“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.

“I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” 

— John 16:33

Jesus never promised us an easy life. In fact, He promised the opposite. “In this world you will have trouble.” Not might. Not maybe. Will.

For LGBTQ+ people of faith, those words often feel painfully accurate.

There is the trouble of coming out. The trouble of wondering whether family will still love you. The trouble of sitting in a pew where sermons sound more like warnings than good news. The trouble of being misunderstood, misrepresented, or dismissed. The trouble of carrying faith and identity in the same body when others insist the two cannot coexist.

Jesus did not deny that trouble exists. He acknowledged it plainly. But He did not stop there.

“In me you may have peace.”

That peace is not the absence of conflict. It is the presence of Christ in the middle of it.

Isaiah 43:2 says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you.” Notice it does not say if you pass through. It says when. God does not pretend the waters aren’t real. He promises to be with us in them.

For many of us, the waters have been deep. Some lost friends. Some lost churches. Some lost years trying to pray away something that was never a sin to begin with. Some, like in earlier generations, feared losing jobs, safety, even life itself. And yet we are still here.

Why? Because Christ has overcome the world.

Romans 8:38-39 reminds us that nothing “neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” That includes rejection. That includes misinterpretation of Scripture. That includes the fear someone tried to hand you in God’s name.

The world may give trouble. Christ gives peace.

And this peace is not fragile. It is not dependent on universal affirmation. It is not rooted in cultural approval. It is anchored in the victory of Jesus Himself.

John 14:27 says, “Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives.” The world’s peace is conditional. Behave. Conform. Be silent. Blend in. Then maybe you can belong.

Christ’s peace says: You are Mine.

When I think back to moments of fear in my own life — fear of disappointing people, fear of being condemned, fear of not fitting the mold I was raised with — the peace that ultimately sustained me did not come from everyone understanding. It came from realizing that God already did.

Trouble may still come. It probably will. But it does not get the final word. Jesus has already spoken that word: “I have overcome the world.”

If you are struggling today — with family tension, church wounds, internal doubt, or the exhaustion of simply being yourself — remember this: your peace does not depend on winning every argument or convincing every critic. Your peace rests in Christ, who has already overcome everything that tries to diminish you.

Take heart. Not because the world is easy, but because Christ is victorious. His peace is yours.

“There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.”

—1 John 4:18

Coming out seems easier for young people today than it once did. There are rainbow flags in storefront windows, affirming churches in many cities, and public figures who live openly and proudly. And yet—even in a world that appears more accepting—fear still lingers.

For my generation, and certainly for those who came before us, fear was woven into nearly every part of coming out. You could lose your family. You could lose your job. You could lose your church. In some cases, you could lose your life. We learned to measure our words, to watch our gestures, to survive quietly.

For those of us whose formative years unfolded during the height of the AIDS epidemic, fear was relentless. In the small Alabama town where I grew up, being gay meant being presumed sick. It meant whispered conversations. It meant pity at best and condemnation at worst. My mother was a public health nurse, and nearly every gay man she encountered had AIDS. As a young man, it felt inevitable—like coming out was not just a social risk but a death sentence.

But perhaps the deepest fear of all was not illness or rejection by society. It was the fear of rejection by God.

Growing up in the buckle of the Bible Belt, in the Church of Christ, faith shaped everything. I was taught that anyone who was not a member of the Church of Christ was going to Hell. That was presented as certainty. As truth. As doctrine.

When my parents found out I was gay, my mother said through tears, “I don’t want you going to Hell!”

She wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was afraid. Afraid for my soul. Afraid that something about me had placed me outside God’s grace.

But even before she said those words, something inside me already knew: I was not going to Hell for being gay.

By the time I was old enough to think more rationally, I had stopped believing that only one small group of Christians had a monopoly on heaven. I had come to understand God as bigger than our denominational lines. And at my core, I believed something simple and profound: I was a good person. I tried to love people. I tried to be kind. I tried to live with integrity. And good people do not go to Hell because of who they love.

More importantly, Scripture itself began to speak louder than fear.

As 1 John tells us plainly: “There is no fear in love.” Fear imagines punishment. Love promises belonging.

If God is love—as 1 John 4:8 declares—then anything rooted in terror, shame, or condemnation cannot be the final word of God. Romans 8:1 assures us, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” No condemnation. Not an asterisk. Not a hidden clause. None.

John 3:16 tells us that God so loved the world that He gave His Son. The world includes every race, every culture, every orientation, every identity. God’s love was not rationed out to a narrow few. It was poured out for all.

Ephesians 2:8 reminds us, “For by grace you have been saved through faith… it is the gift of God.” Salvation is a gift, not a reward for heterosexuality. Grace is not revoked by honesty.

Psalm 27:1 asks, “The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear?” When God is our light, fear loses its authority. When God is our salvation, condemnation loses its grip.

This does not mean fear magically disappears. Many LGBTQ+ people still face rejection from families, congregations, and communities. Some churches speak the language of “love” while practicing mere toleration. Others still preach outright exclusion. The wounds are real.

But those voices are not the measure of God’s heart.

Isaiah 41:10 says, “Do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God.” Notice what God promises: presence. Not abandonment. Not exile. Presence.

And perhaps the most comforting promise is found in Romans 8:38–39: “For I am convinced that neither death nor life… nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.” Not family fear. Not church doctrine. Not sexuality. Nothing.

Coming out—whether to others or to ourselves—is often an act of courage. It is also, in many ways, an act of faith. It is choosing truth over secrecy, integrity over fear. It is trusting that the God who created us knows us fully and loves us completely.

And 1 John 4:18 does not say fear never existed. It says perfect love drives it out. The more deeply we root ourselves in God’s love, the less power fear has over us. Fear may knock, but love answers the door.

My mother feared for my soul. But I have come to rest in something stronger than fear: the unshakable love of God.

Perfect love casts out fear.

Not because the world is always safe.

Not because every church is affirming.

But because God’s love is deeper than our doctrines, wider than our denominations, and stronger than our shame.

And that love will never let you go. 🌈

Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. There were roses and candlelight, sweet messages and quiet longings. For some, it was joyful. For others, it stirred complicated emotions. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, days like yesterday can awaken old questions: Is my love real? Is it holy? Is it enough?

Today we turn to 1 Corinthians 13 — often called the “Love Chapter.” Paul does not define love by cultural expectations or by who is allowed to participate in it. He defines love by its character. In 1 Corinthians 13:4, he writes, “Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant.” This is not sentimentality. It is substance. Love is not prideful. It does not seek to dominate. It does not diminish another.

Then Paul deepens the portrait: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails” (1 Corinthians 13:7–8). Real love shows up in hardship. It carries weight. It hopes when hope feels fragile. It remains when walking away would be easier. This kind of love is resilient and faithful.

For those who have been told their love is invalid simply because of who they love, these verses shift the focus. The question is not whether your love fits someone else’s comfort. The question is whether your love reflects patience, kindness, endurance, humility, and truth. Paul never limits love by gender; he reveals love by its fruit.

He concludes with steadying words: “And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). Faith sustains us. Hope carries us forward. But love is the greatest gift — the one that remains.

The Apostle John echoes this truth in 1 John 4:7–12: “Beloved, let us love one another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.” John goes further still: “Whoever does not love does not know God, for God is love.” He reminds us that God’s love was revealed in Christ — embodied, sacrificial, and self-giving. “No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

When we love with patience and kindness, we make the invisible God visible.

John also writes, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18). Many LGBTQ+ believers learned fear before they learned love — fear of rejection, fear of being wrong, fear that God’s love might not include them. But perfect love drives fear out. Fear is not the language of God. Love is.

Paul reinforces this in Romans 13:8: “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law.” And in Romans 13:10, he makes it unmistakably clear: “Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law.” If love fulfills the law, then love cannot at the same time be its violation. Love that does no harm, that seeks the good of another, that practices patience and kindness — that love stands within the heart of God’s command.

The day after Valentine’s Day invites us beyond roses and romance into something deeper and steadier. Whether you are partnered or single, celebrated or unseen, your worth is not defined by a holiday or by someone else’s theology. You are invited into the love that bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things — the love that never fails. Faith and hope sustain us, but the greatest of these is love. Perfect love casts out fear. Love fulfills the law. And at the center of it all, beyond every argument and every doubt, stands this unshakable truth: God is love.