Howe Caverns
My experience as a lesbian and as a Christian starts where all such stories start - in darkness. In one sense I refer to the darkness of the womb, for I have been all of this since before I was born. In another sense, however I mean of course the darkness of confusion, because nothing in my girlhood in a stereotypic Irish Catholic family prepared me to integrate sexuality and spirituality - much less an "alternative" sexuality! These matters were never spoken of, but heterosexuality was assumed, by family, community, and so by myself.
I am sure I never heard the words lesbian or gay growing up, but somehow absorbed the shame associated with being "that way," most likely from the pamphlet rack at the back of church. Nevertheless, I grew up in the church and it nourished my mind and spirit. When I later met the person I knew I wanted to marry, and it was another woman - I was immeasurably shaken, and began the journey of integration of sexuality and spirituality - but it began with the disintegration of all that I had held most dear up to that point.
A few years later, I had the great experience of visiting Howe Caverns in Central New York State. I had always been fascinated by the idea of these caves and rock formations underground, but this was my first visit. For $5.00 you get an elevator ride down 20 stories - the equivalent of a modest skyscraper, only down. I was thrilled by the tour of stalagmites and stalactites, the opalescent limestone, the constant year-round temperature of 57 degrees. What really surprised me, though, was the river. I didn't know that - there's a river running through the cavern, not stagnant, but flowing water - it's this river that has, over the millennia, carved out the cavern.
I was satisfied with having finally seen stalagmites and stalactites first hand, happy that I had made the time to take in this little natural wonder, but what stayed with me from the trip was that river. It haunted me, and became quite a useful image for me, in terms of articulating my experience of spirituality, as a lesbian in a sort of post-christian point in my life.
I came to think of spirituality as a great underground river - this underground river flowing through the whole human family, and the various religions as wells that tap down into that river from the surface. So, around these wells we learn as children to celebrate holidays and to associate the great truths we were taught with the seasons of the year. For example, near the darkest night of the year, Christians celebrate the birth of Jesus who is called the light of the world - and almost every culture on earth holds similar feasts celebrating the return of the light. So likewise as we in the Northern Hemisphere experience spring as rebirth, the celebrations of Easter and Passover became intimately connected to the experience of spring.
These experiences of religion on the "surface," around the well, take us down to the river - to the deep human experience of spirituality and connection to something beyond ourselves. The well gives us names for it, but at the river we are speechless.
So, when we lesbian and gay folk are told that we are sinners, that we are unacceptable as members of the community or as ministers, or that our families are defective - the pain of this rejection is not only that, but is the pain of loss and dislocation as well. The loss of access to our spirituality can be as painful as the loss of a family, or of one's whole culture.
Some of us find other paths, other wells, and find again a point of access to that river. But for some, those images and symbols etched deep in us in childhood continue to have the most power, and we resolve to find our way back home - without denying ourselves - either our gay and lesbian selves or our spiritual selves.
For those of us who were raised in the christian traditions this raises some interesting challenges: "Christian" is a scary word in gay & lesbian communities. Prominent "Christians" are often heard spreading disinformation about us in the media, railing against our right to exist, lobbying for the homophobia agenda, operating treatment centers to "cure" us. But "Christian" is also in some sense the name of my family of origin. I found that I could escape being Christian about as successfully as I could deny being Irish, or stop being one of the Swift kids.
As a catholic christian, I learned my prayers before I went to school, the smell of incense and the swish of vestments are among my earliest memories. The rhythms of the church seasons of repentance, celebration and waiting are part of my blood. I can't change that, that's what takes me down to the river.
As an adult, it's important to go beyond these primal memories. To go from the well to the river below. As a Christian, what I know about the river, I know about from the person of Jesus. That's where I found the key to reclaiming the name "Christian" from the forces of hate.
So the journey through the darkness of confusion, back home to a place of community and faith, was for me a process of reclaiming, reaffirming, owning my experience. My experience of my own humanity (sexuality + spirituality finally not in conflict) and God's word saying "It is good." Who can say exactly how that happened? It is the story of a life, it happens under the surface, like the secret life of mushrooms, so much more than ever meets the eye.
My partner Barbara and I found our way to the Episcopal Church where we are able to be open, and where we have found not only acceptance, but real participation in the life of the community. This has been soothing and healing, but the journey goes on. Just as Jesus sent the ones he healed to serve, or to carry a message, not just back to their same lives.
I am proud of the journey that the Church is also on, and pray that we will have the courage to live the truth of inclusion that the Spirit has shown us in community.
Betsy Swift is a parishioner at St. David’s, Cullowhee.
The Rev. Susan Sherard was both pragmatic and inspiring as she spoke about listening.
