This is a story about love, theology, fear and policy. It’s about honesty, change, discomfort and pain. It’s a story that’s been left untold.

By Jenny Hudalla

Esther Jones and Sarah Nelson contributed to this report.  This was published in The Clarion 2014 – 2015. 

Dan Sandberg’s breath froze in the air as he closed the door of the campus shuttle by the Robertson Center. His shift had just ended, and the bag of Totino’s Pizza Rolls in his freezer was calling his name. He had just begun to decide between sausage and pepperoni when the first snowball hit him square in the back.

With his hand over his head, Sandberg ducked between rows of cars and barreled into the safety of his vehicle. He has since tried to block out most of the gay slurs his harassers yelled at him that night.

Sandberg is a senior at Bethel University, where being gay is a reportable offense. Along with eating disorders, suicidal behavior and alcohol use, resident assistants must immediately report homosexuality to their hall directors and possibly Student Life deans.

While the university has chosen to engage with other social issues, hosting a #BlackLivesMatter panel discussion and establishing a gender studies minor, conversation about homosexuality and homophobia has been comparably quieter at the institutional level.

“There’s no discussion,” Sand- berg said. “It’s either ‘you’re a sinner’…or ‘let’s get close so we can fix you.’ It’s a really toxic environment.”

In its Covenant for Life Together, Bethel identifies homosexual behavior — along with adultery, idolatry and dishonesty, among others — as a character quality inconsistent with the Christian lifestyle. However, according to Executive Vice President and Provost Deb Harless, that doesn’t mean Bethel shouldn’t be a safe and welcoming place for LGBT students.

“Bethel University needs to be a place where all people, regardless of sexual orientation, are treated with love and respect,” Harless said.

The biggest thing for me is feeling like I’m not allowed to be a Christian because I’m gay. Daniel Sandberg

Reference to sexual orientation is, however, missing from the Covenant’s anti-discrimination clause. According to Harless, the university does not discriminate based on race, gender, age or disability, but it does reserve the right to discriminate based on sexual orientation in its hiring practices.

“As a religious institution, we are exempt from the provision of the Minnesota Human Rights Statute regarding employment,” Harless said.

For some LGBT students, Bethel’s stance on homosexuality doesn’t mean they are isolated or unsupported. But for Sandberg, all the policy communicates is that he’s not part of the in-crowd.

“The biggest thing for me is feeling like I’m not allowed to be a Christian because I’m gay,” Sandberg said. “Who are you to tell someone what they are allowed to do or be? That’s between them and God.”

What it should mean for us is trying to create an atmosphere where young people can wrestle well and with integrity around the things that matter most to them. Laurel Bunker

Campus pastor Laurel Bunker heaved a sigh as she sat at the polished wooden table in her office, searching for the right words to describe her opinion on homosexuality at Bethel. She’s faced with a challenging balancing act — trying to uphold the traditional interpretation of Scripture while still showing love to gay students.

“We need to somehow create a level of honesty in talking about it, but that does not mean broad-range understanding or acceptance,” Bunker said. “What it should mean for us is trying to create an atmosphere where young people can wrestle well and with integrity around the things that matter most to them.”

While the university has approved subculture-based organizations like United Cultures of Bethel and Disability Awareness Group, Bethel is the only MIAC school without an official support group for LGBT students.

For gay students like Jonah Venegas, that’s OK. Although he said an on-campus support group would be “an incredible thing to have,” his relationships with students and faculty have been enough to make him feel safe and accepted.

“None of my friends are awkward about it. They’re not trying to skirt around things,” Venegas said. “No one has treated me differently since they’ve found out . . . if I need to talk, they’ve been super willing to listen.”

According to psychology professor and alumnus Joel Frederickson, animosity toward LGBT students has abated over the last few decades. He pointed to numbers from a 2008 national survey that revealed 10.3 percent of Bethel’s incoming first-year students believed same-sex couples should have the right to legal marital status. By the time those students were seniors, that number had risen to 48.6 percent. It was the largest perspective shift on the entire survey.

While more than half of students surveyed still opposed same-sex marriage, Bunker said widespread approval isn’t necessary to feel secure in one’s identity. She’s faced plenty of criticism for her role as a female pastor, but she doesn’t doubt God’s purpose for her life.

“I don’t think that every person who wants to live their life as a gay person needs to have the affirmation of the entire church if they feel that somehow this is the life they are called to live,” Bunker said. “I would question that and challenge that, but . . . we have to be really careful about what we’re presupposing is necessary for people to feel as though they can function.”

Curtiss DeYoung raised his eyebrows at the student sitting across from him, trying to decide how to answer the question that had just been posed by a Bethel sophomore. After a brief pause, he responded with another question.

“Do I think homosexuality is a sin?” DeYoung repeated. “Does that stay in this office?”

His response highlights a deep-seated fear among faculty members to speak publicly about homosexuality — a fear that DeYoung, a former reconciliation studies professor, said still exists on Bethel’s campus.

DeYoung cited the termination of sociology professor Ken Gowdy in 1991 as one of the reasons faculty and staff are reluctant, nearly 25 years later, to engage in conversation about homosexuality.

A 1991 edition of The Clarion reported Gowdy was released after telling a student he wasn’t sure homosexuality was a sin.

Harless said there isn’t a simple, yes-or-no answer to whether employees who express a view counter to the Covenant could be fired.

“Given that faculty sign the Covenant, which includes a statement about the university’s perspective on homosexual behavior, we would not expect a faculty member to advocate for a position that conflicts with the Covenant,” Harless said. “The response to a faculty member who seems to advocate for a position that contradicts the Covenant would be made carefully and thoughtfully.”

Almost a decade after Gowdy was released, an informal group of students called the Straight- Gay Reconcilers decided to offer faculty a small but significant way to support LGBT students by handing out “Safe Place” signs for professors to hang on their doors.

When English professor Joey Horstman posted one of the signs at the entrance of his third floor Academic Center office, it was gone by the following Tuesday morning. He replaced the sign five or six times. Then he gave up.

As part of its “Safe Place” campaign, the Straight-Gay Reconcilers conducted a survey to gauge student attitudes toward both the signs and the group itself. According to results published in a 2010 edition of The Clarion, 59 percent of 697 students polled believed the signs were unnecessary because the entire campus should be a safe place. Forty-three percent said Straight- Gay Reconcilers should not be allowed club status.

A 2012 article in Lavender Magazine reported that Bethel did not charter the Straight-Gay Reconcilers or allow them to advertise on campus.

Now, five years later, social psychologist and reconciliation studies professor Christena Cleveland said faculty, staff and even students are still waiting for administration to tell them it’s OK to openly talk about issues surrounding homosexuality and the church.

“I think in this community there’s so much taboo around [the topic] that it really does take the green light from leadership,” Cleveland said. “From the top — the provost, the president — the people who have the most power here.”

For DeYoung, that green light never came. While he tried to support LGBT students behind closed doors, remaining silent ultimately felt like an act of betrayal.

“As a person working for reconciliation, the school’s inability to have open dialogue and discussion of homosexuality — and its inability to allow students to be who they are — certainly was a contributing factor as I thought about leaving Bethel,” DeYoung said.

I felt very trapped in a place where I couldn’t express who I was or what I was feeling. Elizabeth Ciesluk

He resigned from his position as co-chair of the anthropology, sociology and reconciliation studies department in January 2014. Music education major Elizabeth Ciesluk has the word “breathe” tattooed on her left wrist. The black, willowy letters are a constant reminder of her mother’s comfort during her darkest days: Breathe in the good. Breathe out the bad.