The Trial of Pastor Bradley Schmeling.

Here are two articles describing what has been my main occupation for the past few weeks: the trial of the Rev. Bradley E. Schmeling, pastor of St. John's Lutheran Church in Atlanta. I am a member of the legal team that is mounting a defense against the ELCA's discriminatory policies forbidding the service of ministers who are in same-gender relationships.

As of 12:45 EDT on Tuesday, 23 January 2007, the hearing phase of the trial is concluded and the deliberation and decision phase is in progress.

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WaPo article:
Gay Minister's Church Trial Begins
Lutheran Congregation in Atlanta Strongly Supports Its Embattled Pastor
By Alan Cooperman
Washington Post Staff Writer
Saturday, January 20, 2007; [page] A02

Members of the oldest Lutheran congregation in Atlanta washed their pastor's feet -- and he washed theirs -- in a gesture of mutual support as he prepared to go before a tribunal that may defrock him for living with another man.

The church trial of the Rev. Bradley E. Schmeling, 44, began yesterday behind closed doors at a downtown Atlanta hotel and was scheduled to continue through the weekend.

It is the latest in a series of similar trials in several mainline Protestant denominations, where growing numbers of congregations are installing gay men and lesbians as pastors despite rules against non-celibate homosexuals in the pulpit.

The prosecutions -- which follow procedures similar to those of civil courts, including testimony by witnesses for both sides -- have become one of the most emotional fronts in the battle over sexuality and scripture within American Christianity.

Schmeling's flock at St. John's Evangelical Lutheran Church, a 135-year-old congregation on the edge of Atlanta's historic Druid Hills neighborhood, is strongly backing him. After the foot-washing service Thursday evening, members signed up for a continuous vigil in their sanctuary. Some wrote prayers on multicolored strips of cloth that are to be woven into a tapestry.

"We were always aware of his orientation, and the search committee did not find it to be a problem whatsoever" when Schmeling was hired in 2000, said Ann Gerondelis, 48, an architect who is active in the congregation. "He preaches an inclusive gospel, and he is an inspiration to us all."

Under the rules of the 4.9 million-member Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), pastors are prohibited from having sexual relationships outside of marriage. Gay men and lesbians can serve as ordained clergy as long as they remain celibate. Schmeling told the congregation and his bishop that he was not in a relationship in 2000, and he promised to let them know if that changed.

Last year, it did. After Schmeling informed the congregation that he had fallen in love and entered a "committed" same-sex relationship, Bishop Ronald B. Warren asked him to resign from the clergy. When he refused, the bishop brought formal charges.

Both Schmeling and Warren declined to comment on the case, saying they had agreed not to speak publicly during the trial. But according to parishioners and church officials, the case presents tough choices for everyone involved.

Schmeling's supporters hope the 12-member disciplinary committee hearing the case will disregard the church's rulebook and find him innocent, despite his open relationship with the Rev. Darin Easler, a former ELCA minister who now belongs to the United Church of Christ, which allows non-celibate gay clergy.

But such verdicts have proved a short-term fix in other denominations. When a Methodist jury acquitted a lesbian minister in California in 2004, conservatives responded by tightening the ban on "self-avowed, practicing" gay clergy throughout the United Methodist Church.

The panel in Atlanta has 15 days to render a decision. If it removes Schmeling from the ELCA's clergy, St. John's parishioners will face a dilemma. They could keep him on as pastor, but would then face a risk that the bishop could seek to suspend or expel the entire congregation.

John Brooks, a spokesman for the national church, said that disciplinary tribunals have removed at least three Lutheran ministers from the clergy since 1994 and that two churches in San Francisco were expelled in 1992 for hiring gay pastors who were not official ELCA clergy members.

Irene Mayer, 67, who has attended St. John's for 48 years, said she has no doubt what the congregation will do if Schmeling is defrocked.

"Even if this happens, he's still going to be our pastor. We won't give up," she said.

Those words represented a dramatic turnaround for Mayer, who said she and her husband were among just a half-dozen parishioners who voted against hiring Schmeling seven years ago. He gradually won her over, she said, with phone calls and other demonstrations of concern.

"He's always been there for us anytime we need him, without hesitation," she said. "If being gay and being a pastor at the same time is a sin, then that's between Pastor Brad and God."

While the ELCA as a whole has been declining in numbers, St. John has added about 100 members, growing to nearly 350 adults since Schmeling arrived. What's more, it is full of young couples with children, and has a vibrant teenage youth group and an active ministry to the homeless, said John R. Ballew, 52, a mental-health counselor who said he was attracted to the church by Schmeling's patient, caring demeanor.

"Everybody in the congregation feels Bradley was really called to us, and nothing has changed about that. Regardless of what happens, I don't see our position that he's our pastor changing," Ballew said.

Asked whether parishioners would rather keep Schmeling or remain in the ELCA, Ballew momentarily fell silent.

"We have long ties to the Lutheran Church; we would never leave voluntarily. I don't see that changing either, not from our standpoint," he said. "But I can't really speculate on what the bishop would do."

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AJC article:
Converted critic
Gay pastor who could be expelled supported by former opponent
By John Blake
Published on: 01/17/07

James Mayer is a 70-year-old truck driver from South Carolina who calls himself a "tough Lutheran."

But when he talks about what's happened to him during the past six years, his eyes well up. He swallows hard and sighs. Then the tears come.

"Look at me," he says with a sheepish smile. "This is who I am. I'm not ashamed of it."

Six years ago, Mayer was an angry man. St. John's Lutheran Church had elected the Rev. Bradley Schmeling, an openly gay man, as its new pastor. Only six people out of the then 250-member congregation voted against Schmeling. Mayer and his wife were two of them. He vowed not to return.

This is the worst thing that could have happened to the church, Mayer thought. They're probably going to close the doors.

St. John's doors remain open — but Schmeling's future is now in doubt.

Bishop Ronald B. Warren of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America filed charges in August against Schmeling after the pastor told him that he had entered into a relationship with another man. ELCA policy permits gay clergy — only if they're celibate. Schmeling's trial starts in Atlanta on Friday. He could be expelled from the ELCA.

The Midtown church has since rallied around Schmeling — and so has Mayer. He has not only returned to the church but contributed money to Schmeling's legal defense. He tears up at the prospect that "Pastor Brad" may no longer lead his church.

"If you had told me six years ago that I was going to give money to Brad's defense," he says, "I would have told you, 'You've lost your mind.' "

Middle-ground position

Over the past three decades, most mainline Protestant denominations have become more accepting of gays. Some, like the United Church of Christ, even support the rights of gays to marry.

The ELCA has not gone that far. It won't allow any "practicing" gays in sexual relationships with people of the same gender to be ordained as clergy.

Those guidelines have been adopted by some other Protestant denominations. It's viewed as a middle ground, a way to avoid schism. Yet inevitably a congregation will violate these rules, deeming the celibacy requirements as outmoded interpretation of Scripture.

St. John's is such a church. When it called Schmeling for interviews in 2000, he told them he was gay. But it wasn't an issue, says Laura Crawley, the congregation's president.

"At the time, the bishop approved him," she says. "We were not breaking any sort of rules in calling him."

Crawley says the church's call committee was drawn to Schmeling's ability. His way of translating ancient Scriptures into plain language. His habit of not just using children as cute backdrops in service but treating them as adults. His flair for creative worship.

They knew, though, that he might break church rules someday if he met someone. Many actually hoped that he would.

"When your job is giving 24 hours a day, you need someone in your life who is devoted to giving to you," she says.

The church may have become more accepting of gay pastors, but Mayer didn't get the memo. He didn't change his views of gays. He was more concerned with survival.

"The church was barely hanging on when he came," Mayer says.

'Gay was bad'

So was the ELCA. Like many other Protestant denominations, the organization's membership has been declining for at least 20 years.

Some say most Protestant denominations are dying because they're diluting the Bible. Others say it's because they're not inclusive.

When both sides clash publicly, they typically follow a formula. Clergy cite dueling biblical verses, pray for guidance from the Holy Spirit and parse the meaning of convoluted church policy phrases.

Mayer doesn't cite biblical scholars or the Holy Spirit to explain his change. A reserved man, he doesn't even like talking about the subject.

"I'm only here because of Pastor Brad," he says as he unfolds his lanky frame in a chair at a St. John's Sunday school room. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't even be talking to you."

He says he never talked about homosexuality growing up on a farm in Prosperity, S.C.

There was no theological debate; the issue was settled.

"I came up with very little knowledge of gayness," he says. "The only thing I ever heard about gay was bad. This is all I knew: He's gay. He's bad."

That didn't change when St. John's called Schmeling, a seminary student at Emory University who was completing his doctorate.

When the church selected Schmeling after a congregational vote, Mayer started thinking about other churches. But they had to be Lutheran. Mayer was a devoted Lutheran who once broke up with a girlfriend because she was a Baptist. He can trace his Lutheran ancestors back to the 17th century. And though he had attended St. John's with his wife, Irene, for 47 years, he was prepared to move.

"I figured it was going under," he says. "I might as well hunt somewhere else."

Schmeling drew him back home, though.

First, he reached the person Mayer calls "the most important person in my life" — his wife, Irene.

The two will celebrate their 48th wedding anniversary this month. Schmeling called Irene at their Forest Park home to introduce himself.

"The word 'gay' didn't really come up in my conversation," Irene Mayer recalls. "He was calling with concern about myself and my family."

Schmeling kept calling her.

"Over a period of time, he won her over," Mayer says. "She just started loving him."

Church revival

Mayer also noticed that his church wasn't dying anymore. In six years, St. John's membership grew from 250 to about 350. More children and young adults joined. Once, Mayer knew all the members — but he has since lost track.

"I'm the old person right now," he says with a smile.

Then Schmeling touched another important person in Mayer's life — his 47-year-old daughter. He won't divulge the details but says that his daughter was experiencing some significant personal problems. She wasn't a member at St. John's, but Schmeling met with her and helped pull her out of her crisis. "Every time I ever said, 'I need you,' that's all I had to say, [and] he was there," Mayer says.

Finally, Schmeling evoked memories of another important person — Mayer's father, Enoch, a turkey farmer. "My mother preached the Bible; Daddy lived the Bible," he says. "If I said I needed help, he was there. The words 'I love you" weren't part of his vocabulary. It was just something I knew."

Mayer says he saw the same quality in Schmeling. He somehow made people know that he cared for them. He made time to help. Made time to meet complete strangers. Made time to make everyone welcome.

By the time Mayer learned that Schmeling had a partner, he says it was "irrelevant" to him.

"I wasn't surprised," he says. "If you find someone like Pastor Brad that everyone likes, you know that he was going to run into someone who was gay and who felt the same way the rest of us do."

When asked about biblical verses that condemned

homosexuality, though, Mayer's posture stiffens. He says: "I don't go there.

"That's between Pastor Brad and God," he says. "None of us are perfect. We're all going to answer for our sin."

When asked about ELCA guidelines, he grasps for the right words.

Finally, he says after sighing, "I don't know everything in the world. I don't understand how we all couldn't be born perfectly.

"It's just that over a period of time, I came to realize Pastor Brad wasn't the person I thought he was. He was still gay. But the knowledge that I had of gay people wasn't who he was.

"He was just like everybody else."