Here I Am, Here We Are--Creech Trial, part II

I learned what community meant in Grand Island, NE, in 1999, at the trial of the Rev. Jimmy Creech. It was an ecclesiastical trial, not a criminal one, so the proceedings merged the legal with the spiritual. Creech was on trial for violating the United Methodist Book of Discipline, which had been revised to prohibit UM ministers from performing same-sex holy unions. Creech, a vocal advocate of inclusivity in the chruch, defied the prohibition by officiating at a public union ceremony for a lesbian couple.

The Nebraska Conference, following Discipline standards, brought formal charges against him. I was at the trial, ostensibly to do some protest-ish street theatre. I found myself caught up, however, in the theatricality of the trial itself.

The trial took place in a church sanctuary hastily repurposed as a courtroom. Center stage (where the pulpit and altar usually were) sat the "judge," the Bishop of the Nebraska Conference. The choir loft seated a jury of twelve other Nebraska ministers. Facing the judge and jury on the right and left sides of the congregation, church attorneys sat at tables in front of the first row of pews. On one side sat the prosecution (the Nebraska conference) and on the other the defense (Jimmy Creech). There were even gentleman standing in as what I guessed were Methodist bailiffs. And filling the pews behind both tables were scores of onlookers, some wearing Soulforce's "Stop Spiritual Violence" shirts, but most simply dressed in business-casual, as if for a Sunday night service.

The trial itself was a relatively brief affair, as Creech did not deny that he had in fact married the same-sex couple as accused. The jury quickly returned the expected "guilty" verdict. The real tension revolved around the issue of sentencing. Would the jury strip Creech of his ordination? Would they reprimand him but still enable him to retain his credentials as a minister? Or--as the pro-inclusion forces hoped--would the jury return no sentence at all?

Creech himself had asked the jury to do as much in his statement to them. He spoke simply but eloquently about why he had defied the church's rules, aligning his actions with a tradition of civil and ecclesiastical disobedience. By asking the jury to return no sentence, Creech was in essence asking the jury to join him in his act of protest against what he (and perhaps they) saw as an unjust, unchristian rule.

This time, the jury's deliberations dragged on. We in the audience/congregation moved outside to get some air, murmuring to ourselves about what the delay meant. Could it be that the jury was considering taking Creech's offer? By this time, all protests had ended. Fred Phelps and his crew had long since vacated the premises, and the assorted policemen summoned to handle Soulforce's morning mass-arrest had also gone. Everyone seemed weary that afternoon, just waiting for the jury to return.

In time I wandered back into the sanctuary, where more and more people were gathering, hearing some rumor that the jury's decision was at hand. But the waiting continued. Finally someone asked if anyone could perhaps play the piano.

I volunteered. Now, I had been the fill-in pianist for my parents' churches for some time but had been generally unable to practice (not having a piano at my disposal) for the last few months. I was rusty, but I could get through most hymns just fine. So I sat at the piano and took requests.

Some requests were for old standards--doctrinal favorites about faith and duty. Some were the newer social-justice songs (which were also harder to play, being more unfamiliar). I plunked along, and gradually more and more of the congregation joined in.

Then someone suggested "Here I Am, Lord"--a hymn that still felt new to me. It is not a Southern Baptist standard, and the first time I heard it I remember disliking this newfangled hymnizing. (It was also a mite trickier than "Just As I Am"). I began playing with some trepidation.

In walked the Bishop. My heart skipped, and my fingers slipped on the keys, but the Bishop waved at me to continue. Jimmy Creech handed him a hymnal open to the page, and we sang on. As we were finishing the last verse, everyone in the congregation standing and singing lustily, the jury filed in. They joined us on the chorus:

"Here I am, Lord.
Is it I, Lord?
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord,
Where you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart."

I love that song now.

I fled from the piano to the front pew, as the Bishop gave the universal pastor sign for "please be seated."

"As we hear the sentence from the jury," he told us, "I'd like for there to be a division of the house. Would those who support the Reverend Creech please stand with him?"

As I got to my feet, I looked at the crowd behind me--a goodly number for a Sunday morning, really. Just moments before, all of us had been standing together, singing a hymn of common Christian commitment, one in the Spirit/one in the Lord. Now about two-thirds of those gathered stood with Creech, throwing into sharp relief those who pointedly remained seated.

The sentence was read: Creech was stripped of his ordination. He was a United Methodist minister no more. The Bishop thanked the jury, and Creech (anticipating this outcome) led a procession outside to speak to waiting reporters.

The image of the Body of Christ--standing together, then divided--remains at the core of my scholarship and practice. This, I realized, was community at its extremes--unified and conflicted. I keep that paradox of community before me as I ask how I can--must--live with those with whom I disagree deeply.

More tomorrow,

JF