Rainbow connection

Religion is a side of LGBT life that doesn’t get much attention. For many, Friday night means a pilgrimage to Boystown for Spin’s shower contest, not a trek to synagogue; Sundays are for brunch and showtunes at Sidetrack, not church. Pick up any gay newspaper (or even peruse TOC ’s Gay & Lesbian listings), and it’s obvious what a central role bars and clubs play in the gay community. While there’s surely some crossover between the barhoppers and the churchgoers, many queers who’ve turned away from mainstream religions don’t think much about the part of their life they gave up.

LEAP OF FAITH The Rev. Jen Rude, shown here on her ordination day last month, says her parish is “taking a risk” by calling her to service.

Photo: Tim Klein

“People just assume that their past experience with religion is what religion is about,” Schmeltzer observes. “But it’s not. It’s about connection.”

Rude acknowledges that her life’s calling sometimes befuddles acquaintances. “There’s a sense of confusion as to how I, a queer person, could stay engaged with this oppressive patriarchal structure,” she says. Although she once questioned her commitment to her faith, today she follows a family heritage as well as a spiritual calling, given that her father and grandfather were also Lutheran ministers. “I certainly don’t think there’s only one path,” she says. “This is a good fit for me.”

Still, according to the traditional Lutheran hierarchy, “I’m not officially an approved candidate for the Lutheran Church because I’m a lesbian [who won’t commit to a lifetime of celibacy],” Rude says. Her parish, which does not have an exceptionally large number of gay and lesbian members, is “taking a risk” by calling her to service anyway. For her part, Rude is willing to work for change within the larger community she cares so much about. “The Lutheran Church is my family. These are tough conversations that I’m willing to have with my family,” she says.

That makes Rude one of the lucky few in the LGBT community who were born into a religion that works for them. Many others turn away from the faith of their upbringing, later discovering spiritual communities with less traditional structures. Even though his mother’s Episcopal Church falls on the liberal end of American Christianity, Andersonville resident Nick Boutros chafed at its restrictions. While an undergrad in Ohio, he became incredulous that church leaders found it necessary to debate the sanctioning of gay commitment ceremonies. “That amounts to debating whether gay people are allowed to be happy,” Boutros scoffs. “I don’t need a religious body to tell me whether or not I’m allowed to be a whole person. So that’s when I started exploring Buddhism.”

Today, Boutros, 29, meditates at home several times a week, and he attends a regular sangha, or communal meditation practice, on Sunday nights called “Queer Dharma.” Hosted in Rogers Park by the Shambhala Meditation Center of Chicago (7331 N Sheridan Rd, 773-743-8147, chicagoshambhala.org), the meditation time is followed by a group discussion and a potluck meal. The group began meeting monthly five years ago; after increasing to a weekly schedule last year, Queer Dharma recently has begun to attract new faces. Up to two dozen people gather on any given Sunday.

For Boutros, the event provides a deeper community connection that he doesn’t find elsewhere. “Having a different experience [growing up] and not fitting in, that gives queer people a lot of spiritual power,” he says. “Coming out is a primer—it provides a common understanding of a very deep spiritual principle: letting go.”

Whether lighting candles for a Shabbat dinner, breaking bread in Jesus’ name or gathering to meditate in search of the dharma, the ultimate goal is the same: “Religions offer ways to grapple with the questions and the unpredictabilities of life,” Boutros says. “And, as with all spiritual paths, it’s easier if you’ve got other people along with you.”