us that the beauty often lies on the other side of disappointment when grace has been let in. God can make all things new.  In the book, referring to the Lutheran Church prior to 2009, (but applicable also to the Methodist Church today) it was said that “There’s not enough wrong with it to leave and there’s just enough wrong with it to stay. Fight to change it.” Nadia Bolz-Weber reminds us that our “value in the kingdom of God comes not from the approval of a denomination…but in having been come-and-gotten by God.” And she reminds us that God is always choosing us– just as we are. It’s the thing that has brought me the most comfort during a time of uncertainty and pain.

I don’t know how the vote will go in February.  I don’t know what the future of the United Methodist Church will look like, and I don’t know what our family’s role will be within it.  I do know that Grace Avenue will continue to be Grace Avenue, for which I am very thankful. I know that I will appreciate the gifts that the UMC has given to my family. I know that the holy moments that I’ve experienced as part of the Methodist tradition will always be holy moments. I know that I believe in grace and the beautiful community that is within the UMC- those who agree with me and those who don’t.  I know that if the vote does not go the way that I hope, I will fight to change it. And I know that each one of us will continue to be a child of God- perfectly imperfect and loved beyond all measure.  And for now, that is all I can know.  God’s grace will have to cover the rest.