ON STANDING FOR WHAT'S RIGHT

Broadway Baptist kicked out of Southern Baptist Convention

By LEE WILLIAMS and BILL MILLER

leewilliams@star-telegram.comwmiller@star-telegram.com

Broadway Baptist Church has been kicked out of the Southern Baptist Convention because its stance on homosexuality is too lenient, convention members said.

Convention delegates, known as messengers, voted Tuesday to end the 127-year relationship with the historic Fort Worth church during the annual convention being held in Louisville, Ky.

The vote affirmed that the relationship between Broadway and the convention cease, "and that the church’s messengers not be seated," according to Roger Oldham, vice president for convention relations with the executive committee.

The committee made the recommendation Monday.

Stephen Wilson, a member of the executive committee, told the Baptist Press that "the church was in effect saying that it was OK to have members who are open homosexuals."

The 2,000-member church could seek reinstatement if it "unambiguously demonstrates its friendly cooperation with the Convention under Article III," according to the committee.

Article III deals with membership and says, "Among churches not in cooperation with the convention are churches which act to affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior."

The vote was a disappointment to leaders at Broadway, according to a statement from Kathy Madeja, chairwoman of the board of deacons.

"We do not believe Broadway has taken any action which would justify its being deemed not in friendly cooperation with the SBC," Madeja said. "It is unfortunate that the Southern Baptist Convention decided otherwise and severed its affiliation with Broadway Baptist Church."

Southern Baptist churches are autonomous and in charge of their own affairs, although the national convention does coordinate missions and relief organizations.

Because it was voted out, Broadway will not have a voice in convention issues or participate in its activities, Oldham said.

"Tomorrow when everybody wakes up, Broadway Baptist Church is still a Baptist church," Oldham said. "The only difference now is that it . . . can’t participate in matters that it has historically been a part of."

The decision does not affect Broadway’s affiliation with the Baptist General Convention of Texas. Its executive director, Randall Everett, said he was disappointed that Broadway and the Southern Baptist Convention could not reach an agreement.

"Our prayers are with the church and its new pastor as they seek God’s leadership for the future," Everett said in a statement.

The Rev. Brent Beasley, who was named senior pastor at Broadway this month, could not be reached for comment. He begins at Broadway in July.

Beasley replaces the Rev. Brett Younger, whose leadership was called into question last year during a debate about whether photographs of same-sex couples should appear in the church directory. The photographs were eventually rejected in favor of group pictures of all church members.

Younger resigned in April 2008 to become an associate professor at a divinity school in Atlanta.

After the debate over the photographs, the Rev. Bob Sanderson of Wendell, N.C., criticized Broadway’s stance on homosexuality at last year’s convention and urged that the church be declared "not in friendly cooperation with the Southern Baptist Convention."

The issue was taken up by the executive committee, which conducted meetings in September and February.

The Rev. Jorene Taylor Swift, a Broadway minister, wrote a letter to the committee stating: "We are not a church where homosexuality is a defining issue. While we extend hospitality to everyone — including homosexuals — we do not endorse, approve or affirm homosexual behavior."

Broadway leaders also appeared before the committee in February, and were asked whether any homosexuals served on church committees.

"The interim pastor [the Rev. Charles Johnson] was gracious enough to say there were two," said the Rev. Chris S. Osborne, pastor of Central Baptist Church in College Station and a committee member.

The committee indicated that it had problems with that and encouraged Broadway to strengthen its stance against homosexuality.

The church responded to further questions from the committee about homosexuality, Broadway attorney Lynn Robbins said.

"We answered their questions by telling them we do not and never have ever endorsed, approved or affirmed homosexual behavior," Robbins said. "At the same time, our doors are open to all people, including homosexuals, without affirming their behavior."

David Lowrie, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Canyon and president of the Baptist General Convention of Texas, told the Baptist Press that Broadway "needed to express those convictions in a practical way. They, for whatever reason, weren’t able to do that."

Lowrie said, for example, that Broadway could have started a ministry to help people with "unhealthy lifestyles."

This report includes material from the Baptist Press and Star-Telegram archives.

This week something big happened in my hometown, in the center of the bible belt, a historic church took a stand and took some major hits, but they remain standing, remain standing by those who they profess to love, for those they feel they have been called to love and I am proud of them. Don't really know how to say that without sounding condescending, for who am I, but as I have been dusting off my relationship with God I've been feeling the pull towards public gathering for worship, aka church again.

It is with just such a church I would wish to commune.

What are we so afraid of?

When did loving someone of the same sex become the unpardonable sin?

It isn't contagious folks, honestly it isn't.

Why is it okay for a man who beats his wife and children to hold high offices in our churches? Why are the obese allowed to serve? Why are women who have slept with more than one man and men who have slept with more than one woman allowed to hold positions of authority in our churches, but gays are not? Gays, and if you are baptist, such as I am, divorced.

I have heard it said of my denomination we are the only church who shoots their survivors, and boy oh boy is that the truth.

And what about grace?

For by grace are we saved through faith it is a gift from God, not of works lest any man boast.

Now, where in there does it say, grace and straight? Grace and only married once? Grace and perfect, and isn't that the point of grace? Grace does for me me what I can not do for myself? Grace covers me and makes me perfect. I am made perfect through his grace. His grace covers my sins, doesn't erase them, doesn't make me perfect, just covers them.

"I've got this one, child. Don't worry, I'll cover you."

Come on folks. Stop being hypocritical, unless you have learned how to lead the perfect life, unless you are perfect without flaw, until you manage to get it right one-hundred percent of the time, leave everyone else alone, let God decide who to cover with his grace.

He tells us, if you love me love my sheep.

Love your neighbor as yourself.

No where in there does it say, unless he happens to love Steve. I read no such footnotes. Jesus just said, "Go love them." And that is just what Broadway Baptist Church is doing. They are simply opening their arms and loving everyone who walks through their doors.

We love because he first loved us. If anyone says, "I love God," yet hates his brother, he is a liar.

What is hate?

Well, I may be too simple. I may be wrong, but I think hate is saying I will no longer have anything to do with you. I reject you to the point of refusing to fellowship with you. Hate is walking into a church and shooting a Doctor to death. Hate is beating a man to death with a bat. Hate is throwing pig's blood on a woman and calling her a murder. Hate is setting off bombs in a doctor's clinic. And if I am wrong and these are not acts of hate, they are most certainly hateful acts.

Hate is taking away a church's membership from an organization they have been an active member of for 127 years and refusing to allow them a voice.

My heart overflows with pride for Broadway Baptist Church and it is on their pews I will be seated on Sunday.

I simply want a church who knows how to love whatever the cost. Thank you for showing me there is one.

The winds of change are blowing and their scent is sweetness to my soul.

ON NEEDING MOST WHEN YOU WANT LEAST

It's been an interesting couple of weeks. There have been many exciting things to come my way these past few weeks yet beneath the surface, my surface, has been a prevailing sadness.

At first I thought it was a sadness brought on by a missing of my children, my daughter in particular, and though missing them does add to it, it isn't this alone which is generating unrest in me.

By yesterday, there was no denying the deep shade of blue coloring my days.

I am a swimmer. I try to swim everyday. It helps get me back into shape, it clears my mind, it helps battle the blues, and it's just a good discipline, a promise kept to myself. Yesterday I just wanted to go home and go to sleep after work and almost gave into this thought, then I realized, when I want to the least is when I need to the most, and so I went for my daily swim.

I have long said the pool is my church. I bring those things that bother or confuse me to the water and while I swim they rather bounce about inside my brain, at first there is strong emotion, I tend to not allow myself to focus too much on feelings, well negative ones, and so they tend to be what bubbles to the surface first and fuel my swim, the stronger the feelings the faster the swim, the harder my strokes through the water, pushing towards this little internal click.

Blessed little click.

There is a point where my brain takes a step back from all the feelings and just like that first step back when standing too close to art, everything comes into focus a little more clearly, and I am better able to see what has been in front of me the entire time.

When I arrived at the pool yesterday I was pleased to find I had it to myself. Stepping into the cold water is always a bit of a shock and it took a second to brace myself for that first push off from the wall, but once I felt my body slipping through the water, I swam hard and fast.

It's almost like a movie playing itself out in my head, a crazy independent film where there are flashes of this and that, taken out of order and random, all these thoughts and emotions flashing about, and I allowed them to play as they would, trusting the rhythm of the swim to sort them out, grateful to find myself alone and my rhythm uninterrupted by another's body in the water.

Great sadness and hints of anger washed over me and so I increased my speed, kicked harder, pulled myself through the water with greater force, pushing, pushing toward the little click.

It finally came, more than twenty minutes into the swim, my mind grew quiet as my body picked up on its own rhythm and my brain rather released and I became only body, only breath, legs and arms and lungs, everything else slipping away, sinking to the bottom of the pool to be left behind.

I feel the tug of blue on my soul again today, and there were no epiphanies carried from yesterday's swim, so I know there are still things to be sorted and figured out.

I don't want to write today.

I don't want to go to work.

I don't want to wake up.

I don't want to swim.

But I will, I will do all four and more because I know when I want to the least is when I need to the most.

I have been able to sort out enough to realize, this all has something to do with getting closer to who I am, who I am meant to be, and it seems as I approach those things blue surrounds each step closer, now I need to figure out why, but I have lived long enough to know the how of things.

How I work these things out is I get up. I write. I go to work. I smile. I swim. I make myself do those day to day sort of things and trust myself to recognize the answers when they come, and believe life is kind enough to revel the answers to those of us who seek them.

ON FATHERHOOD

This has long been my favorite picture of me with my dad. It embodies everything wonderful about dads. My tiny hand in his big one, him bent down to my level, the arm behind me ready to catch me if I stumble backward, the look of love on my dad's face, the patience in his stature, me completely unaware of the fact that I am only able to stand and gather the pretty flowers because my father is there beside me, supporting me, allowing me.

My dad has long been the standard by which all other men are measured.

Dad has been a lot of things in his life.

Football hero. Juvenal Delinquent. Sailor, See Bee, to be more precise. Student. Pastor. Sheet Metal Foreman. Inventor. Artist. Historian. Woodworker.

He used to be bigger than life. Loud and full of life, he boomed into rooms and would fill them to overflowing. He never considered himself a smart man, and yet my best memories are of falling asleep on the sofa to the sound of his voice mixed with those of his bible school buddies debating philosophies and biblical theories. He can talk for hours about history and his thoughts on the different events that have shaped our county's.

He never pretends to be anything other than who he is, and I grew up watching the contradictions that was my father.

Rough around the edges construction worker, soul stirring artist, theologian who tells you what the bible says while cussing like the sailor he was, every guys guy, blue collared worker who passed along a strong work ethic to his children and his children's children.

Dad loves music. He was a whistler. For as far back as I can remember, I would wake to the sound of my dad trilling away in the kitchen as he started the morning coffee, and even as a girl couldn't help but wonder at such joy.

I was always dad's buddy. When I was a tiny girl I used to hear my dad turn the key in the downstairs door of our apartment, and would crawl to the upstairs door and wait for my mom to open it so I could greet dad as he came up the stairs. He would swoop me up and dance me about, and in his arms I would stay until I fell asleep for the night.

I remember feeling that nothing bad could ever happen to me in dad's arms, in dad's presences. Dad's shadow was the only protection I needed as a girl.

He was sweet, harsh, funny, demanding, loving, tender, understanding, strict, and I never once had to wonder if dad loved me. I knew. I still do. All the way down to my toes know. And I am grateful to have a dad such as mine.

They say our earthly fathers determine the size and shape and nature of our heavenly father, we see God in our Fathers, and our fathers in God. If this is true, and I believe it is, I have been given such a gift, because this song could apply to either for me.

Happy Father's Day, Dad! You deserve all the best this world holds, for through out my life you have been beside me, allowing me to stand, ready to catch me whenever I've stumbled, supporting me as I gathered all the pretty flowers, and I want you to know, I am aware. Fully aware, and I love you for it more than I will ever be able to express.

CORNERSTONE

(for my dad)

Once solid rock now life-slammed sand

Shuffles lost, in search of what, I do not know

We sit together, him and me

Silence where chatter used to be

Searching his eyes for the depth they once held

Hollow green surface is all pain has left

Crag under whose shadow I once hid

How I long for the safety of your shade

Bedrock from which my life was formed

How I miss the comfort of your warmth

Foundation on which I did rest from the squall

How I need the support your arms once allowed

Would that I could, like a small child crawl

Back to the rock which once sheltered me

Where have you gone to and will you return

Whisper the words that will bring back again

The keystone who always stood watch over me.

ON MORNING

I was suppose to have met Ronald for lunch yesterday, instead I went to his viewing. I hugged his mom who seemed numb and as blindsided as I felt. I sat with his sister for a little bit and we exchanged our favorite memories of him, then she turned to me and said, "I just can't believe after tomorrow I won't ever see him again."

I knew just how she felt.

What we have lost hasn't fully sank in yet. As much as we are hurting there is still a numbness brought on by shock, and we will never be the same people we were Wednesday morning, some more pronouncedly changed than others, but there will forever come moments when we think to ourselves, "Oh my goodness, Ronald would love this!" and we will, for that portion of a second, forget until loss slaps us across the face with its cruel absoluteness. We will forever be reminded of our loss.

I said goodbye to Ronald today. Slip in near the back and listened as a pastor talked about a boy I hardly recognized, and it made me sadder than I was. I wonder why we find it necessary to sanctify our dead?

It was not this spit and polished person I had come there to grieve, wasn't this boy who was so, so good, I had grown to love, it was Ronald in all his flawed humanity that I will miss for the rest of my life.

Ronald who others had a cause to fear, Ronald who shot heron, and stole, Ronald who lied and manipulated, Ronald whose laughter would make it impossible to remain unhappy, Ronald whose art amazed me, Ronald who would have stood between me or my daughter and anyone wanting to harm us, Ronald who remembered my birthday every year and made me breakfast three mother's day in a row, Ronald who sat beside my daughter when she got her heart broken the very first time, silently, with his arm around her shoulder never saying a word, until she laid her head on his shoulder and finally let herself cry. Ronald who, much to our horror, beat the boy responsible and issued a warning to never ever harm Elizabeth again or he would finish the job. Ronald who understood things on such a deep level it astounded me. Dark skinned, long curly haired, brown-eyed, Ronald, who smiled easily and often, who teased and tormented, who cajoled and charmed, who lied and frightened, who loved unwaveringly and unconditionally.

This was who I said goodbye to today. Beautifully flawed Ronald, a boy I will always love and call one of my own.

After the funeral, I went past my son's girlfriend's house so I could hold Logan, my grandson.

As I sat rocking my tiny little guy, he looked up at me and smiled and cooed and I finally let myself weep. Kayleigh, the sweet girl that she is, slipped from the room and left me alone with my grandson, this little tiny bit of his daddy, and after my tears I sat talking to Logan, telling him about his daddy who he has yet to meet, and gratitude began to fill me because it could have been Michael as easily as it was Ronald back in the day, and I now need never fear my son's death to drugs as those days are long behind him, long behind us.

I want to write my son a long letter of thanks for making the hard choices he did. For stepping up and allowing himself to become a man. For giving me Logan. For growing up and believing he deserved a better life than the one drugs would afford him.

Even as I grieve the loss of Ronald, I realize just how fortunate I am that my son chose a better path.

Because of his choices there is a new life in my world, and tomorrow I will wake up, sit on my patio drinking dark, rich coffee with some sort of flavored cream, writing, reflecting and when sadness comes and sits in the seat next to mine, I will go hold my grandson and breath in his baby sweet smell, and know, no matter how dark the night, morning always comes.

ON LOSS

It is one o'clock in the morning and I am sitting on my patio with a heart that is heavy and broken.

Three hours ago my phone rang. The mother of a boy who spent more time in my home than his own when he was fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen, called to say he has died.

Cause of death?

Drug overdose.

What do you say? How do you help? How do you make sense of such senseless loss?

He was the brightest and most promising of all my son's friends, second favorite of mine. Born in Costa Rica, in American since he was twelve. He was smart, dark, and so good looking I often teased him calling him pretty boy. Fiercely loyal, and sweetly protective, yet self-destructive and volatile, I always worried most about him.

He had a charming disposition, and could wheedle me into doing pretty much anything he wanted.

"Ms. Pamala, will you bake me a cake?"

"Oh, please, Ms. Pamala, you know how much I luve your cakes."

Cocking his head to one side, making his brown eyes all big and puppy dog sweet, smiling his crooked little smile, his accent more pronounced for impact and effect, and soon the smell of cake was filling the apartment.

We used to sit around the table late into the night, my son, myself, and his little group of friends playing scrabble, or cards, or dominoes, and through the hours, through the years, I grew to love these boys.

I knew they did drugs, some of them very serious drugs, I knew they did things that would horrify me were I to be given complete privy into their world, I knew my son would be better off, safer, without them in his life, but these were the friends he had chosen, and so I concluded my best line of defense would be to get to know them, really get to know them, to make my home a safe place for them to be, no judgments, no calling other parents, no anger, no threats, just honest input and perhaps they would come to care what I thought enough to afford me some influence.

I figured they were safer in my home than running the streets, and though I did not allow drugs or alcohol to be openly used in my home, I was not so stupid as to believe they were not, and I never fussed or griped at them when they arrived, clearly under the influence. I wanted to keep the lines of communication opened between my son and myself, wanted him to be able to trust me, wanted him to know he could talk to me about anything and so we formed a crazy, mixed up little family, me, Micheal, and four crazy, bad-ass boys I soon grew to love so much I would be willing to lay down my life for theirs.

Now one is gone. Dead at twenty-one.

Shortly before his eighteenth birthday, Michael came to me and told me he wanted to go to a different school, one that specialized in at risk kids, they had an accelerated program, lower teacher/student ratios, and special training. He wanted to sever all ties, understood if he didn't he would end up dropping out of school, which he no longer wanted, and so we moved into this school's district away from his boyhood friends, and they were not invited into his new world, so I honored his strength, his choice for a better life and said good bye to these boys as well.

I ran into Ronald a year after we moved. He was in the cigarette store I buy my cloves from, looking so thin, covered in pock marks, so strung out I burst into tears and asked him what the hell he had done to himself, didn't even try to hide my horror.

He laughed his silly little dismissive laugh, cocked his head, smiled his smile, and said, "Oh Ms. Pamala, you are being so silly." Then went on to try to pursued me he was clean and had his life together.

For once he was not able to wheedle his way around me.

I told him outright that I was terrified for him and it was clear he was not clean nor sober, I hugged him and told him I loved him, then teasingly smacked the back of his head and said, "Of all Michael's friends you are the one who could go the furthest, you're the smartest, the best looking, the most driven, and I just want to see you live long enough to get there. Please, Ronald, Please use that head of yours,"

That was the last time I ever saw him. He was seventeen almost eighteen.

Three months ago I ran into his mom at the gym. She told me how he was finally clean. He was attending the local Jr. college, and working a full-time job. She gave me his phone number and I talked with him a handful of times, the last two weeks ago to make plans to take him to lunch.

I don't know what happened. I don't understand. Maybe he thought one more time for old times sake, maybe it was the end of a long hard day and he just needed a little help to make it through, I don't know, it just doesn't make any sense.

ON THE POWER OF WORDS

Words are powerful. They can heal. They can destroy. They can create war. They can bring peace. They can motivate and they can devastate.

I do volunteer work for an organization whose mission is to empower young people through literature and the arts. We go into the inner-city schools and work with at risk kids, fifth through twelfth grade. We teach, among many things, performance poetry. The kids work all year, individually and as teams, for our annual poetry slam.

Each month we hold an open-mic poetry night at the local Starbucks as one of our fund raisers.

Through the years a core group have emerged both in our school programs and our open-mic nights. Sitting, listening as young and old alike stand and read their poetry you start to know them, understand their struggles, their lives, see a bit of their hearts.

It has been my honor to be trusted with so many of their stories, and in each one, at the point of resolution, lies the power of words. Of putting what is inside down on paper and there finding the strength to do those things necessary to make life better.

It fell on me one year to write an article for the local paper promoting our big poetry slam and as I struggled with what to say and how to say it, it struck me, "Simply tell these people's stories, how writing has helped to change their lives." In telling their story, I had my story. After finishing the article a poem came to me.

The last verse came first, for I hadn't included her story in mine.

She was a quiet, shy girl. I came to know her when I worked at Barnes and Noble. She always wore dark clothes with a bit of a male dash to them, men's vests, ties, or hats. She was smart and polite, but there was a bit of an edge to her. One knew she was kind by choice and could, if provoked, level even the toughest of tormentors. She was not easily won over, and kept things very close to her chest. Her tastes in literature were eclectic but always, always smart, and through the months I rather wore her down and she slowly began to open up.

She always included some poet in her purchases and was opened to the ones I suggested she try. Discussions about other's poetry led to talks about her poetry as I began to encourage her to come to our open-mic nights.

Finally, after months of nagging her, she showed up. She sat near the back and though she brought along what was clearly a journal of her own poems, she never budged from her chair or gave any indication she intended to read.

I smiled a greeting when she arrived but her response made it clear she did not wish to share mine or anyone else company that night, so I gave her her space and privacy. Before she slipped quietly away, she came up to me and thanked me for talking her into coming. She said she had really enjoyed herself.

She came every month after that. Always sat near the back. Always brought her black leather journal, well worn and much used. It almost hurt to watch the way she stroked the pages, her desire to stand and show the world her creations, at least the tiny little corner of it gathered around her, was so clear, so pronounced, but she never budged from her chair.

Six months she came. Six months her hands flipped pages filled with her words while her mouth refused to share them, then one night she stood, and came towards me, took the mic from my hand and began to share her poetry without ever opening her journal.

The room seemed to shrink, grow smaller, more intimate, as her soft voice floated above and around our heads, filled with words of pain and growth, and beauty. When she finished there was silence. Her words were stunning, older than her fifteen years. Her talent was instantly recognized by all who had heard. Then applause exploded from the silence and thundered around her. The look of shy wonder and pride on her face brought tears to my eyes.

As she moved to take back her seat someone yelled for her to read another, a request that was soon echoed by many.

She shared three more poems, and there would be no slipping out unnoticed this night. A circle surrounded her, moved with her as she made her way to the door. After that there was no stopping her. She came every month. Her readings became louder, more confidante as she allowed herself to be what she was born to be.

The one thing that always stood out to me about her, bothered me, worried me, was the way she would always wear long sleeves, even on the hottest of Texas days, long sleeves, and I knew something was wrong, knew she was hiding something. I never asked, realizing to push this girl would be a serious mistake, and so I waited to see if she would ever grow to trust me enough to share.

She finally did. She was a cutter. She would take a razor and slice her arms and legs. I simply listened as she told me her story. How her dad had left her when she was small, and how she worried about a mother who drank too much and laughed too little. How a grandmother was her only line of security, and how dragging that razor across her flesh felt better than everything else.

She shared how each time she would cut a little bit deeper than the time before, until she finally cut deeply across her wrists, and how her grandmother found her, and her gratitude and rage at being found. She went on to explain how the staff at the treatment facility showed her how to get rid of the pain through other means, and how writing poetry kept her sane and helped her not to cut.

I will never, for as long as I live, forget her explanation for cutting.

"It just feels so much better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than everything else."

Now she has words to help. Putting it all down in a poem now feels better than everything else.

Words are indeed powerful.

WORDS OF REDEMPTION

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes

Fear and doubt

Now

Voiced outrage

Finds the lines

To free herself

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes.

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death

dreams revived

once

numbed by gin

Pouring words

Instead of Jack

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death.

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Buried pain

now

Verse revealed

Filled with rhyme

In place of shame

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Little girl

With scar raised wrists

Blade to skin

now

pen to pad

Spilling ink

Instead of blood

Little girl

with scar raised wrists