Rev. Donna Claycomb Sokol

“He’s bound to be a bishop.”

Many people had repeated the words or a similar sentiment as I finalized the details of a recruiting trip to South Carolina as part of my new role as Director of Admissions for one of our United Methodist seminaries. 

I could hardly wait to meet him and be part of his formation.

Our first meal was waffle fries and Chick-fil-a sandwiches in the campus cafeteria where I quickly learned how this college junior lived up to his reputation as one who loved the church, felt deeply called to pastoral ministry, and knew the ins and outs of our polity. 

A year later, when he was finally able to apply for admission, he was awarded a full tuition scholarship. Our admissions committee saw what everyone else had seen in him—someone who was clearly called to and uniquely gifted for ordained ministry.

He arrived on campus and started to naturally immerse himself in the community. He got involved in student government, excelled in the classroom, and won the hearts of pastors and congregations with whom he served in summer field education placements. 

And then he came to see me one afternoon.

I cannot recall how the conversation started. But I’ll never forget the tears running down both of our faces two hours later, tangible evidence of broken hearts.  

He was accepting the fullness of his identity as a gay man.

I was accepting the fullness of our church's inability to continue to embrace his gifts, his passion, and his call to be a pastor in our denomination. 

Today, this person is not ordained. 

He’s not even affiliated with the church. 

And, I can't blame him.

It's a decision I'm tempted to make often as I seek to reconcile what it means to be a vocal advocate of our church's need to change until we fully ordain LGBTQ+ people without asking them to stay in the closet of their congregation. It's a decision I am tempted to make as I support marriage equality—not only in the District of Columbia, but also inside the walls of our United Methodist Church.

But I would never be an ally working for change without his story. I would not be an outspoken advocate for change and equality had it not been for a student who trusted me to hear and hold the fullness of his being.

There are many things I love about the theology of the United Methodist Church. Prevenient grace stands at the forefront of my gratitude list. I'm equally grateful for the way we do theology—what we call the “Wesleyan Quadrilateral”—our belief that faith is revealed in scripture, illumined by tradition, vivified through personal experience, and confirmed by reason. 

My personal experience with LGBTQ+ students who told me their faith-filled stories of God's call on their life and their deep desire to respond by serving the church is the lens through which I read scripture. It was testimony and not an exegetical course that taught me how to read the six or eight passages of scripture that people regularly point to when discerning what the Bible says about homosexuality. It was one’s story that enabled me to see most clearly God at work—shaping my theology and my own sense of call in profound ways.

This person I met as a college junior is the same person who graduated from seminary—one deeply called to pastoral ministry, destined to become a bishop, eager to serve. But the church lost him, and I pray to God I can always do my part in making sure others are not turned away but rather embraced for the fullness of who they are, who God has created them to be.

Please don’t ever doubt the power of your story.

It’s time to testify because your story may be part of the church’s transformation.