In the Conservative Farm Belt, a Queer-Friendly Church Stands Proud

Craig Miller is the minister of Knox United Church in Brandon, Manitoba. In this, he walks in the footsteps of my late father, William Burgess, who held that position from 1965 to 1972. Miller also follows after my dad in another sense. Like my father 50 years ago, Miller is engaged in a battle against reactionary forces in this Prairie community, a struggle that changed my own family trajectory. Miller is trying to preserve Knox United as a bulwark of progressive Christian theology.

Miller and Knox United gained attention thanks to a recent CBC News story about threats against the church and its support of the LGBTQ2S+ community, threats that resulted in increased security for church gatherings. But Miller says the battles are nothing new.

“You know, it’s been present the entire time that I've served at Knox, since I came here in the summer of 2012,” he says.

“We’ve always received emails or phone calls whenever it was Pride Week, or around Transgender Day of Remembrance. Any time it was clear from our signage or our social media feed or an article in the paper that we were participating in this kind of ministry, we would get ‘How can you be a Christian church and support homosexuals? The Bible is very clear.’”

At one point the church's YouTube livestream attracted a dedicated troll. “We eventually closed the chat box because we didn’t have enough people that would volunteer to moderate,” Miller says. “Then last spring I discovered that the person [trolling the livestream] was wanted by the police for sexual assault of a minor.”

In spring 2023, former school trustee Lorraine Hackenschmidt launched a drive to ban books on sexuality and gender identity from Brandon schools. Like many in the community, Knox took a strong stand against the proposal.

“We were very public in responding to that,” Miller says. “I posted a pastoral letter on our Facebook page, our signage indicated that we were not in favour of a ban. There were probably about 50 members from Knox at the school board meeting in May.”

The proposal was handily defeated by the Brandon school board.

But Knox was targeted. “Since that time there have been more threats,” Miller says.

“Someone tacked a poster up on the tree outside of the 17th Street entrance to the church. It included imagery of the church and a child in bed, with knives and bullets and bombs aimed at the child. So that was really disturbing.”

A battle for the congregation’s soul

Brandon has always been an unusual community — set in conservative farm belt territory, yet home to a university.

“Brandon, at times, can feel like it has a split personality,” Miller says. “There’s significant resentment toward the university at times. You hear it from professors who come from out of province. They feel very much ostracized and alienated.”

Our family moved to Brandon in 1965 so that my father could take over the pulpit at Knox United. While serving as minister, my father received an honorary appointment to the Brandon University board of governors.

One day in early 1972 there was a board meeting. The regular chairman being absent, Dad took the chair. Among the issues voted upon was the installation of condom vending machines on the university campus. The vote favoured the installation 7-2.

One of the “no” votes came from local Conservative MP Walter Dinsdale. He smelled a winning issue in that small-c conservative community.

Dinsdale recruited a teenager to go buy a condom from the new machine. The MP then alerted the media. A popular Winnipeg radio talk show host was soon trumpeting the news that Brandon University had begun teaching that sexual morality is for suckers.

Worst of all, it was said, this corruption of local youth had begun with a board of governors vote chaired by one William Burgess — a local United Church minister.

The Brandon Sun filled with angry letters. I fielded at least one phone call from an anonymous man who requested I inform my father that he was a dirty old man. There were other calls. We were in the phone book, of course.

The Knox congregation split. Pro- and anti-Burgess camps neatly described the divided character of both Brandon and the local United Church community, a mixture that ranged from retired farm folk to young academics. It threatened to become a battle for the soul of the congregation itself.

Dad’s supporters were eager for him to stick it out and oppose the reactionaries.

But my father was distraught.

The last straw, but not the end

One evening Dad was meeting with two other local United Church ministers to plan an upcoming Easter service. Instead he broke down and wept. The agony of finding himself at the centre of a civil war at the institution he loved finally overwhelmed him.

“What the hell,” one of the ministers said. “We’ve got an organist who’s always asking to play Bach. She’ll be happy to get the chance.”

The planning meeting then gave way to a therapy session as Dad unloaded his grief about what was coming. He often said he was never more grateful for an act of friendship.

My father resigned his position at Knox. That created considerable disappointment and some bitterness in his supporters who wanted him to stay and lead the fight. But he had no stomach to tear Knox apart.

“I think ministers frequently feel like they're in a jam when it comes to social witness and care for a congregation,” Miller says.

“I still think about ways to finesse my message when I hit hot-button topics, even though Knox has been known as a progressive community of faith since the ’60s. Some people will say, ‘Well, we don't want to alienate any possible donors.’ I've never been overly concerned about that. But we do frequently consider our messaging and what causes we commit ourselves to, because we represent the congregation when we’re in public.... You have to be conscious that you represent not only your congregation, but the United Church as well.”

My father’s time at Knox ended over 50 years ago. It would be too simple to say nothing has changed — some battles have been won, the issues have shifted, new battlegrounds staked out.

But behind it all the fight is still the same. When Donald Trump signs an order targeting “anti-Christian bias,” you know some of the “anti-Christians” he has in mind are people like Craig Miller and my late father.

As Miller helps make Knox a centre of action on social and environmental issues through programs like the church's Green Team initiative, it doesn’t help that many natural allies have been driven out of the church altogether.

“We get a lot of this,” Miller says ruefully. “I hear it all the time: ‘Oh, Craig, if I went to church, I'd come to Knox. I love what you do on truth and reconciliation, I love what you do on affirming ministry, we love “Sustainable Brandon” and the Green Team. If we went to church, we’d come to Knox. But we’re not religious.’”

My father used to love engaging me in theological discussions. I knew what he believed. His Christianity was not an exclusive club that offered believers tickets to heaven. It wasn't a giant Amway operation intent on signing up more sales reps.

His Christianity was a set of obligations. It was a challenge to do the hard work Jesus advocated. It was a constant striving to remember our responsibilities to others.

It's good to know that, over five decades later, Knox United has kept the faith.