Al Halverstadt likes to tell the story of a couple at St. Barnabas Church in Denver, whose 12-year-old son came to dinner one evening and asked if he could share something with them.

"Mom, Dad -- I've discovered I'm heterosexual," he announced.

To Halverstadt, recently retired as rector of St. Barnabas, the incident illustrates one of the fruits of the parish's long history of inclusiveness.

"Part of the grace of where we are is that it was a legitimate discovery, and there was not value placed on it," he says. "The family had been in the midst of diversity at St. Barnabas. The whole church, gay and straight, see themselves as one community. Everyone is included socially and structurally."

This spirit is part of what attracted Halverstadt and his wife, Susan Weeks, to St. Barnabas nine years ago.

"There was a meeting of values between me and the parish," Halverstadt says. "I inherited a parish that was probably between 25 and 30 percent gay and lesbian -- out, safe, embraced by the straight community of the parish -- completely open and inclusive. The next question became, how do we act out our values in ways that address the agenda, and at the same time are productive within the diocese -- not just go off and do our own thing as if no one else was there."

The willingness to acknowledge and listen to others who disagree with them has earned Halverstadt and Weeks a reputation as bridge-builders in the Diocese of Colorado. At a reconvening of their diocesan convention in March to deal with three conservative resolutions on the authority of Scripture, women's ordination and homosexuality, Weeks was invited to set up ground rules for dialogue.

"We were asking people to engage in sacred conversation, and the goal was to understand one another and not try to convert the other person," says Weeks, an organization development consultant who has worked extensively in church settings. "There was a different tenor of cooperation, as opposed to wanting to win or lose."

The convention ultimately affirmed Scripture without insisting on a traditionalist interpretation, affirmed the ministry of women, and tabled indefinitely the resolution on homosexuality.

Halverstadt describes himself and Weeks as "team players."

"Everything we've done here in Denver -- which is a fairly conservative diocese compared to the others we've been in -- we have tried to do openly and within the system," he says. "When I first came here I told the bishop, Jerry Winterrowd, that I was in favor of Holy Unions [of gay and lesbian couples], and I planned to do that and I would not blindside him -- I would keep him informed and work with him on how that might happen. That I wouldn't just steal off to a flower-covered hillside and bless people, that we would do it in the church so we would offer the same kind of dignity and respect for people of the same gender who are making lifelong commitments to one another as we would for people who are heterosexual."

When the first such ceremony was planned, Halverstadt scheduled a meeting with the bishop.

"My senior warden and I went in and the bishop said, you may not do it, and I said, I'm going to do it. The question became, how can we do it?"

After a day and a half of negotiation, Halverstadt was allowed to proceed under mutually agreed-upon conditions.

"I do not rehearse the people through their vows -- they make their own vows to one another. I do not bless them in the name of the church -- I ask them to face the congregation, I put my hand on their shoulders, and I pray for God's presence within their life together."

The bishop "took a lot of guff from the conservative clergy," Halverstadt says. "But the fact of the matter is, we hadn't broken a rubric, we hadn't broken canon, we had been in agreement with the bishop."

Eleven Holy Unions later, Halverstadt reports a lessening of controversy.

"Over time, people have discovered that it did not kill the church, it did not destroy the diocese. St. Barnabas has grown, we're much stronger than we were nine years ago. We've increased our pledge base, we've grown in size, we've got a choir of 35 -- life has not dried up, it's the other way, and people recognize that."

For both Halverstadt and Weeks, the commitment to inclusiveness is grounded in their experience of the Gospel as a liberating force.

"I think my empathy comes from my own journey as a woman, and going through a liberation/consciousness-raising in the 1970s in a spiritual context," Weeks says. "The message of a liberating Gospel was very personal and experiential. I felt very aware of how groups are oppressed and left out of the mainstream and how the church, along with the rest of the culture, has participated in that."

Both Weeks and Halverstadt are trained spiritual directors and both serve as mentors with the Education For Ministry (EFM) program of The University of the South's School of Theology. Weeks also trains EFM mentors.

"A lot of my passion is about one's own journey and one's own spiritual growth and development," she says. "As people find their own liberation through the Gospel, my assumption is there will be empathy for others."

Halverstadt says he felt a call to priesthood from the age of 16, but did not go to seminary until he was 38, after serving in the Air Force and beginning a career in advertising and marketing.

"I was brought up in a conservative town by conservative parents, and I had a lot of trips laid on me in terms of expectations," he says. "When I flew in the Strategic Air Command, it was because I really did believe that it was the first team, that it was going to keep the world from falling apart. I had led a very, very responsible life -- at my own expense. Part of my going to seminary was to try to get out of the shell that had been enclosed over me. A lot of my own journey, and I think it's true for all of us, is the journey out of the darkness of who we are expected to be into the light of who we are called to be."

"Which carries over into the issue for gays and lesbians in a big way," Weeks adds.

Halverstadt credits Robert DeWitt with nudging him into the seminary.

"I was in Philadelphia when he was bishop, and he went through such abuse during the sixties with all the racial adjustment that was taking place. His example around liberation issues was so substantial for me, it was what finally got me off my duff after 22 years of knowing I was going to go into the priesthood but never acting on it."

At Episcopal Divinity School in the early 1970s, Halverstadt was immersed in liberation theology and liberation movements. He graduated in 1975, but postponed being ordained until women's ordination was approved by the church.

Since coming to Denver, Halverstadt and Weeks have worked steadily to lay the groundwork for greater openness.

"We've introduced resolutions over a period of time in support of gay unions and gay ordination, which have all been voted down, but they've been visible," Halverstadt says. The introduction of one such resolution led to a year-long diocesan-wide dialogue, with the bishop calling in ethicist Tim Sedgewick to address the tension between conscience and community.

Halverstadt and Weeks have taken leadership roles in a wide variety of community organizations and projects.

Weeks was instrumental in the development of a mentoring program for children at risk and serves on the board of the Center for the People of Capitol Hill, the downtown district in which St. Barnabas is located. She is also involved with the Vincentian Center for Spirituality and Work.

Halverstadt heads the Grove Project, which is establishing a section of a park in Denver as a contemplative setting in memory of those who have died of AIDS. He was a founding board member of Project Angelheart, which prepares and delivers free meals to HIV and AIDS clients, and is helping to establish an employment readiness program called Ready to Work/Strive. He has also served as president of Capitol Hill United Ministries, a consortium of Capital Hill churches which lobbies legislators on issues of social concern.

Halverstadt and Weeks intend to remain in the St. Barnabas community, and have been asked by the bishop to work as consultants and facilitators of congregational development within the diocese.

Halverstadt says he is hopeful about the church's future.

"What I think is wonderful about the Episcopal Church is our ability to seek the middle way, to make some sort of commitment to one another in the midst of conflict and diversity. I think we will emerge from the issues we are facing today -- whether it's how we interpret the Bible, or how we are inclusive to all people -- discovering the strength of our unity. We are going through exciting times, and if we are just willing to hang in with each other, we will discover that we are people who are living under grace."

Marianne Arbogast is associate editor of The Witness, <marianne@thewitness.org>.