The Rev Dr Margaret Mayman walks to the pulpit and beams out at her flock inside St Michael’s Uniting Church, a deceptively austere-looking establishment dwarfed by the luxury haunts in Melbourne’s Paris end. The liturgy has ended, but she wants to do something different today, she explains – which is in keeping as a married, openly lesbian minister in Australia’s most progressive church.
Instead of communion, the congregants are invited to come forward with their partners, lovers, friends and family to receive a blessing, from either herself or the Rev Clare Brockett, her wife and partner of almost three decades.
People shuffle forward. Some are alone, some are in pairs. Some are young: trans people in their Sunday best, a small girl with a unicorn horn on her head. Some are older, slower; an older couple help each other down the stairs with a tight, shaking grip. Many weep openly.
And to all of them, the two reverends offer a radical act of grace that is somehow both gentle and fierce: an apology for the pain religion has caused many in the room, delivered through soft touches and whispered words before sending them back to their seats.
The Uniting Church of Australia has always tended to the more progressive end of the country’s religious spectrum; in 2021, it inducted its first transgender minister, the Rev Josephine Inkpin, at Sydney’s Pitt Street Uniting Church (in fact, Inkpin took over from Mayman there.)
But this morning in St Michael’s is special, even for Mayman’s regular flock: it is a service overtly celebrating queer spirit, justice and joy, as a quieter footnote in this year’s Midsumma festival, Melbourne’s annual LGBTQ jamboree.
Afterwards, in a bright, neat room nearby, the congregation mills around for morning tea. The fare is colourful: rainbow fruit skewers in an arch above a marshmallow cloud alongside vibrant cupcakes and cream biscuits dipped in sprinkles. Some of those here have come to St Michael’s for decades, others never. Some spend every Sunday at the church; for others, it is their first time inside a place of worship for years.
“I know how many people feel alienated from religion, and hurt by it,” Mayman says, delicately eating a fruit skewer. “And yet, they take the risk and come to us. So I want to make sure that our church is really, truly inclusive. Some churches say they are, but they have agendas that are not.
“Spirituality and sexuality – people shouldn’t have to choose between them. It is so important to overtly honour who people are, their spirit. And I’m glad to do it.”
Here are some of their stories.
Oscar, member of St Michael’s for three years
Until recently, I was spiritually homeless all my life. I have been rejected from all places of worship – I tried the mosque, I tried the synagogue, I tried the church, but they all said, you’re gay, stay out.
I didn’t want to hide my sexuality. I did sometimes pretend to be straight, but often the service still didn’t feel right to me.
One day, my psychiatrist told me about St Michael’s, so I came along. It was the first time I heard a minister talk about gay people in a church! Afterwards I went up to the minister [Mayman] and told her how amazed I was.
“Are you gay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
And she said something so beautiful, I will never forget it: “Come as you are, no matter your background, your gender, who you are. Just come as you are and Jesus will accept you.”
Last year, I was baptised at St Michael’s. I know I will come here for the rest of my life.
Cookie, choir member in the Consort of Melbourne
I have been a church musician for more than 25 years. I have had some challenging experiences as a queer person in religion, so it has been quite important for me to find a church that is accepting and inclusive.
During Covid, I was very grateful to St Michael’s and St Paul’s [an Anglican church in Melbourne] – they have both created very safe places for queer people and their allies to enjoy and embrace religion.
I have come to realise that I have a gift in my voice, so I am quite selective now about where I will give my gift to, mainly churches that align with my values. And St Michael’s is one of them, for sure.
Laura, member of St Michael’s for 24 years, now chair of the church council
I started coming to St Michael’s in 1999. Back then, my partner and I were living interstate but every time we came to Melbourne, we come to St Michael’s. The minister then had some amazing sermons – he talked about homophobia and protecting people who were different. I came out straight away, and they welcomed me and my partner. I knew it was a safe place to be.
A lot of people have been rejected by the church. My friends would often ask me, “Why do you go to church, as a lesbian?” My response would be: “Why do you go to the gym?”
They go to get fit and healthy, whereas I go to church for my spiritual health. And for the community. That may sound strange to people – a lesbian in the church – but I have always felt welcomed. It gives me a great sense of peace.
During today’s service you could feel it, everyone felt safe and loved. All of those beautiful people and their beautiful souls, needing to connect – that feeling is sacred.
I kept coming to St Michael’s for 20-odd years and eventually became interested in working with the church. Throughout that time, my partner died; I met my new partner in 2006 and she now comes to St Michael’s. I have been the chair here for five years now.
We all need to feel safe and loved. We have our friends, we have our family – if they haven’t thrown you out – but this, this is a sacred community. Here, we love you for who you are. And I will come here for the rest of my days and one day, my ashes will be kept here.