Like other idealistic young couples at the time, John and I wrote our own marriage vows. And like most, we had little or no idea of what our words implied. For example: “Though our love should never end, because it is of God it is not meant for us alone, but for ever-widening circles.”

Hello? How could fresh-faced lovers whose world centered in ourselves possibly know what such a statement might mean, let alone ask of us? We couldn’t, of course.

It was easy enough when we chose to widen the circle ourselves, to include new like-minded friends, shared commitments, and later, our children. Surely God meant for our love to apply to such circumstances.

These “pebbles” created ripples so gentle they didn’t require us to alter our assumptions or worldviews.

But inevitably (and thankfully), life events take most of us to ponds beyond our own, to people and concepts that challenge and invite new understandings of who we are in relation to others and to God. And to be honest, “Great Commandment” or not, making a connection between our love as a couple, what or whom it’s meant to affect, and where God is in all of that has been elusive for me at times, if I’ve thought to make it at all. Vows have a way of bringing you up short.

Over time, though, I’ve sensed that the best, most life-affirming, marriage-enriching, people-loving, self-humbling, gospel-clarifying, God-honoring encounters have been those that remind me that I don’t know what I don’t know about God, but that I may have just glimpsed something of what God’s love is about and what I’m called to do. Hindsight.

So these days, that’s my gauge. When those sorts of holy ripples are the result of an experience with people or ways of thinking I couldn’t have predicted, I can only conclude that the vows that we made cannot be meant for me—for us—alone, and that somehow God is in it.

The connection? My passion for LGBTQ affirmation in the church is one such God-pebble, undeniably invoking all of the above.

Grace-filled, sacred ripples that compel my loving response.

I was thinking about all of this last year during the 2012 General Synod of the Reformed Church in America. On that Sunday, John and I went to worship at the church where, 40 years ago to the day, we had spoken our vows. I remember marveling that I could never have known in 1972 that one of those “ever-widening circles” would lead me to become the director of Room for All (RfA) and an annual visitor to General Synod, where debate over same-sex relationships in the church continues to flare.

The next day, the Synod passed what became known as R-28, naming “homosexual behavior” as contrary to Scripture, and judging advocacy like my own as “disciplinable.”

But in the conflicted minutes after that vote, a pastor who disagrees with RfA’s premise asked if we might talk. Did we know the risk? We met by phone for several months of candid conversation, both of us trying to respond to the implications of God’s love, both of us changed. A positive ripple that I did not initiate and couldn’t have seen coming.

In the year that followed, I served on the R-28 task force with others whom I knew to be opposed to full inclusion in the RCA, and I saw that somehow my marriage vows were meant to apply even there.

That, too, was a sacred surprise.

As for Synod 2013, conversations and votes seemed to indicate that doors to further dialogue about same-sex relationships will be kept ajar for another year, and the Synod affirmed the value of unity, despite the ongoing division among us. I was encouraged.

And finally this: Someone else who firmly disagrees with me about full inclusion said, “I love you.” I can’t be sure what prompted his words, but in that moment, I heard myself say, “I love you, too.” And somehow, instinctively, I do. I don’t know what I don’t know, but the circle has widened again, thanks be to God. 

Originally published by Room for All; Photo via Marilyn Paalberg