An illicit dinner: The Surreal Experiences of a Pentecostal Theologian

I wrote the article below in 2004, at a time when my conservative views on LGBTQI+ people were being challenged — not only by theological study, but by real people, friendships, and stories of profound suffering. In truth, I lacked the courage to publish it back then; the personal and institutional costs felt far too high, so it remained buried on my hard drive for over two decades. Recently, my dear friend Anthony Venn-Brown reminded me of its existence and encouraged me to publish it. I’ve chosen to leave the text largely untouched: it captures a specific moment in time, complete with the language, assumptions, and unresolved questions of the person I was and the church culture I lived in. It is a window into a journey that was only just beginning.

By Sean Cliff [a pseudonym I chose at the time!]

An Illicit Dinner – The Surreal Experiences of a Pentecostal Theologian

I need to back up a little.  How did a relatively conservative (and I should probably add straight) theologian get himself into a situation like this?  

In 2004, while enjoying a romantic weekend with my wife as my children stayed with their grandparents, I found myself browsing a bookstore when I came across a book-cover with the face of a priest in a pink “dog-collar.”  The cover turned out to be misleading, because the narrative was not about a gay priest but, rather, about an ex-Pentecostal pastor from my own denomination, the Assemblies of God.

A Life of Unlearning is a compelling read.  Tragic, intriguing, at times frustrating, above all the book presents a challenging narrative that raises a multitude of questions.  One of the reasons many Christians assume theologians have “left the faith” is the academic willingness to pursue questions in the search for truth and, if truth demands it, to appropriate new (or old) ideas.  In fundamentalist circles truth is fixed and, therefore, questions are rendered superfluous and even potentially dangerous.  Yet if truth is understood as open to discovery then, as Bernard Lonergan observes, “genuine objectivity is the result of authentic subjectivity”; i.e. knowledge of truth occurs through the willingness to ask questions, to be attentive, to be intelligent, to be reasonable and to be responsible.  The challenge of authenticity is that it sometimes leads us to unexpected and sometimes uncomfortable places.  Yet it is the inauthentic person who refuses to go on.

The questions surrounding the church’s view on homosexuality had not previously entered my horizon.  Having never, as far as I knew, really known a homosexual person, I had simply assumed that homosexuality was sinful, condemned as an abomination in the Scriptures and, consequently, that the homosexual had chosen to reject God in pursuit of sexual idolatry.  Whatever challenges homosexuals faced were simply the consequence of their own sin.  What I began to question in Anthony’s story was, firstly, the harsh way in which he was treated by the church and, secondly, whether or not homosexual orientation was something that could ever be “healed?”

My reading of this book coincided with a class that I was teaching at Southern Cross College (the national ministry training college of the Assemblies of God) on Christian ethics.  With research for one of the topics of this class in mind, I made contact with Anthony, and he readily agreed to a meeting.  We “did lunch” and, almost against my will, over the next few hours we became friends.  We talked through his story, and I was given a first-hand insight into his decades-long trials and tribulations and, to my great surprise, was told about his recent reconciliation with the God that he had thought he had rejected forever when he “came out” in 1991.  His book had talked of an almost “new age” spiritual awakening but, in fact, he had returned to his Christian faith, and was even attending Hillsong church, not as a repentant homosexual, but as a proudly gay man.  A few minutes of prayer ended the surreal experience of my first lunch with Anthony Venn-Brown.

Only a teacher will know the agony of having to confront a class about a difficult topic in the midst of personal uncertainty.  I took the coward’s way out and instead made contact with Ron Brookman, the leader of Living Waters Australia, a ministry that “offers God’s grace, mercy and healing to those who struggle with their sexuality.”  He agreed not only to take my ethics class for the week allocated to discussing the sin of homosexuality, but also to meet for a dialogue with Anthony Venn-Brown, which I planned to video and show in class.

We met in Anthony’s flat and recorded a dialogue that went for over two hours.  Both men were open about their personal stories, and I was amazed at the similarities.  Contrary to my expectations of an ex-gay Christian, Ron confirmed that he had always been attracted to men.  His sexual orientation seemed to be a part of his early make-up, although he suggested that the poverty of the relationship with his father had exacerbated his problems.  He had sexual encounters with boys in school and later, when converting to Christianity and entering bible college, he became addicted to gay porn.  He married in an attempt to overcome his sin, but this proved to be a disaster and he separated, although without mentioning the real problem of the marriage – Ron was not attracted to women.  Years later he ended up pastoring a church, Newtown Mission, which became a success story of the charismatic renewal.  But those familiar with Sydney will know that Newtown is not an ideal location for a man struggling to overcome homosexual temptation, and behind the surface of his successful Christian ministry, Ron found himself time and again failing, returning to dark alleys for fleeting sexual gratification.  It was a lifestyle that was tearing him apart, but after confessing his sin to another pastor, he underwent a period of healing from sexual addiction.  Over time he was able to restrict his sexual impulses and, he believes, change his sexual orientation.  He is now a happily married man.  Although he admitted to being titillated when reading Anthony’s book, he believed that this was residual memory from an earlier life, and that his freedom from homosexual sin was permanent, and available for all homosexual people; hence the ministry of Living Waters.

Ron Brookman solved the immediate problem of my class, but my questions remained unsatisfied.  His own story was less than convincing, and while he had obviously been a recipient of the amazing grace of Jesus Christ, it seemed to me that his earlier problems might have been to do with the illicit nature of his sexual activity, which could be considered (at least logically) as distinct from his homosexual orientation.  In addition to this, the biblical and theological arguments he posited in making the case for homosexuality as sin were somewhat insipid.

Ron admitted that the standard arguments from the Old Testament were useless.  Homosexuality was an abomination (Lev. 20:12), but so too was eating pork and shellfish (Lev. 11).  The narrative of Sodom and Gomorrah condemns rape, inhospitality and debauchery rather than homosexual orientation.  In the New Testament, Jesus makes no mention of homosexuality, and the only New Testament writer who addresses the topic is St. Paul.  While I am not convinced by the argument of gay scholars that Paul condemned pederasty and male prostitution and not homosexuality per se, this is not decisive for us today.  Paul was a man of his time and place – a first century Jewish Christian – and it is not enough to condemn homosexuality on the assumption that St. Paul believed it to be sin.

Absolutist approaches to ethics have always proved inadequate, unable to cope with diversity and change.  That is why St. Paul himself rejected the ethics of Torah, and advocated instead a theological approach to ethics guided by the insight of the Spirit.  St. Paul condemns homosexuality because he believes it to be associated with unfettered illicit sexuality, presumably because he assumes that such activity is opposed to God’s ideal for family life – for loving God and neighbour as our-self.   Yet while this may often be true of homosexual activity (as it is of much heterosexual activity), it may be that, in the twentieth century, we have learned something about homosexuality that was not known to St. Paul, and that demands we rethink his conclusions.  The church has been able to recognise the distance between St. Paul and its own twentieth century context in issues of slavery, female leadership, head coverings etc.  Might the insight of recent scientific research, which seems to suggest that homosexual orientation is part of a person’s fixed identity (who would choose to be a homosexual in the midst of bigoted Australian society?), give us pause to think through the manner in which we apply St. Paul’s condemnations.  Further, might not the fact that thousands of gay and lesbian couples live in committed long term (even life-long) loving relationships require the church to rethink its position?  The words of David Marr, whose experience of condemnation has soured him against the church, are somewhat sobering:

In the real world of real lives, wrong choice doesn’t explain homosexuality.  But men like (George) Pell have an urgent doctrinal need to argue against the best clinical evidence of the century that says once sexuality is formed it’s fixed.  Gay men and women in the church are asking why God would make them fully sexual beings and expect them to live without sex.  The hard-line Christian answer is to assert – not for the first time in the history of Christendom – that as a matter of faith the scientists must be wrong.

The hermeneutical issues surrounding how an ancient canonical text is applied in contemporary society are not as simple as fundamentalists would have us believe.  Without definite answers, I continued my friendship with Anthony.  I invited him to dinner with my family at home, and he brought along Andrew Jones.  It turns out Andrew was an ex-student of Southern Cross College in Melbourne, and knew of me indirectly.  He also had left the church in shame and self-loathing, after years of unsuccessfully seeking healing from his homosexual sin.  Given the strength of the Pentecostal and Evangelical rejection of homosexuality, gay men in the midst of this tradition experience particular angst when they give up the fight against their homosexual inclinations.  Like many in his position, Andrew attempted suicide, but eventually fell in love with Paul, and they have remained together for eight years.  Andrew had believed that his choice of lifestyle was incompatible with Christianity, but his recent meetings with Anthony, as well as dinner with my family, were sparking the embers of his faith.  He spent most of the night talking about the bible and exegesis, and longed to believe that it might be possible to be a homosexual and a Christian.  He did not believe that it was possible not to be the former and, that being the case, I didn’t really know what to say about the latter.  It didn’t really matter.  He was just excited to be able to talk, and experience the intimacy of a meal with a Pentecostal and without being judged.

My relationship with Anthony remained a private one.  But our names were linked indirectly in an article published in the Bulletin magazine on Australian Pentecostalism in which both Anthony and I were cited.  The president of my college wanted to know why the Bulletin had made contact with me, and the fact that Anthony had suggested my name gave rise to his concern.  I was able to claim that I had met Anthony in relation to my class on Christian ethics, and to conduct the dialogue with Ron Brookman.  There followed a 30 minute lecture on the sin of homosexuality and the homosexual “agenda” (which, from what I can gather, is the universal agenda of acceptance).  It became very clear that the exact nature of my relationship with Anthony would be best kept hidden (at least if I wanted to keep my job).

A few weeks later, Anthony called.  He had received contact from a student of my college who wished to remain anonymous, but who was struggling with homosexuality and was feeling like suicide.  How do you respond to a call like that?  Anthony invited me to dinner again.  I accepted, but I was in turmoil.  To what degree did a hidden relationship compromise my personal integrity?  I felt like I was dishonouring my college and my movement, who have clear views on homosexuality.  At the same time,  I felt like I was dishonouring my gay friends, by being unprepared to take a stand and openly address the hard questions that I had been facing.  I also felt complicit in the continued alienation of a whole group of people who had been rejected by the church and who had, understandably, responded in kind.  As David Marr rages:

Lives are chewed up here, and lives are lost …  If there is an afterlife, I trust these Christians will find reserved for them a particularly uncomfortable circle in hell. … All those years ago when my faith in an all-good and all-powerful God suddenly collapsed at university, I had yet to discover the best evidence of all for His non-existence: that bully churches survive and bigots flourish.

The standard Christian response to this sort of vitriol is that we “love the sinner but hate the sin,” or to cite Stanley Grenz, we are “welcoming but not affirming.”  Initially I justified my friendship with Anthony on the basis of this logic, but it was becoming clear that this was not sustainable in the long term.  Homosexuals (like heterosexuals) consider their sexuality to be part of their identity, and any distinction I made between the sinner and the sin was moot.  If I was going to love and welcome the person, I had to accept them non-judgementally as a homosexual.

Life is full of ethical dilemmas, some of which are impossible to reconcile.  I decided to attend the dinner, but keep the meeting private.  I value my job, and do not believe my ability to bring change would be enhanced by an uncertain (if not courageous) short term stand.  Perhaps also, I am a coward at heart.

The dinner was lovely.  In addition to Anthony and Andrew, I met Penny and Natasha.  I experienced a sense of déjà vu as I listened to their stories.  Both had been long term members of Hillsong church.  Both had struggled for years to escape their lesbian “sins.”  Both had loved Jesus and loved the church, but ultimately found themselves unable to ignore their sexual orientation.  They left the church, experienced the common suicidal anguish of guilt and depression, before finding themselves in a Uniting Church that accepted gay people.  As I noted earlier, they have been together five years, would marry if the government would let them, and are planning to have a child (through IVF).  They have also joined the Metropolitan Community Church, although they greatly miss Pentecostal spirituality and charismatic worship (MCC is liturgical in style). Penny is studying at United Theological College, and feels called to the ministry.  They have decided to establish a contemporary styled service at MCC, which will be launched later this month with Anthony as the guest speaker.  

In the middle of our conversation about worship, about the Spirit, about the love of God, I found myself laughing.  They looked at me strangely and I squirmed, somewhat embarrassed.  I could not believe I was sitting here – two gays, two lesbians and a straight boy, enjoying a meal and spiritual conversation.

Next Sunday I will go to church, and be greeted with the usual “Ah, good to shake hands with a theologian who has faith.”  I will grit my teeth and smile, and locate the anonymity of my seat in the pentecostal concert, where I will contemplate my doubts and my struggles, but determine once again to worship God and seek his truth.