“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.

“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.