(The following statement was prepared by friends of Rev. Peter Leland DeGroote.)

Peter Leland DeGroote, a trailblazing gay United Methodist pastor, was born on January 19, 1940, to Leland Peter and Lea (Sitnik) DeGroote in Rochester, New York. The family moved to Syracuse during Peter’s early years. Peter had an older stepbrother, Robert, and brother, Joseph, and was followed by three sisters—Mary, Martha and Margaret. Lea, their mother, had been Roman Catholic but was ostracized from her parish after marrying a Protestant. So she took the children to Lafayette Street Methodist Church every Sunday for worship and Christian education.

Peter attended West Virginia Wesleyan University, graduating with a bachelor’s degree in psychology in 1961. While he considered a career in pastoral ministry—his brother Joseph was a long-time United Methodist clergy—Peter thought that his same-sex orientation would hinder his career in the church. He enlisted in the U.S. Army in October 1961 and served a three-year term, spending one year in Heidelberg, Germany. This provided the opportunity to explore Europe. In August 1964, he was granted early release and honorable discharge to go to school.

He began graduate studies in public administration at American University in Washington, D.C. Peter met Tom McKain in January 1967 and they began a five-year relationship and remained best friends thereafter. One of Peter’s professors was an executive with the International City Management Association (ICMA) who recognized Peter’s talents and arranged for him to help with some projects there. During summers Peter directed camping programs at the YMCA’s Camp Letts in Edgewater, Md. While he worked on a Ph.D. and did some teaching at American University, he did not complete his dissertation and so received an M.A. degree in 1971.

In 1972, Peter was hired to initiate the ICMA Retirement Corporation (now MissionSquare Retirement) in order to develop a portable retirement plan for local government administrators. During his 16 years directing the ICMA-RC, the plan grew to over $1 billion in assets and over 100,000 participants. At his retirement in 1988, Peter was heralded as having “done a remarkable job in helping create one of the most outstanding retirement corporations in the country and is probably the most knowledgeable person in this field.” 

In the 1970s Peter volunteered with the production of a gay newspaper in Washington, D.C., serving as news editor of the Washington Blade for three months in 1975. Peter met Leslie Lugo in Fort Lauderdale in 1977. Leslie moved to D.C. the next year and they were in a seven- year relationship and remained good friends in the years following.

In 1984, Peter joined Foundry U.M. Church, where his college friend Rev. Don Stewart was on the staff. Stewart told Peter about a local group of LGBT United Methodists. Peter began attending weekly worship and social gatherings with Mid-Atlantic Affirmation and became deeply involved in providing leadership and hospitality for the group.

Peter proposed that Foundry sponsor an Affirmation Bible Study group as part of its neighborhood Bible study program. He asked Ralph Williams to host the group and Peter led it at the onset. The Bible study group met for several years and played a significant role in the process of Foundry becoming a Reconciling Congregation in 1995, a public affirmation that LGBTQ persons were full participants in the life of the church.

In November 1988, Peter made a radical life change as he retired from ICMA-RC and began an international romantic adventure, moving to Caracas, Venezuela. However, in a tragic turn of events, Peter was abducted and later found abandoned in a rural area, badly injured. Peter recounted that, as he lay suffering and awaiting rescue, he prayed that if he recovered he would commit to entering the ministry. After returning to Washington, D.C., and spending time in healing and recovery, Peter enrolled at Wesley Theological Seminary, graduating with honors and an M.Div. degree in 1994.

Peter resolved to challenge the United Methodist Church’s ban on the ordination of LGBTQ clergy. He began the ordination candidacy process at Foundry, stating publicly that he was gay and willing to be celibate. He steadily moved forward through the process and was eventually approved by the Baltimore-Washington Conference in a close vote. He was ordained deacon on June 13, 1993, and elder on June 16, 1996.

Peter served in active ministry for 16 years serving these congregations: Shady Side (1993-1996); Centenary Baltimore (1996-1998); Back River Essex (1998-2003); College Park (2003-2004); Foundry as associate (2004-2006) and The United Church (2006-2009). Peter retired from ministry in 2009. One of Peter’s noteworthy achievements during these years was the formation of BWARM (Baltimore-Washington Area Reconciling United Methodists). When Bishop John Schol arrived in Baltimore-Washington in 2004, he announced his intention to meet with various ethnic and gender groups in the conference. Peter challenged the bishop to also meet with LGBTQ members. The bishop asked Peter to arrange such a meeting. Peter invited a cross-section of LGBTQ persons and allies from around the conference to converse with the bishop. As a result of that meeting, this network of persons began to organize what has become a strong, influential BWARM group.

In retirement, Peter continued annual summer excursions to Rehoboth Beach with friends, involvement at Foundry U.M. Church and enjoying reading and writing. On May 13, 2025, the Baltimore-Washington Chapter of the Methodist Federation for Social Action honored Peter with its God’s Foolish One Award. After a period of declining health, he died on May 9, 2026.

He is survived by his sister, Martha Straub; her son, James Oliver, and his husband; long-time companion Luis Herrera; caregivers Michael Thompson and Ralph Williams and numerous dear friends. A memorial service, followed by a luncheon, will be held at 10 a.m. on Saturday, June 27, 2026, at Foundry U.M. Church, 1500 16th St., N.W., Washington, D.C.

Kenya’s High Court has ruled the country’s government cannot refuse requests to amend gender markers on birth certificates and other ID documents.

Audrey Mbugua, a prominent transgender activist, and two other people in 2020 sued Attorney General Dorcas Oduor, the Registrar of Births and Deaths, the National Registration Bureau, and Immigration Services Director General Evelyn Cheluget after they did not receive amended birth certificates.

The Washington Blade previously reported the three plaintiffs argued documents that do not correspond with their gender identity “has denied them opportunities and rights.” Oduor, for her part, in response to the plaintiffs’ claims argued “a person’s gender is based on fact — not feelings — and the plaintiffs at birth were registered and named based on their gender status.”

High Court Justice Bahati Mwamuye ruled on May 20.

“The silence and delay cannot defeat rights,” ruled the court, according to the Daily Nation, a Kenyan newspaper. “Constitutional rights cannot be delayed over administrative convenience.”

The court in 2014 ordered the Kenya National Examinations Council to change Mbugua’s name on her academic diplomas and to remove the male gender marker from them.

Kenya’s intersex rights law took effect in 2022. The government in February 2025 announced intersex people can receive birth certificates with an “I” gender marker.

The Daily Nation notes Mwamuye ordered the Registrar of Deaths and Births and other government agencies to “begin receiving and considering applications for gender-marker changes within” 60 days.

“Access to legal identity documentation is not just a human rights issue; it is a foundational pillar of socio-economic inclusion,” said the Initiative for Equality and Non-Discrimination, a Kenyan advocacy group, in response to the ruling. Without accurate IDs or passports, individuals face severe barriers to employment, financial systems, global business travel, and participation in governance and democratic processes.”

“This ruling marks a critical step forward in reducing administrative discrimination and fostering an inclusive environment where every Kenyan citizen’s legal identity aligns with their dignity,” added INEND.

Outright International, a New York-based global LGBTQ and intersex advocacy group, in a statement described Mwamuye’s ruling as “a meaningful shift towards aligning Kenya’s legal framework with constitutional guarantees of equality, privacy, and human dignity. Outright International also applauded Mbugua and other activists who fought for this change.

“Today, we celebrate a milestone — one achieved through resilience, solidarity, and an unwavering belief in justice,” said the group. “Outright International stands with transgender and intersex Kenyans in honoring this victory and reaffirming our commitment to advancing rights, recognition, and equality for all.” 

The scene would have seemed impossible only a few years ago.

The name of Raúl Castro Ruz appearing formally inside a United States federal criminal indictment. Cuba’s former general of the Army, for decades one of the most powerful figures inside the Havana regime, accused in connection with the shootdown of the Brothers to the Rescue aircraft and the deaths of American citizens in 1996. And all of it unfolding in Miami, inside the Freedom Tower, on May 20.

That detail matters.

Because this indictment arrives at one of the most fragile and politically tense moments in recent relations between Washington and Havana. It comes as Cuba faces deep economic collapse, growing political exhaustion, mass migration, blackouts, and increasing public frustration both inside and outside the island. It also arrives on a date carrying enormous symbolic weight for Cuban exiles — the anniversary of the founding of the Cuban Republic in 1902.

But the true significance of this moment goes far beyond symbolism.

What happened in Miami represents something much larger: the collapse of the idea that certain men would never face accountability.

For decades, Raúl Castro embodied the permanence of revolutionary power in Cuba. Defense minister. Military strategist. The man who oversaw the armed forces for generations. One of the central architects of the Cuban political and security apparatus built alongside Fidel Castro. A figure many believed would leave this world untouched by any court, shielded forever by power, time, and history itself.

Today the image is very different.

Today his name appears inside the language of American criminal prosecution.

And that changes the historical dimension of this case completely.

Because this is no longer simply a political accusation voiced by the Cuban exile community. It is now a formal federal criminal indictment publicly announced by the United States government against one of the highest-ranking figures in the history of the Cuban regime.

The setting itself carried enormous meaning.

The Freedom Tower is not just another building in Miami. For generations of Cuban exiles it represents memory, displacement, survival, and the beginning of a new life after fleeing Cuba. Thousands of Cubans passed through those doors after escaping the revolution. Families arrived carrying fear, uncertainty, grief, and hope all at once. Announcing these charges from that location transformed the moment into something far deeper than a legal proceeding.

And the people witnessing it were not only members of the exile community.

Among those present were relatives of the young men killed nearly 30 years ago. Families who spent decades waiting to hear words they feared might never come. Families who carried the weight of loss while believing the men responsible would never be formally accused by any court.

That emotional weight still surrounds this case.

On Feb. 24, 1996, two civilian aircraft operated by Brothers to the Rescue were shot down over the Florida Straits by Cuban military jets. Armando Alejandre Jr., Carlos Costa, Mario de la Peña, and Pablo Morales were killed. The flights were connected to humanitarian rescue efforts searching for Cubans attempting to flee the island during the migration crisis of the 1990s.

Those aircraft were not military bombers.

They were not attacking Cuba.

They were civilian planes associated with rescue operations involving Cubans risking their lives at sea.

That reality has always shaped how this tragedy lives inside the memory of the Cuban exile community.

For many, this was never viewed simply as a geopolitical conflict between hostile governments. It was seen as the use of military force against civilians connected to humanitarian missions during one of the darkest chapters in modern Cuban migration history.

But for many Cubans, the indictment reaches far beyond the Brothers to the Rescue case itself.

It touches decades of unresolved pain tied to one of the central figures behind Cuba’s military and political system.

It reaches mothers who buried sons lost in compulsory military service or in distant wars they never chose to fight. Families who spent years believing promises that were never fulfilled. Political prisoners who disappeared into silence. Relatives who watched loved ones die trying to flee the island.

And for many LGBTQ Cubans, the moment carries another layer of historical weight.

Long before official campaigns promoting tolerance and inclusion emerged from within the Cuban government, there were years of persecution, fear, forced silence, and humiliation carried out under the revolutionary system itself.

The UMAP labor camps remain one of the deepest scars in modern Cuban history. Gay men, pastors, religious believers, artists, and others considered incompatible with the revolutionary ideal were sent away under the language of “re-education” and forced labor.

In recent decades, public gestures toward LGBTQ inclusion promoted by figures close to the Cuban leadership attempted to project an image of progress and openness to the international community. But for many survivors, and for many Cuban LGBTQ people, those gestures never erased the trauma or the historical responsibility tied to the same structures of power that once persecuted them.

For many, acknowledgment without accountability still feels painfully incomplete.

That is why this indictment resonates so deeply today.

Because it arrives while Cuba once again faces profound national crisis. The island is losing entire generations through migration. Public frustration continues to grow. Economic collapse shapes daily life. And the revolutionary narrative that once projected permanence and control appears increasingly eroded by reality itself.

Against that backdrop, the image emerging from Miami becomes even more striking.

A man once viewed as untouchable by history now formally accused by the United States government and legally transformed into a fugitive wanted by American justice.

History moves slowly until suddenly it does not.

And for many Cubans, both on the island and throughout the diaspora, what happened today inside the Freedom Tower felt like witnessing something they once believed they would never live long enough to see.

As a Cuban, as an immigrant, and as someone who has lived close to that pain, one thought keeps returning tonight:

Justice takes time.

But when it finally arrives, it arrives with history behind it.