Here I Stand

There are moments in ministry that stay with you—not because you got it right, but because you didn’t. This is one of those moments. I’ve long considered myself an ally of the LGBTQ+ community. In private conversations, in my own theology, and often from the pulpit, I preached a gospel of grace and inclusion. I said it plainly and often: In Christ there is no Jew or Greek, no left or right, no red or blue, no straight or gay. We baptized the children of LGBTQ+ couples. We welcomed same-sex families into our churches. I tried to live and lead in ways that embodied the wide embrace of God’s love. But lately I’ve been asking myself the question that won’t leave me alone: Was it enough? Should I have done more? Because while I preached inclusion, I also sometimes softened my language to avoid division. I tried to hold tension, to nudge hearts gently. I didn’t always name the harm being done to LGBTQ+ people by the Church—not boldly enough, not clearly enough. I tried to keep the peace, even when peace was a luxury the most vulnerable couldn’t afford. And the answer I’ve come to is: No. It wasn’t enough. Because belief isn’t always enough. Preaching isn’t always enough. Quiet welcome isn’t always enough. Not when queer and trans people are being excluded, erased, vilified—by churches, by policies, by people who claim to speak for God. Some of the churches I pastored later chose to leave the United Methodist Church and align themselves with the Global Methodist Church—a move rooted, in no small part, in opposition to LGBTQ+ inclusion. That breaks my heart. I grieve that my time among them didn’t shift their trajectory. I grieve that my efforts at inclusion, while sincere, may not have gone far enough to counter the pull of exclusion. I didn’t always speak up when I should have. I didn’t always name the sin of institutional silence or the damage of doctrinal rejection. And I know now that silence is not neutral. Silence protects the status quo. Silence leaves others to do the fighting alone. To the LGBTQ+ community: If you ever wondered where I stood—please know I was with you. But if you ever felt unsupported, unsafe, unseen—I am so sorry. I should have done more. I am trying to do more now. This blog is called Unlikely Altars because I believe the sacred often shows up in uncomfortable places—in the truth we’d rather not face, in the prayers we don’t know how to pray, even in regret. Maybe this moment is an altar too: a place of repentance. A place to begin again. To be clear: I believe your love is holy. Your lives are sacred. Your families are real and beautiful and blessed. You have always belonged—in the Church, in the heart of God, and in the story of grace we are still trying to tell. I can’t change the past, but I can choose the future. I can commit to being louder in love, bolder in solidarity, clearer in conviction. I can use whatever voice I have left to say what should have been said long ago: You are beloved. You are not a disruption to the gospel—you are a living witness to it. If I have ever failed you with my silence, I hope these words become something more than just an apology. I hope they become a turning point. This is my altar—not of wood or stone, but of silence laid down and truth picked up. Here, I offer my regret, my good intentions, and my fears. And I make this commitment: to speak with love, to stand with courage, and to never again mistake quiet for faithful. A Prayer God of mercy, Forgive the silence that protected me and not the ones who needed shelter. Heal the wounds I helped cause by what I left unsaid. Let this confession be more than words— Let it be a turning, a re-forming, a re-commitment to love boldly and live truthfully. Make me braver. Make your Church kinder. And may all your beloved children—of every orientation and identity—know they are seen, safe, and sacred in your sight. Amen.

Pride Month is many things. It’s a celebration of love, identity, joy, and survival. A season for parades and playlists, pronouns and painted crosswalks—not because being loud is trendy, but because being quiet was once the only way to stay safe. For so many, silence was a survival strategy. Visibility is a victory hard-won. For me, Pride has become one of those Unlikely Altars—a place where the sacred shows up in sequins and protest signs, in drag shows and dance floors. Where holiness doesn’t whisper—it shouts, sings, sparkles, and survives. It’s color and confetti and community. It’s drag queens and denim jackets covered in buttons. It’s couples holding hands in public without apology. It’s dance floors that feel like sanctuary. It’s laughter echoing where fear once reigned. But Pride is also a remembrance. It remembers Stonewall—not as a branding opportunity, but as a riot sparked by the brave defiance of Black and brown trans women who were tired of being harassed and erased. It remembers the queer elders who carved out space where there was none—who built chosen families, underground bars, churches without buildings, and movements that made it possible for so many of us to breathe a little freer today. It remembers those we’ve lost—to violence, to silence, to hatred and shame. It mourns the holy ones the world never gave a funeral, but whom heaven surely welcomed home with open arms. Pride carries their names in protest signs and candlelight vigils. It holds their memories like sacred relics. Pride is protest, too. Because too many are still told they don’t belong. Because too many kids still grow up afraid of their own reflection, unsure if they’ll be loved if they’re honest. Because laws still pass that make it harder for LGBTQ+ people—especially youth and trans people—to live, learn, work, worship, and simply be without fear. Because some pulpits still echo with shame instead of grace. Because churches still split over the question of whether love is allowed. And for allies like me, Pride is a holy invitation. To show up, even when it’s uncomfortable. To speak up, even when it’s costly. To listen more than talk, and to learn without being defensive. To love without asterisks, fine print, or theological disclaimers. Because every rainbow flag is more than a symbol—it’s a story. Every coming-out is an act of courage. Every chosen name is a declaration of dignity. Every drag performance, every Pride march, every “they/them” pronoun is someone’s sacred truth spoken out loud. Pride Month is, in its own way, an Unlikely Altar. A street parade that looks more like the Kingdom of God than many sanctuaries ever have. A communion of glitter and grace. A place where the excluded lead the procession. A celebration that says, “You’re not just tolerated—you’re treasured.” And in a world that still gets this wrong far too often, that kind of truth? It’s nothing short of holy.