Stuck in the Closet

Angela Whitlock and seven other students marched across the campus of Samford University, a Christian liberal-arts institution in Homewood, Ala., one morning in March. Several people in the group wore T-shirts with an image of Justice holding her scales. “OUTLAW,” the shirts read, in rainbow and black lettering. “Never Hide. Justice & Pride.”

In her hand, Whitlock, a 35-year-old Black lesbian woman, clutched OUTLaw’s first formal response, endorsed by eight other student groups, to a fall 2022 decision by Samford’s president, Beck A. Taylor, not to recognize the organization, a group that supports and affirms LGBTQ and allied law students, representing more than 50 of the roughly 430 students at the university’s Cumberland School of Law.

The group’s ability to function on campus since its inception in 2021 has been increasingly restricted. Members of OUTLaw cannot set up a table or booth on campus, reserve space, sponsor Cumberland events, have or sell gear outside of the group, or publicly represent themselves as affiliated with the law school or the university, according to Whitlock.

“Our organizations are proud to be a part of Samford University,” the letter stated. “But until OUTLaw is allowed to exist, the dignity of Cumberland’s LGBTQ students is only diminished.”

OUTLaw’s fight is part of an increasingly contentious movement by LGBTQ groups to gain official status on religious campuses across the country. While it’s difficult to say exactly how many LGBTQ clubs, official or unofficial, exist at religious colleges in the United States, calls for their recognition and acceptance are becoming a nearly universal dilemma for such institutions. Colleges across denominations that have long espoused religious beliefs they argue prevent them from recognizing LGBTQ groups — but not from enrolling LGBTQ students — are being challenged by a student population that is increasingly demanding equal resources and recognition. Many colleges have not acquiesced, leaving these groups to operate underground.

“Being underground harkens back to being closeted, being forced and shoved aside. Being unrecognized. Being invisible and erased. And that is what is happening to these students,” said Erin Green, a campus and alumni organizer for the Religious Exemption Accountability Project. Green led underground LGBTQ movements at Azusa Pacific University and Biola University, two of the colleges she attended. “It’s as if the school is saying, ‘You are not here and we do not recognize your worth, dignity, and value.’”

Yeshiva University’s Pride Alliance made headlines last year when former and current students sued the institution for violating New York City Human Rights Law — which prohibits discrimination in education and other areas — by refusing to recognize the group. The suit, which argued that Yeshiva is an educational institution before it is a religious corporation, made it all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court before being bounced back to state courts. And so far, New York State judges have sided with the Pride Alliance. Arguing on the grounds of religious freedom, Yeshiva University has thus far said it will not back down and is expected to take the case back to the Supreme Court.

“Yeshiva must continue to defend itself in the suit that was brought against the University,” the institution said in a statement. “Once we were sued with the claim that we were not a religious institution and that we lacked full religious authority over our environment, the matter became broader than endorsing an LGBTQ club.”

In federal courts, a lawsuit originally filed in early 2021 against the U.S. Department of Education and citing the policies of 31 religious colleges argued that colleges should not be able to qualify for federal funds under Title IX if they discriminate against LGBTQ people — which is currently allowed at institutions with a religious exemption. A U.S. district court dismissed the case, but the plaintiffs filed an appeal in March.

Less-publicized battles have also been rumbling under the surface at many religious colleges, where local or state law makes legal recourse an unlikely option.

Some religious colleges view themselves as bastions of principle, standing against a cultural tide that threatens to overwhelm their religious values. Just as a refusal to accept LGBTQ groups is a symbol of inequity for some students, it is a symbol of fortitude and strong religious values for some donors and parents. Several religious institutions have in fact granted full recognition to LGBTQ student groups — including Fordham University, Southern Methodist University, and the University of the South — but many others still maintain that such recognition runs counter to their religious values. Campus Pride, an LGBTQ advocacy group that rates campuses for their inclusivity, considers 22 colleges with religious affiliations to be “LGBTQ friendly.”

More than a dozen LGBTQ alumni and current students from religious colleges spoke to The Chronicle about their own struggles to find a place at their institution. Several were involved in starting informal support groups and clubs, protesting the administration, and organizing as alumni to support current students. Some found community with other LGBTQ students only after graduation, through private Facebook groups and word of mouth. Others actively spoke with their administrators while still enrolled to try and find a middle ground where an LGBTQ-student resource would be allowable under the college’s guidelines.

OUTLaw is the second LGBTQ student group at Samford University in about six to seven years to seek formal recognition. The university leadership has remained firm.

“OUTLaw’s not going away. Queer students on campus are not going away,” Whitlock said. “We are paying to be here, the same money that our peers are paying to have an education here. And so we deserve to have the same benefits that they all have.”

The Council for Christian Colleges & Universities, to which colleges like Samford University belong, is one of the largest associations of evangelical colleges, representing 141 institutions in the United States. The council is “committed to supporting, protecting, and promoting the value of integrating the Bible — divinely inspired, true, and authoritative — throughout” curricula and college activities, according to the council’s website, and it actively advocates for “marriage between a man and a woman, as clearly stated in the Bible.” While Shirley V. Hoogstra, the president of the council, declined to comment for this story, she has previously said that institutions that do not recognize same-sex relationships are not making “an anti-LGBTQ statement. It is a pro-truth statement.” About two-thirds of the colleges named in the federal lawsuit over the religious exemption to Title IX are member institutions of the council.

Some religious institutions, including Samford University, saw record enrollments in 2022 as many nonsectarian colleges struggled — a phenomenon experts in religious education attributed to the unique benefits a religious environment can provide.

For years, religious colleges have debated whether emphasizing their religious identity would yield higher enrollment and more donor support. But many Christian colleges don’t put their stances on gay marriage or LGBTQ issues on their homepage, according to a review of several colleges’ websites. Some offer support groups or informal clubs for their “same-sex attracted students” — language that excludes transgender people and skirts the question of whether their students are sexually active — without officially recognizing LGBTQ student groups.

Those resources are often housed in a college’s counseling center or within the spiritual-life offices, and some actively encourage students to be abstinent. They usually do not explore the complex history or culture behind LGBTQ movements.

In interviews with The Chronicle, some students said they learned the full extent of their college’s guidelines banning same-sex relationships or opposing same-sex marriage only when controversy arose. But others knew that they wouldn’t be allowed to express their identity while in college. The reasons an LGBTQ student might choose to attend a religious institution that is not affirming are extremely varied.

Some students still wanted to be a part of a religious environment and hadn’t yet fully come to terms with their sexual orientation. Others may not have fully understood the school’s policies before attending. Some felt it was the only way they could receive a college education at all. Avery Allen, a co-president of the YU Pride Alliance, said she went to Yeshiva for the same reason every other student did.

“You don’t want to face antisemitism on secular campuses and I wanted to embrace my Jewish-ness and learn in this environment,” Allen said. “But it felt like I was having to give up this other part of my identity. I chose to come to Y.U. because I didn’t want to give up my Jewish identity, but now it’s almost like I have to give up this other part.”

Some universities have made small wording changes to their public-facing documents, without changing the underlying values. The 2015 student handbook of Westmont College, a Christian liberal-arts college in Montecito, Calif., for example, included “homosexual practice” in the list of things forbidden by Scripture and the institution. The 2023 version forbids sexual relations outside of marriage in any circumstance — a marriage that the college defines as heterosexual.

According to advocates, the reason some students aren’t aware of or don’t take these restrictions seriously is because they aren’t strictly enforced on campus. They aren’t always discussed in orientation or explicitly mentioned to students as a punishable offense. For some students, the first they hear of a university’s anti-LGBTQ policies is when a student group tries to get recognition.

That recognition is more than cosmetic, advocates say.

“Having a place where you can feel like you belong, where you can just kind of let down your hair and relax, where people see you and accept you — that is an important protective factor from things like depression, anxiety, suicidality,” said Casey Pick, the director of law and policy at the Trevor Project, a nonprofit dedicated to helping LGBTQ youth. “Especially in a context where, say, the school, environment, or policies may feel like a constant pressure and possibly a constant source of rejection.”

At colleges with more explicit anti-LGBTQ policies, many students don’t entertain the possibility of an affirming group to join. The main goal is to merely get through college and maybe come out of the closet after graduation.

Donald Scherschligt first attended Westmont in 2012. After surviving a mental-health crisis and a suicide attempt after his first term, Scherschligt decided to stop hiding that he was gay. Seeking a space to debate and discuss LGBTQ issues without taking any hard political or theological stances, he tried to form a club. He hoped its moderate approach would appeal to the administration, but the club was denied recognition.

As an unofficial group, it still served as a place for community and support, group decision-making, and advocacy when necessary. Being one of the only “out” students at Westmont meant others would come to him for advice, Scherschligt said. He remembers when one resident assistant asked him how to support a resident who had come out to him. In a vacuum of school-sanctioned resources, unofficial figures and groups do their best to fill in, Scherschligt said.

Elizabeth Hunter, who graduated from Bob Jones University in 2019, said she would never have told the administration or anyone but her closest friends that she was gay. It was an open secret on campus that some students were what she called “bojes,” the nickname for students who informed administrators of rule violations. Hunter said she could never have imagined an LGBTQ student group at Bob Jones, even an informal, underground one.

“When I was a student, I didn’t know any other queer students and talking about gay rights and stuff was so scary,” Hunter said.

Bob Jones does have an LGBTQ alumni group called BJUnity. Jeffrey Hoffman, an alumnus and the group’s departing executive director, said members do what they can for LGBTQ students. That could mean offering emotional support or giving them a place to stay. But Hoffman’s biggest piece of advice? Get out.

“If you want to graduate, I would always say keep your head down. But my best advice to you is to leave,” Hoffman said. “I grew up hearing sermons three times a week vilifying gay people and saying we should be stoned to death as swiftly as the Bible commands. They’ve moderated their tone, but they haven’t changed their views.”

Bob Jones University did not respond to a request for comment. In the face of growing internal dissent and calls for greater acceptance of LGBTQ students, some colleges have created groups, clubs, or working committees to aid those students in a way they say is more consistent with their values.

Last year, Yeshiva University announced the creation of a new undergraduate-student club “for LGBTQ students striving to live authentic Torah lives.”

The group was set up as an alternative to the YU Pride Alliance, which remains entangled in a legal battle to force the university to grant it full recognition. The Pride Alliance was quick to denounce the new club as a front with no student leaders or members.

After the Pride Alliance won its first round in court and a state judge ordered the university to recognize the group, Yeshiva deferred the start of activities for all official clubs. The Alliance came to an agreement that they would not pursue official recognition until the appeals process was complete. The suspension of club activities was subsequently lifted. Shortly after, Yeshiva announced the founding of its new club — which it later called a “framework” rather than an active group of students.

Meanwhile, the YU Pride Alliance continues to meet, holding events like a karaoke night and a Build-A-Bear Workshop event. Allen said she doesn’t see the group as politically motivated or at all counter to Torah values.

“Our students, most of them are just really trying to balance their Judaism and their queerness,” said Allen. The Alliance gives them a place to do that with support.

Even though state courts have so far sided with the Pride Alliance, the ultimate outlook for the club’s legal fight is not positive. In writing the dissenting opinion in the Supreme Court’s 5-4 decision that bumped the case back down to the lower courts, Justice Samuel Alito made clear how the signing judges would rule should the case work its way back up to them:

“Yeshiva would likely win if its case came before us.”

Religion and spiritual growth have been woven into Samford University’s fabric since it was founded by Baptists as Howard College, in 1841.

Students are required to complete a certain number of credits through the “Convocation program” by attending campus worship, approved community-service opportunities, guest-speaker events, etc. The goal, the university says in the student handbook, is to “integrate faith and learning from a distinctly Christian perspective.”

For many students and parents, the religious environment is a draw. Samford opened its doors to the largest first-year class in the university’s history in the fall of 2022. Its business school also noted record enrollment last year.

After 11 years in the military, moving from country to country, Whitlock was ready to be close to home. She had earned a master’s in social work in her hometown of Huntsville, Ala., then applied to law school. The decision to go to Cumberland was relatively simple: It offered the best value and was the closest to home and her family. For Whitlock, the connection to Samford and the Baptist convention was peripheral.

Whitlock also wasn’t especially put off when she saw Cumberland didn’t have an LGBTQ club. She hoped she might at least find community in the Black Law Students Association. “I thought, I can find other ways to fit in,” she said.

In 2017, a few years before Whitlock enrolled, an LGBTQ undergraduate-student group called Samford Together got close to gaining official recognition after two years of working with the administration. That April, the Faculty Senate voted to approve Samford Together. In a quick response, the leaders of the Alabama Baptist State Board of Missions, a regional religious association that financially supports Baptist colleges in the state (Samford was set to receive $3 million in the following year), issued a statement condemning the vote and the fledgling club.

“We strongly believe that the Old Testament and New Testament each speak unequivocally against homosexuality,” the statement read. “When addressing same-gender sexual relationships, the Bible without exception never affirms such behavior as an approved lifestyle.”

The next day, Andrew Westmoreland, then president of Samford, said that he had been in contact with the Alabama Baptist State Board and would weigh whether or not to approve the student group.

Three months later, Samford University announced it would voluntarily stop receiving funds from the Alabama Baptist convention. In a video message to students, Westmoreland said the decision was “somewhat related” to the controversy over Samford Together. But in the same message, Westmoreland explained why he would not seek formal recognition from the university’s trustees for the proposed student group.

“I respect and appreciate the students who sought to achieve recognition for Samford Together,” Westmoreland said. “I also recognize that the group itself has become such a polarizing matter within the Samford community that it will be better to have the conversations without extending official recognition.”

Then, later that year, Westmoreland set up a 12-person committee to lead discussions at “the intersection of Christian understanding and cultural reality, including matters related to human sexuality.”

Brit Blalock, the leader of an alumni group called Safe Samford who was part of the effort to gain recognition for Samford Together, described the new working committee as “horrible and worthless.”

“No one was actually working towards anything,” Blalock said.

But, after a year, the committee did unanimously make four recommendations: a multiyear campaign called “Respect Everyone”; a re-evaluation of housing policies “to ensure sensitivity to and inclusion of” all students, but particularly LGBTQ students; a new lecture series to address the intersection of Christianity and sexuality; and an extension for the working group to continue for another year. The recommendations were not acted on, according to members of the committee. Samford officials did not respond to several requests for comment.

When Whitlock decided to enroll in Cumberland several years later, the university’s decision to stop receiving funds from the Baptist Convention, and the fact that it had a new president, made her hopeful that Samford might take a different stance.

Just a few weeks into her first term in 2021, Whitlock attended Cumberland’s student-organization fair with a friend of hers, who is also gay. They walked between tables in the law school’s courtyard, passing one for nearly every identity group, political belief, and social interest they could think of. But they couldn’t help but ask themselves, “Where’s our table?”

Her friend had the idea to start a LGBTQ group, and Whitlock ran with it, asking Lynn D. Hogewood, the director of academic support at the law school, if she would sponsor it. Hogewood says she agreed right away.

Typically, to get a club approved at Cumberland, students must draft a constitution and bylaws and find a faculty advisor. Then they schedule a meeting with the director of student services, and the dean generally approves student organizations from there. But OUTLaw was different. It was referred beyond the law school, to the university president. Hogewood said she was taken aback when Taylor, the current Samford president, issued his blanket denial.

“I was expecting recognition, like full recognition as a normal student organization. That really was my expectation. Angela had done everything right under the guidelines of what she was told,” Hogewood said.

In September 2022, the university doubled down, uninviting representatives of at least three campus-ministry groups and churches to its annual ministry fair, solely because they were LGBTQ-affirming.

“We decided to limit Samford’s formal ministry partnerships to churches and organizations that support Samford’s traditional view of human sexuality and marriage,” Taylor said in a video message to students. “We at Samford will not buy into the lie that culture tries to sell us — the lie that in order to truly love someone, one must be perfectly aligned with another’s personal, theological, or political beliefs.”

Taylor went on to say that Samford would not be excluding LGBTQ students or students and faculty who belong to progressive denominations. At the same time, he said that he was merely continuing the college’s historical tradition and views toward same-sex relationships and marriage.

Hogewood said she doesn’t know any openly gay faculty members, but before the drama with OUTLaw and the LGBTQ-affirming ministries, she assumed they would be accepted at the university. Now she’s not so sure. She said she still feels able to speak openly about LGBTQ issues in her classroom and with her students, but that feeling is not universal.

“I have examples and stories from my LGBTQ friends in the building that have not felt like they could be themselves,” Hogewood said. “That hurts my heart that they don’t feel like they can be true to themselves or speak up. Some of them have been called names by their peers.”

Even though Whitlock’s group has not gained formal recognition from Samford, it has continued to operate. Samford OUTLaw has four goals: create a community for students to be themselves; set up professional opportunities and connections for LGBTQ students; advance LGBTQ issues in the legal field and in the larger Birmingham community; and be a voice and advocate for the LGBTQ community in the law school.

While hampered by its lack of official status, the group still meets regularly and tries to hold events for members to bond. Although much of her energy is consumed with strategizing the campaign to get OUTLaw recognized, Whitlock said she still tries to plan movie nights and hangouts. The group also holds professional-networking events with local firms supportive of their mission. Whitlock and other members even participated in a name-change clinic, where legal advocates could help transgender people navigate the difficulties of changing their name and gender on official government documentation.

According to Whitlock, LGBTQ student groups can play another vital role where acceptance is not universal: as a bridge between students and the administration.

“There should be a group that brings issues to the law school’s attention,” such as when an LGBTQ student is subjected to hate speech, Whitlock said. “Because students don’t always feel comfortable talking to professors more often than not.”

After delivering the letter to the president’s office, Whitlock said she and the rest of OUTLaw’s executive board have a lot of thinking to do. The letter denying recognition offered to keep the lines of communication open between students and the administration. Whitlock said she wants to be in the administration’s good graces and work with them directly, but the group has to consider alternatives, too.

Whitlock has spoken with lawyers at the Religious Exemption Accountability Project, and they have already begun to boost the group’s message. A petition that REAP reposted has over 1,000 signatures. Whitlock said she has tried without success to get in touch with Samford trustees directly for a candid conversation. And so far, the administration has not responded to her hand-delivered letter either.

Whitlock isn’t sure that a case like the Yeshiva students’ can be made in the Birmingham area. She also wants to remain on good terms with her university — acceptance, not animosity, is her goal. She plans to graduate next spring.

“Even if we don’t accomplish all the things that we set out to accomplish now, somebody else will take up the torch after I leave and continue the fight,” Whitlock said. “It’s going to take some time. But it always starts with that one flame. And I don’t mind being that flame for now.”