The Altar in the Mud

Dan Fogelberg, the Derby, and the Grace That Still Finds Us

It’s been a few days since the Kentucky Derby, and I’m still thinking about it. Not the roses. Not the winner. Not even the finish. (And no, the horse I was rooting for didn’t win.)


What stuck with me was the mud. That heavy, sloshing kind of mud that clings to everything. The kind that makes it hard to run and hard to stay upright. The kind that brings even the strongest down. And the whole time I watched the race, there was something about that mud that felt familiar.


You see, I’ve been there. Not at Churchill Downs, but I have been in the mud. And when I say that I have been in the mud, I mean face-first in the mud. Not just metaphorically. I’ve hit the ground so hard, so publicly, that the only thing louder than the thud was the silence that followed. Or worse—the sound of people judging. Or maybe the quiet satisfaction of those who hoped I’d fall and seemed strangely comfortable with me staying down.


Maybe you’ve been there too.


Then, right on cue, Dan Fogelberg’s voice comes through—aching, honest, and familiar: “It’s the chance of a lifetime / in a lifetime of chance…”


He’s not singing about the win. He’s singing about the try. About the wild courage it takes to step into the unknown. The deep breath before the risk. The moment your heart says, “I’m in,” even though your brain whispers, “This might hurt.” And sometimes, it does.


Sometimes we fall because we mess up—because we made a choice we wish we hadn’t, said something we can’t take back, hurt someone we meant to love. Sometimes we fall because the ground just gives out—because the mud is thick, and life is unfair, and we slipped even though we were doing our best. And sometimes? We fall for no tidy reason at all. Because life is messy, unpredictable, and occasionally brutal.


But here’s the good news:


The fall is still sacred. Not because it feels good—believe me, it doesn’t—but because God didn’t leave us there. He meets us in the mess, and that changes everything.


Yes—there absolutely is an Unlikely Altar here.


It’s not at the winner’s circle. It’s not made of roses or gold trophies. It’s right there in the mud.


The altar is the place where we fall flat on our faces—publicly, awkwardly, sometimes spectacularly—and discover that grace still meets us there. Not in spite of the mess, but in it. Because the mud doesn’t disqualify us. It’s where we find out we’re not alone, not forgotten, and not beyond redemption.


That moment—on the ground, heart bruised, face dirty, ego dented—is holy.

Not because it feels good. But because it’s real. And God always shows up in what’s real.


That’s an Unlikely Altar :


Where your fall becomes the place where love finds you. Where you stop pretending and start healing. Where the song still plays, even when the race didn’t go the way you hoped.


So yes, this post is about the Derby. And Dan Fogelberg. And the deep, bruising humility of falling.


But it’s also about what happens next.


Because I have been there. Face down. Ego bruised. Mud everywhere.


But I’m still here.


Still standing.

Met by grace I didn’t earn.

Still held by a God who never looked away.

Here I Stand

By Some Lines in the Sand are Drawn with Grace. • June 26, 2025
I want to be crystal clear about something—because life is too short, and love is too important, to be vague. If you can’t accept my LGBTQ friends as they are—if you can’t recognize the full humanity, dignity, and worth of my chosen family—then I’m not sure how we can keep calling each other friends. I know that sounds harsh. I know some will say, “ But I love the sinner, just not the sin. ” To which I respond: “That’s not love. That’s branding.” Nobody feels loved when they’re being quietly (or loudly) disapproved of. And nobody feels safe around someone who prays for them to be someone else. My partner Dale is a beautiful human and a fierce, protective mom to two amazing kids who are part of the LGBTQ community. And I’m not just speaking up for them - - after all, I love them as my own. I’m also speaking up for Rick, John, MacMichael, Danny, and every other friend who calls the LGBTQ community family. Because they are family. To me. To each other. To God. So how could I possibly say I love them—and then cozy up to people who think they’re an abomination? How could I claim to follow Jesus and still treat some of God’s children like second-class citizens? Being an ally means making hard decisions. Not just about what I believe, but about who I stand with. And who I won’t stand against just to keep the peace. Now, a little history lesson for those of you who like a good Reformation-era mic drop: In 1521, a German monk named Martin Luther was hauled before a council of religious authorities and asked to recant his writings—writings that called out corruption in the Church and insisted that grace couldn’t be bought or earned, only received. Faced with pressure, threats, and the full weight of the religious establishment, Luther reportedly replied: Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. It wasn’t just theological defiance. It was moral clarity. A refusal to deny what he knew to be true. A statement that sometimes faith means standing your ground—even when it costs you. So here I stand. Now listen, I’m not comparing myself to Martin Luther. Yes, we technically share a name, but only one person ever called me “Martin”—and that was my mother, and only when I was in deep trouble. You’ve never truly felt conviction until you’ve heard your full name shouted from the kitchen in a tone that could part the Red Sea. So no, I’m not a 16th-century reformer with a hammer and a list of 95 grievances. I’m just someone with a laptop, a good cup of chai or Mountain Dew, and a deep conviction that love should never be up for debate. I’m not saying we have to agree on everything. We can disagree about the best barbecue, whether it’s pronounced “pee-can” or “puh-cahn,” or whether the Mets will ever win another World Series. ( Let’s just say I’m praying without ceasing. ) But we can’t disagree about this: every single person—gay, straight, trans, nonbinary, questioning, closeted, out and proud—is a beloved child of God, deserving of dignity, belonging, and full inclusion. Not despite who they are. But because of who they are. So, if you’re unwilling to see that—if you cannot bring yourself to welcome my friends, my family, Dale’s kids, and so many others into your world with open arms—then I’ll be honest: I don’t think we’re walking the same path anymore. That doesn’t mean I hate you. It just means I choose them. Because choosing them is choosing love. Choosing them is choosing Jesus. Choosing them is choosing to bless what God already calls good. So again—here I stand. Not in judgment, but in solidarity. Not with bitterness, but with resolve. Not with fear, but with love. And if that makes you uncomfortable… maybe that discomfort is holy ground. Maybe it’s an unlikely altar. Maybe it’s exactly where God is waiting.

An Altar of Apology

By Because Love Deserves More Than Quiet Support. • June 23, 2025
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 Is An Unlikely Altar

By Where Glitter Becomes Grace, and Protest Becomes Prayer • June 19, 2025
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.