To print this page, select "Print" from the File menu of your browser salon.com > Mothers Who Think July 29, 1999 URL: http://www.salon.com/mwt/hot/1999/07/29/fado Gay marriage in the Methodist Church The Rev. Don Fado has put his ministry on the line for homosexual rights. "I wasn't being disobedient," he says. "The church was disobedient, losing sight of what it's meant to be." - - - - - - - - - - - - By Suzanne Marmion In Sacramento, Calif., six months ago, the Rev. Don Fado, 65, laid his hands on a lesbian couple, joining them in holy union in a public act of disobedience against the United Methodist Church. "In our church, unfortunately," explains the disobedient clergyman, "I'm allowed to come into their home and bless their house, bless their car, bless their tractor and even bless their dog, but I'm not allowed to bless them." The new couple, Jeanne Barnett, 68, a high-ranking church lay leader, and Ellie Charlton, 63, a great-grandmother whose new marriage was witnessed by multiple generations of her family, smiled shyly during the ceremony; an audience of more than 1,000 turned out to throw rainbow-colored streamers. Among them were dozens of same-sex couples -- couples who had been together three years, five years, 10 years, and some as long as Jeanne and Ellie themselves -- 15 years. But none of them -- not even the couple in the ceremony -- could be legally married under California law, or officially blessed by their church. United Methodists, known for their comparative tolerance, have split into rival factions over the issue of gays and lesbians in the church. Some congregations -- such as the Reconciling congregation, founded by Fado himself -- are open to gays and lesbians. Others, including members of the Confessing movement, will only accept gay worshippers on the condition that they attempt to pray away their sinful sexuality. Last month, members of an Atlanta congregation splintered off after their local church leaders decided to allow their ministers to perform gay unions on church property. In the eye of this brewing storm lives Fado, an amiable man with gray hair and bottle-bottom glasses. On a warm day in the Sacramento suburb where he lives, he offers boysenberries from his garden and takes a seat on a couch spread with well-washed floral sheets (thin protection against a recent visit from the grandkids). Today, he's trying to figure out how he can make an upcoming visit to the South Bay near San Francisco, and still stop by the Gay Pride Parade. He happens to be an honorary grand marshal of this year's downtown San Francisco festival, where gay and lesbian Christians march alongside leather-clad men in cheek-flashing chaps, and lesbians parade on Harleys as "Dykes on Bikes." Fado, who knew before he was old enough to drive that he would one day serve the church, remains unfazed by an event that might send other religious leaders running for the holy water. To him, straight or gay, they're all God's children. "I made the decision to minister to human beings," he says. Shortly after an anti-gay-marriage ballot measure made news statewide, San Francisco recognized Fado's controversial actions by designating Feb. 11, 1999, as Don Fado Day. His actions won the "recognition" of church elders, too. (It helped that he sent his bishop a videotape of the ceremony.) Meanwhile, the Mormon Church has begun to contribute money to the anti-gay-marriage initiative. The Methodist Church officially banned gay commitment ceremonies in 1996, stating that homosexuality was "incompatible" with the faith. Now the church must decide whether to suspend Fado and the 67 other ministers who showed up to co-officiate at the ceremony. When Fado invited the other ministers, he was careful to warn the vulnerable retired ministers that they could lose their medical benefits as a consequence of their participation. Fado and his co-ministers are not the only ones who have challenged the ruling. Last March, the church suspended Chicago minister Greg Dell for a similar act of defiance. And in 1997, a bishop pulled a Nebraska minister from his position in the pulpit for officiating at a lesbian couple's ceremony. Fado hopes for safety in numbers, and that plain old justice will prevail. In his view, "I wasn't being disobedient. The church was being disobedient, losing sight of what it's meant to be." The gospel preaches that everyone is loved, he explains. Fado expects the church to rise above earthly prejudice, just as he learned to do from a friend who mentored him on his own path to the church. Fado grew up in the small California town of Redding, where his father worked as the circulation manager for the Redding Searchlight and his mother raised their children to attend the Methodist church down the street from their home. Unlike many kids, Fado loved church, where he soaked up the inspirational sermons, the camping trips and the various youth activities led by the kindly director of youth and campus ministry work, Bob Cary. Cary remembers how as a boy Fado would have his mom copy jokes from daytime radio shows so he could work them into routines as master of ceremonies at youth events. Fado soon blossomed as a leader and a powerful speaker, Cary says. "He has a photographic memory, which is just marvelous for memorizing sermons and speeches." Fado decided in high school that he would study his way into the ministry. After graduating cum laude in philosophy from the University of the Pacific, Fado left California for the Boston University School of Theology. It was the same year that Martin Luther King Jr. was finishing his Ph.D. work there. In Boston, he studied as an Oxnam-Liebman scholar (named for an influential rabbi and a controversial Methodist bishop persecuted as a Communist by the House Un-American Activities Committee). In his first job at a church in Fresno, Calif., in 1958, he preached against McCarthyism from the pulpit. He went on to champion migrant farm laborers' rights in the Central Valley and supported the United Farm Workers' boycotts -- even though most of his congregation consisted of farmers. As a result, many were convinced that Fado himself was a Communist sympathizer. He moved to the Bay Area in the 1960s and worked with his local mayor for better integration in their mostly white town. He preached against the Vietnam War and for sex education. He also helped operate an underground railroad for Salvadoran refugees escaping to Canada through California. Throughout his career, Fado continued drawing strength and guidance from his mentor, Cary, with the two often working side by side. During lunch together one day, Fado told Cary that he supported homosexual rights, but drew the line at hiring them to work with children. That's when Cary told Fado he was gay. Today, Cary says he had hoped his announcement would teach his child prodigy that "somebody who was gay could lead kids in the right direction." Fado says the man he has described as "Christ-like in loving spirit" challenged his own prejudices, which were formed while growing up when "homo" was the most derogatory insult a boy could sling. Cary's lesson was not lost on his former student. Fado went on to found one of the first Reconciling congregations in the country -- openly supportive of gay and lesbian members. Eventually he moved to Sacramento, where he says life has been pretty "docile." He preaches at sleepy St. Mark's United Methodist Church near his house, livening up the sermons with guest actors, his trademark jokes and even the occasional film clip from movies like Monty Python's "Life of Brian." In a sermon delivered last October, Fado chose the word "exclusion" as his theme; a word he called "the ugliest word in the English language." He concluded the sermon by telling his congregation he opposed the church's recent ban on homosexual holy unions and would defy it if anybody ever asked him to officiate at their ceremony. So the church's lay leader and her longtime partner took him at his word. Charlton says, "He doesn't only speak justice. He acts justice." Enthusiasm snowballed for their ceremony. Well-wishers packed the Sacramento Convention Center auditorium and 67 clerics were inspired to risk their jobs in support of Fado's statement. Fado says several reporters choked up at the scene. Neither was he immune. "I could hardly speak," he recalls from his couch as darkness falls on his garden. His wife, Jean, prods him, "I heard your voice crack, and I hadn't heard it crack in years." He'd do it again in a heartbeat, Fado says, in spite of the controversy and dissension in the church he loves. He thinks the institution that survived a deep rift over slavery years ago will survive this issue as well. "Eventually," he says in his thoughtful style, "gays and lesbians will be accepted in the church. I think we're on the right side of history." But until the church agrees, Fado awaits its decision about his own suspension. He plans to attend the next national conference; the church's ruling body will meet with Charlton and others who are fighting for an end to the ban on gay holy unions. Fado may be past retirement age, and looking forward to an end to disagreement, but for now he lives by the words that characterize a life of holy crusading: "You can't just rest in the bosom of Jesus and let the rest of the world go to hell." salon.com | July 29, 1999