It’s said the Spirit sometimes shows up in the most unexpected places. As a queer woman, I never thought that unexpected place would be at Baylor University’s Truett Theological Seminary.
Two weeks after Baylor University made headlines for rescinding over $640,000 in funding for LGBTQ+ research among congregations, I was driving from Dallas to Waco to present on LGBTQ+ inclusion in sports ministry at the very institution that had just drawn such a clear line in the sand. After the Baugh Foundation announcement was made, I waited for my phone to ring, telling me that my presentation had to be canceled, but the call never came.
The world of Christian sports ministry has long been dominated by organizations requiring “sexual purity statements” that exclude LGBTQ+ athletes from leadership. The Fellowship of Christian Athletes and Athletes in Action have created a landscape where queer athletes must choose between their faith community and their authentic identity.
Given this context, I wasn’t optimistic when the Global Congress on Sport and Christianity team reviewed my conference proposal. Yet remarkably, they accepted it. Even after the host university’s very public stance on LGBTQ+ issues, as seen in the Baugh Foundation controversy, my session remained on the program.
“Okay God,” I said in my car on my way to the campus, “I’m going to need you to do something only you can do because, honestly, I’m terrified.”
Walking In
I’ll admit, I felt like fresh meat in a shark tank walking into Truett Seminary. Surrounded by quarter-zips and name tags representing organizations I knew viewed my identity as sinful, I wanted to both hide and make myself known.
One by one, I introduced myself to chaplains, ministers, coaches and athletes, hoping to find allies. Or, better yet, someone like me.
I met representatives from Division I “Big Four” schools, professional leagues, and ministry organizations. We could all agree on caring about athletes’ spiritual lives, but our approaches differed dramatically.
While others discussed salvation numbers and methods for gaining power and influence in athletic departments, I wanted to address the alarming connection between religious-identity conflict and suicidal ideation among LGBTQ+ youth in athletics. You could say we had slightly different agendas for the weekend.
As I headed to my session—the last one of the day—I expected to find a nearly empty room. Five minutes before we began, over 60 people had packed the small classroom, with attendees sitting on the floor as we scrambled for extra chairs. I was overwhelmed with gratitude. I took a deep breath, said a prayer, and began.
I opened my presentation with Sarah’s story.
Sarah was a devoted college athlete who served as her campus FCA leader, planning lessons, recruiting participants and leading worship until she came out as gay. Trusting her community to hold and love her, she opened up, only to receive that devastating blow so many queer athletes know: “You can worship with us, but you cannot lead us.”
I could have shared identical stories from dozens of different athletes.
“The air felt so tense,” someone told me afterward. Without a shadow of a doubt, at least 90% of the people in the room were not affirming.
Later, I learned one woman had even prepared to protest mid-presentation because of her convictions about “God’s will” for marriage. Then I clicked to my next slide:
“You’re here today with one of three perspectives on LGBTQ+ inclusion: You’re welcoming and affirming regardless of who someone loves; you’re welcoming but not affirming of non-normative identity; or you’re neither welcoming nor affirming. Wherever you are on the spectrum, it’s okay. I’ve been there too, and I’m not here to change you. I just want us to understand each other better.”
“I felt disarmed,” she told me the next morning. “I had nothing to get angry about.”
Through further conversation, I learned she has a gay son getting married in a couple of weeks, and she still hadn’t decided whether to attend. “Maybe we can stay in conversation!” she said, handing me her business card.
I think she decided to go to her son’s wedding.
A WNBA chaplain and I connected over conference sessions before she approached me directly: “I’ll never agree with you or support your identity, but maybe you could help me with my language and terminology so I’m not so harmful to my players.”
I think I just helped players like Paige Bueckers and Natasha Cloud not have to face gay shaming from their chaplain.
In an empty hallway, a woman with an FCA sticker on her coffee mug found me. “I know I’ve hurt a lot of people, and I know that we’ve hurt you. I will never be able to make up for the hurt I’ve caused, but I want you to know that I’m sorry.”
When I asked her name, she wouldn’t give it to me. She could lose her job for her repentance. I hope she feels God’s mercy.
What Bridging a Divide Requires
This week’s lectionary gospel tells the parable of Jesus at the Pharisee’s wedding feast, instructing listeners not to sit at the head of the table but rather in the corner, waiting to be invited up, so they can be honored and included in the conversation.
Perhaps this is what bridging divides requires. Maybe lowering ourselves to equal ground, rather than coming in hot with judgments and critique, is how we get invited into the most vulnerable places of our “enemies’” lives.
So, maybe—just maybe—instead of tearing our institutions apart, we need more story-sharing and listening. Perhaps we need more corner-sitting and table-waiting. Maybe we need to trust that the Holy Spirit is big enough to work in all of us, even when we can’t see it, even when we’re afraid to hope for it.
Because if the Spirit of inclusion, justice, reconciliation and forgiveness can move in the hallways of Truett Seminary, then the Spirit is moving everywhere. And that, my friends, is very good news indeed.
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Pastoral resident at Wilshire Baptist Church in Dallas, Texas, and co-founder of Christian Athlete Circles.
