Confronting the question of inclusion

 By the Rev. Maria Kane

As I pulled into my friend Frances’ gravel driveway six years ago, I could barely contain my excitement. A year earlier, Frances--an unassuming fifty-ish woman who loved the color green, turtlenecks, and Native American history--had quietly and rather imperceptibly broken through the layers of my wounded soul and guided me in to a place of awe and wonder. Now, we were reuniting for a weekend visit.

After exchanging hugs on the front porch and dropping off my luggage in the warmly-appointed guest room, she led me to the kitchen and with a deep appreciation in her eyes, introduced me to Marie, her partner of twenty-five years. Wait. Frances is gay? How did I miss that? I wondered. Reaching out to hug Marie I tried to conceal my surprise.

Although I joined the Episcopal Church as a teenager, I still struggled to eradicate the voices of moral superiority that had shaped my evangelical childhood. While I knew people who were gay or lesbian, I had always assumed an attitude of measured distance and indifference, not quite believing that they were “living in sin,” but also unwilling to confront questions of inclusion and justice. “Live and let live” was my attitude. Standing in Marie and Frances’ sun-light kitchen I found myself questioning those beliefs.

Later that afternoon, over bowls of piping-hot chili, I tried to push my questions aside as we watched the Duke Blue Devils battle it out on the basketball court against the North Carolina Tarheels. There is perhaps no greater rivalry in college basketball than these two schools, and as Frances and Marie pulled for the Tarheels, my passion and devotion to the Blue Devils only increased. I love Duke. Following the game, we laughed, cried, and shared stories with one another long in to the night. Still, I kept waiting for some sign, some signal, that things would now be different between Frances and me...but I couldn’t find it.

That night, as I turned to my journal to explore my thoughts, I found myself overcome with tears and sorrow. Less than a year earlier--unsure of my vocation and my future--I had begun training in chaplaincy at a state psychiatric hospital. Frances was my supervisor. Over the course of six months, Frances patiently helped me acknowledge and later welcome the scars of my life as places waiting to be transformed into founts of grace and glory. When we gathered each week to discuss my experiences on the hospital floor, she provided a safe space to laugh, cry, and ask tough questions of myself and the Church. Together, we formed a deep friendship. As I observed her interactions with others, I saw in her a deep embodiment of Christ’s love for the outcast and the lonely, a love that emanated from deep within her soul. I was forever changed because of her. Now, months later, after a delightful and spirited evening, the tears fell as I imagined what my life might have been like had we never met, had I never benefited from our time together.

All my life, I had been told something was amiss between whose relationships didn’t mirror my Cosby Show image of the family. Yet, watching Frances and Marie interact suggested that their love was not amiss. In fact, it was rich, deep, and patient--just as God loves us. I wanted that in all my relationships--not the false image of perfection, but the love born of authenticity and deep faithfulness. I knew I could no longer avoid questions of inclusion. Indeed, they became less a matter of inclusion and justice, but about helping to usher in God’s kingdom in all its fulness. Here. Now.

Today, I am much more passionate about serving a Church that reflects what I believe to be the fullness of God’s creative grace. It’s part of my work and my relationships. I’m also closer to Marie and Frances more than ever. Now, the only thing standing between us is their regrettable taste in basketball teams. Thanks be to God.