A Chautauqua Story
David Kyle Foster on the Intolerance of “Open” Communities
What an exciting thing it was to be invited to speak at the venerable Chautauqua Institution. Founded in 1874 as the Chautauqua Lake Sunday School Assembly, it touts itself in one promotional piece as “ecumenical in spirit and practice . . . [a place] where students share learning experiences in an open, congenial atmosphere . . . a community renowned as a center for the performing arts and a resource for the discussion of the important issues of our time . . . [and] a national forum for open discussions of public issues.”
In another piece, it claims to be “a community in which religious faith is perceived, interpreted and experienced as central to the understanding and expression of our social and cultural values, a community which is open to all and is distinctly founded upon and expressive of the convictions of the Christian traditions . . . [with] participation by persons of all ages and backgrounds.” I couldn’t wait to get there and share the good news that God loves the homosexual and wants to rescue any who will come to him from a life of physical, emotional, and spiritual devastation.
Of course, I wasn’t to be the main speaker. That was Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, who sold more books on Tuesday than I have sold in my entire life. My invitation came from an unofficial organization called Alternatives. Five years ago, the then-president Dan Bratton gave Alternatives permission to bring speakers who would provide an alternative voice to the gay and lesbian groups that sponsor weekly meetings on the grounds. These groups included PFLAG, a group of pro-gay parents, and the Gay & Lesbian Community of Chautauqua.
Before leaving for Chautauqua, I boasted in my ministry’s newsletter that I was going to “be following in the footsteps of the Apostle Paul by speaking at a place where secular intellectuals gather to discuss the various philosophies and ideas of the day . . . the ‘Mars Hill’ of America.”
Something Afoot
My lecture was scheduled in the early evening, before the main event of the night. I should have suspected something was afoot when twenty or thirty extremely somber-looking people swept into the room simultaneously. Before I could speak, the man who appeared to be their leader stood up. He was the former head of religion and the current historian for the venerable Chautauqua Institution. The sponsor of the event, Libby Duryea, all of 5’1” tall and 68 years old, reluctantly told him that he could hand out his list of grievances.
He proceeded to read them to the crowd—“shout” might be a better word. He protested my right to say what I was about to say, though he had not yet heard a word. Then he turned his back to the podium. Others then stood at their seats to block the view of those who came to hear the lecture. Then the shouting began—the protesters often shouting at the top of their voices, and continuing throughout my entire lecture. Certain epithets rose above the din: words like “hateful,” “bigot,” and “liar.” They seemed determined to prevent anyone from hearing what I had to say, or at least to cast serious doubt about my expertise and character.
And the mean, vicious, and hateful subject of my lecture? “Love Is Not Love: How to Love the Homosexual.” Ah, the wonderful ironies of life. They keep one amused even as one suffers the slings and arrows of outrageous threats and what seemed to be impending violence. Not that it mattered to them what I was going to say. The insurrection had begun before I had spoken my first word, which, by the way, was “love.” They simply didn’t want people to hear it.
One man shouted so loudly that I asked him to leave. Four times I asked him to leave. On the fourth request, one of the “brown shirts” yelled to me that he was not leaving. I was grateful at that point that someone thought to call the police. It was getting very ugly, and I was by then afraid not only for my own safety, but for the safety of Libby, who was surrounded by the mob in the back of the room.
This was a pivotal moment for me. Was I going to demonstrate unconditional love by weathering the scorn of my attackers and continuing to speak the truth in love? Was I going to cave in to their pressure and water down the truth in order to please them? Or was I going to cut and run from the conflict altogether? God was indeed challenging me to practice what I preached.
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