“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.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

— John 1:5

There is something tender about the first morning of a new year. The world has not changed overnight, and yet everything feels slightly quieter—like the pause just before we open our eyes. A new year does not arrive with fanfare so much as with light: soft at first, steady, and persistent.

John’s Gospel opens not with commands or expectations, but with illumination. The light shines in the darkness, John tells us, and the darkness does not defeat it. Light does not argue with the dark; it simply appears. It reveals what is already there. As we wake to a new year, we are not asked to banish every shadow—only to notice that light is already present.

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, waking up has not always felt safe. Some of us learned early to keep parts of ourselves hidden, to move carefully through the world, half-awake and half-guarded. And yet the Gospel insists that God meets us not in denial or fear, but in revelation. Light, in John’s telling, is not exposure meant to harm—it is truth meant to heal.

Luke’s Gospel offers a quieter image of beginning. On the road to Emmaus, two disciples walk together, confused and grieving, unsure of what comes next. Jesus joins them on the journey, though they do not recognize him at first. They walk, they talk, they tell their story—and only later do they realize they were never walking alone (Luke 24:13–16). Sometimes new beginnings do not feel like clarity. Sometimes they feel like movement—one step, then another—before understanding catches up.

The first Sunday of a new year does not demand certainty. It invites attentiveness. It invites us to notice who is walking beside us, even when we do not yet have the language for what is unfolding.

And then, in John’s Gospel again, we hear the words Jesus speaks to frightened disciples huddled behind locked doors: “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). These are not words spoken to people who have it all together. They are spoken into fear, into uncertainty, into a room full of people unsure how to go on. Peace, here, is not the absence of trouble—it is the presence of Christ.

As we wake to a new year, peace does not mean that everything will be easy or resolved. It means that we are not abandoned to face it alone.

So open your eyes slowly. Let the light reach you where you are. Take the next step on the road in front of you, even if you do not yet see the destination. And receive the quiet promise spoken at the threshold of this year: peace is already here.

May this new year find you waking—not to pressure or fear—but to light, to companionship, and to a peace that meets you exactly as you are.

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?”

— Isaiah 43:19

There is something sacred about the space between years. It is a quiet doorway—one foot still planted in what has been, the other hovering over what has yet to take shape. The world often treats this moment as a demand for reinvention, but Scripture invites us instead to pay attention. As the psalmist prays in Psalm 90:12, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom,” reminding us that reflection itself is a holy act.

As LGBTQ+ people of faith, we know that endings and beginnings are rarely tidy. This year may have held moments of joy and affirmation—or seasons of grief, fatigue, and survival. It may have asked more of you than you ever expected. And yet, here you are. Still breathing. Still standing. Still deeply loved.

When the prophet Isaiah speaks of God doing “a new thing,” it is not spoken to people who are confident or comfortable. It is spoken to a community worn thin by exile and uncertainty. God does not dismiss their past or minimize their fear. Instead, God promises presence right where they are: a way in the wilderness, streams in the wasteland (Isaiah 43:19). Renewal does not require perfect conditions—only God’s faithfulness.

The turning of the year does not erase what came before. It gathers it. Every hard-won truth, every boundary learned, every scar earned through survival becomes part of the soil from which new life grows. In the aftermath of devastation, Lamentations 3:22–23 offers this quiet assurance: “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases; his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning.” Newness, in Scripture, is not about forgetting—it is about being met again.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the arrival of a new year carries both hope and caution. We have learned that trust is not naive and that faith often carries memory with it. Still, the promise remains. Writing to a community living in uncertainty, Paul reminds them in Philippians 1:6 that “the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion.” God is not finished with you—not at year’s end, and not at the beginning of what comes next.

And in the Gospel, we are given a final, steadying word—not a command, but a promise. At the close of Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus says simply, “I am with you always, to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). Not only in moments of clarity. Not only in seasons of confidence. But always—across thresholds, through uncertainty, and into whatever comes next.

So as this year closes, you are not asked to become someone else. You are invited to become more fully yourself—rooted in truth, shaped by grace, and steadied by the knowledge that you have never walked alone. As the next year opens, may you step forward gently, knowing that love has already gone ahead of you.

As this year fades into memory and a new one opens before you, may you carry forward what has shaped you and release what no longer gives life. May you trust that the love which sustained you this year does not disappear with the turning of the calendar. God is already present in what comes next—quietly, faithfully, and without condition. Wherever the new year leads, may you step into it knowing that you are held, you are seen, and you belong.

“I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.”

—John 8:12

Jesus’ declaration that He is the light of the world is more than a statement of identity—it is an invitation. His light is not harsh or exposing, but comforting and revealing, helping us see the truth of who we are in God’s love. When Christ shines into our lives, He illuminates not only the path before us but the very goodness God has planted within us.

As LGBTQ+ Christians, many of us know intimately what darkness feels like. We’ve endured seasons when rejection or silence made the world seem shadowed. Yet even there, we can echo the assurance of Psalm 23:4: “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.” Darkness may surround us at times, but it never defines the journey. God walks with us, and Christ’s light guides us through valleys that once felt unending.

What makes Jesus’ words even more extraordinary is that He shares this light with us. In the Sermon on the Mount, He tells His followers, “You are the light of the world,” affirming that we bear His radiance in our lives. He goes on to say that “a city set on a hill cannot be hidden,” reminding us that God never intended for us to shrink or conceal our true selves. Our gifts, our love, our queerness—these are not shadows to hide but reflections of the beauty God has woven into us.

When Jesus urges us to let our light shine before others, He invites us into authenticity rather than performance. Our compassion, courage, honesty, and resilience become expressions of the divine light entrusted to us. Even in difficult moments, when we choose hope over despair or gentleness over anger, we shine in ways that help others glimpse God’s presence.

And the Gospel of John offers a sustaining promise: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” Whatever shadows we face—whether from others or within ourselves—Christ’s light remains steady and untouchable. Because it lives within us, we, too, cannot be extinguished.

As we move through this Advent season, we remember that God has always used light to guide people toward hope. Just as the Star of Bethlehem led the magi to the Christ child, that same divine light still beckons us today—shining in our lives, shining through our love, and leading us ever closer to the heart of God. May you walk in that light with confidence, knowing it has already claimed you, warmed you, and made you radiant.

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

— Psalm 139:16

Birthdays can stir up a whole symphony of emotions. Some years we celebrate with joy; other years, we feel the weight of who’s missing, what’s changed, or where life didn’t unfold the way we hoped. But whether the candle count excites us or unnerves us, a birthday is always—always—an invitation to grace.

One of my favorite verses for days like this comes from Psalm 139:16:

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

That verse isn’t about fate or predestination so much as it is about belonging—the reminder that our lives are not accidents, even when they feel messy, lonely, or unfinished. For LGBTQ+ Christians, a birthday can carry an extra layer of meaning: another year of surviving a world that often misunderstands us; another year of claiming our place in the world; another year of living truthfully, even when truth has cost us something.

Birthdays remind us that God’s faithfulness is not measured in milestones. It’s measured in presence.

Another year of God sitting with us in our sadness.

Another year of God celebrating with us in small victories.

Another year of God whispering, You are fearfully and wonderfully made—even when we don’t feel fearfully wonderful at all.

In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

Abundance does not mean perfection. It doesn’t mean a life without mistakes or heartbreak. It means the fullness of being truly alive: loving, learning, grieving, healing, laughing, resting, trying again.

Every birthday is a living testament that God isn’t finished with us.

For many of us, the older we get, the more complicated birthdays become. Maybe we think about people who should still be here. Maybe we reflect on choices we made or didn’t make. Maybe we hear that little voice saying we’re behind somehow, as if life is a race with a single finish line.

But God’s voice is different. God’s voice says:

You’re right on time.

You’re still growing.

You’re still becoming.

Your story is not over.

And for queer folks—for anyone who has ever had to fight for the right to live fully—each birthday is nothing short of sacred.

It’s a celebration of resilience.

A celebration of authenticity.

A celebration of the courage it took to get here.

And I’ll be honest: I wrote this devotional today because it’s my birthday. Birthdays always make me reflective—sometimes wistful, sometimes grateful, always a little contemplative. So if you’re reading this and today is your birthday too, or if yours is coming up soon, know you’re not alone in whatever mix of emotions you’re carrying.

Whether this year comes with cake and candles or simply a quiet moment with your thoughts—or a purring companion curled up next to you—may it remind you of this truth:

You are here. You are loved. And God delights in the person you are becoming, year by year, breath by breath.

Happy birthday to everyone who needs to hear this today. And a quiet “happy birthday” to myself, too—grateful for another year of life, love, and God’s gentle presence.