By Gerry Shih
Special to the Daily Press

At the heart of this serene residential neighborhood, a few blocks removed from the Pacific Ocean and comfortably shaded by aging oaks, St. Paul’s Lutheran Church of Santa Monica stands in simple, whitewashed dignity. Located on an intersection where even passing cars obediently slow to a full halt at the stop signs, this church, at first glance, is the last place on Earth to find a rebel.

But to enter the sanctuary, churchgoers must pass underneath the first, and most distinct, symbol of Pastor James Boline’s steadfast defiance against his own Evangelical Lutheran Church of America: A prominent rainbow flag fluttering above the arched entrance.

Ever since Boline made an unprecedented move by publicly announcing his committed gay relationship before a hall of 2,000 ministers in 2005, he has been thrust to the forefront of a movement within a deeply divided church — America’s fourth largest denomination with nearly 9.6 million self-identified Lutherans — wrestling with the issue of sexuality and partnered gay clergy. The ELCA’s members nationwide convened again last weekend in Chicago. Boline, who is recovering from surgery, surely would’ve been a considerable presence in Chicago, but his doctor ruled out him flying.

Boline’s 15 minutes of fame occurred roughly two years ago, during an emotional open forum debate on whether or not gay partnered clergy would be permitted, at the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America’s (ELCA) biennial national assembly in Orlando. Boline’s speech stunned the hall, as he revealed himself to be precisely the minister that the majority of the Church wanted defrocked. A few of his colleagues glared at him, and press photographers immediately mobbed him.

Friends and family for the most part were shocked, as Boline had only ever discussed his sexual orientation with his parents. Boline recalled that a closeted cousin saw a picture of him at the microphone, Holy Bible in hand, in an Associated Press article on an Internet portal the next day and called to say, “Guess what? I’m gay too.”

After Boline became the first, 82 ministers in the Lutheran Church have followed his example and announced that they are in a committed same sex relationship. All have been evaluated for discipline; a few have been tried in the church and defrocked. With an ally in the sympathetic bishop overseeing the greater Los Angeles area, Boline barely avoided his own removal.

All of Boline’s life has been a struggle to reconcile his identity and a faith that runs deep.

Vermillion, tucked into the southeastern tail of South Dakota, was like so many other Midwestern college towns: Predominantly white, quiet, safe, an oasis of civilization amid flat, endless fields of corn and soybean. Remove the University of South Dakota’s compact campus, and there would be little left. In this deeply religious and staunchly conservative town of less than 10,000 people, Boline was born and raised by a farmer father and a nurse mother, an All-American family of modest means. Two generations of Lutheran ministers preceded him on his mother’s side, and since birth there was little choice but to be close to God. He wasn’t pushed unwillingly. He too believed it was his calling, and a career in the church seemed inevitable.

It was during his mid-20s spent at a Minneapolis seminary when he painfully came to terms with his sexuality and came out quietly to himself, a seeming contradiction to the religious cornerstone of his life. He considered removing himself from the liturgy, perhaps to sing and play church music instead. To find answers, Boline turned to the one constant in his life: Faith.

“I heard in seminary the Lutheran teachings of grace,” he said. “For the first time I heard about a God who loved me unconditionally, so much that I was free to be who I was. It was Lutheran theology that paved the way.”

He decided to stay in the ministry and went to Yale Divinity School. Before heading to New Haven, he told his mother he was gay. It went terribly. To this day, as he puts it, “We’re civil, but there’s still tension.”

Vermillion, and the Midwest, became too suffocating, and he quickly substituted the ocean of corn for the Pacific.

“I felt drawn to the margins of the country,” he mused. “I think the margins is where the marginalized often feel more welcome.”

He was sent to a church in Hollywood after Yale, before joining St. Paul’s in 2000. In 2002, St. Paul’s voted to officially welcome gay and lesbian members by joining the Reconciling in Christ Program, an ironic echo of Boline’s personal life. Boline estimated that 10 percent of his current congregation is gay or lesbian.

His own church in traditionally liberal Santa Monica does in fact contain members who disapprove of homosexuality, but Boline says its a “quiet” disapproval and that “not everybody has to think alike to be welcome here because our main point is to worship.”

Now settled in Culver City, the Vermillion, South Dakota Lutheran roots still tugs firmly. He doesn’t believe in gay marriage. Nearly every claim he makes is based on Lutheran teachings. He said he approached the floor microphone two years ago because he felt a calling by God. When critics among his colleagues labeled him a rebellious drifter, a shameful Lutheran, he replies that his Lutheran convictions are profoundly deep, that he believes in Protestantism’s essential tradition, like Martin Luther himself nailing his famous theses to a Wittenberg church, catalytically setting off the Reformation and Protestant Christianity.

“Luther pounded those 95 theses and declared ‘here I stand’,” Boline said. “He stood up to the religious and societal powers of his day. He was ecclesiastically disobedient and an inspiration as a reformer.”

Then there are times when a darker mood seems to dwell amongst his childhood memories.

He acknowledges that the issue is often considered a city versus rural debate. It shouldn’t be like that, he insisted wryly: There are gay pastors out in the cornfields as well. A man who usually speaks with measured evenness, Boline noted with faint scorn that one farmer stood up at the national assembly last weekend in Chicago to say, “As much as I love my children, I needed to build a fence so they wouldn’t stray too far, for their own protection.”

He is frustrated by politicians “cloaking themselves” in right wing religious fundamentalism and tapping into the religion-fueled fervor and fears of certain constituencies for political gain.

“It’s religious terrorism,” he said, stone-faced. “Fundamentalism in any religion is a threat, whether its Christian, Jewish, or Muslim.”

“It’s always dangerous when it’s black or white, our way or the highway,” he added. “We can be civil and have disagreement, but our society has not been served well by an administration in terms of civility. But it’s not surprising — it wins votes in society and it wins votes in the church.”

His national church, incidentally, is locked in debate, and the LC/NA has had difficulty gaining the votes to make much headway. Boline had hoped that with the massive steps forward made since that fateful 2005 assembly, the LC/NA could push the church to pass a positive, sweeping statement of its position on sexual orientation last week in Chicago or at least lift the ban on clergy entering same sex relationships. That failed, but the church did decide that bishops were no longer compelled by church law to discipline gay partnered clergy — hardly a shield of protection, but a step forward nonetheless to Boline.

“Unfortunately the policy still stands. It didn’t happen in ‘05 in Orlando, and again in ‘07 in Chicago,” he said. “But we’re targeting ‘09, and if that fails then 2011 is coming. I’m hopeful, and there’s no question whether or not this discriminatory policy will eventually fall. It’s simply a matter of time.”

Boline had hung the rainbow flag over the entrance for Gay Pride weekend, and then left it in support of some colleagues who were on church trial for entering into gay relationships. Now that those pastors were indeed removed, and considering the disappointing news that LC/NA did not make as much progress in Chicago at he had hoped, Boline said he wasn’t sure when he would take down the flag.

For now, he’s comfortable with just leaving it alone, maybe indefinitely.

“I think it’s just a good symbol of welcome from this church because Santa Monica is a good place for the gay and lesbian community,” he said. “The church should be constantly reforming in the spirit of Luther and be at the forefront of social change. That means struggle. That absolutely means struggle.”

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