“Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”

— Romans 12:2 

“To thine own self be true.” It sounds biblical. In fact, it is often quoted as though it were a piece of wisdom from Scripture. But the words do not come from the Bible at all. They come from William Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Polonius gives this advice to his son Laertes before he leaves for France: “This above all: to thine own self be true.”

Over the centuries, those words have taken on a life of their own. Today, we often understand them to mean that we should live authentically, refusing to pretend to be someone we are not. There is wisdom in that idea, but there is no exact biblical equivalent to “be true to yourself.” Part of the reason may be that the modern understanding of the phrase can sometimes become whatever feels right to me must be right. Scripture asks something deeper of us. God calls us to integrity, to an honest heart, and to a life lived according to His truth.

That raises an important question: How does God want us to show ourselves to the world?

For LGBTQ+ Christians, that question can be especially complicated. Many of us have been told that faithfulness to God requires hiding an important part of ourselves. We have been encouraged to remain silent, to change the pronouns when talking about someone we love, to avoid mentioning our relationships, or even to construct an entirely different version of ourselves for family, church, work, or community. Sometimes we have been told that this concealment is what God wants from us.

Yet Scripture repeatedly turns our attention away from appearances and toward what is within us. When Samuel was searching for the man God had chosen to be king, God reminded him, “People look at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7). God already sees us completely. There is no closet door we can close against Him. There is no carefully constructed version of ourselves that can fool God into seeing someone other than who we really are. He sees our sexuality, our fears, our hopes, our desires, our mistakes, our faith, and our capacity to love. Most importantly, He sees our hearts.

That is why Proverbs tells us, “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it” (Proverbs 4:23). Guarding our hearts does not mean hiding them. It means caring for what we allow to shape them. We can spend so much energy worrying about how other people see us that we forget to ask what is happening within us. Are we becoming kinder? More compassionate? More forgiving? More courageous? Are we loving God and loving our neighbors? Are our lives producing the fruits of faith?

Being authentic does not mean that every impulse we have must be followed simply because it comes from within us. Christianity has never taught that. Instead, Paul tells us, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2). Authenticity is not the end of our spiritual journey. It gives us an honest place from which that transformation can begin.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, “do not conform” can have a particularly powerful meaning. The world has plenty of patterns into which it tries to force us. Some tell us what a “real” man or woman should look like. Some tell us whom we are supposed to love. Some tell us that heterosexuality is the only path to a faithful Christian life. Others may tell us that embracing our sexuality requires leaving faith behind altogether.

We do not have to conform to either expectation.

We can be openly gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or queer and still seek to become the person God calls us to be. We can embrace who we are while allowing God to transform how we live. Authenticity and discipleship are not opposites. In fact, we cannot truly offer ourselves to God if the self we offer is merely a disguise created to satisfy someone else’s expectations. God is the only One whose expectations we should ultimately seek to satisfy. The world may impose its own expectations about how we should look, whom we should love, and who we should be, but those earthly expectations cannot compare or compete with what God asks of us. What matters is not whether we fit the image others have created for us, but whether we are faithfully becoming the person God calls us to be.

I often talk about the path God wants me to follow, and I pray that He will keep me on that path. To me, being true to myself also means being true to the person God calls me to be. I do not always know where that path will lead, and I certainly do not always follow it perfectly, but I can continue to seek God’s guidance and trust Him to redirect me when I stray. Being authentic does not mean that I alone decide who I should be; it means bringing my whole, honest self before God and asking Him to guide me toward the life He wants me to live. In that way, being true to myself becomes inseparable from being true to God.

Paul also warns us against measuring ourselves by the lives of others. He writes, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else, for each one should carry their own load” (Galatians 6:4–5). There will always be people eager to tell us who we ought to be. There will always be someone who thinks we are too gay, not gay enough, too religious, not religious enough, too outspoken, or too quiet. If our identity depends upon satisfying everyone else’s expectations, we will spend our entire lives performing for an audience whose approval constantly changes.

Instead, we should examine our own actions. We should ask whether we are living with honesty and integrity. We should ask whether we are treating others with dignity. We should ask whether our relationships reflect love, faithfulness, kindness, and respect. We should ask whether the person we show to the world and the person God sees in our heart are becoming more and more the same person.

Perhaps that is the Christian version of being true to ourselves.

It isn’t simply, This is who I am, so I can do whatever I want. It is something much richer: This is who I am, and I will bring my whole self before God and allow Him to shape the way I live.

There should be no contradiction between living openly as an LGBTQ+ person and striving to live faithfully as a Christian. We do not have to choose between authenticity and faith. We can acknowledge whom we love. We can refuse to be ashamed of who we are. We can live without pretending. At the same time, like every other Christian, we continue striving to become more loving, compassionate, merciful, humble, and faithful.

The Third Letter of John contains a simple expression of joy that beautifully captures this idea: “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth” (3 John 1:4). I love that phrase, walking in the truth, because truth is not something we merely acknowledge privately. We walk in it. We carry it into our relationships, our families, our churches, our workplaces, and our communities. Walking in truth means refusing to build our lives around a lie, whether that lie is about who we are or about who God calls us to become.

Shakespeare told us, “To thine own self be true.” Scripture asks us to go further. Be honest about who you are. Guard your heart. Refuse to let the world force you into its molds. Examine your own life rather than comparing it to someone else’s. Remember that God looks beyond appearances and sees your heart.

And then take that honest, authentic self and walk in the truth.

God does not need the person others have told you to be. He wants you—not a disguise, not a performance, not a carefully edited version designed to earn someone else’s approval. Bring your whole self to Him, and let Him continue transforming you into the person He calls you to be.

“Then the master told his servant, ‘Go out to the roads and country lanes and compel them to come in, so that my house will be full.’”

—Luke 14:23

There is something beautiful about a table with room for one more person.

Throughout the Gospels, Jesus repeatedly uses meals to teach us about the kingdom of God. He eats with people others consider sinners. He sits at tables with people respectable society would rather avoid. He feeds crowds who have nothing to offer him in return. Again and again, the table becomes a place where the boundaries separating people begin to disappear.

In Luke 14, Jesus tells the Parable of the Great Banquet. A man prepares a great dinner and invites many guests. When everything is ready, he sends his servant to those who have been invited, saying, “Come, for everything is now ready” (Luke 14:17).

But the invited guests begin making excuses.

One has bought a field and needs to go see it. Another has purchased five yoke of oxen and wants to try them out. Another has just married. One after another, the expected guests decide they have something more important to do.

When the servant returns and reports what has happened, the master does something unexpected. He does not cancel the banquet. He does not sit at an empty table lamenting that the people he originally invited refused to come. Instead, he widens the invitation.

“The owner of the house became angry and ordered his servant, ‘Go out quickly into the streets and alleys of the town and bring in the poor, the crippled, the blind and the lame’” (Luke 14:21).

These were people who could easily find themselves pushed to the margins of society. They were not necessarily the people anyone expected to see occupying places of honor at a great banquet. Yet suddenly they are being sought out and welcomed.

Then comes one of the most beautiful moments in the parable. After the servant does what he has been told, he returns and says, “‘Sir,’ the servant said, ‘what you ordered has been done, but there is still room’” (Luke 14:22).

There is still room.

Those four words offer a powerful message for LGBTQ+ Christians.

Many of us have encountered Christians who seem determined to convince us that there is no room for us. We may have been told that we can be Christian or LGBTQ+, but we cannot be both. Some have been told they may enter the church only if they hide who they are. Others have been welcomed through the doors only to discover that the welcome comes with conditions: you may sit among us, but you cannot marry the person you love; you cannot serve in certain positions; you cannot fully participate in the life of the church unless you become the person we think you should be.

Some LGBTQ+ Christians eventually find affirming congregations where they are welcomed wholeheartedly. Others struggle to find a church where they feel at home. Some remain connected to traditions they love even when parts of those traditions have made them feel unwelcome. Others have walked away from organized religion altogether after being hurt too many times.

But the people guarding the doors do not own the banquet.

God does.

That distinction matters.

The Parable of the Great Banquet is not specifically about LGBTQ+ people, and we should not pretend that it is. Jesus tells the story in a particular setting and for a larger purpose concerning God’s kingdom. Yet its vision of an abundant invitation speaks powerfully to anyone who has been made to wonder whether there is a place for them.

And LGBTQ+ history gives us a powerful example of what it can mean to go toward people whom others have abandoned.

During the darkest years of the AIDS crisis, gay men were dying while much of the world looked away. Some were rejected by their families. Some were shunned by churches that should have offered comfort. Fear and ignorance about HIV meant that there were even people who were afraid to touch those who were sick.

But others came closer.

Gay men cared for their friends, lovers, and partners. Lesbians became caregivers, advocates, and some of the community’s fiercest allies. Nurses and doctors offered compassion when compassion was desperately needed. Clergy, volunteers, friends, and sometimes strangers sat beside hospital beds, brought meals, held hands, embraced bodies others were afraid to touch, and stayed with men who might otherwise have died alone.

When I read the master’s command, “Go out to the roads and country lanes and compel them to come in, so that my house will be full” (Luke 14:23), I think of people like them.

They went toward the people others had abandoned.

They did not ask whether those suffering were respectable enough, righteous enough, or acceptable enough to deserve compassion. They saw someone who needed love, and they went to them.

In doing so, whether they understood their actions in religious terms or not, they demonstrated something profoundly Christlike. They showed what it means to refuse to leave someone outside simply because others have decided that person does not belong.

And perhaps one of the most powerful things they offered was something remarkably simple: human touch.

Throughout his ministry, Jesus touched people others avoided. When a man with leprosy approached Jesus and asked to be made clean, Jesus did not recoil from him. Matthew tells us, “Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man” (Matthew 8:3).

He touched him.

Before the healing is even completed in Matthew’s telling of the story, there is that extraordinary gesture. Jesus reaches toward someone others would have kept at a distance.

During the AIDS crisis, when fear caused so many people to withdraw, the hand that reached across a hospital bed became its own kind of testimony. The embrace offered to a dying man proclaimed something that hatred, fear, and rejection could not erase:

You are not untouchable.

You are not forgotten.

You are not alone.

There is still room for you.

There is another important lesson in the Parable of the Great Banquet. The people who are welcomed are not reluctantly allowed to occupy a few leftover chairs. The master sends his servant looking for them.

“Go out quickly,” he says in verse 21.

Then, when the servant reports that there is still room, the master sends him farther: “Go out to the roads and country lanes.”

The desire of the master is not for an exclusive table occupied only by the right kind of people. His desire is for a full house.

Too often, Christianity has been presented as though God’s table were extremely small. We have constructed fences around it and developed rules determining who is worthy to approach it. Christians have sometimes behaved as though God has entrusted us with a guest list and appointed us to stand at the door checking names.

Jesus gives us a very different picture.

The kingdom of God is a banquet, and God keeps sending the invitation farther outward.

That does not mean that nothing is asked of us. God’s grace calls us toward lives of faith, love, mercy, justice, repentance, and compassion. Jesus never teaches that following him requires nothing from us. But there is an enormous difference between being transformed by God’s love and being told that we must first transform ourselves into someone else’s idea of acceptability before God will love us.

Grace works the other way around.

We come because we have been invited.

We grow because we are loved.

And we learn to love others because we have discovered how extraordinary it is to be welcomed ourselves.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, believing that can sometimes require an act of faith. When enough people have told us that God rejects us, it can become difficult not to hear their voices when we think about God. Human rejection can begin masquerading as divine rejection.

But they are not the same thing.

Jesus tells us about a master who looks at an unfinished banquet and sends his servant farther outward because there are empty places that he wants filled.

Perhaps those of us who know what exclusion feels like are particularly well equipped to understand what that invitation means. We know what it is like to wonder whether there will be a chair for us. We also have examples from our own history of people who refused to leave others outside when the rest of society turned away.

We can follow their example.

We can go toward the person others avoid.

We can sit beside someone who feels alone.

We can offer the hand others are afraid to touch.

We can move over.

We can pull out another chair.

We can welcome the person standing hesitantly at the doorway.

And we can remind someone who has been told otherwise that God’s love is not a scarce resource reserved for a fortunate few.

When someone tells us that people like us do not belong at God’s table, we should remember something important:

It isn’t their table.

The invitation comes from God.

And there is still room.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.”

— Hebrews 11:1

There have been seasons in my life when finding a church home has been difficult.

Part of that comes from my background. I was raised in the Churches of Christ, and there is still something deeply moving to me about hearing a congregation lift their voices together without instruments. There is something beautiful about hearing nothing but human voices singing praise to God. Paul’s words have always resonated with me: “singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts” (Ephesians 5:19).

At the same time, being an LGBTQ+ Christian can make finding a church complicated. Some of us have been told outright that we don’t belong. Others have quietly walked away after years of hearing that our very existence is incompatible with following Christ. Thankfully, many affirming churches now welcome LGBTQ+ believers with open arms, but not everyone has one nearby.

For me, there is another obstacle as well: anxiety.

I’ve never liked walking into church alone. Even when I know I would likely be welcomed, anxiety whispers that I don’t belong or that everyone is watching me. It’s much the same reason I sometimes struggle to go to the gym without a trainer. Once I’m there, I’m usually fine. It’s getting through the door that’s difficult.

For a long time, I wondered whether these struggles somehow made me less faithful.

Then I realized something important.

My relationship with God has never depended on whether I could walk through the doors of a church building.

Faith is what joins us to God.

The writer of Hebrews tells us that faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Faith is not confined to a sanctuary. It is not dependent on someone else’s approval. It is the confidence that God is present even when circumstances make us feel isolated.

Jesus said, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away” (John 6:37). The invitation is His, not ours to earn and not anyone else’s to revoke.

That doesn’t mean church isn’t important. Scripture encourages believers “not neglecting to meet together” but to encourage one another (Hebrews 10:24–25). Christian community strengthens us, teaches us, and reminds us that we do not walk this journey alone.

Yet there are seasons when gathering with other believers simply isn’t possible. Sometimes there isn’t an affirming congregation nearby. Sometimes illness, caregiving responsibilities, anxiety, or painful experiences make walking through those doors feel impossible.

Even then, God has not moved away.

Paul reminds us, “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come… nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38–39).

Not rejection.

Not anxiety.

Not distance.

Not the opinions of others.

Nothing.

Those words always remind me of the old hymn Faith Is the Victory:

Against the foe in vales below
Let all our strength be hurled;
Faith is the victory, we know,
That overcomes the world.

The victory isn’t that every obstacle disappears. The victory is that none of those obstacles can separate us from Christ. They may keep us from a building for a time, but they cannot keep us from the God who loves us.

Faith remains the bridge.

Faith remains the assurance.

Faith remains the victory.

If you are unable to worship with a church this week—whether because of geography, anxiety, past wounds, illness, or any other reason—remember that God’s presence is not limited to a sanctuary. Read Scripture. Spend a few quiet moments with Him. Listen for His voice in the stillness. And if you are searching for a church home, don’t give up hope. Trust that God will guide you in His time.

Until then, hold fast to the assurance that no one can stand between you and the love of Christ. As Hebrews reminds us, faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Sometimes that assurance is exactly what carries us through until we find our way home.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

—Isaiah 41:10

There are moments in all of our lives when we wonder where God is. We pray, we wait, and we search for some sign that He is near. Instead, we often find ourselves facing uncertainty, grief, rejection, or fear. For many LGBTQ+ Christians, those moments can feel especially isolating. We may question whether we truly belong in the Church, whether God still has a place for us, or whether we have somehow wandered beyond His reach.

Most of us have experienced seasons when we looked back and wondered how we made it through. At the time, it may have felt as though we were walking alone, carrying burdens too heavy for us to bear. Only later do we begin to recognize that our strength was never entirely our own. Somehow, God sustained us through each difficult step, even when we could not see His hand at work.

Isaiah speaks directly into those moments: “Do not fear, for I am with you.” It is one of Scripture’s most reassuring promises. God does not promise that we will never experience rejection or heartbreak. He does not promise that our path will always be easy or that every prayer will be answered in the way we expect. Instead, He promises something even greater—His presence. “I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

As I’ve been reflecting on Isaiah 41:10, I keep finding myself thinking about the hymn “Heavenly Sunlight.” It was a hymn we sang often while I was growing up. As a teenage song leader, it became one of my favorite hymns to lead because its message was both simple and reassuring. Even now, years later, it is the opening verse—not the chorus—that keeps running through my mind:

“Walking in sunlight, all of my journey,
Over the mountains, through the deep vale;
Jesus has said, ‘I’ll never forsake thee,’
Promise divine that never can fail.”

The older I become, the more I appreciate those words. Life is not lived only on mountaintops. We all travel through deep valleys as well. There are seasons of joy and seasons of grief, moments when our faith feels strong and moments when we struggle to see the road ahead. As LGBTQ+ Christians, some of those valleys include rejection, misunderstanding, and wondering if there is truly a place for us in God’s family. Yet Christ’s promise remains unchanged. He will never forsake us. That promise echoes the words God spoke through Isaiah centuries earlier: “Do not fear, for I am with you.”

Later in life, another reminder of God’s presence became connected with that same promise. My grandmama kept a framed copy of Footprints hanging on the wall of her bedroom. It was her favorite poem, and I can still picture it there whenever I think about visiting her house. As a child, I simply saw it as a comforting poem. As an adult, I have come to appreciate the deeper truth behind its familiar imagery. Like Heavenly Sunlight, it points us back to the same biblical assurance that Isaiah proclaimed long before either the hymn or the poem was written: God does not abandon His people.

Many of us can look back now and see moments when we nearly gave up. We may not have recognized God’s presence then because our vision was clouded by sorrow, fear, or doubt. Some of us wondered if we could reconcile our faith with who we are. Others questioned whether God had forgotten us altogether. Yet He never stopped strengthening us. He never loosened His grip. Even when our faith was fragile, His faithfulness remained steadfast.

Perhaps that is why both the hymn and the poem have remained so meaningful through the years. One reminds us that Christ walks with us over the mountains and through the valleys. The other reminds us that, when our strength is gone, He carries us. Together they echo the enduring promise of Isaiah 41:10: “Do not fear, for I am with you.” God does not simply point us toward the path and wish us well. He strengthens us, helps us, and upholds us every step of the way.

So today, if your journey feels lonely, remember Isaiah’s words: “Do not fear, for I am with you.” Whether your path leads over mountaintops or through deep valleys, whether your steps are steady or uncertain, you never walk it alone. The God who has carried us through yesterday walks beside us today and will remain faithful tomorrow. His promise is divine, and it never fails.

May we walk forward with confidence—not because the road will always be easy, but because the One who walks beside us has promised never to leave us. And when we look back over the path we have traveled, may we discover that even in the moments we felt most alone, we were always held securely in the loving hands of God.

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; and let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be mature and complete, lacking in nothing.

— James 1:2–4

There have been times in my life when I have questioned my faith. Not because I wanted to walk away from God, but because I struggled to understand Him. I looked at the suffering in the world, the loss of loved ones, and the pain endured by good people, and I wondered how it all fit within the promises of a loving and sovereign God.

For a while, those questions weighed heavily on me. I wanted answers that never seemed to come. Looking back now, I realize that God was less interested in giving me immediate answers than He was in drawing me closer to Him through the questions themselves.

When I read Scripture, I see that I am far from alone.

Job lost nearly everything. He questioned God, lamented his suffering, and demanded an explanation. Yet through it all, he never stopped seeking the One he could not understand. (Job 3:11–26; 13:23–24)

David filled the Psalms with cries of confusion and grief. Again and again he asked, “How long, O Lord?” He knew what it was like to feel abandoned, afraid, and overwhelmed. Yet time after time his lament turned back toward trust. (Psalm 13:1–2; 22:1–2)

Jeremiah faithfully proclaimed God’s message only to face rejection, loneliness, and persecution. There were moments when he poured out his disappointment before God with remarkable honesty, yet he continued to follow the calling God had given him. (Jeremiah 20:7–18)

Even Jesus, in His humanity, cried out from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Those words remind us that bringing our deepest anguish before God is not a failure of faith. It is an expression of faith. (Matthew 27:46; Mark 15:34)

One thing these men shared was that none of them allowed their questions to become the end of their relationship with God. They wrestled with Him, they cried out to Him, and they trusted Him even when they could not see the path ahead.

I have come to believe that faith is not the absence of doubt. Faith is choosing to keep walking with God when the road grows dark. It is trusting that His wisdom extends beyond my understanding and that His purposes are greater than anything I can see in the present moment.

God never promised us a life free from hardship. He did promise His presence. Sometimes the path He lays before us leads through valleys we would never choose for ourselves. Yet it is often in those valleys that our faith is refined, our dependence on Him grows stronger, and our hope becomes anchored not in our circumstances but in Christ Himself.

I still do not have answers to every question. Perhaps I never will this side of heaven. But I have learned that God is no less faithful because I cannot see the whole picture. If anything, the seasons that tested my faith most severely have also become the seasons that taught me to trust Him most deeply.

One of the greatest examples of this is Joseph. Betrayed by his brothers, sold into slavery, falsely accused, and imprisoned, he endured years of suffering before he could see what God was doing. Only after looking back over the course of his life could he tell his brothers, “You intended evil against me, but God intended it for good.” Joseph’s story reminds us that God’s purposes often become clear only in hindsight. We may never fully understand every hardship we face, but we can trust that God is at work even when we cannot yet see His hand. (Genesis 50:20)

Following Christ does not mean we will never ask, “Why?” It means that even when we do, we continue to place our hand in His and follow wherever He leads, trusting that one day we, too, may look back and see how God was working through every step of the journey.

This is the message we have heard from him and proclaim to you, that God is light and in him there is no darkness at all. If we say that we have fellowship with him while we are walking in darkness, we lie and do not do what is true; but if we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus his Son cleanses us from all sin.

— 1 John 1:5–7

Today is a special day for me. Sixteen years ago, I clicked “Publish” on the very first post of The Closet Professor. At the time, I had no idea that one post would become thousands, or that what began as a hobby would become a chronicle of my faith, my struggles, my joys, my grief, and my journey toward authenticity.

Over those sixteen years, I have written about history, museums, literature, travel, and yes, more than a few handsome men. I’ve written about my beloved cats—Victoria, whom longtime readers knew as HRH, and now Isabella—along with my family, my work, and the places I’ve visited. More importantly, I’ve written about the tremendous grief that followed the death of a dear friend, struggles with depression, moments of doubt, unexpected blessings, and the countless ordinary days that quietly shape a life.

Looking back, I realize this blog has become more than a collection of posts. It has become a record of God’s faithfulness through seasons I never could have imagined when I wrote that first entry.

Today’s passage from 1 John reminds us that “God is light and in him there is no darkness at all.” Throughout Scripture, light symbolizes God’s presence, truth, and love. Darkness often represents fear, deception, and the things that keep us separated from God, from others, and sometimes even from ourselves.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, that imagery carries a deeply personal meaning. Too many of us have spent years believing that who we are had to remain hidden if we wanted to be loved by God or accepted by others. We learned to compartmentalize our lives, revealing only the parts we thought were acceptable while hiding the rest. Living that way is exhausting because we are constantly afraid that someone will discover the truth.

When I chose the name The Closet Professor, it reflected where I was in life. The “closet” was still a place I understood all too well. Over the years, however, the title has taken on a different meaning for me. Rather than being a reminder of hiding, it has become a reminder of the journey God has led me on—from fear toward authenticity, from silence toward honesty, and from believing I had to hide parts of myself to trusting that I am fully known and fully loved by God.

John doesn’t tell us to become perfect before we come into the light. He simply calls us to walk in it.

Walking in the light means living honestly before God. It means trusting that God already knows us completely and loves us completely. It means allowing ourselves to be seen—not because we have everything figured out, but because we trust that God’s grace is greater than our fears.

As I continued writing The Closet Professor, I found myself becoming more honest. Some days that honesty meant celebrating life’s joys. Other days it meant admitting pain, uncertainty, loneliness, or weakness. I discovered that authenticity isn’t something to fear. It is one of the ways God draws us into deeper fellowship with Him and with one another.

John writes, “If we walk in the light as he himself is in the light, we have fellowship with one another.” I have experienced that fellowship in ways I never expected. Readers from around the world have shared their own stories, encouraged me during difficult seasons, celebrated happy moments with me, challenged me to think more deeply, and reminded me that none of us walks this journey alone. What began as a simple blog has become a genuine community, and for that I am profoundly grateful.

Sixteen years later, I don’t celebrate The Closet Professor because of the number of posts I’ve written or the number of years it has existed. I celebrate because it reminds me of God’s patient work in my life. Looking back, I can see His light guiding me even when I couldn’t always see the path ahead.

Perhaps that’s what walking in the light really means. It doesn’t mean we’ve arrived. It doesn’t mean we never struggle or stumble. It means we choose, day after day, to keep following the One who is the Light of the World, trusting that every step taken in truth is a step taken closer to God.

As you reflect on today’s passage, I invite you to consider this question: What part of your life is God inviting you to bring into His light? Whatever it may be, remember that His light is not meant to shame us but to reveal the depth of His love, His grace, and His desire that we live as the people He created us to be.

Scripture: “Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?” declares the Lord. “Do not I fill heaven and earth?” declares the Lord.

— Jeremiah 23:24

For many LGBTQ+ people, the closet is not simply a place of secrecy. It can be a place of survival. Some remain closeted because they fear rejection from family, church, or community. Others may face threats to their safety, employment, housing, or relationships. Many LGBTQ+ Christians know this struggle all too well, carrying a part of themselves in silence while trying to remain faithful to God.

When people speak about coming out, they often present it as the only path to authenticity and freedom. While coming out can be a beautiful and life-giving experience, not everyone is in a position to do so. Every person’s circumstances are different, and no one should be judged for the decisions they make about their own safety and well-being.

What Jeremiah reminds us is that whether we are out, closeted, questioning, or somewhere in between, God sees us.

“Can anyone hide in secret places so that I cannot see him?” God is not speaking words of condemnation here. Rather, God is reminding us that there is nowhere we can go where God is absent. There is no hidden corner of our lives beyond God’s sight, care, and love.

The psalmist echoes this truth:

“Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” (Psalm 139:7).

Even in our most private fears and struggles, God remains with us. God knows the parts of ourselves we share openly and the parts we guard closely. Nothing about us is hidden from God—not our hopes, our fears, our relationships, our questions, or our identity.

And what God sees, God loves.

Romans 8:38-39 reminds us:

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers… will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Not even a closet can separate us from God’s love.

For those who have come out, God sees your courage.

For those who cannot come out, God sees your struggle.

For those who are still discerning what authenticity looks like in their lives, God sees your journey.

Jesus tells us that God knows us completely, even down to the number of hairs on our heads (Luke 12:7). The God who knows us so intimately does not abandon us because others fail to understand us.

Whether you are publicly out or carrying your truth quietly for now, remember this: you are not invisible to God. You do not have to earn God’s love by being brave enough, outspoken enough, or visible enough. God’s love reaches you exactly where you are.

You are seen.

You are known.

You are loved.