During the early years of the gay rights struggle of the mid-twentieth century, the LGBTQ community started to organize. They formed alliance groups that worked to educate the public about issues impacting the community, make political and legislative gains with the ultimate goal of achieving the equal rights and protection under the law for gay people, and most of all, give members of this marginalized community the chance to find one another in a world that made it all but impossible to safely live as anything other than a cisgender, heterosexual person.
It was dangerous for members of the queer community to come together in groups during this time. The raids at the Snake Pit and Stonewall night clubs in Greenwich Village and the Wooster Street Firehouse arson fire all speak to the danger the community faced whenever they got together. But spaces in which to organize, exchange ideas, and hatch plans for revolution were necessary, just as vital to the movement as the alliances themselves.
People met in all kinds of places, but safety was always a concern. Some houses of worship broke ranks and provided spaces where the LGBTQ community could worship, collaborate, and launch the kind of political and social activism that led to the biggest changes in the latter half of the twentieth century. Spencer Memorial Church in Brooklyn was such a place. Located at the corner of Clinton and Remsen Streets in Brooklyn Heights, the Presbyterian served as the incubator and launching pad for the Gay Alliance of Brooklyn, an offshoot of the Gay Activist Alliance and the first group of its kind in the borough. Though a mid-century church not only welcoming but celebrating the LGBTQ community is always noteworthy, a look at Spencer Memorial’s history reveals a pattern of acceptance and inclusivity.
…he personally buried seven people in one week once, all deceased AIDS patients whose families desperately wanted them to have a funeral. They weren’t even part of his congregation, just people who other churches wouldn’t touch because of their sexual orientation.
The Gay Alliance of Brooklyn was born in Spencer Memorial Church, far away from the larger gay community in Greenwich Village. Formed in 1971 as one of the multitude of groups that came together after the much-publicized Stonewall uprising, the GAB was active from 1971 to 1973, and had over 300 members at one point. The group engaged the community in countless ways, from intellectual debate, art groups, and weekly dances. The GAB helped to form other alliance groups even further away from Manhattan, like the Gay Alliance of Queens County and the Canarsie Gay Alliance, leaving behind a legacy that stretches far beyond its own activist work.
Spencer Memorial Church closed its doors in late 1972, and in 1978 became one of the first houses of worship in New York City to be converted into apartments. However, the church’s focus on empowering marginalized people who were largely reviled by the rest of the population, and general principles of total acceptance and love, live on today in institutions like Manhattan’s Church of the Village. Located in the heart of the West Village, the church carries the torch Spencer Memorial held long ago, proudly billing itself as “progressive, radically inclusive and anti-racist.”
“Jesus himself thought everybody should be welcome,” explains Pastor Jeff Wells, lead pastor at Church of the Village, saying the church aims to be a “safe haven for people who have felt rejected by other religious communities.” The congregation (Wells estimates it at 200 strong) matches its rhetoric with a deep commitment to the community, providing food for 1,300 or more people each week and hosting a Saturday meal each week that is mostly attended by homeless LGBTQ youth. He says the church is proud to help those who need love and assistance the most.
“Jesus was a rule breaker, and he did it in the name of love. That’s what we try to practice, too.” Taka IIshii led the congregation for almost twenty years, retiring in 2005. He remembers the major role the church played in fighting the AIDS crisis in New York City, recalling that he personally buried seven people in one week once, all deceased AIDS patients whose families desperately wanted them to have a funeral. They weren’t even part of his congregation, just people who other churches wouldn’t touch because of their sexual orientation.
“Our church, United Methodist Church, talks about open doors, open hearts, open minds. Well, they’re not open to certain people,” he says. He says other churches are overlooking one of the most cardinal laws of Christianity: “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”