“So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God.”
— Ephesians 2:19
“But Ruth said, ‘Do not press me to leave you or to turn back from following you! Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people shall be my people, and your God my God. Where you die, I will die—there will I be buried.’”
— Ruth 1:16-17
“And he replied, ‘Who are my mother and my brothers?’ And looking at those who sat around him, he said, ‘Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”
—Mark 3:33-35
Today is Father’s Day, a day that brings joy to many and complicated emotions to others. Some people celebrate fathers who loved and supported them unconditionally. Others carry grief, distance, disappointment, or loss. Family relationships are often beautiful, but they can also be difficult.
For many LGBTQ+ people, the idea of family extends beyond blood relations. Some of us have been blessed with accepting parents, siblings, and relatives. Others have had to seek love and support elsewhere. Along the way, we find friends who become siblings, mentors who become parental figures, and communities that become home. We build what is often called a chosen family.
The beautiful truth is that chosen family is not a modern invention. It is woven throughout Scripture.
When Ruth pledged herself to Naomi, she was choosing a relationship that went beyond obligation. Her words remain some of the most moving expressions of devotion ever written: “Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge.” It is no surprise that many couples, including LGBTQ+ couples, have found these words meaningful enough to include in their wedding vows. Ruth’s promise reminds us that family can be formed through love, commitment, and faithfulness.
Jesus expanded this understanding even further. When told that his biological family was looking for him, he pointed to those gathered around him and declared that whoever does the will of God is his family. He was not rejecting his relatives; he was enlarging the definition of family itself. In God’s kingdom, belonging is not determined by bloodlines but by love and relationship.
Paul echoes this in Ephesians, reminding us that we are all members of God’s household. We are not strangers. We are not outsiders. We belong.
During Pride Month, this message carries special significance. Many LGBTQ+ people know what it means to search for belonging. Yet the Gospel tells us that God has already claimed us as members of the divine family. We are welcomed into a household where there is room for everyone, where love is stronger than exclusion, and where no one is left standing outside the door.
Whether your family is the one you were born into, the one you found along the way, or some combination of both, give thanks today for those people who have loved you, supported you, and walked beside you. They are reminders of the family God creates—a family built not merely on blood, but on grace, faith, and love.
“Enter through the narrow gate, for the gate is wide and the road is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. For the gate is narrow and the road is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it.”
— Matthew 7:13-14
For many LGBTQ+ people, living authentically can feel like walking a narrow path.
Some of us come to understand who we are at an early age. Others spend years, even decades, struggling to accept ourselves. Some never find the freedom to live openly at all. The path toward authenticity is often difficult, especially when society, family, or even the church tells us that who we are is somehow wrong.
The younger generations, fortunate as many are, may not fully understand the burdens carried by those who came before them. There was a time when loving someone of the same gender could lead to arrest. There was a time when LGBTQ+ people were classified as mentally ill. Then came the AIDS epidemic, bringing unimaginable grief and fear. Many people who were already marginalized found themselves blamed for their suffering. Rather than offering compassion, too many Christians offered condemnation.
Yet when I read the Gospels, I cannot imagine Jesus responding that way.
When I think about how Jesus would have responded during the AIDS crisis, I think of people like Ruth Coker Burks. While many turned away in fear, she chose compassion. She visited the sick, comforted the dying, buried those whose families would not claim them, and treated people with the dignity that every child of God deserves. As Christians, we believe that the Holy Spirit dwells within us, guiding us toward the love and compassion of God. In Ruth’s life, that presence was evident. Filled with the Holy Spirit, she became an instrument of God’s grace to people who had been abandoned by nearly everyone else. Through her hands, Christ touched those who were suffering. Through her words, Christ offered comfort. Through her presence, Christ reminded people that they were never abandoned by God.
The narrow path Jesus describes is not a path of exclusion. It is not a path of self-righteousness or judgment. It is the path of love, mercy, truth, and courage. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, walking that path means refusing to live in shame. It means trusting that God’s love is greater than the voices that tell us we do not belong. It means following Christ even when doing so requires us to stand apart from popular opinion, religious prejudice, or political pressure.
For some LGBTQ+ people, the wider road would be easier. It would be easier to hide who we are. It would be easier to deny ourselves in order to gain acceptance from those who reject us. It would be easier to remain silent in the face of prejudice or to abandon our faith altogether after being wounded by the church. Yet the narrow path calls us to something greater. It calls us to live truthfully, to love courageously, and to trust that God walks beside us even when the journey is difficult.
But the narrow path is not meant to keep us hidden.
After teaching his followers about the way of God’s kingdom, Jesus told them, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid” (Matthew 5:14).
For generations, LGBTQ+ people were told to remain invisible. We were told to hide our relationships, hide our identities, and hide our stories. Growing up in the South, that often meant becoming the family member no one talked about directly. You were the uncle who never married, a “confirmed bachelor,” or perhaps you had a “roommate” to whom you seemed unusually devoted. Maybe you moved away to New Orleans, Atlanta, New York City, or somewhere like Vermont, where life felt a little safer and a little freer. The family might acknowledge your existence, but not your truth. You were welcome, so long as certain things remained unsaid.
Pride Month stands in direct opposition to that demand for silence. Visibility is not about seeking attention. It is about refusing to return to the shadows.
When critics ask, “Why do LGBTQ+ people have to be so visible?” they often fail to understand the history behind that visibility. Pride is not a declaration that we are better than anyone else. It is a declaration that we will no longer be ashamed of who God created us to be.
When we live openly and honestly, we become a light for others who are still struggling. We show young people that they are not alone. We show those living in fear that there is hope on the other side of shame. Like the city on a hill, our lives become visible reminders that authenticity and faith can coexist. Every time we choose truth over fear, compassion over judgment, and love over hatred, our light shines a little brighter.
And when we finally step into that light, we discover something remarkable.
The Apostle Paul writes, “So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are citizens with the saints and also members of the household of God” (Ephesians 2:19).
Many LGBTQ+ Christians have spent years feeling like strangers in the church. We have sat in pews wondering whether there was truly a place for us. We have listened to sermons that made us feel unwelcome. We have questioned whether God could really love us as we are.
Paul’s words answer those fears.
In Christ, we are not outsiders looking in through the window. We are not guests who are merely tolerated. We are citizens of God’s kingdom and members of God’s household. We belong.
The journey of faith for many LGBTQ+ Christians begins on a narrow path. It leads us out of fear and shame and into the light of authenticity. And there, standing openly in that light, we discover that we were never strangers to God at all. We were beloved members of God’s family from the very beginning.
As you reflect on this passage, consider how you can walk the narrow path in your own life this week. Where are you being called to choose compassion over judgment, truth over fear, or love over silence? How can you be a light for someone who feels alone, rejected, or unseen?
Perhaps it is offering encouragement to someone who is struggling. Perhaps it is speaking up when others are treated unfairly. Perhaps it is simply living authentically and faithfully, allowing others to see that being LGBTQ+ and following Christ are not contradictory.
The example of Ruth Coker Burks reminds us that extraordinary acts of faith often begin with simple acts of kindness. The same Holy Spirit that guided her life dwells within all who seek to follow Christ. We may not all be called to do what she did, but we are all called to see the humanity in others, to offer compassion where there is suffering, and to remind people—through our words and actions—that they are loved.
This Pride Month, walk the narrow path with courage. Let your light shine. And remember that in Christ, you are no stranger. You are a beloved member of the household of God.
“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves torment. But he who fears has not been made perfect in love.”
— 1 John 4:18
Every June, many Christians raise objections to Pride Month. One of the most common arguments is that “pride is a sin.” At first glance, that may seem like a reasonable concern. After all, Scripture repeatedly warns against pride. Yet the word pride can mean very different things depending on how it is used.
The pride condemned in Scripture is arrogance, self-exaltation, and the belief that we are better than other people. Proverbs warns us, “Pride goes before destruction, And a haughty spirit before a fall” (Proverbs 16:18). James echoes this teaching when he writes, “God resists the proud, But gives grace to the humble” (James 4:6).
This kind of pride places self above God and above others. It is rooted in ego, superiority, and self-glorification. Christians should reject this kind of pride because it stands in opposition to the humility that Christ taught and embodied.
However, LGBTQ+ Pride is something very different.
For generations, LGBTQ+ people were taught that they should be ashamed of who they are. Many were told they were broken, unworthy, sinful simply for existing, or somehow less deserving of love and dignity than others. Shame became a burden that countless people carried throughout their lives.
Pride Month arose as a response to that shame.
LGBTQ+ Pride is not about declaring ourselves superior to anyone else. It is about rejecting the lie that we should hate ourselves. It is about accepting ourselves as God created us and affirming the dignity that God has placed within every human being.
Pride Month is not about placing ourselves above others. It is about standing up after generations of being told to bow our heads in shame.
This understanding fits beautifully with the message of 1 John 4:18. Fear and shame are close companions. Many LGBTQ+ Christians know what it is like to fear rejection, fear condemnation, fear abandonment, and fear that God could never truly love them. Yet John reminds us that God’s perfect love casts out fear.
When we truly embrace God’s love, we no longer have to live in fear of being rejected by Him. We no longer have to carry the shame that others have placed upon us. God’s love frees us to live honestly and authentically before Him.
Paul reminds us of this truth in one of the most beloved passages in Scripture:
“For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”—Romans 8:38–39
Nothing can separate us from God’s love—not prejudice, not rejection, not misunderstanding, and not the labels others place upon us.
Throughout His ministry, Jesus consistently restored dignity to people whom society marginalized and shamed. He welcomed tax collectors, spoke with Samaritans, touched lepers, defended women condemned by others, and invited all people into relationship with Him. Again and again, Jesus moved toward those whom society pushed away.
He also gave His followers a simple command:
“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.” —John 13:34–35
Notice that Jesus did not command us to shame one another. He commanded us to love one another.
As Christians, we are called to reject both sinful pride and destructive shame. Humility does not mean thinking poorly of ourselves. True humility means recognizing that every good thing comes from God and that every person bears the image of God.
God calls us to humility, but He does not call us to self-hatred.
When LGBTQ+ Christians celebrate Pride Month, many are not celebrating arrogance. They are celebrating survival. They are celebrating authenticity. They are celebrating the freedom to live without shame and fear. Most importantly, they are celebrating the truth that they are beloved children of God.
As we enter Pride Month, may we remember that God’s perfect love casts out fear. May we reject both arrogance and shame. May we walk humbly with God while embracing the dignity He has given us. And may we never forget that nothing can separate us from the love of Christ.
In a world that often teaches fear, rejection, and shame, God’s message remains one of hope, acceptance, and love. We are known by God. We are loved by God. And through Christ, we are invited to live not in fear, but in the freedom of His perfect love.
“Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another.” — Romans 12:10 (NKJV)
Tomorrow marks the beginning of Pride Month. Across the world, LGBTQ+ people will celebrate their identities, honor those who fought for equality, and remember those whose courage made it possible for many of us to live more openly today.
Before Pride Month begins, however, it is worth reflecting on the foundation upon which any healthy community must be built: love.
In Romans 12:10, Paul writes:
“Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another.”
At the heart of Christian living is a call to love one another deeply, generously, and selflessly. That command applies not only to our churches and families but also to the relationships and communities we build as LGBTQ+ people.
The phrase “kindly affectionate” speaks of genuine warmth and care for others. It is not merely tolerance or politeness. It is a love that values another person and seeks their well-being. Likewise, “brotherly love” points to the bonds that unite us in friendship, fellowship, and mutual support.
Jesus gave a similar command when He said:
“This is My commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”
And the Apostle John reminds us:
“Beloved, let us love one another, for love is of God; and everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.” — 1 John 4:7
These verses do not place limits on who may love or who is worthy of love. Instead, they point us toward a God whose very nature is love and who calls us to reflect that love in our relationships with others.
For many gay men, there is something especially meaningful in the connection between romantic love and brotherly love. Strong same-sex relationships are often built upon both. The man we love is frequently not only a romantic partner but also a trusted friend, confidant, companion, and source of strength. Romantic affection and deep friendship are often woven together in ways that enrich and strengthen both.
Scripture offers many examples of profound devotion between people. One of the most famous is the friendship between David and Jonathan. After Jonathan’s death, David mourned:
“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; You have been very pleasant to me; Your love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of women.” — 2 Samuel 1:26 (NKJV)
Whatever conclusions people draw about the nature of their relationship, Scripture clearly presents it as one marked by loyalty, sacrifice, affection, and devotion. They honored one another and remained faithful to one another despite tremendous personal risk.
That same spirit should characterize all our relationships today. Whether we are single, dating, married, or surrounded by friends and chosen family, God calls us to be people who love deeply and honor one another generously.
Pride Month is often misunderstood by those outside the LGBTQ+ community. At its best, Pride is not about arrogance or self-centeredness. Rather, it is a rejection of shame and a celebration of the truth that every person is created by God and worthy of dignity and respect. It is about building communities where people are welcomed instead of rejected, supported instead of isolated, and loved instead of condemned.
Paul writes later in this same chapter:
“Be of the same mind toward one another.” — Romans 12:16
And Jesus tells us:
“By this all will know that you are My disciples, if you have love for one another.” — John 13:35
As we prepare to enter Pride Month, may we remember that Christian love is more than a feeling. It is a commitment. It is choosing to care for one another, support one another, and honor one another as beloved children of God.
May we be kindly affectionate toward one another with brotherly love. May we give preference to one another in honor. And may the love we share—between friends, partners, spouses, and chosen family—reflect the boundless love of the God who first loved us.
“Just as you do not know how the breath comes to the bones in the mother’s womb, so you do not know the work of God, who makes everything.”
— Ecclesiastes 11:5
There are moments in life when we desperately want answers. We want to know why certain doors closed, why some prayers seemed unanswered, why our journeys have taken difficult turns, or why we were made the way we are. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, these questions can become especially heavy when faith and identity seem to collide with the expectations of others.
Yet Ecclesiastes reminds us of a profound truth: we do not fully understand the work of God.
The writer points to the mystery of life itself. We cannot see how breath becomes life or how a child is formed in the womb, yet it happens according to the creative work of God. In the same way, we cannot always see where God is leading us or fully understand His purposes while we are living through them. Faith often means trusting before we understand.
The Bible repeatedly reminds us that God’s vision is greater than our own:
“For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord, plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope.” — Jeremiah 29:11
That promise was spoken to people living in uncertainty and exile. They could not see the ending of the story yet, but God could. Many LGBTQ+ believers know what it feels like to live in uncertainty — wondering if there is a place for us in the Church, questioning whether we are truly loved by God, or fearing that our lives somehow fall outside His plan. But Scripture consistently tells us otherwise: God does not abandon His children.
Psalm 139 beautifully declares:
“I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” — Psalm 139:14
You are not an accident. Your capacity to love, your compassion, your resilience, your spirit — none of these are mistakes. Even when others fail to understand you, God still sees you fully and lovingly.
Sometimes we wish God would reveal the entire roadmap of our lives. Instead, He often gives us just enough light for the next step. Proverbs reminds us:
“Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths.” — Proverbs 3:5–6
Trusting God does not mean pretending life is easy or that we never struggle. It means believing that even when we cannot see the whole picture, God is still at work within it. The painful seasons, the lonely moments, the unexpected detours — none of them are wasted in God’s hands.
Romans 8:28 offers another reassurance:
“We know that all things work together for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose.”
Notice that Paul does not say all things are good. Some experiences are genuinely painful. But God can still bring goodness, growth, healing, and love out of even the hardest chapters of our lives.
Faith is often about learning to trust the unseen work of God. Just as seeds grow beneath the soil long before we witness the flower, God may be shaping our lives in ways we cannot yet perceive. What feels confusing today may someday reveal itself as grace.
So if you find yourself uncertain about the future, remember this: God’s understanding is far greater than ours, and His love for you is deeper than fear, shame, or rejection. You may not understand every step of your journey, but you can trust that God walks beside you through all of it.
And sometimes, faith simply means taking the next step while believing that God already sees the road ahead.
“Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you.” — Ephesians 4:32
For many LGBTQ+ Christians, kindness has often come from unexpected places. Sometimes it has come from close friends who stood beside us when others walked away. Sometimes it has come from strangers who simply treated us with dignity when we desperately needed it. And sometimes, sadly, the places that should have reflected Christ’s love most clearly have instead offered judgment, rejection, or silence.
That is why Ephesians 4:32 feels so important. Paul does not say, “Be correct to one another,” or “Win every argument.” He says: “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted…” Kindness is not weakness. Tenderheartedness is not compromise. These are Christlike virtues.
Jesus repeatedly showed that love and compassion were at the center of His ministry. He touched those others avoided. He ate with those society rejected. He defended the vulnerable. Over and over again, Christ demonstrated that human dignity matters.
Paul echoes this same spirit elsewhere:
“Bear with one another and, if anyone has a complaint against another, forgive each other; just as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive.” — Colossians 3:13
And again:
“Let all that you do be done in love.” — 1 Corinthians 16:14
As LGBTQ+ people, many of us know what it feels like to long for grace. We know what it means to hope someone will see us fully and still choose kindness. Because of that, we are uniquely capable of extending compassion to others. The pain we have endured can either harden us or deepen our empathy. Christ calls us toward the latter.
This does not mean accepting abuse or remaining in harmful spaces. Forgiveness and kindness are not the same as allowing others to wound us endlessly. Jesus Himself walked away from those who sought to harm Him. Healthy boundaries can coexist with grace.
But Ephesians reminds us that our hearts should not become consumed by bitterness. The world already contains enough cruelty. Christians—especially those who know what exclusion feels like—can instead become witnesses to a different way of living: one rooted in mercy, tenderness, and love.
Micah 6:8 offers a similar call:
“What does the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love kindness and to walk humbly with your God?”
Love kindness. Not merely tolerate it. Not occasionally practice it. Love it.
In a harsh world, kindness can become holy resistance.
Today, may you remember that Christ’s love is not diminished by who you are. You are called to reflect His compassion not because you must earn God’s love, but because you already live within it. And sometimes the greatest testimony we can offer is simply this: after everything we have endured, we still choose kindness.
“Conduct yourselves wisely toward outsiders, making the most of the time. Let your speech always be gracious, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how you ought to answer everyone.”
— Colossians 4:5–6
For many LGBTQ+ Christians, words have often been weapons rather than blessings. Some of us grew up hearing careless comments, harsh sermons, or so-called “truth” spoken without grace. Others learned to stay silent because we feared what might happen if we spoke honestly about who we are. Words matter. They can wound deeply, but they can also heal, encourage, and remind someone that they are loved by God.
In this passage, Paul reminds believers that our speech should be “gracious, seasoned with salt.” Salt preserves, enhances, and gives flavor. Paul is not calling Christians to be cruel, sarcastic, or self-righteous. Instead, he is urging us to speak with wisdom, kindness, sincerity, and depth. Our words should reflect the love of Christ, not the bitterness of the world.
That message feels especially important today. LGBTQ+ people know what it is like to encounter speech that tears down rather than builds up. Yet Scripture repeatedly calls us toward another way.
Ephesians 4:29 reminds us:
“Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that your words may give grace to those who hear.”
And in Proverbs 16:24 we read:
“Pleasant words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body.”
As LGBTQ+ Christians, we have an opportunity to embody this kind of grace-filled speech in a world that often thrives on outrage and cruelty. That does not mean remaining silent in the face of injustice. Jesus Himself spoke boldly against hypocrisy and oppression. But even truth can be spoken with compassion and wisdom rather than hatred.
In fact, Jesus says in Matthew 5:13:
“You are the salt of the earth.”
Salt changes the flavor of whatever it touches. When we speak with kindness, authenticity, and love, we bear witness to the presence of Christ in our lives. Sometimes the most powerful testimony is not an argument won, but a gracious word spoken at the right moment.
There will always be voices that seek to shame, condemn, or divide. We do not have to answer hatred with hatred. We can answer with dignity. With wisdom. With truth wrapped in grace.
May our words never become bland, empty, or cruel. Instead, may they be seasoned with the salt of compassion, honesty, and Christlike love.
“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.
“When David had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.”
—1 Samuel 18:1
There are certain images that stay with us—not just as works of art, but as moments of recognition.
For me, David by Michelangelo has always been one of those images.
I still remember the first time I saw him in person in Florence. I had just arrived, and visiting the Galleria dell’Accademia was one of the very first things I did. I walked into that long gallery, and there he was—at the end, illuminated, larger than life. I remember looking up with a kind of awe that felt both artistic and deeply personal. It wasn’t just the mastery of the sculpture—it was presence. Humanity carved into stone.
When I first started this blog, I chose David and Me by Steve Walker as my avatar. It reminded me of myself the first time I stood before David—looking up, searching, captivated. Back then, I even physically resembled the figure in Walker’s painting. I’m older now. It has been over twenty years since I last visited Florence, and I’ve changed in ways I could not have imagined then.
But the awe remains.
And because of that fascination with David, I have always found myself drawn not only to the figure in marble, but to the story in scripture—to the love between David and Jonathan.
“Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul.”—1 Samuel 18:3
From the very beginning, their relationship is described in language that is intimate, binding, and profound. Their souls are knit together. Their love is named openly. A covenant is made—not out of obligation, but out of love.
“Jonathan made David swear again by his love for him; for he loved him as he loved his own life.”—1 Samuel 20:17
This is not casual affection. This is not distant loyalty. This is a love that insists on being spoken, reaffirmed, and held fast even in the face of danger.
“They kissed each other, and wept with each other; David wept the more.”—1 Samuel 20:41
There is tenderness here. Physical closeness. Emotional vulnerability. Grief shared without restraint.
And then, in the end, there is lament.
“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”—2 Samuel 1:26
Few passages in scripture speak of love with such intensity. So what are we to make of it? Was this admiration? A deep and abiding friendship?
Was it something like the bond between Achilles and Patroclus, or between Alexander the Great and Hephaestion—relationships that have long existed in that space between friendship and something more?
Or could it have been a love that was intimate in ways the text does not fully define, but does not deny?
The truth is, we will never know with certainty.
But we can pay attention to the language. The Hebrew does not shy away from words of love, of binding, of covenant. It does not diminish their connection. And yet, across centuries, translations and interpretations have often been shaped by the assumptions and discomforts of those doing the translating.
Some render the relationship in ways that feel safer—contained, strictly platonic. Others allow the emotional depth to remain, even if they stop short of naming it outright.
Which raises a different question: not only what was their relationship, but what are we willing to see in it?
For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, this story resonates deeply.
We know what it is to form bonds that others do not understand. We know what it is to love in ways that are questioned, reinterpreted, or denied.We know what it is to hear our stories explained away.
And yet, here in scripture, the love between David and Jonathan is not erased. It is spoken. It is remembered. It is grieved.
I think about that when I think of David—both the young man of scripture and the figure carved in marble.
Strength and beauty, yes. But also vulnerability. Connection. Love that dares to speak its name, even in a world that may not fully understand it.
Maybe we don’t need to resolve the question of what, exactly, David and Jonathan were to each other. Maybe it is enough to let their story remain open—to allow it to hold possibility.
Because for those of us who have been told that our love has no place in sacred story, even the possibility matters.
“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.
Joe
The Closet Professor 