“And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.”

—1 Corinthians 13:13

There is something profoundly grounding about these words from 1 Corinthians. In a world that often measures worth by success, status, or acceptance, the Apostle Paul reminds us that, in the end, only three things endure: faith, hope, and love—and the greatest of these is love.

For LGBTQ+ people, this truth carries particular weight. Too often, we have been told—explicitly or subtly—that we must earn love, prove ourselves worthy of it, or change who we are in order to receive it. But 1 Corinthians 13 dismantles that notion entirely. Love, as Paul describes it, is not conditional. It is not earned. It is a gift—and one that reflects the very nature of God.

Paul writes: “If I speak in the tongues of humans and of angels but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal” (1 Corinthians 13:1). In other words, no matter how eloquent, faithful, or outwardly “righteous” we may appear, without love, it is empty. Faith that excludes, condemns, or harms is not aligned with the love Paul describes.

He continues: “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude” (1 Corinthians 13:4). Imagine what it means to apply this not only to how we treat others, but how we treat ourselves. Many LGBTQ+ individuals carry wounds—shame, rejection, internalized doubt. But the love God offers is patient with our healing. It is kind to our fears. It does not shame us for who we are.

“It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable; it keeps no record of wrongs” (1 Corinthians 13:5). How different this is from the voices that keep score—of sins, identities, or perceived failures. Divine love does not tally our worthiness. It embraces us fully, as we are.

Perhaps one of the most beautiful lines is this: “It does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth” (1 Corinthians 13:6). The truth of who you are—your identity, your capacity to love, your place in this world—is not something to be hidden or denied. It is something to be rejoiced in. You are not a mistake. You are not outside the reach of grace. You are, in fact, a reflection of it.

Paul continues with a vision of love that endures: “It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends” (1 Corinthians 13:7–8). In a world where relationships, institutions, and even faith communities may falter, this promise remains: love—true, divine love—does not fail you.

And so we return to the closing verse: “And now faith, hope, and love remain, these three, and the greatest of these is love.” Faith sustains us. Hope carries us forward. But love—love is what defines us, what connects us, and what reveals God most clearly.

Where have you experienced love that reflects God’s patience and kindness? And where might you need to extend that same love—to yourself or to others?

May we rest in the assurance that we are created in love and for love, seen through a compassionate and gracious gaze that is patient, kind, and without condemnation. In moments when judgment—whether from others or from within—tries to take hold, may we remember that love keeps no record of wrongs and does not insist on its own way. And as we move through the world, may our lives reflect that same enduring love—one that bears, believes, hopes, and endures all things, a love that never ends.

“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me… Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these… you did it to me.”

— Matthew 25:35–40

There are many of us who have heard, in one form or another, that we do not belong. That who we are—whom we love, how we live—is somehow incompatible with faith. Some have been told this gently, others harshly. Some have simply felt it in the silence of a church that never quite made space for them.

And yet, here is Jesus.

Not drawing lines. Not building walls. Not asking about doctrine, identity, or worthiness.

Instead, he gives us something radically simple—and profoundly challenging.

Feed the hungry.
Welcome the stranger.
Clothe the naked.
Care for the sick.
Visit the forgotten.

This is the measure he names.

In Matthew 25, Jesus does not say, “You recognized me because you believed correctly.” He says, “You recognized me because you loved.”

That truth matters—especially for those who have been pushed to the margins.

Because it means this: even if a church rejects you, Christ does not disappear. Christ is still present in the world—in the people who need compassion, dignity, and care. And when we meet those needs, we are not just doing good deeds. We are encountering Christ himself.

There is something deeply freeing in that.

It means your faith is not confined to a building that may not welcome you.
It is not dependent on the approval of others.
It is not measured by how well you fit someone else’s expectations.

Your faith is lived in action—in kindness, in justice, in mercy.

Every time you show compassion, you are walking in the footsteps of Jesus.
Every time you choose love over bitterness, you are reflecting his heart.
Every time you welcome someone who feels like an outsider, you are doing exactly what he asked.

And perhaps most importantly: in those moments, you may find that Christ is not only present in the person you serve—but present with you, too.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, the question has long been: Where do I belong?

Jesus offers an unexpected answer.

You belong wherever love is lived.

You belong wherever the hungry are fed and the lonely are seen.

You belong wherever mercy is practiced.

You belong wherever Christ is found—in the least, the last, and the overlooked.

And in doing these things, you are not just following Jesus.

You are meeting him.

“Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word, and my servant will be healed.”

—Matthew 8:8

One of the most striking stories in the Gospels is found in Matthew 8:5–13 and Luke 7:1–10—the story of the Roman centurion and the servant he loved.

A Roman officer.

An outsider.

A man of power in a system that oppressed the very people Jesus came to teach.

And yet… he is the one who shows extraordinary faith.

The centurion comes to Jesus on behalf of his servant, who is suffering terribly. In Luke’s account, the language used suggests deep affection—this was not just any servant. The Greek word pais can mean “servant,” but it can also imply a beloved companion, even a young man with a close personal bond. Some scholars have suggested that the relationship may have been more intimate—possibly romantic. Others see it simply as a profound, devoted connection.

We may never know exactly what their relationship was, but we do know this: The centurion loved him deeply.

And he was willing to cross every social, cultural, and religious boundary to seek healing for him.

When Jesus offers to come and heal the servant, the centurion responds with words that still echo in Christian liturgy today. There is humility here—but not shame.

This is not the voice of someone who believes he is unloved. This is the voice of someone who understands authority, trust, and faith. He believes—completely—that Jesus does not even need to be physically present. A word is enough.

And Jesus responds with astonishment:

“Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith.”

Here is what stands out, especially for LGBTQ+ Christians:

Jesus does not question the relationship.
He does not ask for clarification.
He does not require repentance.
He does not set conditions.

He simply responds to faith, and He heals what love has brought before Him.

If the centurion’s bond with his servant was indeed romantic—or even just deeply unconventional—Jesus’ response is telling. The focus is not on judging the relationship, but on honoring the faith and love that compelled the centurion to act.

The centurion represents so many forms of “outsider”:

• A Gentile among Jews
• A soldier of an occupying force
• A man of power who approaches with humility
• Possibly a man whose love did not fit societal norms

And yet, he is held up as an example of faith.

Not tolerated. Not quietly accepted.Praised.

The words of the hymn “Faith Is the Victory” echo the spirit of this story:

Encamped along the hills of light,
Ye Christian soldiers, rise,
And press the battle ere the night
Shall veil the glowing skies;
Against the foe in vales below
Let all our strength be hurled;
Faith is the victory, we know,
That overcomes the world.

Faith is the victory!
Faith is the victory!
O glorious victory,
That overcomes the world.

For those of us who have ever wondered:

• Am I worthy?
• Does my love disqualify me?
• Will I be turned away?

The story of the centurion answers with quiet, powerful clarity:

Faith is not limited by who you are. Love is not erased by how others define it. And Christ meets us exactly where we stand.

“If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes.”

— Luke 19:42

Palm Sunday is often imagined as a day of celebration—crowds gathering, branches lifted high, voices rising in praise as Jesus enters Jerusalem. It feels triumphant, almost jubilant, the kind of moment we expect to carry only joy. And yet, in the midst of that celebration, the Gospel of Luke offers us something quieter, more tender: Jesus pauses, looks at the city, and weeps.

There, in the middle of welcome and worship, there is sorrow.

Because Jesus does not see only what is before him. He sees what could have been. He sees a city capable of peace, a people capable of love, a world within reach of something better—and he knows it has gone unrecognized. Peace was there, present and possible, but it was missed. And that is what makes his words linger, what gives them their ache: “If you had only recognized… the things that make for peace.”

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, that longing feels deeply familiar.

We know what it is to search for peace—not as an abstract idea, but as something personal and urgent. Peace in our own hearts, where questions of identity and worth have sometimes been met with silence or shame. Peace in our relationships, where love has not always been affirmed as holy. Peace in the spaces that were meant to be sanctuaries—churches, families, communities—that instead left us wondering if we truly belonged. We have stood at those gates, hoping to be seen, to be known, to be embraced, and too often we have felt the quiet heartbreak of being overlooked.

Like Jerusalem, those spaces did not always recognize “the things that make for peace.”And yet, Palm Sunday does not leave us there.

Beneath the grief is a truth that is as gentle as it is powerful: Jesus still sees. He sees the missed opportunities, the moments when love should have been offered freely but was withheld. He sees the harm done in the name of righteousness, the ways people have been turned away when they should have been welcomed in. And he weeps—not because there is something wrong with you, but because you deserved peace all along.

His tears are not condemnation. They are compassion.

But this story is not only about what others failed to see. It is also an invitation—quiet, persistent, and deeply personal. Because after enough rejection, it becomes easy to internalize the same blindness we have encountered. We begin to wonder if peace is really meant for us. We question whether love must be earned, whether we are too much or not enough, whether there is something about us that keeps us just outside the gates.

And in those moments, peace can feel hidden from our own eyes. Palm Sunday invites us to look again.

To recognize that your identity is not a barrier to God’s love, but part of how you reflect it in the world. To see that your capacity to love deeply, honestly, and courageously—often forged through struggle—is itself one of the very things that makes for peace. To trust that Christ enters your life not with judgment, but with tenderness, with understanding, and with an unwavering presence that refuses to let you go unseen.

Even when others have failed to recognize your worth, even when peace has felt distant or obscured,

God has never missed it. God has never missed you.

And the peace Christ speaks of—the peace that was once overlooked, the peace that still waits to be named and claimed—is not lost.

It is still yours to receive.

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things. If we live by the Spirit, let us also be guided by the Spirit. Let us not become conceited, competing against one another, envying one another.”

—Galatians 5:22-23, 25–26

There is something quietly miraculous about this time of year.

Here in Vermont, even if we know better—even if we suspect this might still be “fake spring”—the signs are unmistakable. Snow had begun to melt. The ground softened. Trees, which only weeks ago seemed lifeless, started to show the faintest hint of buds.

And then—of course—it snowed.

It snowed all Friday afternoon. It’s snowing again today, and it’s expected to continue all day long. Spring, it seems, is not quite ready to fully arrive.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t coming.

Spring is a season of becoming—not of instant transformation, but of gradual, sometimes interrupted growth. The snow may return, but it cannot undo what has already begun beneath the surface.

Paul’s words in Galatians speak of the fruit of the Spirit—not as something forced or manufactured, but something that grows. Fruit takes time. It begins unseen, deep within. It requires nourishment, patience, and care. And when it comes, it is both beautiful and sustaining.

Love. Joy. Peace. Patience. Kindness. Generosity. Faithfulness. Gentleness. Self-control.

These are not burdens placed upon us—they are evidence of life within us.

For many LGBTQ+ people, faith has too often been presented as something restrictive, something that demands we prune away essential parts of who we are. But Paul reminds us that the Spirit does not produce fear, shame, or self-hatred. The Spirit produces fruit—life-giving, nourishing, abundant fruit.

As John 15:5 tells us:

“I am the vine, you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit.”

We are not called to wither. We are called to grow.

And growth is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes it looks like choosing kindness when bitterness would be easier. Sometimes it is learning to extend grace to ourselves after years of being told we were unworthy. Sometimes it is simply allowing ourselves to exist fully and honestly, trusting that who we are is not a mistake, but part of God’s ongoing creation.

The prophet reminds us in Isaiah 43:19:

“I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”

Spring is that “new thing” made visible—even when snow is still falling.

Just as trees do not strain to produce buds, and flowers do not question whether they are worthy to bloom, we too are invited to live by the Spirit—to be guided, not driven; to grow, not perform.

Paul’s closing reminder is just as important:

“Let us not become conceited, competing against one another, envying one another.”

Spiritual growth is not a competition. No one blooms at the exact same time. Some trees are still bare while others are already in flower—but all are part of the same season, the same promise.

As 2 Corinthians 5:17 tells us:

“If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!”

This spring—even a snowy one—let yourself become.

• Let love bud where fear once lived.
• Let joy push through the frozen ground of doubt.
• Let peace settle into places that once felt barren.

You do not have to force the fruit. Just remain. Just live. Just grow. And trust that, in time, what is within you will blossom into something beautiful.

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.