“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.

“For just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we, though many, form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.”

— Romans 12:4–5

“So now you are no longer strangers and foreigners. You are citizens along with all of God’s holy people. You are members of God’s family.”

— Ephesians 2:19

One of the hardest things about being LGBTQ+ is that so many of us have been made to feel like outsiders. Sometimes it’s been in our families, sometimes in our communities, and too often in our churches. That kind of rejection leaves scars. But when I read passages like these, I’m reminded that God doesn’t see us as strangers, outsiders, or “less than.” God sees us as part of the body, part of the family.

Romans 12 reminds us that the church is like a body—different members, different roles, but all working together. No part is useless, no part can say, “I don’t need you.” That means you, just as you are, bring something vital to the body of Christ. And Ephesians takes it a step further: we’re not just loosely connected, we’re family. Full citizens of God’s household. Not guests. Not outsiders. Family.

This is Christianity’s greatest strength—that people of every background, identity, and story are drawn together by God’s love into one body, one family. When LGBTQ+ people are excluded, that strength is weakened, because the body is not whole. Our gifts, our voices, our joy, and even our struggles are part of what makes the body of Christ stronger, more compassionate, and more complete.

That’s powerful when you’ve ever been told otherwise. 1 John 3:1 tells us, “See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” It doesn’t say some of us. It doesn’t say only the ones who fit a certain mold. It says we are God’s children, and that includes LGBTQ+ folks too.

Galatians 3:28 reminds us that all the old dividing lines—Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female—don’t hold sway in Christ. “You are all one in Christ Jesus.” For us today, that verse could just as easily say: gay or straight, trans or cis, single or married—you are all one in Christ Jesus.

And here’s the other side of it: when one of us hurts, the whole body hurts. 1 Corinthians 12:26 says, “If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.” So when LGBTQ+ people are rejected or mistreated, it isn’t just our pain—it’s the church’s pain. And when we live openly, joyfully, and authentically in God’s love, that joy is a gift that strengthens the whole body.

The Bible is also full of reminders that God takes what the world rejects and turns it into something essential. Psalm 118:22 says: “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.” And Jesus echoed this in Matthew 21:42: “Have you never read in the Scriptures: ‘The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone; the Lord has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes’?” For anyone who’s ever felt pushed aside, those verses are a lifeline. What others reject, God makes foundational.

And so we’re called to do the same. Romans 15:7 tells us, “Welcome one another, therefore, just as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.” That’s not a half-hearted welcome, not a “you can sit here, but stay quiet.” It’s a full, Christlike welcome that says: you belong, you matter, and we’re not whole without you.

Where do you most need to hear the reminder that you belong today? What unique gift or story do you bring that helps the body of Christ be more whole?

He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more.

—Revelation 21:4

Today would have been the birthday of a dear friend who has passed away. Remembering him brings both gratitude for his life and sorrow for his absence. Birthdays of those we’ve lost remind us of how deeply they touched our lives, and they also stir reflection on all the others who are no longer with us—our family, our friends, and whole generations taken too soon.

I had been very close to this friend. He was the first person I felt I could tell anything to without fear of judgment. He encouraged me to be braver and more outgoing. I am still reserved by nature, but whenever I do put myself out there, I can still hear his encouragement in my ears. When he died, it nearly broke me. My friend Susan was a huge help in those days, but in the immediate aftermath, one of the things that truly sustained me was the hymn “In the Morning of Joy.” I clung to the hope that one day we would meet again in heaven—that he and my grandmama might be waiting for me. I’m not sure that’s exactly how heaven works, but that thought got me up in the mornings, carried me through the day, and helped me fall asleep through the tears at night.

But my grief also connects to something larger. A friend told me of a conversation with his uncle, who is my age. His uncle had seen a TikTok where a young gay man asked, “Where were all these hot gay DILFs when I was growing up?” The uncle replied, “Our generation is seeing gay men age for the first time ever, because 1) we are able to be out of the closet, so people are aware of our sexuality, and 2) the AIDS crisis is not taking us at 30 years old anymore.” That truth is staggering. We are the first generation to live openly enough, and long enough, to see ourselves grow older. But this gift is shadowed by the memory of those we lost—an entire generation of gay men taken too soon. To remember them is to carry both grief and gratitude: grief for lives cut short, and gratitude that their memory is not forgotten.

Scripture tells us, “The memory of the righteous is a blessing” (Proverbs 10:7). Those we have lost—friends, grandparents, lovers, mentors—leave us not just with sorrow but with blessings: their courage, their laughter, their wisdom, and their love. We carry them with us, and in that carrying, their light does not go out. The psalmist adds, “Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints” (Psalm 116:15). Death feels like a thief to us, but to God, it is the moment of welcoming His beloved children home. In God’s sight, even lives that seem unfinished are held in honor. And Jesus himself comforts us, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” (Matthew 5:4). To mourn is to love deeply, and God meets us in our mourning, not always removing the pain, but walking with us through it.

And so we hold fast to the promise in Revelation: “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more.” (Revelation 21:4). For those of us who remember friends gone too young, grandparents who shaped us, or brothers lost in the plague years, this is not just poetry—it is hope. It tells us that death does not have the last word, and that the separation we feel today will one day be healed.

This is why the refrain of “In the Morning of Joy” has always meant so much to me: “We’ll be gathered to glory, in the morning of joy.” That promise reminds me that there will be a day when we are reunited with our loved ones—that friends, family, and even the generation of gay men lost to the AIDS epidemic live eternally, and that in Christ, we will be gathered together again.

As we honor the birthdays of those who have passed, and as we remember both our personal losses and the staggering loss of a generation, may we hold fast to this truth: though absent now, one day we will be gathered together in glory, in the morning of joy.

Tomorrow is Labor Day, a holiday that reminds us of the dignity of work and the contributions of workers in every field of life. For many, it’s a day of rest, marking the end of summer and the beginning of a new season. But as Christians, it’s also an opportunity to reflect on what Scripture says about labor—not just the work of our hands, but the work of our hearts and lives in service to God.

Jesus reminds us in Matthew 9:37–38:

“The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few; therefore pray earnestly to the Lord of the harvest to send out laborers into his harvest.”

Our world is full of need—spiritual, physical, and emotional. The work of sharing Christ’s love is never finished, and Jesus calls us to be part of that labor. Yet this is not a burdensome task. It is a holy calling, an invitation to sow seeds of kindness, compassion, and truth in a world desperate for hope.

At the same time, John 6:27 reminds us:

“Do not labor for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life…”

We all know the demands of daily work: paychecks, deadlines, chores, and responsibilities. These are important, but they are not the whole picture. Jesus calls us to a deeper labor—the kind that nourishes the soul and points us toward eternity. When we labor for love, justice, and mercy, we invest in what can never fade.

The Apostle Paul encourages perseverance in 1 Corinthians 15:58:

“Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain.”

Even when our work feels unnoticed, exhausting, or unfruitful, God sees it. Every act of service, every word of encouragement, every moment we choose faithfulness over despair—it all matters in the kingdom of God.

And our work isn’t just about ourselves. Paul says in Ephesians 4:28:

“Let the thief no longer steal, but rather let him labor, doing honest work with his own hands, so that he may have something to share with anyone in need.”

Work provides, but it also allows us to give. Honest labor is not just about earning a living—it’s about living generously. Our labor becomes an expression of love when it blesses others.

That’s why Paul instructs in Colossians 3:23:

“Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men.”

Work takes on new meaning when we do it for God. Whether it’s sweeping a floor, teaching a class, caring for children, or advocating for justice, when we do it “unto the Lord,” our daily labor becomes an act of worship.

Paul offers a warning in 2 Thessalonians 3:10–12:

“If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat… Now such persons we command and encourage in the Lord Jesus Christ to do their work quietly and to earn their own living.”

Labor is not only a calling but also a responsibility. God designed work as part of the goodness of creation—not as punishment but as purpose. In working, we live out both dignity and discipline.

And finally, Paul reminds Timothy in 1 Timothy 5:18:

“The laborer deserves his wages.”

Here lies an important truth: God values the worker. Just as employers should treat their workers with fairness, we must also remember that God honors every honest effort. No laborer goes unnoticed in His kingdom.

So, this Labor Day weekend, let us rest in gratitude for the work God has given us. Let us labor not only for earthly gain but also for eternal good. Let us find joy in doing all things as unto the Lord, steadfast and immovable, abounding always in His work.

Because in the Lord, our labor is never in vain.

“Do you not know that your bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God? You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies.” 

— 1 Corinthians 6:19–20

For many gay men, the body is a canvas. In our culture, there is often deep appreciation for youth, beauty, and the physical form—sometimes expressed in art, sometimes in fitness, sometimes in the mirror. There is nothing inherently wrong with taking joy in a healthy, attractive body. After all, Scripture tells us that our bodies are “fearfully and wonderfully made” (Psalm 139:14). We are temples of the Holy Spirit, precious in God’s eyes. Caring for our bodies—through exercise, rest, nourishing food, and avoiding harmful excess—can be an act of gratitude to God.

But a temple is meant to glorify God, not the temple itself.

Paul’s words in 1 Corinthians remind us that we “are not our own.” This isn’t a call to despise our bodies, nor to neglect them—it’s an invitation to steward them well. Honoring the temple means finding balance: “Let your gentleness be evident to all” (Philippians 4:5). Moderation keeps us from slipping into the extremes of neglect or obsession.

In the pursuit of health, some of us become caught in the endless chase for the perfect physique or the perpetual glow of youth. It’s easy to measure worth by the scale, the mirror, or the attention of others. But Proverbs 31:30 reminds us: “Charm is deceptive, and beauty is fleeting; but a person who fears the LORD is to be praised.” Our worth in God’s eyes isn’t measured in abs, hairlines, or skin elasticity. Even the most beautiful body will age, and that is not a failure—it’s part of the holy rhythm of life.

Scripture warns against vanity: “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves” (Philippians 2:3). When care for the body becomes worship of the body, we risk turning God’s temple into a shrine to ourselves.

Some of us live with scars, chronic illness, disability, or simply the normal changes of age. We may not match the glossy images that saturate social media and gay culture. But a temple need not be flawless to be holy. God doesn’t require marble perfection—He dwells gladly in weathered stone, in bodies that have been through joy, loss, and transformation.

Honoring our bodies might mean different things for each of us:

• Scheduling regular check-ups with the doctor and dentist.
• Eating balanced meals, but still enjoying dessert without guilt.
• Moving our bodies in ways that bring joy rather than punishment.
• Resting without shame.

Jesus Himself modeled balance. He fasted (Matthew 4:2) but also feasted (Luke 7:34). He withdrew for rest (Mark 6:31) but poured Himself out in service. Healthy habits matter, but so does the grace to live without fear of imperfection.

Paul writes in 1 Timothy 4:8: “For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come.” This is the healthy perspective: value the body, but not above all else. Care for it because it’s God’s dwelling place—but don’t let the mirror become your altar.

We are called to live fully in the bodies God has given us, honoring them through health, moderation, and gratitude. We can resist both the temptation to neglect our health and the temptation to idolize our appearance. A temple stands to draw people’s eyes toward God—not just toward its own beauty.

God made our bodies and called them good, and each of us carries within us a temple where the Spirit dwells. We are called to care for these temples in ways that honor Him—to nourish them, strengthen them, and allow them to rest—without bowing to vanity or living in fear. There is beauty in every stage of life, and holiness even in imperfection. When we live with this awareness, our lives—inside and out—can reflect God’s love and grace to the world.

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

Jesus’s words about the narrow and wide gates are often used to caution believers against living comfortably in sin or following the crowd without discernment. But for LGBTQ+ Christians, these verses can take on a deeper, more personal resonance.

In a world where many still misunderstand or reject queer identities—especially in Christian spaces—simply choosing to walk in truth can feel like walking the hardest, loneliest road. But Jesus never said the narrow path would be easy. He said it would lead to life.

Many of us as LGBTQ+ people of faith know intimately what it means to seek that narrow gate. We refuse the wide gate of silence, of pretending, of conforming to a version of faith that demands we deny who God created us to be. Saying “yes” to both our faith and our identity is not choosing an easy road—but it is choosing life.

Deuteronomy 30:19–20 says, “I have set before you life and death, blessings and curses. Choose life so that you and your descendants may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying him, and holding fast to him…” In choosing life, we choose authenticity. We choose to hold fast to a God who calls us beloved—not in spite of who we are, but wholly, wonderfully, because of who we are.

There are those who try to tell us that being LGBTQ+ and Christian is impossible. That living our truth is stepping off the path of righteousness. But we look again at Jesus’s words: the road that leads to life is hard. If it were about comfort, popularity, or fitting in, the wide gate would be enough. But our Savior walked a narrow path, too—one that led through rejection, struggle, and even death, but ultimately broke open into resurrection and glory. Hebrews 12:2–3 says, “Looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith… who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame…”

Jesus understands what it means to walk a path that others mock or reject. He never promised his followers an easy way. But he promised his presence—and the Spirit’s strength for the journey. Isaiah 30:21 says, “And when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left, your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, ‘This is the way; walk in it.’”

It’s easy to read “few find it” and feel isolated. But we are not the only ones walking this way. Across time and across the globe, queer believers are choosing the narrow gate daily, choosing integrity over fear, choosing the gospel over shame, choosing love over exclusion. Romans 8:18–19 tells us, “I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God.”

We know it won’t be an easy road—nearly all of us in the LGBTQ+ community, especially LGBTQ+ Christians, already know that. We have endured countless trials—whether from the church, from family, or from others who hate us or believe we are unworthy of God’s love. Not all who reject us are even religious, but their hatred is not our spiritual concern. Our calling is to honor God and to live the life Christ asks of us. As James 1:2–3 reminds us: “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.”

The journey may be narrow, but it is not empty. It is lined with the footprints of saints and witnesses—some named, many anonymous—who dared to trust in the wideness of God’s mercy. We walk with them.And most importantly: God walks with us.

“See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the universe, and not according to Christ. For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily, and you have come to fullness in him, who is the head of every ruler and authority.”

— Colossians 2:8–10

On this quiet Sunday, we hear Paul’s words to the church at Colossae, offering both a warning and a promise: we must not be led astray by false philosophies, but we can rest in the assurance that in Christ we are already made full.

It can feel intimidating when Paul warns against “philosophy and empty deceit,” but his concern is not about learning, thinking, or asking questions. He is warning us not to be convinced that we need anything more than Christ to be whole — not to be enslaved by systems that promise fullness but deliver only shame and fear.

For us as LGBTQ+ Christians, this is a deeply comforting and challenging truth. The world — and sadly, much of the church — has often told us we are incomplete, broken, disordered. They’ve claimed we need to be “fixed” or “delivered” from who we are. Those are indeed empty deceits. Paul’s words remind us not to be taken captive by those human traditions that deny the fullness God already gives us.

Because we have come to fullness in him.

We don’t need to contort ourselves to fit the world’s narrow definitions of holiness. Christ himself — the one in whom “the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily” — has made us complete. Our queerness does not separate us from that fullness, and no authority on earth has the right to tell us otherwise.

So, let us stay watchful: testing the messages we hear to see whether they align with the love, grace, and truth of Christ. And let us stay secure: knowing that we are already whole in him, without shame, without needing to erase who we are.

We are not lacking. We are not less-than. We are already full — because Christ is full, and we are in him.

On this Sunday, may we feel that fullness in our hearts. May we resist the voices that would try to take us captive through deceit. And may we rest in the truth that Christ himself makes us complete — wonderfully and perfectly made in his love.