I once held a school chaplaincy position where I nearly got sacked in my first week on the job. I was employed by the Council for Christian Education in Schools (now known as ACCESS Ministries). In the lead up to my appointment there was some disquiet.
The school wanted me but the parent representatives on the chaplaincy committee were not convinced — I had not shown enough evangelical orthodoxy during the interview process. In January 2000, by the end of the first week of term, I was in the midst of a furore.
On the first Thursday of term the monthly meeting of the chaplaincy committee was held in a private home of one of the parents; this group was charged with fundraising and support of the chaplain. I was expected to attend but the welcome was muted — there was an awkwardness in the room. When it was indicated that the committee would like me to pray at the close of the meeting it felt like a test.
At home I had been praying the words of a Miriam Therese Winter blessing song with my nine-year-old daughter at bedtime. Winter was one of the Medical Mission Sisters — in the 60s, their song 'Joy is Like the Rain' was a signature tune in guitar-playing Christian circles. Thinking to offer the blessing as a benediction, I was brought up short when I remembered it referred to the Spirit in the feminine. That would certainly stoke the fires of discontent — I mentally scrolled through prayers I knew by heart and selected an alternative.
When the moment came to pray, I opened my mouth and found myself speaking the familiar words of the blessing song: 'May the Blessing of God go before you. May Her grace and peace abound. May Her Spirit live within you. May Her love wrap you round. May Her blessing remain with you always. May you walk on holy ground.'
When I finished, the air in the lounge room was thick with reproach. Heads lifted and eyes met. Within a couple of heartbeats voices rose in fiery protest. One man distinguished himself by the immediacy of his objections and the forcefulness of his challenges. He declared himself to be a fundamentalist, and, astonishingly to my ears, a creationist.
In the initial outcry, he was the one who spoke up and stared me down, asking if I was planning to teach children that God is a woman and if I believed that homosexuality was acceptable. I responded that I had quoted the words of a Christian songwriter; then I added that I understood God as being beyond gender; finally I stuttered that the Hebrew word 'ruach' for Spirit was in the feminine. No one looked convinced. I left the house and drove away with a thumping heart.
The following week the chairperson of the committee resigned when I was not sacked and the self-avowed fundamentalist stepped up as chair. I was dismayed by this. We now had roles with intersecting responsibilities. With our beliefs so at odds, I didn't know how we would ever be able to work together. But something transpired that seems remarkable to me to this day.
"I'm telling this story because there was a time when two people deeply divided by their beliefs had the grace to trust one another and to live side-by-side in their difference."
I discovered that the fierce fundamentalist was a man gentle in prayer. Unlike the flaring moments in the lounge room, when I invited him to talk and pray with me in my chaplain's office his voice was low and measured. The silences between the words allowed our prayers to resonate where words could not reach. The language of lordship that he used was familiar from my childhood as a daughter of a Baptist minister.
Over time we realised we did have something in common — a care for the school community. At the committee meetings there was never prolonged questioning or micro-management about funds needed to support families struggling to pay for school books or class camps. In time we grew to trust one another and to cooperate in numerous events that built the possibilities for kindness in the school community.
Neither of us tried to persuade the other to our beliefs, nor did I spell it out that for me, this care for the school included affirming young people struggling with sexual orientation. I felt I owed the students my loyalty in their vulnerability.
Several years into my time as school chaplain, a journalist asked for my opinion in relation to the taboos long held by Christians regarding homosexuality. I knew my views would be regarded as a betrayal by some of the parents and I put a call through to the gentle-fierce man. I did not want to unravel the remarkable friendship we had built, but neither did I want to remain silent on this issue. When I explained the dilemma, he said something I have never forgotten. 'Julie, you know I believe that homosexuality is an abomination before God. But you have your own integrity. Tell them what you think.'
In 2006 I left the school having seen hundreds of teenagers grow up and begin finding their way in the world. Some of them thanked me in that hugely generous way young people do — 'You saved my life.' One student contacted me from university. I recalled him in his schooldays as both lost and courageous in the face of homophobic bullying. 'Thank you', he wrote, 'for telling me I was okay, that there was nothing wrong with me.'
Recently I rang my fundamentalist friend. I wanted to ask him if he remembered that pivotal conversation as I did. 'Yes Julie,' he replied, 'That is what I said.' He gave me permission to quote him and went on to remark that the friendship we had formed was still a source of wonder to him — 'God's love goes beyond doctrine.'
In the postal vote about marriage equality my fundamentalist friend will vote no and I will vote yes. Our differences have not been erased. But I'm telling this story because there was a time when two people deeply divided by their beliefs had the grace to trust one another and to live side-by-side in their difference.
Julie Perrin is a Melbourne writer, oral storyteller and Associate Teacher at Pilgrim Theological College, University of Divinity.