Dan Sandberg’s breath froze in the air as he closed
the door of the campus shuttle by the Robertson Center. His shift had
just ended, and the bag of Totino’s Pizza Rolls in his freezer was
calling his name. He had just begun to decide between sausage and
pepperoni when the first snowball hit him square in the back.
With his hand over his head, Sandberg ducked between
rows of cars and barreled into the safety of his vehicle. He has since
tried to block out most of the gay slurs his harassers yelled at him
that night.
Sandberg is a senior at Bethel University, a
Christian college in Arden Hills, Minnesota, where being gay is a
reportable offense. Along with eating disorders, suicidal behavior, and
alcohol use, resident assistants must immediately report homosexuality
to their hall directors and possibly Student Life deans.
While the university has chosen to engage with other
social issues, hosting a #BlackLivesMatter panel discussion and
establishing a gender studies minor, conversation about homosexuality
and homophobia has been comparably quieter at the institutional level.
“There’s no discussion,” Sandberg said. “It’s either
‘you’re a sinner’ ... or ‘let’s get close so we can fix you.’ It’s a
really toxic environment.”
In its Covenant for Life Together, a lifestyle agreement that all faculty, staff, and students must sign, Bethel
identifies homosexual behavior—along with adultery, idolatry, and
dishonesty, among others—as a character quality inconsistent with the
Christian lifestyle. However, according to Executive Vice President and
Provost Deb Harless, that doesn’t mean Bethel shouldn’t be a safe and
welcoming place for LGBT students.
“Bethel University needs to be a place where all
people, regardless of sexual orientation, are treated with love and
respect,” Harless said.
Reference to sexual orientation is, however, missing
from the Covenant’s anti-discrimination clause. According to Harless,
the university does not discriminate based on race, gender, age, or
disability, but it does reserve the right to discriminate based on
sexual orientation in its hiring practices.
“As a religious institution, we are exempt from the
provision of the Minnesota Human Rights Statute regarding employment,”
Harless said.
For some LGBT students, Bethel’s stance on
homosexuality doesn’t mean they are isolated or unsupported. But for
Sandberg, all the policy communicates is that he’s not part of the
in-crowd.
“The biggest thing for me is feeling like I’m not
allowed to be a Christian because I’m gay,” Sandberg said. “Who are you
to tell someone what they are allowed to do or be? That’s between them
and God.”
Campus pastor Laurel Bunker heaved a sigh as she sat
at the polished wooden table in her office, searching for the right
words to describe her opinion on homosexuality at Bethel. She's faced
with a challenging balancing act—trying to uphold the traditional
interpretation of Scripture while still showing love to gay students.
“We need to somehow create a level of honesty in
talking about it, but that does not mean broad-range understanding or
acceptance,” Bunker said. “What it should mean for us is trying to
create an atmosphere where young people can wrestle well and with
integrity around the things that matter most to them.”
While the university has approved subculture-based
organizations like United Cultures of Bethel and Disability Awareness
Group, Bethel is the only Minnesota Intercollegiate Athletic Conference
school without an official support group for LGBT students.
For gay students like Jonah Venegas, that’s OK. Although
he said an on-campus support group would be “an incredible thing to
have,” his relationships with students and faculty have been enough to
make him feel safe and accepted.
“None of my friends are awkward about it. They’re not
trying to skirt around things,” Venegas said. “No one has treated me
differently since they’ve found out ... if I need to talk, they’ve been
super willing to listen.”
According to psychology professor and alumnus Joel
Frederickson, animosity toward LGBT students has abated over the last
few decades. He pointed to numbers from a 2008 UCLA survey that revealed
10.3 percent of Bethel’s incoming first-year students believed same-sex
couples should have the right to legal marital status. By the time
those students were seniors, that number had risen to 48.6 percent. It
was the largest perspective shift on the entire survey.
While more than half of students surveyed still
opposed same-sex marriage, Bunker said far-flung approval isn’t
necessary to feel secure in one’s identity. She’s faced plenty of
criticism for her role as a female pastor, but she doesn’t doubt God’s
purpose for her life.
“I don’t think that every person who wants to live
their life as a gay person needs to have the affirmation of the entire
church if they feel that somehow this is the life they are called to
live,” Bunker said. “I would question that and challenge that, but ...
we have to be really careful about what we’re presupposing is necessary
for people to feel as though they can function.”
Curtiss DeYoung raised his eyebrows at the student sitting across from him, trying to decide how to answer the question that had just been posed by a Bethel sophomore. After a brief pause, he responded with another question.
"Do I think homosexuality is a sin?" DeYoung repeated. "Does that stay in this office?"
His response highlights a deep-seated fear among
faculty members to speak publicly about homosexuality — a fear that
DeYoung, a former reconciliation studies professor, said still exists on
Bethel’s campus.
DeYoung
cited the termination of sociology professor Ken Gowdy in 1991 as one
of the reasons faculty and staff are reluctant, nearly 25 years later,
to engage in conversation about homosexuality. A 1991 edition of The Clarion, Bethel's student-run paper, reported Gowdy was released after telling a student he wasn’t sure homosexuality was a sin.
Harless said there isn’t a simple, yes-or-no answer
to whether employees who express a view counter to the Covenant could be
fired.
“Given that faculty sign the Covenant, which includes
a statement about the university's perspective on homosexual behavior,
we would not expect a faculty member to advocate for a position that
conflicts with the Covenant,” Harless said. “The response to a faculty
member who seems to advocate for a position that contradicts the
Covenant would be made carefully and thoughtfully.”
Almost a decade after Gowdy was released, an informal
group of students called the Straight-Gay Reconcilers decided to offer
faculty a small but significant way to support LGBT students by handing
out “Safe Place” signs for professors to hang on their doors.
When English professor Joey Horstman posted one of
the signs at the entrance of his third-floor Academic Center office, it
was gone by the following Tuesday morning. He replaced the sign five or
six times. Then he gave up.
As part of their “Safe Place” campaign, the
Straight-Gay Reconcilers conducted a survey to gauge student attitudes
toward both the signs and the group itself. According to results
published in a 2010 edition of The Clarion, 59
percent of 697 students polled believed the signs were unnecessary
because the entire campus should be a safe place. Forty-three percent
said Straight-Gay Reconcilers should not be allowed club status.
A 2012 article in Lavender Magazine reported that Bethel did not charter the Straight-Gay Reconcilers or allow them to advertise on campus.
Now, five years later, social psychologist and
reconciliation studies professor Christena Cleveland said faculty,
staff, and even students are still waiting for administration to tell
them it’s OK to openly talk about issues surrounding homosexuality and
the church.
“I think in this community right now there’s so much
taboo around [the topic] that it really does take the green light from
leadership,” Cleveland said. “From the top—the provost, the
president—the people who have the most power here.”
For DeYoung, that green light never came. While he
tried to support LGBT students behind closed doors, remaining silent
ultimately felt like an act of betrayal.
“As a person working for reconciliation, the school’s
inability to have open dialogue and discussion of homosexuality—and its
inability to allow students to be who they are—certainly was a
contributing factor as I thought about leaving Bethel,” DeYoung said.
He resigned from his position as co-chair of the
anthropology, sociology, and reconciliation studies department in
January 2014.
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Music education major Elizabeth Ciesluk has the word “breathe” tattooed on her left wrist as a reminder of her mother’s comfort during Ciesluk’s darkest days. Photo by Esther Jones for The Clarion.
Music education major
Elizabeth Ciesluk has the word “breathe” tattooed on her left wrist. The
black, willowy letters are a constant reminder of her mother’s comfort
during her darkest days: Breathe in the good. Breathe out the bad.
It’s Ciesluk’s second year at Bethel, and she almost
didn’t come back. Ready to “get out” after her first two semesters,
Ciesluk planned to transfer to Gustavus Adolphus—another MIAC college
that has a strong music department and a gay-straight alliance group.
“I felt very trapped in a place where I couldn’t
express who I was or what I was feeling,” she said. “I was ready to move
on to somewhere where I knew that there was a lot more acceptance.”
One Friday afternoon last year, Ciesluk had just
plopped into her favorite leather chair in the Clausen Center lounge
when a student in the adjacent pod of chairs asked his friend whether
sexual orientation was a choice. The second student responded with an
unequivocal “Yes.”
Ciesluk’s fists clenched.
“If that were the case, I’d probably be the
straightest person on the planet,” she said. “I loved being in the
church growing up, I loved learning about Christ and I still had these
feelings toward women that I could not control.”
Both Venegas and Sandberg agree that being gay isn’t a
choice. Venegas said he almost had “to be slapped in the face” to come
to terms with his identity, and Sandberg can’t imagine signing up for
the pain he’s experienced.
Because he’s an openly gay student, Sandberg said
people have picked up their things and left to avoid sitting next to
him. Male students have ignored his greetings because they’re afraid
he’s trying to make a pass at them. He feels unwanted.
“If this were a choice, do you think I would choose
to be lonely, miserable, and rejected by my family and friends?”
Sandberg said. “No. I would not choose to be that way.”
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Sophomore Jonah Venegas helps a student with her Spanish homework in the Modern World Languages department, where he works as a tutor. Photo by Esther Jones for The Clarion.
Venegas realized he was gay
three years ago, when he was sitting in the basement of Bethlehem
Baptist Church in Minneapolis on a Sunday morning. After listening to a
friend’s youth group testimony about same-sex attraction, Venegas was
finally able to put his feelings into words.
He believed he was called to celibacy until just this
year, when he was engulfed by crippling feelings of depression. Hardly
able to get out of bed or dress himself, Venegas was terrified by the
thought of a lifetime alone.
He started praying for hours every day, writing
letters to God, and asking Him to take away his longing for a male
partner. When no relief came, Venegas finally began considering the
possibility of a God-honoring homosexual relationship.
“I really don’t think the Bible is as clear in
regards to this as a lot of people think it is,” Venegas said. “For me, I
think it comes down to praying a lot and making relationships with
people who identify as LGBT to figure out where God is calling me on
this.”
According to DeYoung, who now serves as the executive
director of a faith-based nonprofit organization in Chicago, there are
theological inconsistencies in the university’s hiring practices. While Bethel hires divorced and remarried faculty and staff, it does not hire people who identify as gay.
Just as dancing and alcohol were once condemned in
the Covenant, so too was remarriage considered adultery. But as
perspectives have changed, DeYoung said, Bethel “chose grace on these
matters.”
“I hope Bethel will also choose to extend its affirmation to LGBT folks,” DeYoung said. “There’s no better time than right now, given the changes happening in the broader society. Too often, the church is behind.”
But, for Bunker, an imminent change in policy is hard
to foresee. While she said Bethel should continually strive to live in
Christian community with LGBT students, there isn’t much wiggle room
when it comes to the university’s stance on homosexual behavior.
“Bethel represents an evangelical community that has
made its commitment to biblical fidelity clear in terms of its
understanding of the Scriptures,” Bunker said. “Do I think Bethel will
change its position on homosexuality? Not anytime soon.”
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Elizabeth Ciesluk's tattoo. Photo by Esther Jones for The Clarion.
“I don’t know what it means to be gay and Christian,” the student told him.
Sandberg nodded. He’s still trying to figure out the
answer himself. For now, he draws peace from the indescribable rush of
divine love and affirmation he feels every time he questions his
identity in Christ.
While scenes like that are common in Sandberg’s life,
many Bethel students struggle to reconcile the university’s stance
against homosexual behavior with the presence of gay students on campus.
In Bunker’s experience, students are often left with the same question.
“When you are a [gay student] and you read that
Covenant, why do you still choose to come to a place where you know
there might be limited access to ... an open community that affirms your
lifestyle?” Bunker asked. “What draws you to Bethel?”
For Ciesluk, it was Festival of Christmas. For
Venegas, it was a positive postsecondary experience. And for Sandberg,
it was absolutely nothing—his parents forced him to attend.
While they have experienced different comfort levels at Bethel, Ciesluk, Venegas, and Sandberg all chose to stay.
“My purpose in being here has been to help those who
are gay realize it’s not about who you love, it’s about how you love,”
Sandberg said. “People have come up to me and said that I’ve helped them
by being myself, and that’s all I can ask for.”
Ciesluk, however, wants more than student-to-student
support and quiet conversations with faculty. She wants institutional
change, and she has two years left to make it happen. While she hopes to
start an official support group for LGBT students next year, Ciesluk
said her long-term goal is to help Bethel become more “knowledgeable and
accepting of all.”
And Venegas? He just wants all Christians, both gay
and straight, to remember to have the conversation about homosexuality
in human terms.
“This isn’t an issue. This isn’t a debate. This is
life for a lot of people,” he said. “People with real lives and real
stories and, a lot of the time, real pain.”
