"Don’t Be Afraid"

Matthew 10:16-31

As I thought about preaching this evening, I felt drawn to the one commandment repeated more times in the Bible than any other: “Fear not.” Or, depending on which translation you read, “Don’t be afraid.”

There are a vast number of “Don’t be afraids” from which to choose. There’s the “Don’t be afraid” that God says to Abram, while commanding him to leave his home for parts unknown. There’s the “Don’t be afraid” that Moses says to the Israelites, just when it looks like Pharaoh’s army is about to overtake them. There’s the “Don’t be afraid” that the angel says to Mary, just before telling her that she is about to become pregnant with the son of God.

But I found myself dwelling on Matthew 10:29-31: “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Creator. And even the hairs of your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; for you are of more value than many sparrows.”

These verses fall within a passage that speaks to me about the Christian life in a way that has special resonance in light of my experience as a lesbian who lost my credentials. I think these words of Jesus help us to see three very basic things about how to be a faithful Christian that may have a particular relevance for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender Christians – but that all of us, no matter what our sexual orientation may be, need to hear.

The first thing: You have to assume that in your life, you will be asked to take a risk. Jesus suggests that this is simply a part of the life of discipleship and you can count on it, saying, “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves.” He doesn’t say, “If they hand you over;” he says, “When.” To be sent out into the world as a bearer of the Gospel means you won’t always be understood, you won’t always be appreciated, you won’t always be welcome, and sometimes you will get in trouble and even face persecution.

People who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender and have made decisions about coming out on the job or to their families may know a little about the inevitability of trouble. We aren’t the only ones, and in the United States those of us who are gay or lesbian but also enjoy racial or class privilege are certainly not the ones who know the most. In the vulnerability of coming out under adverse circumstances or in uncomfortable settings, we may be a little like those who stand up for the rights of the poor, or against racism, or for human rights. If you tell the truth, if you are truly representing the Gospel in your daily life, one of the ways you will know you are really doing it and not just going through the motions is that at some point, you will begin to get in some trouble.

For about seven years of my life, I had an uneasy bargain with the United Methodist Church. Those who were in positions of authority over me pretended not to know that I was a lesbian, and as long as I didn’t say anything, they were able to treat my sexual orientation as none of their business. In my local congregation, a place where I had been connected since college, many or perhaps most people knew I was a lesbian and some of them knew my partner, but I didn’t talk about it from the pulpit. I talked about the “issue” of homosexuality and my perspective on it as a justice issue, but I never talked about it personally.

Over time, it just began to seem obvious to me that I was called to come out. I had a feeling of “If not me, here, and now, then who, and where, and when?” In my local congregation, I was in a place where any losses I might suffer would be well cushioned. I had the support of my colleagues in ministry and my family and friends. I was serving in the same Annual Conference where I had grown up, so many of the pastors in the Conference, conservative as well as liberal, had known me since I was four years old, and loved me and my family, so maybe for some of them knowing that I was a lesbian would present more of a challenge to their traditional views than knowing the same thing about a stranger.

The Christian life requires taking risks in faith, and in my life, it just began to seem more and more clear that coming out was the particular risk I was called to take. I believed with all my heart that God had created me gay for a reason, and loved me just as I was, and was calling people of all sexual orientations to create a more just and inclusive church. And it was getting to feel more and more like long past time to start living that way, for everyone to see.

I don’t say that every gay minister should come out of the closet publicly. I don’t say that every gay, lesbian, bisexual or transgender person who could lose a job by coming out ought to do it anyway. In my own situation, coming out publicly was something I needed to do in order to keep growing as a Christian. I was able to do it from a place of strength – I knew I had the emotional and spiritual reserves to get me through whatever might come next. And it was pastorally appropriate in the congregation I was serving, whose members had advocated for full inclusiveness for many years, and were yearning themselves to take the next step in their witness. There were a lot of factors that made my situation special.

But every pastor, and every congregation, and every Christian, is called to take some risk. The nature of our world is that some risks will make the news, and others don’t. But there is something God will call you to do, and give you the strength to do, that will cause you to put your security or your finances or your reputation on the line. Even if it seems invisible to most of the world, it will take no more and no less courage than what someone else does that lands them on the front page of the newspaper.

You might already know exactly what the risk is that you are called to take in faith – maybe it’s been nagging at you for years. Or you might have no idea now, and then tomorrow find yourself in a situation where you have to make a choice, and you will know the right thing to do and you will know that it’s going to cost you something to do it. It might be coming out to a family member. It might be refusing to do something for your job that some people say is “just business” but you know isn’t right.

Whatever form it takes, at some point, being true to who you are and to what you believe will lead you to make a decision, and that decision will cost you something. It’s part of the Christian life. It’s the way of living Jesus showed us.

Which brings me to my second point: Become absolutely clear about what they can take away from you, and what they can’t. Jesus says, “Do not fear those who can kill the body. Rather, fear the one who can kill both body and soul in hell.” In another place, Jesus also says, “Woe to the one who gains the whole world, but loses their soul.”

All of us are vulnerable. All of us have jobs or credentials or reputations or relationships that we could lose. Sometimes we hold on to those things as if our lives depended on them. But our lives don’t always really depend on those things in the way we think they do.

When I came out, it was clear to me that I could lose my credentials as a minister – in fact, it was clear to me that I probably would lose them. At this point in history, no matter how wrong I may think they are, the laws of the United Methodist Church are what they are.

But it was also clear to me that there were other things I could lose if I remained in the closet. I could probably have continued in the United Methodist Church until retirement with the same uneasy compromise of don’t ask, don’t tell. And that just wasn’t the life I wanted to live. It wasn’t the person I wanted to be. I didn’t want to continue inflicting that soul-killing stress on myself and my family.

They could take my credentials. But I did not have to give them my integrity. I did not have to give them my soul. I did not have to give them forty years of unhappy service as a closeted minister. And I did not have to give up the knowledge I carried in my heart that God created me, loved me, accepted me, and called me as a lesbian person.

I’ve been discovering that it makes a difference now for me to be present and visible in the life of the larger church as a baptized person who is trying to work out my own salvation and my calling, and as a person who was an ordained pastor and may someday even be one again but who right now is simply seeking to live out the priesthood of all believers. I live out my faith as a Sunday School teacher, as a foster parent, and as someone who from time to time has special opportunities to write, to speak, and to preach.

Last week in Philadelphia the Methodists from Eastern Pennsylvania met for Annual Conference, and I was there. I was nominated for lay delegate to General Conference. I didn’t expect to win, and I didn’t win, but at times during the balloting as many as a third of the lay people were voting for me. I realized that there is a whole different kind of leadership I can bring as an active member of the larger church who is openly gay. What I had to lose by coming out, I have already lost, but I’m still here. I think my presence is helping at least some people think about homosexuality in a different way than they did before.

You will be called to take a risk, and you must become very clear about what they can take away from you and what they can’t.

My third point is that you must never forget how much you are loved.

After giving his disciples all the scary instructions about being sent out like sheep into the midst of wolves and being dragged before councils and courts, Jesus says, “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And yet not one of them falls to the ground apart from God. And every hair of your head is counted. So do not be afraid, for you are of more value than many sparrows.”

When you take a risk for what you believe, and when you lose something in the process, you’re not just a toy soldier getting knocked down. You are a beloved child of God whose pain God knows and feels. You are a particular disciple whom God has gifted and called for a unique and important task. You are surrounded with a love that will never let you go.

That love is more durable and matters more than any credential or any status. That love confers a dignity that no one can take away. When you know you’re loved, it makes you strong. You can risk a lot. You can endure a lot, because you know that no matter what happens the God who loves you will be going through it with you, right by your side. When you know you’re loved, you can become more clear about the particular risks you are called to take because God’s love isn’t about your job or your income or the approval of people around you. God loves you for who you really are, in your innermost being, and when you are rooted and grounded in that love you can begin to understand your true identity and your true calling.

Now, Jesus doesn’t say that sparrows never fall to the ground. And we all know that people sometimes fall to the ground. Sometimes people fall because of their sexual orientation and the ways people discriminate against them and hate them. Often, they fall because of their poverty or their illness. Part of being human is being vulnerable to falling. But the sparrows never fall to the ground apart from God, and neither do we.

So don’t be afraid. Take a risk for who you are and what you believe. Know clearly what they can take away from you, and what they can’t. And always, always, remember how deeply you are loved.

Amen.

 © 2007 Irene Elizabeth Stroud