“Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, leading to edification.” 

— Romans 15:2

Not long ago, the Verse-of-the-Day that landed in my inbox was Romans 15:2: “Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, leading to edification.” I’ll admit, my first reaction wasn’t exactly devotional. The phrase “please his neighbor” brought to mind some rather human, even carnal, interpretations. While I don’t currently have any neighbors who inspire those kinds of thoughts, I certainly have in the past. But as I gently corrected my own imagination, I turned to what the verse is really about.

Romans 15:2 is a call to build others up—not for personal gain, but for the sake of their good and their growth. It’s about setting aside selfishness and leaning into compassion, patience, and encouragement—traits we desperately need more of in our world today.

Sadly, when we look at the current American political climate, we see a nation drifting further and further from that call. Instead of mutual care, we see mistrust. Instead of patience, we see outrage. Laws are being written not to edify but to exclude—especially for LGBTQ+ individuals. From renewed efforts to suppress trans rights, to politicians who dehumanize queer people for political leverage, we are witnessing a culture of cruelty that stands in direct contradiction to the Word of God.

James 1:19 gives us this charge: “So then, my beloved brethren, let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.” But how often do we see the reverse? People rush to speak, quick to anger, unwilling to listen. People shout over each other instead of listening. Social media rewards the harshest voices. Political debates are framed not by compassion but by conquest. This is not the way of Christ. In the world we live in, outrage and judgment come quickly, while compassion and listening fall by the wayside. It’s easy to shout. It’s much harder to hear. 

For those of us in the LGBTQ+ community, particularly queer Christians, this dynamic is all too familiar. We have been judged before being heard. We watch as our identities are politicized and debated rather than honored and respected. We have been spoken of but rarely spoken with. We see leaders and lawmakers tearing down the dignity of queer and trans lives and yet, Romans 12:10 reminds us: “Be kindly affectionate to one another with brotherly love, in honor giving preference to one another.” God does not rank people by identity or status. We are called to show honor—especially to those the world dishonors. We are not meant to live in echo chambers of self-interest or tribalism. We are meant to honor each other—especially the vulnerable and marginalized.

Even in our churches, where we should expect unity in love, divisions often mirror the world’s brokenness rather than offering a better way. Even among Christians, division and discord can grow where love and unity should flourish. But Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 1:10: “Now I plead with you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that you all speak the same thing, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment.” We don’t have to agree on every detail of theology or policy, but we are commanded to seek unity in Christ, grounded in love and mutual respect. This is not a call for sameness, but for unity through love, humility, and shared purpose.

Finally, we anchor ourselves in this hope from Romans 15:5–6:

“Now may the God of patience and comfort grant you to be like-minded toward one another, according to Christ Jesus,that you may with one mind and one mouth glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

As LGBTQ+ Christians, we often stand at the intersection of worlds that misunderstand or reject us. But we are not without hope. Harmony, not hatred. Encouragement, not exclusion. One voice—raised not in protest against each other, but in praise to God.

This is our calling—to live in harmony, to uplift each other, and to glorify God with one voice. As LGBTQ+ believers, we know what it means to seek belonging where others sow division. We know the power of kindness in a world of cruelty. Let us live this calling—not as abstract ideals, but as real, daily acts of love. As LGBTQ+ people of faith, we know what it means to seek harmony in the face of division. Let us be neighbors who lift others up. Let us be voices of peace and compassion in a time of bitterness. Let us be the voices that unify, and the hearts that honor God by honoring each other. And let us, with one voice, glorify the God who made us, loves us, and calls us to love boldly in return. 

“You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love.” — Galatians 5:13

On Memorial Day, we pause not just to wave flags or grill burgers, but to remember—solemnly and with reverence—those who laid down their lives in service to this country. They died in deserts, on beaches, in jungles and skies, in places known and forgotten. Each one was a person, not just a name etched into stone.

Among them were LGBTQ+ Americans who, in every generation, answered the call to serve—even when their nation would not serve them in return.

Some lived and died in silence, hiding their full selves to avoid dishonorable discharge, imprisonment, or violence. Under policies like Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, they were forced into shadows, where honesty could mean disgrace. Yet they still fought. Still bled. Still gave everything.

Others served proudly after the policy ended in 2011—openly gay, lesbian, and bisexual service members who finally could wear their uniforms and their identities without fear. Their courage was not only on the battlefield, but in living truthfully in spaces where truth had long been forbidden.

And still today, many transgender service members fight battles on two fronts—one abroad, and one at home. While their competence and valor are unquestioned, their right to serve remains under political siege. Recent Republican-led efforts to reinstate a transgender military ban have made this painfully clear. These attempts to erase or exclude are not just policy debates—they are messages that say, “You do not belong.”

But in God’s eyes, they do belong. They always have.

“Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” — John 15:13

This verse reminds us that the greatest act of love is not found in slogans, but in sacrifice. LGBTQ+ service members—whether in silence or with open pride—have made that sacrifice. And on this Memorial Day, we must speak their names, even if history tried not to record them.

They were called to be free, just as we are called to be free. But let us not use that freedom to forget. Let us use it to serve one another humbly in love—as Paul writes in Galatians—and to advocate for those whose service has been overlooked, whose dignity is still contested.

For God has consigned all to disobedience, that he may have mercy on all. Oh, the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!

— Romans 11:32-33

Sometimes I wonder if Paul, in writing Romans 9–11, was feeling what many of us in the LGBTQ+ Christian community have felt: the ache of being part of a people who seem to have rejected something essential and life-giving. For Paul, it was watching his beloved Jewish community turn away from the gospel of Christ (Romans 9:1–3). For me—and for so many of us—it’s standing in churches that reject us while clinging to a gospel we know in our bones is about mercy, love, and inclusion. Romans 10:12–13 says, “For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on him, for, ‘Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.’” In Galatians 3:28, Paul tells us, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

Paul’s conclusion in Romans 11 is not one of despair, but of wonder. After wrestling with rejection, exclusion, and the mysteries of God’s plan, in Romans 11:32 he writes “For God has consigned all to disobedience, that he may have mercy on all.”

We know something about rejection. We’ve heard the sermons, felt the silence, watched doors close. Isaiah 56:3-5 says:

Let no foreigner who is bound to the Lord say,
    “The Lord will surely exclude me from his people.”
And let no eunuch complain,
    “I am only a dry tree.”

For this is what the Lord says:

“To the eunuchs who keep my Sabbaths,
    who choose what pleases me
    and hold fast to my covenant—
to them I will give within my temple and its walls
    a memorial and a name
    better than sons and daughters;
I will give them an everlasting name
    that will endure forever.

Some of us have been told we must change to be loved by God—when all along, we were already held in that love. Romans 8:38–39 says, “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” And yet despite the rejections of others… we stayed. We sang the hymns. We read Scripture with reverence. We wept and prayed and kept believing that God’s mercy is bigger than the world’s fear. Micah 6:8 says, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Jesus rebuked those who have put up walls of exclusion. In Matthew 23:23 He says, “Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former.”

Romans 11 is a reminder: rejection is not the end of the story. Romans 11:1–2 says, “I ask then: Did God reject his people? By no means! I am an Israelite myself, a descendant of Abraham, from the tribe of Benjamin. God did not reject his people, whom he foreknew. Don’t you know what Scripture says in the passage about Elijah—how he appealed to God against Israel.” (1 Kings 19:10-18) God is not finished with Israel, and God is certainly not finished with us. God’s plan was never about gatekeeping, never about purity tests or theological litmus strips. It was—and is—about mercy breaking into the human mess. Paul says in Romans 5:8, “But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us,” and Hosea 6:6 says, “For I desire mercy, not sacrifice, and acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.”

Paul calls this a mystery. In Romans 11:25, he says, “I do not want you to be ignorant of this mystery, brothers and sisters, so that you may not be conceited: Israel has experienced a hardening in part until the full number of the Gentiles has come in.” And it is. It’s a mystery that the very people who were told they didn’t belong—Gentiles, outcasts, eunuchs, queers, sinners—are the ones Christ drew near to (Luke 7:36–50; John 4:7–29; Acts 8:26–39). It’s a mystery that God would use rejection to teach the church mercy. That even now, in a world and church still wrestling with whom to embrace, God is quietly gathering all of us in. (Ephesians 2:13–19) Jesus tells the Pharisees in John 10:16, “I have other sheep that are not of this sheep pen. I must bring them also. They too will listen to my voice, and there shall be one flock and one shepherd.”

We do not need to prove our worth to God. In Titus 3:4–7, Paul write to Titus and says, “But when the kindness and love of God our Savior appeared, he saved us, not because of righteous things we had done, but because of his mercy. He saved us through the washing of rebirth and renewal by the Holy Spirit, whom he poured out on us generously through Jesus Christ our Savior, so that, having been justified by his grace, we might become heirs having the hope of eternal life” We are not spiritual refugees in someone else’s kingdom. We are already part of the body of Christ—beloved, chosen, and called. Romans 12:4–5 says, “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,” and Colossians 3:12 says, “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.”

Romans 11 doesn’t end in doctrine. It ends in doxology—a song of praise. 

Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
    How unsearchable his judgments,
    and his paths beyond tracing out!
“Who has known the mind of the Lord?
    Or who has been his counselor?” 
“Who has ever given to God,
    that God should repay them?” 
For from him and through him and for him are all things.
    To him be the glory forever! Amen. (Romans 11:33-36)

That is where we live too: in that mysterious, radiant space between pain and praise. We have seen rejection, yes. But we’ve also seen what mercy can do. We’ve tasted the unsearchable depths of God’s wisdom and kindness. And we believe—despite it all—that mercy is coming for everyone. Remember Paul’s question in Romans 2:4, “Or do you show contempt for the riches of his kindness, forbearance and patience, not realizing that God’s kindness is intended to lead you to repentance?” In 1 Timothy 2:3–4, Paul tells Timothy, “This is good, and pleases God our Savior, who wants all people to be saved and to come to a knowledge of the truth.”

God is merciful. As LGBTQ+ Christians have known the sting of rejection, and we have heard his voice calling us beloved. We should thank Him for His mystery. We should thank God for His patience, and for His mercy including all of us, even when others do not. His Word can guide us to live in His mercy and help us to share it with others. God is not done yet—not with the church, not with this world, and, most certainly, not with us.

“As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you; and you will be comforted over Jerusalem.”

—Isaiah 66:13

Mother’s Day can be complicated.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, this day stirs a mixture of gratitude, grief, and longing. Some of us have mothers who love us fiercely, who fought for us when others turned away. Others have strained relationships marked by silence, theological disagreements, or painful rejection. Some have lost their mothers altogether, or never had one who nurtured them in the way they needed. And still others have found “mothering” in chosen family—those who stepped into the role when our biological mothers could not.

I grew up with a mother who, in many ways, was my safe place. She sang to me—silly songs, made-up lullabies, and always “You Are My Sunshine.” That song still lingers in my memory like a benediction. Even now, when I feel anxious or overwhelmed, I can hear her voice in my mind and feel something loosen inside. She wasn’t perfect (who is?), and our relationship changed after I came out. Her love didn’t vanish, but it retreated into more cautious, guarded corners. I learned to read between the lines—to hear love in what wasn’t said as much as in what was.

There are days I wish she could fully see me, not just the parts she’s comfortable with. But I know this: most of the time, she tries, and in her way, she still sings over me. Her growing dementia has mellowed her about my sexuality, and possibly her views on the LGBTQ+ community, at least she no longer mentions me being gay even on the periphery anymore when we talk on the phone or when I go home for the holidays.

And in the spaces where that love feels fragile or incomplete, I lean on the divine promise of God’s motherhood. Isaiah 66:13 tells us, “As a mother comforts her child, so will I comfort you.” God doesn’t just replace what we lack in human relationships—God transcends it. God’s love is not hindered by shame or ignorance, nor is it conditional on who we love or how we live. God’s comfort is whole, unwavering, and tender. It wraps around us like a lullaby that never fades.

For those who feel unmothered today—rejected, estranged, or just alone—please know: you are not forgotten. You are not forsaken. You are loved, by a God who mothers us all. In Scripture, we are told:

“Though my father and mother forsake me, the Lord will receive me.” —Psalm 27:10

And for those whose mothers still try—who show up imperfectly but continue to offer what love they can—I honor your resilience, your patience, your hope. 

Today, let us give thanks for all who have mothered us: the women who raised us, the aunts and teachers who guided us, the queer elders who nurtured us, the friends who held us through heartbreak, and the God who never stops whispering, “You are my beloved.” In Luke 13:34, Jesus says, “How often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.”

Let us also remember that motherhood isn’t limited to biology. In God’s eyes, to nurture, to protect, to comfort—these are sacred acts. Many of us embody them, regardless of gender, title, or role. LGBTQ+ people have always created families and offered fierce, maternal love to one another. That, too, is holy. Let us always remember what 1 John 4:7 says, “Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God.”

On this Mother’s Day, whether you are rejoicing, mourning, navigating silence, or embracing chosen family, know this:

You are held in love.

You are never alone.

And somewhere, still, the song continues: You are my sunshine.