“For it is God’s will that by doing right you should silence the ignorance of the foolish. As servants of God, live as free people, yet do not use your freedom as a pretext for evil.”

—1 Peter 2:15–16

Some verses arrive like a steadying hand on the shoulder—quiet, firm, and full of clarity. I came across 1 Peter 2:15–16 recently through my “Verse of the Day” email, and it resonated with me in a way I didn’t expect. It calls us to live as free people, but not reckless ones; to live as God’s own, but not self-righteous; to do right in such a way that the loudest argument we ever make is the grace and kindness flowing through our lives.

As LGBTQ+ Christians, these verses strike a particular chord. For centuries, people have spoken about us with suspicion, ignorance, or outright hostility. But Scripture reminds us that doing good has a power all its own—a power that reveals the truth of God far more than arguments or debates ever could.

Jesus tells us in Matthew 7:12, “In everything do to others as you would have them do to you.” The Golden Rule is one of the clearest expressions of holy living, and it aligns beautifully with Peter’s reminder to “do right.” When we live lives shaped by kindness, integrity, compassion, and mercy—when we refuse cruelty even when it is used against us—we are practicing the freedom God has given us.

I try to live out that kind of freedom: not the freedom to do whatever I want, but the freedom to choose gentleness over anger, empathy over judgment, and grace over bitterness. I’m not always successful—some people make it very hard to be kind—but I try my best to live out God’s love as faithfully as I can.

As a gay Christian, I believe that living in a moral, loving, humane way becomes a quiet testimony—one that says to the world: every person is worthy of God’s love.

And in a time when many still use faith as a weapon against LGBTQ+ people, our goodness becomes a form of resistance, not to win approval, but to reflect Christ’s heart more clearly than any stereotype placed upon us.

Doing right silences ignorance not by humiliating others, but by proving false the stories they once assumed were true.

May we live freely, love boldly, and shine with the goodness that God plants in us—so that our lives themselves become a witness to God’s inclusive love.

No matter how the world labels us, doubts us, or presses us to shrink, God continues to call us into freedom—freedom rooted in goodness, compassion, and love. When we choose kindness in a world that often rewards cruelty, we participate in God’s quiet miracle of transformation. May we remember each day that our lives, imperfect yet sincere, can reveal a glimpse of God’s heart to someone who needs it.

“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

— 1 Peter 2:9

There is a transformation unfolding within the Church today—a long-awaited moment in which LGBTQ+ Christians are finally stepping out of the shadows and into God’s marvelous light. After nearly two thousand years, we are being seen not as outsiders, but as part of the royal priesthood Peter describes: God’s own people, chosen and beloved. In many congregations, the doors of affirmation have swung open, and the light pouring through them reveals the fullness of God’s love.

We, the people once told to hide our hearts, are now becoming a visible part of the body of Christ. As Jesus said, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14). That light shines through us—through our authenticity, our resilience, and our love. When we live openly and faithfully, we help the Church itself become that shining city, showing the world that God’s love embraces all who seek it.

Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 1:18 asks that “the eyes of your heart may be enlightened” so that we may truly know the hope to which we are called. That enlightenment happens each time we recognize that God’s light is not limited or conditional—it has always included us. The more we see ourselves as God sees us—holy, beloved, and radiant—the more we are able to reflect that light into the world.

To be called into the light is not only to be affirmed but also to become bearers of hope. We are invited to live as witnesses of God’s inclusive grace, proclaiming through our words and our lives that love is stronger than fear and light always overcomes darkness.

May the eyes of our hearts be opened this week to see the light that has always been shining within us. May we walk confidently as God’s chosen people, reflecting divine love into every corner of the world, until all God’s children stand together in that marvelous light that cannot be hidden.

Discipline yourselves, keep alert. Like a roaring lion your adversary the devil prowls around, looking for someone to devour. Resist him, steadfast in your faith, for you know that your brothers and sisters in all the world are undergoing the same kinds of suffering.

—1 Peter 5:8–9

Across the world today, the roar of the lion grows louder. We hear it in angry speeches, in cruel legislation, and in the deliberate turning away from compassion. In many nations, political movements have wrapped themselves in the language of faith, but have abandoned the teachings of Christ. They claim to defend “Christian values,” yet their actions betray them—stripping away healthcare, rejecting immigrants, targeting transgender people, and punishing the poor.

The recent government shutdown in the United States is just one example. Those responsible profess to follow Christ, yet their decisions starve children and deprive families of basic needs. They wield faith as a weapon while ignoring Jesus’s words in Matthew 25:40–45: “Just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.” The true test of faith is not in the power we hold, but in the mercy we show.

Peter’s warning calls us to be watchful—not only for spiritual temptation but for moral corruption disguised as righteousness. The lion prowling in our world today takes many forms: greed, indifference, cruelty, and arrogance. These are the forces that devour empathy and seek to silence compassion. Isaiah spoke against such hypocrisy when he declared, “For my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples” (Isaiah 56:7).

In the face of all this, we are reminded of a simple but profound story—Aesop’s fable of The Lion and the Mouse. In it, a mighty lion spares a tiny mouse, and later, when the lion is trapped in a hunter’s net, the mouse returns to gnaw through the ropes and set him free. Strength and power meant nothing without mercy, and the smallest act of kindness became the source of salvation. The story endures because it teaches a truth we so often forget: compassion is never weakness. Mercy, not might, is what ultimately redeems us.

Christ showed us that same truth. He healed the sick without judgment, fed the hungry without question, and embraced those whom society cast aside. True Christianity does not roar; it listens. It does not dominate; it serves. It remembers that every person—rich or poor, gay or straight, cisgender or transgender—is a beloved creation of God.

We must therefore remain vigilant—not against one another, but against the false prophets who twist the Gospel to justify harm. The adversary still prowls, but we resist by standing firm in faith, by loving as Christ loved, and by living with humility and courage. We resist through kindness, justice, and inclusion. The lion may roar, but it is the quiet courage of the mouse—the compassion of Christ within us—that sets the world free.

So let us stay alert and steadfast, answering every roar of hatred with an act of love. Let our faith be steady, our mercy unshaken, and our hearts open to all whom God calls beloved. For in every gentle deed, every word of kindness, and every act of justice, we proclaim that Christ’s love is stronger than fear—and that no roaring lion can ever silence it.

“Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord;

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

–Ephesians 5:19–20

I’ve known this verse by heart since childhood. In the Church of Christ where I grew up, Ephesians 5:19 wasn’t just a favorite scripture—it was a foundational one. The Church of Christ bases its practice of a cappella worship on this passage, interpreting Paul’s instruction to “sing and make melody in your heart” as a call to pure vocal praise without the accompaniment of instruments. The voice itself is the instrument God gave us, and the melody is meant to come from within.

As a teenager, I was our congregation’s song leader. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but with only thirteen members in attendance on most Sundays, I was the best we had after our older song leader, Mr. Wayne, could no longer lead because of emphysema. In a small rural congregation like ours, everyone had a role. The preacher usually led the first prayer, and my daddy always gave the closing one. I helped him pass the Lord’s Supper and the collection plate.

Our service never changed much: two songs while seated, then the prayer, followed by one song seated and a second song standing before the sermon. After the sermon came the invitation song, then communion and the closing song—usually just the first verse—before the final prayer. It was a rhythm as familiar as breathing.

I still remember my favorite hymns from Songs of the Church:

Amazing Grace, Rock of Ages, Send the Light, How Great Thou Art, Old Rugged Cross, Blessed Assurance, Precious Memories, and I’ll Fly Away.

For invitationals, we sang God is Calling the Prodigal, Jesus Is Tenderly Calling, Nothing but the Blood, or Softly and Tenderly.

Our closing songs were nearly always I Know That My Redeemer Lives or Unclouded Day.

I even found an old index card tucked in my songbook recently, one of my services carefully written out:

• 109 – Jesus Loves Me (we started using that once younger people joined)
• 168 – Heavenly Sunlight
• 471 – Shall We Gather at the River?
• Prayer
• 119 – Farther Along
• 536 – The Old Rugged Cross
• Sermon
• 696 – There’s a Fountain Free
• Announcements (It was Mr. Wayne’s birthday that week.)
• Lord’s Supper
  • Lord, bless this bread which represents Christ’s body the we may betake of it in a way that is pleasing to Thee. Amen.
  • Lord, bless this fruit of the vine which represents Christ’s blood the we may betake of it in a way that is pleasing to Thee. Amen.
• Collection
• 218 – I Know That My Redeemer Lives
• Dismissal

There were no altos, tenors, or basses in our little church—just us singing from our hearts. The sound may not have been polished, but it was pure. Each voice rose in faith, carrying more sincerity than skill, and that, I believe, is exactly what Paul meant when he told the Ephesians to make melody in their hearts to the Lord.

When I reflect on Ephesians 5:19–20 today, I see more than just a theological argument about instruments. I see the heart of worship itself: that gratitude and melody begin within us. Paul isn’t prescribing what kind of music pleases God; he’s describing why we sing—to give thanks, to speak to one another in faith, and to let joy and hope find expression.

Whether accompanied by an organ or sung a cappella in a little white-clapboard church, true worship comes from a heart that overflows with gratitude. The melody Paul speaks of isn’t confined to vocal cords; it’s the harmony of a thankful soul resonating with God’s love.

And sometimes, when I’m alone and humming What a Friend We Have in Jesus or In the Morning of Joy, two songs that have gotten me through some of my toughest times, I still feel that same peace I knew standing before thirteen faithful souls, leading songs in that small country church where my faith was first formed.

At the end of every service, my daddy always gave the closing prayer. His words never changed much, but they carried deep comfort and familiarity. It was his way of sending us back into the world—asking God’s protection until we gathered again the next Sunday.

Prayer:

Lord, dismiss us as we leave Thy house, bless the ones not with us that they may be with us the next Lord’s Day. Guide, guard, and direct us. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.

“‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

— Matthew 22:37–40

In recent years, writers have contrasted two ways of thinking about morality in Christianity: vertical and horizontal.

Vertical morality measures righteousness by obedience to divine rules—what we do “upward” toward God. It’s the language of purity codes, of who’s in and who’s out. It focuses on sin as individual failure: what you drink, who you love, what you wear, how you pray.

Horizontal morality, on the other hand, measures faith by compassion—how we live in relationship with others. It’s the ethic Jesus embodied: touching lepers, feeding the hungry, lifting up the marginalized, and challenging systems of exclusion. It’s the moral vision of the Good Samaritan, who loved a stranger more faithfully than the priest and Levite who passed him by.

Writers like Phil Zuckerman and Randal Rauser have noted that what some call “MAGA Christianity” often confuses holiness with political power. When faith becomes about defending hierarchy rather than serving humanity, it loses sight of the Gospel’s radical equality.

Vertical morality alone lets people condemn LGBTQ+ Christians while excusing cruelty, greed, and injustice. It measures holiness by outward piety rather than inward compassion. As Jesus said of the Pharisees, “They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others; but they themselves are unwilling to lift a finger to move them.” (Matthew 23:4)

Jesus constantly redirected attention from vertical rule-keeping to horizontal compassion.

• “Whatever you did for one of the least of these, you did for me.” (Matthew 25:40)
• “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy.” (Matthew 5:7)
• “Let all that you do be done in love.” (1 Corinthians 16:14)

The Christian life is not a ladder reaching up to heaven—it’s a table stretching out to our neighbors. God doesn’t ask us to climb higher to prove our worth, but to reach wider to show God’s love.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, this distinction matters deeply. Too often, vertical moralism has been used to shame us for who we are, while ignoring the heart of Jesus’s message: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” (John 13:35)

The cross itself is both vertical and horizontal—but the beams meet at love. The vertical reminds us that God’s love reaches down to us and our hearts rise to meet it. The horizontal reminds us that the measure of that love is how far we extend it toward others. When churches focus only upward, they risk becoming sanctuaries of self-righteousness instead of sanctuaries of grace.

True holiness isn’t found in who we exclude, but in how deeply we love.

This week, consider where your faith has been vertical when it might be called to be horizontal. Have we spent more time worrying about being “right with God” than being kind to one another? The beauty of horizontal faith is that every act of compassion—every word of encouragement, every defense of the marginalized—is an act of worship.

The cross has two beams for a reason. The vertical beam reminds us that God’s love flows freely between heaven and earth—unbroken, unwavering, unconditional. The horizontal beam stretches outward, calling us to carry that same love into the world. Together, they form the shape of the Gospel itself: love that reaches both upward toward God and outward toward our neighbor—a love wide enough to embrace us all.

“Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it.”

— Proverbs 22:6

When I look back on my upbringing, I can see how deeply this verse shaped me. My parents raised me to be good, moral, and honest. They taught me to love my neighbor and to respect those who deserved respect. They weren’t always strong on Galatians 3:28—“There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” They believed, as many of us are taught, that we were somehow better than others. Yet they never taught me hate. On my own, I came to embrace Galatians 3:28 fully, and in doing so I saw how God’s love is meant to break down every wall we build between ourselves.

They did, however, instill in me the message of 1 Corinthians 13:13: “And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.” That teaching runs like a thread through my life and faith.

It saddens me now to see them support political leaders who represent the opposite of everything they once taught me. I have told them this many times, but it only makes them angry. Since I came out, they have become increasingly conservative, moving further away from the love and compassion they once instilled in me.

Yet in the paradox of that pain, I have found myself drawn deeper into faith. I cling to Psalm 143:10: “Teach me to do your will, for you are my God; may your good Spirit lead me on level ground.” When those I love seem to turn against what they once believed, I turn back to God, asking Him to steady my steps and to keep me walking in love. And I remember Colossians 1:28: “He is the one we proclaim, admonishing and teaching everyone with all wisdom, so that we may present everyone fully mature in Christ.”

The Bible clearly teaches us equality, but it also reminds us that equality in Christ does not mean we won’t be separated on Judgment Day. In Matthew 25:31–46, sometimes called the Parable of the Sheep and the Goats or “The Son of Man Will Judge the Nations,” Jesus tells us that when He returns, He will divide the righteous from the unrighteous—those who lived out His commands from those who did not. Just before this, in the Parable of the Talents (Matthew 25:14–30), the master praises the faithful servants who used what they were given wisely, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant.” That is what I hope to hear on Judgment Day.

Matthew 25:31–46 shows us what a righteous nation looks like: one that feeds the hungry, welcomes the stranger, clothes the naked, cares for the sick, and visits the imprisoned. It also shows us what a wicked nation looks like: one that ignores the needs of the most vulnerable. Tragically, the United States today more closely resembles the wicked nation than the righteous one. Jesus’s words in Matthew 25:40 are a clear warning: “And the King will answer and say to them, ‘Assuredly, I say to you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these My brethren, you did it to Me.’”

My parents raised me to value honesty, respect, and love, and though they may have drifted from those lessons, I still hold to them. Scripture affirms that love is the greatest calling, that equality is God’s design, and that true righteousness is measured by how we treat “the least of these.” Nations and people alike will be judged by this standard. I choose to live the faith I was taught at its best, praying that my life reflects Christ’s command to love, so that in the end I might hear, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”

—Ephesians 4:29

Words matter. For those of us in the LGBTQ+ community, we know all too well the pain that can come from words spoken carelessly—or cruelly. Many of us grew up hearing slurs hurled at us, sermons that condemned us, or even loved ones telling us we were “wrong.” These words linger. They can cut deep, echoing long after they are spoken. Ephesians 4:29 calls us to something radically different: to use our words not as weapons but as instruments of grace, to speak in ways that build up rather than tear down.

Proverbs 18:21 reminds us, “The tongue has the power of life and death.” That verse feels very real when you think of young people—especially LGBTQ+ youth—who are struggling with identity, acceptance, and belonging. We all know the statistics: depression, bullying, and suicide rates are higher among LGBTQ+ youth. In such cases, a kind or encouraging word isn’t just nice—it can literally mean the difference between despair and hope, even between life and death.

As a former teacher, I lived this reality. I could not be openly gay in the classroom, but my students suspected. They knew they could come talk to me. And many did. Sometimes all they needed was a listening ear or a gentle reminder that they mattered. Today, some teachers can be more open about their sexuality, but in too many states, laws are being passed that forbid even mentioning it. In some classrooms, a photo of a teacher’s spouse on a desk is considered “illegal.” Yet the presence of a safe adult—someone who is open, or at the very least welcoming—is a lifeline.

That’s why I proudly display a Safe Zone sign by my office door. It’s a silent but powerful word of welcome: “You are safe here. You are seen here. You are valued here.” Teachers have always had the ability to change lives, but in today’s climate, it is especially important to let students know: It Gets Better.

Jesus himself was often called “Teacher,” and his words reflect the very heart of Ephesians 4:29. He used his voice to uplift the poor, to comfort the outcast, and to challenge those who abused their power. His Sermon on the Mount gave hope to the weary; his parables painted visions of justice and mercy; his rebukes exposed hypocrisy and oppression. To be like Christ is to use our words in the same way—to heal rather than to harm, to invite rather than exclude, to proclaim God’s love in a world that too often echoes with condemnation.

And whether or not you stand at the front of a classroom, you have that same power. Words are not confined to teachers—they belong to parents, mentors, co-workers, supervisors, and friends. If you are guiding a child, mentoring a young adult, or training an employee, your words carry weight. A simple encouragement can inspire confidence; a harsh comment can wound deeply. Each of us has the power to change someone’s life through the way we speak. The question is whether we will use that power to tear down or to build up.

Scripture offers us a vision of speech that heals. Proverbs 15:1 says, “A gentle answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.” James 1:19 adds, “Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.” Imagine if our leaders, our schools, our churches lived out those verses. Imagine if public discourse sought to build up those most vulnerable instead of exploiting them for power.

In Colossians 4:6, Paul exhorts us: “Let your conversation be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone.” Grace-filled speech doesn’t mean silence in the face of injustice—it means that even when we speak hard truths, we do so with the goal of healing, of justice, of love. And for teachers, mentors, and leaders of all kinds, that means modeling kindness and affirmation in every interaction, showing others by example that their worth is non-negotiable.

Ephesians 4:29 is not just about avoiding “bad language.” It is about cultivating a culture of love. It is about recognizing that our words can be lifelines—reminders of hope, courage, and belonging. When we choose words that build up, we are declaring to the world: we are here, we are loved, and we are worthy.

May we guard our tongues not out of fear, but out of love. May we speak words that carry the fragrance of Christ, words that heal the wounds so many of us have endured, and words that remind one another of the deep truth: we are made in God’s image. And may we especially use our words to build up the next generation, who are longing to hear that their lives matter and that their future is worth holding onto.