THE GENE DIVIDES Gay rights split Episcopal church. by Seth Walker REV. BILL SWAN & REV. RALPH HAYNES It's a warm, still summer morning in Eugene, and 59 congregants at St. Thomas Episcopal Church sit silently in dark brown pews. Sunlight pours through towering orange, yellow and blue stained glass windows as the parishioners watch Rev. Jeremy Tyndall approach the pulpit. Tyndall, 49, with pale skin, a red moustache and a lean frame, is nervous. On this day, August 10, 2003, he knows his generally conservative congregation is not happy about the week's promotion of Rev. Gene Robinson — the country's first openly gay bishop — to the top spot of the Episcopal Diocese of New Hampshire. Now he must deliver a hastily prepared Sunday sermon that addresses their concerns. "While some are delighted at the confirmation of Rev. Robinson, an openly gay man living with a long-term partner," he begins in a gentle British brogue, "many others are feeling deep pain, including me." GOD LOVES EVERYONE, including those with a same-sex orientation, he says. But to him, Robinson's promotion feels like a Trojan horse. Robinson was elected because he was the best candidate, but the action by the national Episcopal Church says it's not only comfortable with an openly gay bishop, but it also implies support for even greater liberties for gay men and lesbians. To Tyndall's surprise and slight embarrassment, the congregation applauds. It's the first time they've done so for him in the several years that he's run St. Thomas. An hour later, Rev. Nick Parker — a good friend and former assistant of Tyndall's in England — kicks off the Sunday worship at St. Mary's Episcopal Church in the center of town. About 15 minutes into the service, Rev. Nancy Muhlheim, a church deacon, steps up to the pulpit to deliver the sermon. Muhlheim, whose big smile, well-manicured fingernails and youthful face belie her true age of 60, stands at the front of the main parish hall. Above her, the ceiling in the shape of an upside-down boat hull symbolizes the ship of faith. Muhlheim begins to deliver her words softly but clearly, assuming an even-keeled tone that subtly demonstrates support for Robinson while creating an atmosphere of inclusiveness for those who don't agree with his election. "The continuity of the Episcopal denomination and its traditions does not lie in the hands of one person, event or social issue," she says. As the congregation lives through the controversies and changes within the national church, she says, everyone should remember that they are united in their religion. In the Bible it says nothing, not even death, shall separate them. The leadership and many parishioners at Eugene's four local Episcopal churches stand evenly divided along theological and moral lines on Robinson's promotion: Most at St. Mary's and Church of the Resurrection stand for it, and most at St. Matthews and St. Thomas are against it. The church-goers are more than talking about the issue. Two members left St. Mary's and about 10 people complained after Robinson's election on Aug. 6 by the Episcopal national convention. One family left Church of the Resurrection. Both churches, however, claim that they eventually increased their rolls because of their inclusive approach to the issue. REV. NANCY MUHLHEIM St. Matthews and St. Thomas face more trying times. Despite the leadership standing against Robinson's election, St. Matthews has lost 20 families. They've either left for different parishes or simply quit attending church. The picture is similar at St. Thomas, where they've lost at least an estimated five percent of their congregation and received dozens of complaints. Those against Robinson argue that the two-million-member U.S. Episcopal Church is rapidly moving away from the policies of its governing body, the 70-million-member Anglican Communion. The titular head of the Anglican Communion, the Church of England, neither elects nor consecrates openly gay church leaders. The main arguments against Robinson revolve around his active sexual status with his partner, not his sexual orientation. The church welcomes celibate gay priests, but it frowns upon sexually active ones. It has never promoted — until now — an openly gay one to the powerful position of bishop. Scripture is also used against Robinson. The Bible denounces homosexuality at seven different points, depending on how you read it, with the story of Sodom and Gomorra being one of the most famous. To some, Robinson's consecration shows that the U.S. Episcopal Church is now willing to make policy decisions that directly conflict scripture. For Robinson, the arguments against him in Eugene are similar to those all over the country, though he believes the discussions here miss the point entirely. He believes the issue at hand is much larger than sexual activity or conflicts with scripture. "What's really going on here is the end of patriarchy. We're facing the end of straight white men making all the decisions," he says. To him, gay men and lesbians are now fighting what he says is possibly America's last great civil rights battle, and like other civil rights battles, it's going to be long and vicious. "The patriarchal system that's been there for centuries is going to be resistant. Despite struggle, people of color and women continue to rise to positions of leadership. Now the last fight is for homosexuals. It's mostly white men who are driven crazy by my election." In the 1960s, he says, the main issue in the country was race. In the 1970s, it was women's rights. Now, just past the turn of the century, the issue is civil liberties for gay men and lesbians. "We must ask whether citizenship is full and equal for all, or whether there's still an asterisk next to certain names," he says. Homosexuals, he says, are fighting to see whether all opportunities such as church leadership or legal marriage are available to them, too. Robinson's opinions and his election spotlight not only major changes within the constantly changing cultural fabric of America, but major changes within the U.S. Episcopal Church. Before the 1960s, Episcopalianism was considered conservative and close to Catholicism in its views on personal liberties. Since then, it's often referred to as "trendier than thou" as it continually provides greater personal freedoms in keeping with popular society. Over time, the church has eliminated restrictions against divorce, birth control, the ordaining of women and now openly gay church leaders, but not without struggle. It manages large decisions by balancing a "three legged stool" of tradition, reason and scripture, and then votes on those decisions through a national democratic process. The church's mission: Make God relevant in an evolving modern society. To Rev. Bill Swan and Rev. Ralph Haynes, two recently retired local Episcopal priests with nearly 100 years of experience between them, the national church seems out of control. They struggled with the ordaining of women priests in the 1970s, but to them the Robinson decision is proof that the church is now too liberal. Swan likes to quote C.S. Lewis: "He who marries the current of the age will soon be a widower." Swan, 76, with a white moustache, strong handshake and mouth that turns down at the corners, recently came up with a way to address his grievances: He formed his own church. Swan incorporated the new Fellowship of the Living Word in the summer and then signed Haynes on as the assistant preacher. Swan advertised the church in the Register-Guard with an upside-down Episcopal shield — the national symbol for Episcopalians — on Aug. 8, two days after Robinson's election. The Fellowship of the Living Word's "parish" is the gymnasium at Agate Hall, part of the UO. The gym, with plaster peeling from coved ceilings, exposed fir timber boards and an oak piano tipped on its side, is the congregation's temporary home until it gets a building of its own. REV. JEREMY TYNDALL The church is attracting people like Mark McCool, a former member of St. Matthews. McCool, in his 30s with a round face and salt-and-pepper goatee, shakes his head at the topic of Robinson. He doesn't understand how a gay bishop can counsel him in marriage, among other areas. On a recent spring Sunday, Swan greets 11 parishioners as they gather for a class after the service. Swan looks down at everyone, grasps the lapel of his black jacket with his right hand and starts to pace. "The U.S. Episcopal Church's appointment of a homosexual bishop shows that it's no longer a Christian body. American religion is now more about protecting personal freedoms than following the will of God," he says in a subtle, native Tennessee drawl. The group of mostly 50- to 60-year-old white men is silent. Eventually, one by one, heads start to nod. An older man with dyed black hair and a thinly shaved moustache sitting in the middle of the group leans forward. "It's up to the youth of America to change things," he says quietly. They're the ones that will lead them — he implies the church, and the country — back toward God. Swan nods. Standing against Robinson and for a pure interpretation of scripture is the congregation's mission. Robinson says that churches like the Fellowship of the Living Word will appear, and he can't stop that. He believes, however, that broad acceptance of gay men and lesbians is an emerging ethos. Things are moving quickly. In just the past year, Episcopal leaders decided to make Robinson a bishop; the Massachusetts Supreme Court decided to allow gay marriage; the U.S. Supreme Court decided to strike down Texas antisodomy laws and there was an eruption of city-sponsored civil unions and marriages. The changes have created earthquakes across religious, legal and civic landscapes. Rumbles across the church's rigid patriarchal system have been particularly powerful, with no clear end in sight. In the U.S., several top bishops are aligning themselves with the American Anglican Council, a community of conservative Episcopal bishops. They're leading a "church within a church" and are willing to minister to those upset by Robinson, even if those people are under the purview of another bishop. There's talk of the U.S. Episcopal Church breaking away from the worldwide Anglican Communion. The worldwide Anglican Communion itself is trying not to split; there's a task force assigned to keep it intact. Swan and Haynes are following suit. They're breaking with the Episcopal faith altogether and taking their new parishioners with them. They're remaining Anglicans, but not Episcopalians. According to the Episcopal Diocese of Oregon, the two men are now operating "outside the unity" of the church, but Swan and Haynes don't care. They're affiliating themselves with the Anglican Mission in America, a group that stands opposed to Robinson and the general direction of U.S. Episco-palianism. The two men are not, however, giving up their personal Episcopal pensions. Before Robinson's election and subsequent consecration last November, Swan and the leaders of the four Eugene Episcopal parishes met every Friday morning at St. Matthews on the north end of town. They discussed their weekend sermons, church politics and personal lives. The church leaders — save Swan — still meet regularly around the oval boardroom table with black leather chairs. Despite their differences, they agree that sticking together is important. Unity, they believe, is the most important thing for their congregations, as well as themselves. In their weekly meetings, the church leaders often look to the future. With Robinson ordained, they now believe that one of the major issues at the next national Episcopal convention in 2006 will be the blessing of same-sex unions. Some of them believe that church-blessed unions are inevitable. Swan, however, has no intention of supporting unions. He doesn't plan to rejoin the meetings of local church leaders, either. God, he says, has called him in another direction.
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