Putting church before personal opinion, an episcopal priest guides his flock through the gay-rights storm

Walking The Talk
Facing church revolt over gay clergy, a faithful follower leads by staying in the pews

WRITTEN BY SETH CLARK WALKER
PHOTOGRAPHED BY JOHN LOK

THE PAIN IS palpable at St. Mary's Episcopal Church. The Rev. Ted Berktold doesn't need a tearful 75-year-old woman in his cluttered, book-filled office to tell him that. "This is not personal," she says, "but the Episcopal Church is no longer my church."

"My church is leaving me," another elderly congregant tells someone on the staff.

Berktold hasn't seen this much turmoil in a parish since he set off his Minnesota congregation on a Sunday morning in 1972 by wearing sandals to the pulpit and openly advocating women for the priesthood.

This time, Berktold wasn't even in the country when brooding trouble turned to roiling tempest. It was August 2003, and he was on vacation when he heard that Episcopal bishops at the church's national convention had approved the Rev. Gene Robinson's appointment to the powerful position of bishop of New Hampshire. This was different, he thought. Gene Robinson was openly gay and sexually active. Parish leaders can shut out or vote out such a priest, but a bishop is nearly untouchable.

By the time Berktold flew back home, the tempest was blowing through his church. Two people were leaving, and more than 30 others were speaking up or threatening to leave this diverse parish in the heart of Eugene, Ore., where university professors mix with blue-collar immigrant workers.

Berktold had no real idea how many others were questioning their future at St. Mary's. But he did know that the tempest in his church was about more than just Robinson and the idea of a gay bishop. America's latest civil-rights battle had just walked through his front door. In the 1960s, he watched the church fracture over the issue of equal rights for people of color. In the '70s, women's rights and the ordaining of women caused deep divides that linger still. Now the issue of gay rights — in particular gay rights for clergy — had become so explosive that the powerful Archbishop Peter Akinola of Nigeria was threatening to divide the entire Anglican Communion, the worldwide overseer of the Episcopal faith.

At the heart of the debate for many was the idea that ordaining a gay bishop was akin to ordaining sin as a lifestyle; depending on how it's read, the Bible denounces homosexuality at eight different points. Leviticus in the Old Testament says a man "shall not lie with a man as a woman: that is abomination." Sodom was destroyed, according to some biblical scholars, because of its citizens' homosexual lusts. Many in the U.S. Episcopal Church are not comfortable walking away from scripture and church conventions, much less their personal views on what constitutes proper sexual behavior.

Berktold was aware of all this, and just as aware he couldn't solve everything. First, he thought, he needed to keep people in the pews and keep them talking, his past experience telling him he couldn't "preach" at people and tell them what to do. Instead, he had to make the church a safe place for them to express their thoughts and emotions. Only this way, he thought, could he ease some pain. And save his church.

ON A WARM, still August morning, parishioners at St. Mary's sit silently in dark, wooden pews. Rays of sunlight pour red, blue and yellow through stained-glass windows. Berktold rises from his seat in the sanctuary and walks to the pulpit to deliver his first sermon since returning home. He knows he's going to have to address the issue of Robinson, and he knows he has to do it carefully. He has his own opinions, and believes that the emergence of someone like Robinson was inevitable, that his promotion was a natural part of the church's evolution. He's not sure it's a good thing, but he likes the fact that Robinson has moved the discussion on gay rights and gay clergy from the theoretical to the tangible. He also believes deeply that his own role is more pastoral than political, and he doesn't want to lose parishioners because of his conflicted views. What he loves about his church is its inclusiveness, tolerance and diversity, and he isn't about to upset the balance.

Berktold begins slowly, carefully. Above him, the ceiling in the shape of an inverted boat hull symbolizes the ship of faith. "People don't think alike," he says steadily. "The disciples were no different. Jesus didn't choose 12 people who thought exactly alike, who always agreed with him. We like an idealized image of the early church as a group with no differences, an image that makes us feel guilty when we disagree among ourselves and with other Christian groups. But the disciples were as diverse as they could be."

When he finishes, something more than contemplative silence hangs in the air. There had been neither condemnation of the gay bishop nor affirmation. In the hallway, some people are wondering whether their church is for Robinson or against him.

ON THE DAY OF Gene Robinson's election, Ted Berktold is in West London. Seeing the bold, three-inch headline in The Daily Telegraph — "Can Archbishop of Canterbury Hold Fracturing Anglican Communion Together?" — he sighs. He knows instantly what the problem is: Robinson's impending election has been dividing the worldwide Anglican Communion for months. "Man," Berktold says quietly to himself, "I'm glad I'm over here."

The smart, humble son of a Minnesota farmer, Berktold studied under renowned theologians at both the Episcopal Divinity and Harvard Divinity schools in Cambridge, Mass. Berktold is a think-it-through-10-times kind of guy. At St. Mary's, his parishioners and co-workers trust his counsel, but they have learned that sometimes they have to wait for it. This time, though, Berktold knew exactly what had to be done. Eventually, he thought, the matter of gay clergy and gay rights within the church would be vetted in venues like the church's national convention. In the meantime, he just had to get through phase one: Keeping people together in the middle of the storm.

It would be very easy to polarize the congregation. But he'd made that mistake before, 30 years ago, when he drove away some of his most influential parishioners with his newly-minted Ivy League brashness. When he preached in support of ordaining women, he hadn't listened to his parishioners or addressed their concerns. Those who didn't agree with him were simply wrong, he thought.

Now, he knew better. The debate is never about the debate, he thinks. The debate is about growing comfortable with new ideas.

ACROSS TOWN, the painful lessons Berktold had learned years ago were being repeated. His friend, the Rev. Jeremy Tyndall, stepped in front of his conservative Episcopal congregation on the first Sunday after Robinson's election and said, "While some are delighted at the confirmation of Reverend Robinson, an openly gay man living with a long-term partner, many others are feeling deep pain, including me." Tyndall, in his native British accent, went on to say that God loves everyone, including those with a same-sex orientation, but that to him, Robinson's promotion felt like a Trojan horse. Hidden inside that "horse," Tyndall warned, could be even greater liberties for gay men and lesbians — such as marriage.

Tyndall's congregation applauded. It was the first time they'd ever done that. Then, nearly 10 percent of them left.

Another local Episcopal priest openly opposed Robinson's promotion. He lost 20 families in a matter of months. The families went to other churches or simply quit attending church altogether.

Robinson says he wants to be known as a great bishop, not as the first gay one. But he also says his election is about "the end of straight white men making all the decisions." Berktold isn't sure of Robinson's motives, but feels he can't judge him. He, too, has felt forbidden sexual stirrings.

In 1968, Berktold was a fifth-year Catholic seminary student, studying in Europe for the summer. Yet despite good grades and favor within the seminary, he was quietly considering leaving. He'd spent his whole life dedicated to the cause, and at age 22 was still a virgin, but the idealism of his teen years was wearing off. The policies of the Roman Catholic Church were too rigid for him, and celibacy didn't seem like a natural state. For the first time, he was also starting to yearn for a family. And now, less than a year before he was due to enter the priesthood, the guilt and the pain he'd privately harbored were starting to tear him apart.

One afternoon he and a beautiful female exchange student headed to a beach near Athens. They spent the afternoon napping and talking in the summer sun.

Nothing happened that afternoon — or ever — with the pretty student. But the day helped Berktold realize that there was no reconciling his human longings with the celibate Catholic priesthood. There, along the Aegean Sea, he knew in his heart he would find another religion.

ON THE PLANE back from England, Berktold is deep in thought. He knows the call for unity has already been made at home.

He'd instructed assistant pastor Nick Parker and his deacon, the Rev. Nancy Muhlheim, to minister to everyone, no matter what their needs. Muhlheim had obliged, telling the faithful who assembled that first Sunday after Robinson's election that life in the parish would go on pretty much as it had for the past 150 years. "The continuity of the Episcopal denomination and its traditions does not lie in the hands of one person, event or social issue," she said. "There are intellectual, cultural and even religious barriers that stand in the way of believing. The barriers are both ancient and modern. Society constantly throws up new obstacles to our remaining faithful to the message sent by God."

Muhlheim's message had kept things calm, for the moment. But on the plane, Berktold is thinking of the pain and struggle yet to come. He is thinking of parishioners like Stephen Dorsey, a 64-year-old antique dealer and ex-Army intelligence officer. Known as a thoughtful man, Dorsey endorsed the church's efforts to promote black clergy and other minorities in the 1960s. In the '70s, he supported the ordination of women. Today, he welcomes homosexuals in the pews — but not sexually active ones in the pulpits.

Dorsey draws a distinction between race and gender issues and sexual orientation because of what the Bible says: It's not a sin to be black or a woman, but it is a sin to be gay or lesbian and sexually active. "I'm staying for now," he would later tell Berktold, "but the minute you have a gay priest in front of this church, I'm outta here."

Berktold believes in holistic interpretations of scripture, not literal ones. If he did, he'd have to stone the adulterers and drunks — a good portion of the church, he says — and be against women as priests. Berktold knows Robinson was elected in New Hampshire because the people there simply like him and his work; a personal connection was made, and parishioners moved from a place of judgment to one of acceptance.

As for himself, Berktold doesn't claim to know whether sexually active homosexuals are committing sin; he sees it as a question of defining common cultural boundaries. To him, pedophiles are acting outside those boundaries, but homosexuals are not. In any case, he thinks it's not his place to judge them. Churches have made a business out of judging people, he says, and that seems controlling and wrong. His job, as he sees it, is simply to pass along the lessons of scripture and, when tough issues arise, to encourage people to stay in the room.

As he'd prepared for that important first sermon home, Berktold had one goal in mind: Follow in the footsteps of Jesus. When confronted with a divisive issue, Jesus wouldn't argue; instead he would say, "Get up and walk." Walk 'til you work it out.

BACK IN EUGENE, Berktold is pushing toward the close of his sermon. He maintains what he calls his "altar ego," an attitude he assumes with every sermon that puts the church's position ahead of his own.

"Jesus didn't argue with people," he says. "I can't think of one instance of argument in the gospels. He answered their questions. He talked with them. He never gave up on the Pharisees and scribes. He pointed out some glaring problems among them, clean on the outside, but defiled within. But he never debated with anyone; he tried to show them another way."

Berktold steps from the pulpit and takes his seat in the sanctuary. There is the usual breaking of bread and communion, and the service is complete. Afterward, a male parishioner approaches.

"Ted, I've been waiting to hear your thoughts on this matter. I guess I just heard them, huh?"

Berktold hadn't intended that the sermon would be his final word. But suddenly, facing the question, he decides to follow his wife's long-standing advice: Show your command of the English language by saying nothing at all.

"Yes," he replies. "That's all I'm going to say."

IT'S BEEN MORE than a year since Ted Berktold last spoke of gay rights from the pulpit. He has, however, invited some of the more concerned members of the congregation into his office to talk, and on occasion he has shared his personal views with them in confidence. But the decision to maintain public silence hasn't been easy: Some see it as a back-handed affirmation of gay rights, others as a tacit rejection of them. He is troubled that it may seem he is ignoring the real oppression and hatred that gay and lesbian friends have experienced. He's struggled, particularly since a diocesan convention of Oregon's Episcopal leadership in November, when a gay priest from Portland was applauded for challenging the group on its general silence.

Still, he remains determined not to repeat the mistakes of the past. In the 1970s he'd only known his congregants for six months before delivering his firebrand opinions on women's rights. He made their spiritual home an uncomfortable place, a notion that's antithetical to his mission as a priest. He felt particularly bad for hurting the elderly, many of whom were what he called "innocently conservative," holding views directly tied to their upbringing and training.

Now, at 57, he doesn't see people's views as "wrong" — he just sees them as their own.

Of late, Berktold has become acutely aware of how society can inform the church. Historically, churches have claimed to accurately inform society about right and wrong, but when parishioners or priests become too pious, he's reminded of Galileo's fight to prove that the sun was the center of the universe. Because society also informed churches on women's rights, he's now interested to see how society will judge the gay-rights issue, and whether the church will inform it or vice-versa.

Either way, he's sure it will happen, and perhaps soon. A woman was ordained as an Episcopal priest five years after Berktold's tough sermon in Minnesota. In less than two years, at its next national convention, the Episcopal Church is set to discuss and possibly vote on the blessing of gay unions and other gay-rights issues.

Other challenges will come first: The Anglican Communion's October 2004 Windsor Report calls on the Episcopal Church USA to halt the blessing of same-sex unions, block the potential consecration of openly gay clergy and express its regret for the pain caused by the Robinson consecration. The report is fueling rumors of an official split between the Anglican Communion and the Episcopal Church USA. Separately, those parishes that approve of or are conducting same-sex unions are struggling with the recent 11-state defeat of gay-marriage constitutional amendments.

Berktold's strategy is to watch the national convention and see what happens there. In the meantime, he's not going to hurt people or divide his congregation. He doesn't want to deceive people about his beliefs to keep them in the pews — though keeping people in them is certainly a goal, and one he's managed to achieve so far. But neither does he want to be part of what he views as a dangerous and simplistic trend toward using agenda-laden "liberal" and "conservative" labels, especially in the pulpit. Both adults and children are better served, he believes, by learning to stick together through difficult debate. To him, change has already happened when the discussion begins. When God's people get up and walk.