In 2 Peter 1:5–8, the apostle Peter describes what spiritual growth looks like in the life of a believer:

“For this very reason, make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with perseverance, and perseverance with godliness, and godliness with mutual affection, and mutual affection with love. For if these qualities are yours and are increasing, they keep you from being ineffective or unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Peter presents faith not as something static but as something that grows and develops. Faith is the beginning, but it is meant to mature into a life marked by goodness, wisdom, discipline, perseverance, compassion, and ultimately love.

This passage can be especially meaningful for LGBTQ+ Christians. Many of us have been told—sometimes directly and sometimes indirectly—that who we are prevents us from living a faithful Christian life. Yet Peter’s description of spiritual growth says nothing about identity, orientation, or social expectations. Instead, he speaks about character and love.

The qualities Peter lists are accessible to anyone who seeks to live a life shaped by goodness and compassion. They grow from faith for believers, but the virtues themselves—kindness, perseverance, self-control, and love—are qualities that can be cultivated by anyone.

In fact, whether we are Christian, agnostic, follow another religion, or no religion at all, we still possess the capacity for love in our hearts and the ability to help others. Many people have turned away from religion because of painful experiences or because some who claim to follow God most strictly often seem to follow the spirit of love the least. That hypocrisy can be deeply discouraging. Yet the capacity for compassion and goodness remains within people regardless of belief. I believe that God instilled in all of humanity the potential for goodness, even if it is sometimes buried beneath the selfishness, greed, and hatred that human beings so often create.

Virtue means striving to live honorably and with integrity. Knowledge involves learning, reflection, and a deeper understanding of God and the world. Self-control and perseverance remind us that faith is lived day by day, often through difficult circumstances. Godliness shapes our lives toward compassion and humility. Mutual affection and love are the ultimate fruits of a life shaped by Christ.

Love, of course, stands at the center of it all. As Jesus taught, the greatest commandments are to love God and to love our neighbor (Matthew 22:37–39). When Peter ends this progression with love, he echoes that same truth: the goal of spiritual growth is not perfection, but love.

For many LGBTQ+ believers, the path of faith has included rejection, misunderstanding, or spiritual wounds. Yet even these painful experiences can become part of how God shapes us. As Paul writes in Romans 8:28, “We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.” That does not mean every hardship is good, but it does mean God can bring growth and purpose out of our struggles.

Peter’s list also reminds us that faith is meant to express itself through kindness and compassion. James describes “pure religion” as caring for those who are vulnerable and living with integrity (James 1:27). A life that grows in love naturally becomes a life that looks outward toward others.

And as we grow, we are called to share the hope we have found. First Peter 3:15 encourages believers to “always be ready to make your defense to anyone who demands from you an account of the hope that is in you.” For LGBTQ+ Christians, that hope can be a powerful testimony: that God’s grace and love reach all people.

The beauty of Peter’s words is that growth is ongoing. None of us possesses all these qualities perfectly. They are meant to increase over time. Faith begins the journey, and love becomes its destination.

God is not finished with any of us. Each day we continue growing—adding patience, wisdom, kindness, and love to our lives. And as these qualities grow within us, our lives become a reflection of the grace, compassion, and humanity that we were all created to share.

“For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

— 1 Samuel 16:7

When the prophet Samuel went to the house of Jesse to anoint the next king of Israel, he assumed he knew exactly what he was looking for. Jesse’s eldest son, Eliab, stood before him—strong, impressive, and looking very much like a king. Samuel immediately thought, Surely the Lord’s anointed is before me.

But God stopped him.

“Do not consider his appearance or his height… For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7)

One by one, Jesse’s sons passed before Samuel, and each was rejected. The one God had chosen was the youngest son, David—the shepherd boy no one had even thought to bring to the gathering.

The lesson was simple, but profound: what human beings notice first is not what God values most.

We are creatures of sight. We notice beauty, style, youth, strength, and confidence. We make judgments quickly, often without realizing we are doing it. Even in spaces that are meant to be welcoming and affirming—including our own LGBTQ+ communities—it can be easy to measure people by how they look.

And I’ll admit something here: on this blog I often post images of beautiful men. I appreciate beauty. Most of us do.

But the truth is that the outward beauty we see is never the whole story of a person.

The body we see is only the doorway to the heart God sees.

Scripture reminds us again and again that the deeper truth of a person lies beyond what we first notice. Proverbs tells us that “a person’s wisdom yields patience” (Proverbs 19:11). Peter writes that true beauty is “the hidden person of the heart” (1 Peter 3:4). And when the apostle Paul speaks of Christian community, he urges believers to look beyond appearances and recognize one another through love (2 Corinthians 5:16).

God’s vision is different from ours. God sees kindness that others overlook. God sees courage in someone who feels afraid. God sees tenderness behind a guarded face. God sees faith in someone who thinks they are barely holding on.

And perhaps most importantly for many LGBTQ+ people who have spent years feeling judged or misunderstood—God sees the truth of who we are when others only see the surface.

The beautiful truth of 1 Samuel 16:7 is not that appearances are bad. It’s that appearances are incomplete.

Every person you encounter carries a story within them. Every smile, every laugh, every body we admire belongs to a heart full of experiences, wounds, hopes, and love. When we take the time to truly know someone—to listen, to care, to see them as more than what meets the eye—we begin to see people a little more the way God sees them.

And often, what we discover is that the beauty we noticed at first was only the beginning.

Because the most radiant beauty is not the body someone shows the world.

It is the heart God already knows.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” 

— John 16:33

Jesus never promised us an easy life. In fact, He promised the opposite. “In this world you will have trouble.” Not might. Not maybe. Will.

For LGBTQ+ people of faith, those words often feel painfully accurate.

There is the trouble of coming out. The trouble of wondering whether family will still love you. The trouble of sitting in a pew where sermons sound more like warnings than good news. The trouble of being misunderstood, misrepresented, or dismissed. The trouble of carrying faith and identity in the same body when others insist the two cannot coexist.

Jesus did not deny that trouble exists. He acknowledged it plainly. But He did not stop there.

“In me you may have peace.”

That peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of Christ in the middle of it.

Isaiah 43:2 says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” Notice it does not say if you pass through. It says when. God does not pretend the waters aren’t real. He promises to be with us in them.

For many of us, the waters have been deep. Some lost friends. Some lost churches. Some lost years trying to pray away something that was never a sin to begin with. Some, like in earlier generations, feared losing jobs, safety, even life itself. And yet we are still here.

Why? Because Christ has overcome the world.

Romans 8:38-39 reminds us that nothing “neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” That includes rejection. That includes misinterpretation of Scripture. That includes the fear someone tried to hand you in God’s name.

The world may give trouble. Christ gives peace.

And this peace is not fragile. It is not dependent on universal affirmation. It is not rooted in cultural approval. It is anchored in the victory of Jesus Himself.

John 14:27 says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” The world’s peace is conditional. Behave. Conform. Be silent. Blend in. Then maybe you can belong.

Christ’s peace says: You are Mine.

When I think back to moments of fear in my own life — fear of disappointing people, fear of being condemned, fear of not fitting the mold I was raised with — the peace that ultimately sustained me did not come from everyone understanding. It came from realizing that God already did.

Trouble may still come. It probably will. But it does not get the final word. Jesus has already spoken that word: “I have overcome the world.”

If you are struggling today — with family tension, church wounds, internal doubt, or the exhaustion of simply being yourself — remember this: your peace does not depend on winning every argument or convincing every critic. Your peace rests in Christ, who has already overcome everything that tries to diminish you.

Take heart. Not because the world is easy, but because Christ is victorious. His peace is yours.

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.”

—1 John 4:18

Coming out seems easier for young people today than it once did. There are rainbow flags in storefront windows, affirming churches in many cities, and public figures who live openly and proudly. And yet—even in a world that appears more accepting—fear still lingers.

For my generation, and certainly for those who came before us, fear was woven into nearly every part of coming out. You could lose your family. You could lose your job. You could lose your church. In some cases, you could lose your life. We learned to measure our words, to watch our gestures, to survive quietly.

For those of us whose formative years unfolded during the height of the AIDS epidemic, fear was relentless. In the small Alabama town where I grew up, being gay meant being presumed sick. It meant whispered conversations. It meant pity at best and condemnation at worst. My mother was a public health nurse, and nearly every gay man she encountered had AIDS. As a young man, it felt inevitable—like coming out was not just a social risk but a death sentence.

But perhaps the deepest fear of all was not illness or rejection by society. It was the fear of rejection by God.

Growing up in the buckle of the Bible Belt, in the Church of Christ, faith shaped everything. I was taught that anyone who was not a member of the Church of Christ was going to Hell. That was presented as certainty. As truth. As doctrine.

When my parents found out I was gay, my mother said through tears, “I don’t want you going to Hell!”

She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was afraid. Afraid for my soul. Afraid that something about me had placed me outside God’s grace.

But even before she said those words, something inside me already knew: I was not going to Hell for being gay.

By the time I was old enough to think more rationally, I had stopped believing that only one small group of Christians had a monopoly on heaven. I had come to understand God as bigger than our denominational lines. And at my core, I believed something simple and profound: I was a good person. I tried to love people. I tried to be kind. I tried to live with integrity. And good people do not go to Hell because of who they love.

More importantly, Scripture itself began to speak louder than fear.

As 1 John tells us plainly: “There is no fear in love.” Fear imagines punishment. Love promises belonging.

If God is love—as 1 John 4:8 declares—then anything rooted in terror, shame, or condemnation cannot be the final word of God. Romans 8:1 assures us, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” No condemnation. Not an asterisk. Not a hidden clause. None.

John 3:16 tells us that God so loved the world that He gave His Son. The world includes every race, every culture, every orientation, every identity. God’s love was not rationed out to a narrow few. It was poured out for all.

Ephesians 2:8 reminds us, “For by grace you have been saved through faith… it is the gift of God.” Salvation is a gift, not a reward for heterosexuality. Grace is not revoked by honesty.

Psalm 27:1 asks, “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?” When God is our light, fear loses its authority. When God is our salvation, condemnation loses its grip.

This does not mean fear magically disappears. Many LGBTQ+ people still face rejection from families, congregations, and communities. Some churches speak the language of “love” while practicing mere toleration. Others still preach outright exclusion. The wounds are real.

But those voices are not the measure of God’s heart.

Isaiah 41:10 says, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.” Notice what God promises: presence. Not abandonment. Not exile. Presence.

And perhaps the most comforting promise is found in Romans 8:38–39: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.” Not family fear. Not church doctrine. Not sexuality. Nothing.

Coming out—whether to others or to ourselves—is often an act of courage. It is also, in many ways, an act of faith. It is choosing truth over secrecy, integrity over fear. It is trusting that the God who created us knows us fully and loves us completely.

And 1 John 4:18 does not say fear never existed. It says perfect love drives it out. The more deeply we root ourselves in God’s love, the less power fear has over us. Fear may knock, but love answers the door.

My mother feared for my soul. But I have come to rest in something stronger than fear: the unshakable love of God.

Perfect love casts out fear.

Not because the world is always safe.

Not because every church is affirming.

But because God’s love is deeper than our doctrines, wider than our denominations, and stronger than our shame.

And that love will never let you go. 🌈

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. There were roses and candlelight, sweet messages and quiet longings. For some, it was joyful. For others, it stirred complicated emotions. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, days like yesterday can awaken old questions: Is my love real? Is it holy? Is it enough?

Today we turn to 1 Corinthians 13 — often called the “Love Chapter.” Paul does not define love by cultural expectations or by who is allowed to participate in it. He defines love by its character. In 1 Corinthians 13:4, he writes, “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant.” This is not sentimentality. It is substance. Love is not prideful. It does not seek to dominate. It does not diminish another.

Then Paul deepens the portrait: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:7–8). Real love shows up in hardship. It carries weight. It hopes when hope feels fragile. It remains when walking away would be easier. This kind of love is resilient and faithful.

For those who have been told their love is invalid simply because of who they love, these verses shift the focus. The question is not whether your love fits someone else’s comfort. The question is whether your love reflects patience, kindness, endurance, humility, and truth. Paul never limits love by gender; he reveals love by its fruit.

He concludes with steadying words: “And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). Faith sustains us. Hope carries us forward. But love is the greatest gift — the one that remains.

The Apostle John echoes this truth in 1 John 4:7–12: “Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.” John goes further still: “Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.” He reminds us that God’s love was revealed in Christ — embodied, sacrificial, and self-giving. “No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

When we love with patience and kindness, we make the invisible God visible.

John also writes, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). Many LGBTQ+ believers learned fear before they learned love — fear of rejection, fear of being wrong, fear that God’s love might not include them. But perfect love drives fear out. Fear is not the language of God. Love is.

Paul reinforces this in Romans 13:8: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” And in Romans 13:10, he makes it unmistakably clear: “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.” If love fulfills the law, then love cannot at the same time be its violation. Love that does no harm, that seeks the good of another, that practices patience and kindness — that love stands within the heart of God’s command.

The day after Valentine’s Day invites us beyond roses and romance into something deeper and steadier. Whether you are partnered or single, celebrated or unseen, your worth is not defined by a holiday or by someone else’s theology. You are invited into the love that bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things — the love that never fails. Faith and hope sustain us, but the greatest of these is love. Perfect love casts out fear. Love fulfills the law. And at the center of it all, beyond every argument and every doubt, stands this unshakable truth: God is love.

“My brothers and sisters, do you with your acts of favoritism really believe in our glorious Lord Jesus Christ?” 

—James 2:1

James doesn’t ease into this passage. He comes right out and names the problem: favoritism. He paints a vivid scene—one person dressed in fine clothes is welcomed, honored, given the best seat. Another, poor and unimpressive, is pushed aside, told to stand or sit on the floor. James calls this what it is: making distinctions, becoming judges with evil thoughts.

On the surface, this sounds like a warning about wealth. But beneath that is something broader and more uncomfortable. James is talking about how quickly we decide who is worthy of attention, dignity, and care—and who is not.

For gay men, this hits close to home.

Our community often claims to value inclusivity, but in practice we frequently reward youth, beauty, muscles, and a very specific idea of desirability. Older gay men are ignored. Average bodies are overlooked. Anyone who doesn’t fit the polished image of the “ideal man” becomes invisible—or worse, quietly dismissed. We may not say it out loud, but our actions speak clearly: you matter less.

I know I’m guilty of this. All you have to do is look at the pictures I post. Before I even came out to myself, I told myself that I liked beautiful, muscular men because I wanted to look like that—not because I was gay. That story helped me avoid a harder truth. It also revealed how deeply I had absorbed the belief that beauty equals worth.

James doesn’t let us off the hook by calling this a harmless preference. He says plainly:

“Have you not made distinctions among yourselves, and become judges with evil thoughts?” (James 2:4)

That’s uncomfortable language. But James isn’t interested in shaming us—he’s interested in freeing us from a system of value that is not God’s.

God’s economy works differently. James reminds us that God consistently chooses those the world overlooks:

“Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom?” (James 2:5)

When we privilege only the beautiful, the young, the desired, we mirror the very hierarchies that once crushed us. We recreate exclusion while insisting we’re liberated.

James points us back to what he calls “the royal law”:

“You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” (James 2:8)

Love, here, isn’t abstract. It’s concrete. It shows up in who we notice, who we listen to, who we make room for, and who we dismiss without a second thought. Favoritism—even subtle, unspoken favoritism—breaks that law.

This passage ends with both warning and hope:

“For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; mercy triumphs over judgment.” (James 2:13)

Mercy triumphs. Not beauty. Not youth. Not desirability. Mercy.

This isn’t about never appreciating beauty. It’s about recognizing how easily we confuse attraction with value—and how often that confusion leads us to overlook the sacredness in bodies and lives that don’t fit our ideals.

The invitation here isn’t guilt. It’s honesty. It’s asking ourselves: Who am I giving the best seat to? And who am I asking to stand off to the side?

God shows no partiality. And every time we choose mercy over judgment, we step a little closer to seeing one another—and ourselves—the way God already does.

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…”

—Ephesians 6:12

When Paul wrote these words, he was not speaking metaphorically about vague personal problems. He was writing as a man deeply familiar with empire, law, and state power. Paul lived under Roman rule, a system that enforced order through military might, legal control, and rigid social hierarchies. Roman law determined whose bodies mattered, whose relationships were legitimate, and whose lives could be constrained—or erased—for the sake of stability.

Paul himself had been imprisoned, beaten, and placed under house arrest. His letters were often written under surveillance or confinement. When he spoke of “rulers,” “authorities,” and “powers,” his audience would have understood that he was referring to real governing structures—political, legal, and religious systems that claimed ultimate authority over people’s lives.

And yet Paul is careful. He does not encourage violent revolt. He does not call for vengeance. Instead, he reframes the struggle. The problem is not individual people, but systems shaped by fear, domination, and exclusion. These systems, Paul insists, are not aligned with God’s reign—even when they wrap themselves in moral or religious language.

That is why he urges believers to “take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand.” (Ephesians 6:13)

The armor Paul describes—truth, righteousness, faith, salvation—mirrors the equipment of Roman soldiers, but with a radical twist. This armor is not meant to harm others. It is meant to protect the vulnerable soul against a world that demands conformity at the cost of integrity.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, this history matters. Unjust laws today—those that restrict healthcare, criminalize identity, undermine families, or legitimize discrimination—function much like the systems Paul knew. They are often justified as “order,” “morality,” or “tradition,” but their real effect is harm. They tell certain people that their lives are suspect, their love illegitimate, and their presence a problem to be managed.

Paul’s words remind us that standing firm against such systems is not rebellion against God—it is fidelity to God.

Paul also knew that resistance cannot survive on anger alone. That is why he tells the Philippians:

“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just… think about these things.”

—Philippians 4:8

In a world that constantly told early Christians they were dangerous, deviant, or disposable, Paul urged them to guard their inner lives. Fixing our minds on truth and justice is an act of spiritual resistance. It keeps oppressive systems from colonizing our hearts.

And finally, James offers wisdom born from a persecuted community as well:

“Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you.”

—James 4:10

Humility here is not submission to injustice. It is a refusal to let power define worth. Early Christians had little social standing, no legal protection, and few allies. Their hope rested not in empire, but in God’s faithfulness to lift up those the world pushed down.

That hope continues to sustain LGBTQ+ Christians today.

• To stand firm is to say: we will not internalize lies about who we are.

• To resist unjust systems is to say: God’s justice is larger than human law.

• To take up the armor of God is to protect love, truth, and dignity—especially when they are under threat.

The call remains the same across centuries:

• Stand.
• Not in hatred.
• Not in despair.

But in faith that the God who sees injustice also walks beside those who refuse to bow to it.

“My brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of any kind, consider it nothing but joy, because you know that the testing of your faith produces endurance.”

—James 1:2–3

The Epistle of James is my favorite book of the Bible. In my opinion, James truly understood the teachings of his brother Jesus and distilled them with remarkable clarity in this public letter. I have read the Epistle of James many times, and I am always struck by James 1:2–3—verses I return to again and again, sitting with them, wondering how joy and suffering can possibly occupy the same space.

James does not ask us to pretend trials are good, chosen, or deserved. He simply tells the truth: they will come. And then he reframes them—not as evidence of God’s absence, but as the place where endurance is formed.

For our brothers, sisters, and nonbinary siblings in the LGBTQ+ community, trials are not theoretical. They show up in rejection by family, silence or condemnation from churches, and real harm done by people who claimed divine authority while denying our humanity. Many turn away from God not because they rejected faith, but because faith was used as a weapon against them.

James does not leave us alone in that pain. Just a few verses later, he writes in James 1:5 that if any of us lacks wisdom, we are invited to ask God, who gives generously and without blame.

Wisdom here is not obedience to abuse, nor the ability to endure mistreatment quietly. This is the wisdom to discern what is truly of God and what is not. For LGBTQ+ people, this verse can be a lifeline. It tells us that we are allowed—encouraged, even—to ask hard questions, to seek clarity, and to trust that God does not shame us for doing so. God gives wisdom without blame. That alone corrects so much of the damage done in God’s name.

James is also clear about who God is—and who God is not. In James 1:17–18, he reminds us that every generous and perfect gift comes from God, who does not change, and that God brought us forth by the word of truth. God is not the source of cruelty, rejection, or dehumanization. Those do not come from above. What comes from God is life, truth, and dignity. You were not created as an afterthought or an exception. You are part of God’s intention—called first fruits, not mistakes to be corrected or problems to be solved.

James then turns his attention to harm—especially the kind that comes from unchecked religious certainty. In James 1:19–20, he urges us to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger, reminding us that human anger does not produce God’s righteousness.

How different the Church might look if this were taken seriously. So much suffering in the LGBTQ+ community has been fueled by people who were quick to speak, quick to judge, and quick to anger—while claiming righteousness. James dismantles that posture entirely. Anger that crushes others is not holy. Loud certainty is not faithfulness. God’s righteousness is not produced by silencing, shaming, or exclusion.

Faith, James insists, must be lived—not merely proclaimed. In James 1:22–25, he calls us to be doers of the word, not hearers only, pointing us toward the perfect law—the law of liberty.

That phrase matters. Faith that binds, controls, or erases people is not the gospel James describes. The word of God, when truly received, moves us toward freedom—toward actions that reflect love, justice, and mercy. Anything less is self-deception.

James closes this chapter with what may be one of the most overlooked verses in the Bible, especially among those most eager to define themselves as Christian. James 1:27 tells us that religion that is pure and undefiled before God is this: to care for those in distress and to refuse to be shaped by a world that thrives on harm.

True faith, James reminds us, is not measured by how loudly we proclaim belief, but by how faithfully we love. For LGBTQ+ people who have been wounded by the Church, James 1 offers both comfort and clarity. God is with you in the trials. God invites your questions. God is not the author of your suffering. And God’s vision of faith looks far more like care, humility, and embodied love than condemnation ever could.

If you are still walking through hardship, know this: endurance does not mean erasing yourself to survive. It means becoming rooted enough to stand in truth—your truth—while trusting that God has never let go of you. And never will.

“Then you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

—John 8:32

John 8:32 is one of those verses that lingers. It doesn’t rush us. Jesus speaks about truth as something we come to know—something lived into over time. For LGBTQ+ Christians, that truth often unfolds differently depending on where we are, who surrounds us, and what safety allows.

Some of us live openly and honestly in the world. Others remain closeted, carefully guarding parts of themselves. Many of us move between the two—out in some spaces, quiet in others. Jesus’ words hold all of that. He does not say, “Declare everything at once and you will be free.” He says, “Remain in my word.” Freedom grows from relationship, not performance.

Truth, in Scripture, is not merely disclosure. It is integrity. It is living without denying the image of God within us. The psalmist writes, “Surely you desire truth in the inner parts” (Psalm 51:6). That inner truth may be fully expressed outwardly—or it may be something you are still learning to honor within yourself. Both can be faithful.

For those who are out, John 8:32 can be a reminder that freedom is not a one-time achievement. Living truthfully requires ongoing courage—especially when the world still questions your dignity or your faith. Staying rooted in truth means resisting the temptation to shrink, soften, or spiritualize away who you are for the comfort of others.

For those who are closeted, this verse is not a condemnation. Silence can be survival. Privacy can be wisdom. Jesus never demands vulnerability where it would cause harm. Truth can exist even when it is held quietly. God is not fooled by appearances, and God is not offended by caution.

What Scripture does challenge is hatred—especially when it is taught as holiness.

“Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar.” — 1 John 4:20

That verse speaks outwardly, but it also speaks inwardly. If the faith we’ve inherited leads us to despise LGBTQ+ people—or ourselves—then something has gone wrong. Love of God and love of people are inseparable. That includes the person you are becoming.

Proverbs reminds us, “Truthful lips endure forever” (Proverbs 12:19). Truth lasts. It does not need to be forced. It does not expire because it is not spoken yet. And Jesus himself says, “I am the way and the truth and the life” (John 14:6). Truth is not an argument to win; it is a presence that walks with us.

Whether you are out, closeted, or somewhere in between, the invitation is the same: do not live at war with yourself. Do not believe that God requires your erasure. The truth that frees us is the truth that affirms our humanity and calls us into love.

Wherever you are today—visible or hidden, confident or uncertain—God is not asking you to rush your story. Freedom grows where love is allowed to breathe. The truth Jesus speaks of does not strip us of safety or dignity; it leads us, gently and faithfully, toward wholeness.

As an aside, when I took Spanish in high school, we had to learn a different Bible verse in Spanish every week. The first one we learned and the only one I can still remember is:

Yo soy el camino, y la verdad, y la vida.

—Juan 14:6

“I have said these things to you so that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.”

— John 15:11

There is a quiet belief that has shaped my life more than I sometimes realize: joy matters.

Not just my joy—but the joy I help create in others.

That idea can feel almost subversive in a faith tradition that has often taught us to be suspicious of pleasure and wary of desire. We were taught, sometimes explicitly and sometimes by implication, that holiness was measured by restraint, by endurance, by how much of ourselves we could deny. Joy, if it appeared at all, was treated as a reward—something deferred, conditional, or fleeting.

Yet Jesus says something very different.

He speaks of joy not as a side effect, but as an intention: “that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be complete.” This is not the language of scarcity or fear. It is the language of fullness—of lives lived in connection, honesty, and mutual regard.

When I examine my choices—whether they are tender, complicated, earthy, or entirely ordinary—I find myself returning to three simple questions:

• Did this bring life?

• Did it honor the other?

• Would I receive what I’m offering?

These questions aren’t loopholes or excuses. They are ethical touchstones. They force me to consider not just what I want, but how my actions land in the lives of others.

They echo Jesus’ own teaching: “In everything, do to others as you would have them do to you” (Matthew 7:12). This is not about moral bookkeeping; it is about reciprocity. It assumes dignity. It assumes consent. It assumes that love is something exchanged, not extracted.

Paul writes, “For you were called to freedom… only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become servants to one another” (Galatians 5:13). Freedom here is not erased by desire—it is guided by love. Service is not self-erasure; it is attentiveness to the humanity in front of us.

Even in places where language is earthy and desire is intense, the Spirit does not suddenly leave the room. The question is not, Was this pure enough? but Was this honest? Was it mutual? Was it life-giving?

Scripture reminds us that “the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace…” (Galatians 5:22). Joy is not an afterthought—it is evidence. When joy appears alongside love and peace, something sacred is taking place.

At my core, I don’t believe ethics are about shrinking ourselves to avoid harm. I believe they are about showing up fully—awake to our own humanity and to the humanity of others. Joy that honors the other is not selfish. It is relational. It reflects the God who looked at creation and called it very good (Genesis 1:31).

Perhaps the holiest question we can ask is not Am I allowed? but Did this make room for life?

If it did—if it honored, enlivened, and respected—then joy was not a detour from faith.

It was the path itself.