This is the second part of a three-part series: Testing Faith: Homosexuality Divides

Churches.
Copyright 2000 Des Moines Register
May 8, 2000 Monday
SECTION: MAIN NEWS; Pg. 1A
HEADLINE: Gay pastors keep a torturous secret
By STEPHEN BUTTRY
REGISTER STAFF WRITER
Madison, Wis. -From the time he was a little boy, Ed Anderson had a secret he
was afraid to tell anyone: He felt God calling him to be a minister.
At his senior prom, Anderson realized another secret that came to terrify
him: He wasn't attracted to the pretty girl in the gown who was his date, but
rather to a friend in a tuxedo.
In his youth, Anderson feared that if he told people about his call to the
ministry, he would disappoint them, especially his father, if he didn't follow
the call. He did not disclose his interest in the ministry until shortly before
enrolling in Wartburg Theological Seminary in Dubuque in 1977.
As a Lutheran pastor at a country church outside Denver, Ia., Anderson was
haunted by the secret of his sexual orientation. "I had a wonderful seven years
of ministry, and every day I lived in the tension that I was going to be found
out," he said.
Dozens of Iowa pastors share the secret that tortured Anderson. Like him,
they keenly feel God's call to ministry. Like Anderson, they feel sexually
attracted to people of the same gender. Like Anderson, they know they cannot
openly pursue both their calling from God and their yearning for love.
Like most churches, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, to which
Anderson belonged, requires that its ministers be married or celibate. The
Catholic Church requires that priests be celibate.
Gay ministers address this conflict in a variety of ways: celibacy; secret
relationships; risky, anonymous sexual encounters in such places as parks and
adult bookstores; discreet but semi-open relationships that are tolerated by
bishops or congregations; leaving the ordained ministry. Some lose their
ministerial credentials when church authorities learn of a relationship.
The Des Moines Register interviewed about 20 current and former gay clergy
and seminarians from seven denominations for this series. Several would talk
only if their names would not be published, because disclosure would threaten
their careers. Many carried their secret for years, hiding their orientation

even from spouses and close friends.

Some would not talk even when offered anonymity. A gay Iowa United Methodist
pastor who considered granting an interview, then declined, passed an interview
request on to three close friends in the ministry. "None of them said they would
want to visit with you, which again says a great deal," the pastor said.
Iowa United Methodist Bishop Charles Wesley Jordan said he would be obligated
to file a complaint against a minister who came out publicly as gay. The United
Methodist Church does not allow what it calls "self-avowed practicing
homosexuals" to remain in the ministry.
That forces dozens of Iowa United Methodist ministers to keep their sexual
orientation a secret.
"Dead in the water"
"Most of them feel very strongly they're dead in the water if they come out,"
said Larry Sonner, director of pastoral care for the Iowa United Methodist
Conference. "What that does to the human spirit is awful."
Sonner, who counsels several gay clergy in strict confidence, agreed with
estimates that the Iowa Conference has several dozen gay ministers. Evangelical
Lutherans gave similar estimates for their denomination. The two churches are
Iowa's largest Protestant denominations, each with more than 200,000 members.
Closeted gay ministers said they stay in denominations that discriminate
because they love the liturgies or ministries of their churches and hope someday
they can serve openly.
"I don't want to be in a church that's defined by sexual orientation," said a
lesbian Presbyterian minister formerly from Iowa. "This is where my roots are."
Others leave the ministry because they no longer can maintain the secrecy. "I
have two great callings: to ministry and to be honest with who I am," Anderson
said.
He took a leave of absence in 1990, then resigned three years later. "I
wanted love again in my life," he explained. "There was no way I could explore
that feeling and have love as long as I was a minister."
Now he is a therapist in Madison and Milwaukee during the week, and on
Sundays he leads a worship service for children at a mental hospital and plays
the guitar and leads singing at the hospital's services for adults.
"I consider the work I do now very much a part of my ministry," Anderson

said.
He grew up on a dairy farm in Pelican Rapids, Minn., the oldest son in a
Norwegian Lutheran family. "I always loved church," he said. "I never missed
Sunday school unless I was sick."
He was particularly fond of the music. Anderson started piano lessons in the
third grade and took up the trombone in the fifth grade.
The realization in high school that he was gay filled Anderson with "sheer
terror." He is sure no peers suspected. He was popular as a teen-ager, elected
class president as a junior. He went on a few dates but mostly hung out with a
group of friends who have remained close.
For a long time, Anderson said, he fought the call to ministry. At Moorhead
State University in Minnesota, he majored in speech and music. He was lonely and
scared, he said, and thought his orientation might change. "I kept thinking, 'I
just haven't met the right girl yet.' "
His call to the ministry was confirmed and clarified at a church camp in the
North Dakota Badlands in a study about the parable of the sower. "For the first
time I understood what grace meant," he said. "It shook me to my core. I wanted
to be a minister more than anything out of response to what I've been given."
Tough road ahead
At the seminary, Anderson began to accept his sexual orientation and
disclosed it in strict confidence to some friends and professors. A professor
warned him, "This is going to be difficult and lonely for you."
Anderson's first pastorate was at St. John Lutheran Church, northeast of
Denver, starting on New Year's Day 1983.
"I was a young, immature guy," Anderson said, admitting that both he and the
congregation faced some frustrations. "I was learning what it was like to be a
pastor."
For the most part, though, Anderson describes his pastorate as a "seven-year
honeymoon. . . . I loved being in their houses and baptizing their children and
watching their families grow."
Anderson knew his honeymoon with the congregation would continue "as long as
they don't know who I truly am."
Subject avoided

He gave them few clues. Like many closeted gay clergy, he usually steered
clear of issues dealing with homosexuality. Anderson's boldest approach was to
tell the parable of the good Samaritan in a modern setting, with a gay man in
the Samaritan role.
Another time, when a parishioner talked about AIDS as God's judgment,
Anderson mentioned another parishioner who had died recently of cancer. "What
was her sin?" Anderson asked.
Avoiding the issue became increasingly difficult as it became increasingly
troublesome in the church. When a lay leader reported to the congregation about
a synod assembly vote dealing with homosexuality, "I remember sitting in the
pew, cringing and hoping I wasn't turning red," the pastor recalled. "It became
so painful and difficult to hide that I decided I couldn't do it any longer."
The synod paid for career counseling, and Anderson went to the Twin Cities
for testing. The career he was most suited for, the tests showed, was ministry.
Second was therapy, and third was music.
"It was kind of painful to see I ranked number one at the thing I was
thinking of leaving," he said. He left the Denver church in 1989, saying he was
going to Madison to pursue his longtime interest in counseling. When some
families in the church tried to stay close through phone calls and letters,
Anderson finally wrote them, saying that "if you want to hold on to me this
tightly, you must know something."
A wife from one of the families called, assuring him it was no problem for
her, but she said her husband was troubled. The husband called later and started
by apologizing for seven years of gay jokes. "I just cried," Anderson recalled.
The couple still stays in touch.
Last summer, Anderson returned to the church for a parishioner's 80th
birthday. He brought his boyfriend, Andy Ringquist, and introduced him to some
parishioners at the party.
Letter to parents
After turning 40 a few years ago, Anderson wrote a letter to his parents,
disclosing the secret. Before receiving the letter, his father had a stroke. "My
mom and I were holding him when he died," Anderson recounted.
He intercepted the letter and kept the secret a little longer.
Later that year, he told his mother. Initially, she did not want to talk
about the matter. Eventually, she accepted the disclosure and visited Anderson

in Madison, dancing until midnight with his friends at a country and western gay
bar. She baked a cake to take to his rehearsal with Perfect Harmony, a gay men's
chorus. She donated money to the choir and traveled to Madison for concerts.
His mother died last Dec. 28. Anderson preached at her funeral in Pelican
Rapids and walked down the center aisle of the church with Ringquist when the
family was seated.
Though he loves counseling and his ministry at the mental hospital, Anderson
might return to the pastorate if his church would accept him as he is. God, he
is sure, does. "I know that I am perfectly loved by God."
SIDEBAR HEADLINE: With his retirement came acknowledgment
By Stephen Buttry
Register Staff Writer
Council Bluffs, Ia. -For 32 years, David Holmes appeared a happily married
man to the watching world. For most of that time, he was a model minister in the
United Methodist Church, serving in several Iowa towns.
"David Holmes was a very effective pastor," said Iowa United Methodist Bishop
Charles Wesley Jordan. "A lot of people loved him and enjoyed his pastoral care
and his preaching."
But Holmes, the overachiever, was a closeted gay man. His achievements helped
hide the anguish. At times he suppressed sexual desires because he knew the
church regarded them as sinful. At times he found relief in brief encounters at
adult bookstores.
For 12 years as a young man working for the Union Pacific Railroad, Holmes
"fought the call to ministry." Finally, he enrolled in seminary. "I thought,
'Maybe I'll be changed because I'll be all that much closer to God.' "
In 1972, as Holmes was entering the ministry, the United Methodist Church
adopted its first statement labeling homosexuality sinful. "They just labeled me
a sinner the very month I graduated from seminary."
At that point, Holmes agreed. "I either had to deny my call or I had to deny
my true self. The call was more powerful."
At 40, he left the ministry briefly but returned, figuring, "If I can't get
into heaven as a gay male, I might be able to make it as a good disciple."
Though many closeted gay clergy remain silent on the issue or even join in
condemning homosexuality, Holmes publicly advocated greater church acceptance of
gays. "I figured, 'I can't do anything about my pain. I'm never going to get out

of the marriage. I'm never going to get out of the closet. I can't save me, but
I can pave the road for others,' " he said.
He frequented parks and adult bookstores for furtive encounters. Such
promiscuity and anonymous sex isn't a result of homosexuality being evil, he
said, but a result of the secrecy forced on so many gays. "We wouldn't be like
that if you'd affirm our unions and let us live in committed relationships," he
said.
He met Jim Wilson, a younger man who grew up attending Sunshine Open Bible
Church in Des Moines. Holmes finally left his wife, who had known for years
about his sexual orientation and remains a close friend.
Holmes and Wilson kept their relationship secret. Few knew Holmes' secret
until last year, when he disclosed it to friends in a letter.
A disapproving pastor forwarded a copy of Holmes' letter to church
authorities. Jordan did not punish Holmes, who was on disability for asthma and
nearing retirement. After he reached age 62 and started collecting his church
pension, Holmes openly acknowledged the secret he had carried so long.
"The sorrow to me is that a guy would have to wait until he's 62 to be
himself," Holmes said. "What's more important in the ministry than to be true
and to be whole? And I was this walking lie."