James Mayer is a 70-year-old truck driver from South Carolina who calls himself a "tough Lutheran."

But when he talks about what's happened to him during the past six years, his eyes well up. He swallows hard and sighs. Then the tears come.

Photos by BRANT SANDERLIN/Staff (ENLARGE)

The Rev. Bradley Schmeling (left), who faces a Lutheran trial for having a gay relationship, is supported by Irene Mayer and her husband, James.

(ENLARGE)

Marisa Riojas and Mark Shirley, members of St. John's Lutheran Church, sign up to support the Rev. Bradley Schmeling.

(ENLARGE)

James Mayer, who initially opposed the Rev. Bradley Schmeling's appointment, says he was won over by Schmeling's caring ways.

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"Look at me," he says with a sheepish smile. "This is who I am. I'm not ashamed of it."

Six years ago, Mayer was an angry man. St. John's Lutheran Church had elected the Rev. Bradley Schmeling, an openly gay man, as its new pastor. Only six people out of the then 250-member congregation voted against Schmeling. Mayer and his wife were two of them. He vowed not to return.

This is the worst thing that could have happened to the church, Mayer thought. They're probably going to close the doors.

St. John's doors remain open — but Schmeling's future is now in doubt.

Bishop Ronald B. Warren of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America filed charges in August against Schmeling after the pastor told him that he had entered into a relationship with another man. ELCA policy permits gay clergy — only if they're celibate. Schmeling's trial starts in Atlanta on Friday. He could be expelled from the ELCA.

The Midtown church has since rallied around Schmeling — and so has Mayer. He has not only returned to the church but contributed money to Schmeling's legal defense. He tears up at the prospect that "Pastor Brad" may no longer lead his church.

"If you had told me six years ago that I was going to give money to Brad's defense," he says, "I would have told you, 'You've lost your mind.' "

Middle-ground position

Over the past three decades, most mainline Protestant denominations have become more accepting of gays. Some, like the United Church of Christ, even support the rights of gays to marry.

The ELCA has not gone that far. It won't allow any "practicing" gays in sexual relationships with people of the same gender to be ordained as clergy.

Those guidelines have been adopted by some other Protestant denominations. It's viewed as a middle ground, a way to avoid schism. Yet inevitably a congregation will violate these rules, deeming the celibacy requirements as outmoded interpretation of Scripture.

St. John's is such a church. When it called Schmeling for interviews in 2000, he told them he was gay. But it wasn't an issue, says Laura Crawley, the congregation's president.

"At the time, the bishop approved him," she says. "We were not breaking any sort of rules in calling him."

Crawley says the church's call committee was drawn to Schmeling's ability. His way of translating ancient Scriptures into plain language. His habit of not just using children as cute backdrops in service but treating them as adults. His flair for creative worship.

They knew, though, that he might break church rules someday if he met someone. Many actually hoped that he would.

"When your job is giving 24 hours a day, you need someone in your life who is devoted to giving to you," she says.

The church may have become more accepting of gay pastors, but Mayer didn't get the memo. He didn't change his views of gays. He was more concerned with survival.

"The church was barely hanging on when he came," Mayer says.

'Gay was bad'

So was the ELCA. Like many other Protestant denominations, the organization's membership has been declining for at least 20 years.

Some say most Protestant denominations are dying because they're diluting the Bible. Others say it's because they're not inclusive.

When both sides clash publicly, they typically follow a formula. Clergy cite dueling biblical verses, pray for guidance from the Holy Spirit and parse the meaning of convoluted church policy phrases.

Mayer doesn't cite biblical scholars or the Holy Spirit to explain his change. A reserved man, he doesn't even like talking about the subject.

"I'm only here because of Pastor Brad," he says as he unfolds his lanky frame in a chair at a St. John's Sunday school room. "If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't even be talking to you."

He says he never talked about homosexuality growing up on a farm in Prosperity, S.C.

There was no theological debate; the issue was settled.

"I came up with very little knowledge of gayness," he says. "The only thing I ever heard about gay was bad. This is all I knew: He's gay. He's bad."

That didn't change when St. John's called Schmeling, a seminary student at Emory University who was completing his doctorate.

When the church selected Schmeling after a congregational vote, Mayer started thinking about other churches. But they had to be Lutheran. Mayer was a devoted Lutheran who once broke up with a girlfriend because she was a Baptist. He can trace his Lutheran ancestors back to the 17th century. And though he had attended St. John's with his wife, Irene, for 47 years, he was prepared to move.

"I figured it was going under," he says. "I might as well hunt somewhere else."

Schmeling drew him back home, though.

First, he reached the person Mayer calls "the most important person in my life" — his wife, Irene.

The two will celebrate their 48th wedding anniversary this month. Schmeling called Irene at their Forest Park home to introduce himself.

"The word 'gay' didn't really come up in my conversation," Irene Mayer recalls. "He was calling with concern about myself and my family."

Schmeling kept calling her.

"Over a period of time, he won her over," Mayer says. "She just started loving him."

Church revival

Mayer also noticed that his church wasn't dying anymore. In six years, St. John's membership grew from 250 to about 350. More children and young adults joined. Once, Mayer knew all the members — but he has since lost track.

"I'm the old person right now," he says with a smile.

Then Schmeling touched another important person in Mayer's life — his 47-year-old daughter. He won't divulge the details but says that his daughter was experiencing some significant personal problems. She wasn't a member at St. John's, but Schmeling met with her and helped pull her out of her crisis. "Every time I ever said, 'I need you,' that's all I had to say, [and] he was there," Mayer says.

Finally, Schmeling evoked memories of another important person — Mayer's father, Enoch, a turkey farmer. "My mother preached the Bible; Daddy lived the Bible," he says. "If I said I needed help, he was there. The words 'I love you" weren't part of his vocabulary. It was just something I knew."

Mayer says he saw the same quality in Schmeling. He somehow made people know that he cared for them. He made time to help. Made time to meet complete strangers. Made time to make everyone welcome.

By the time Mayer learned that Schmeling had a partner, he says it was "irrelevant" to him.

"I wasn't surprised," he says. "If you find someone like Pastor Brad that everyone likes, you know that he was going to run into someone who was gay and who felt the same way the rest of us do."

When asked about biblical verses that condemned

homosexuality, though, Mayer's posture stiffens. He says: "I don't go there.

"That's between Pastor Brad and God," he says. "None of us are perfect. We're all going to answer for our sin."

When asked about ELCA guidelines, he grasps for the right words.

Finally, he says after sighing, "I don't know everything in the world. I don't understand how we all couldn't be born perfectly.

"It's just that over a period of time, I came to realize Pastor Brad wasn't the person I thought he was. He was still gay. But the knowledge that I had of gay people wasn't who he was.

"He was just like everybody else."