Cracking the Closet Door

Post Author: Anonymous (solicited by Sara Nave Fisher)

I recently preached a sermon about Nicodemus. As a refresher, he came to see Jesus under the cover of night to talk with him about God. In the Gospel of John, right before Nicodemus’ nighttime visit, is the story of Jesus cleansing the temple. I wondered aloud if perhaps Nicodemus was a witness to this event, therefore impacting their encounter. Perhaps he heard the words and witnessed Jesus’ actions, and that was what drove him to visit Jesus. I wondered if perhaps what he witnessed was keeping him awake at night, if it made him wonder more about what he heard and experienced, and if it finally drove him to speak with Jesus.

Before he encountered Jesus, I wonder if Nicodemus had avoided these thoughts being exposed. Up until the moment he had gone to see Jesus, he remained invested in certain narratives that validated his past; for too long he had glossed over the parts of him he was too afraid to expose. This was perhaps the part in his journey when he was questioning everything he knew to be true up until that point.

As I sat writing the sermon, I froze. The story felt too real. The conclusions I drew felt too familiar. I knew this story, because I lived it when I discovered I am a lesbian.

Once I said the words for the first time, like Nicodemus I knew I couldn’t go back. But where in the world was I supposed to go? I was married to a man, with whom I had a child, and was serving a small, conservative United Methodist Church in a rural town. The 2019 General Conference of the United Methodist Church was looming, and it was too risky to come out publicly. I would risk the ten years I spent working towards getting ordained, and still had one more round of interviews left to go. I separated from my husband, but ultimately I decided to stay in the closet, to keep my secret under wraps, under the cover of night.

To give some context, it wasn’t exactly safe for me to come out. I overheard a leader of the church say to someone about our gay organist, “Oh..well, he is just as much a sinner as I am.”

I stood in the pulpit of that congregation after the United Methodist 2019 General Conference that tightened the restrictions on LGBTQ+ clergy and shared the news. Someone came up to me after the service and said, “I can tell this is deeply affecting you…but you handled it well.” I thought to myself, “If they only knew…”

It kept me up at night. But I pressed on, avoiding being exposed. I played the part of the single heterosexual female pastor who had to dodge comments about finding a “better man” for my next marriage. I wore dresses that didn’t feel true who I was, but felt like wearing them wouldn’t expose me as a queer clergywoman — even though deep down inside, I secretly wanted them to figure it out.

I wonder if Nicodemus played the part after he visited Jesus. If he felt he had to live up to his role as a Pharisee, even though in his heart he knew there was another reality he was feeling called to live into.

I was reappointed to another congregation in July 2019, one in a community that is much more affirming of LGBTQ+ folks. I began to feel more confident in my identity as a lesbian woman, but I still remained closeted. In a church that was in the discernment process to become a Reconciling (United Methodist for Open & Affirming) Congregation, I knew it was not my time to come out.

I heard people say things like:

“I don’t understand why we have to hang a flag outside and advertise this. Aren’t we already welcoming?”

“I don’t want those kinds of people in my church.”

“I don’t have a problem if someone is gay. I just don’t want them to get married in the church. If you do a wedding, that’s fine, but I won’t be seen anywhere near here.”

I would lay awake at night, wondering if I was strong enough to come out to a church that was unsure of whether they would welcome a gay pastor. I would wonder if people knew I was gay because of how I dressed, or what I said in my sermons, or the activist work I did for the conference.

I felt like Nicodemus: only able to share my true self with God and a small group of close friends and family who knew my truth. Only able to live authentically in spaces I felt brave enough to share. I walk around town with my partner sometimes wondering if people from church will see. Wondering if people will see who I really am and what they will say or do if they find out. I wish I could hold her hand. Our fingers graze, and I quickly look around to see if anyone is watching. I choose my words carefully around church people, making sure to say “friend” when I really mean “partner.” I work very hard to avoid being exposed, and I wonder if Nicodemus did the same.

I wish we knew more about how the story ended for Nicodemus. If he remained a Pharisee, if he allowed himself to be fully seen by the people in his life, if he “came out” as a follower of Christ. We know he defended Jesus and brought myrrh and aloe to anoint Jesus’ body after he was crucified. But did he ever truly reveal himself? I hope and pray he did. Because I know what he felt. I feel the ache every day.

As of February of this year, I’ve decided to take a leave of absence from ministry because my emotional and spiritual health have suffered from being in the closet, along with the stress of ministry during COVID-19. I will be moving in with my partner and son in a new place near the ocean, and will have an opportunity to rest, renew, and heal. I look forward to being able to hold her hand in public without fear of being seen or being exposed.

I’m not sure what my return to ministry will look like, but I can tell you that I know I’m being called out of the cover of night. I’m called to trust myself and the love of God enough to open the closet door and be in ministry as a queer clergywoman. Until that day, I continue to be like Nicodemus, who continued to stay closeted.