There is a vine of morning glories that has crept into my neglected garden bed (and a little bit into my heart). Actually, it’s crept into, and out of, and up, and around. They’re sort of unwieldy little beauties – so much so that many gardeners consider them a nuisance. But I have found them to be an unexpected gift as summer ends, and a new season begins. They greet me each morning at the foot of our worn and weathered deck stairs; so interesting to observe as they stretch over the stone border, choking out their weedy neighbors as they declare, well… their glory.
These blossoms only last a day. You wouldn’t necessarily know it because the vines are so productive. At sundown, they close their wide-shaped mouths forever, and new blooms greet me the following day, alive with promise and hopeful expectation. Every evening they wither, and each morning – new life.
With their heart-shaped leaves, they’ve been known to symbolize love, rebirth, and renewal; hope, and new beginnings, and fresh starts. It seems like an appropriate metaphor for this season of life that I find myself in: reimagining my faith, watching my teens stretch their not-so-little limbs toward adulthood, the birth of new projects for me. So many new beginnings, and lots of letting go. (I’m not always good at that.)
As we wind down our homeschool journey, I see that my role is changing. My job description is shifting – from “manager and CEO”, where I once made almost all of the decisions about my kids’ lives, to “guide” or “coach” as they develop more and more autonomy. Parenting has been, and is, the most challenging and sometimes heartbreaking, yet beautiful and rewarding call on my life.
I often tell my kids that they are my heart walking around in the world – my very best creations. And even as I say that, I know that they are not “mine.” They are their own unique beings, and my job is simply to love them and guide them. I watch with hopeful anticipation as they continue to explore their passions and learn more about themselves. I’ve done my part – teaching, supporting, advocating – allowing them to grow and mature at their own pace and encouraging their interests. And now I remain that safe space that they can come home to, where I can continue to love and guide and encourage as they lean into this next phase of living. I think all moms want to hold on just a little bit longer, but they’re ready. I think they’re always ready before we are.
Part of me grieves what was. These brisk fall mornings remind me of time spent at the apple orchard. Play dates with friends, pumpkin pie playdough, Thomas the Train tracks lining my hallway, matchbox cars in hand (always). It’s true what they say: “It all goes by so fast.”
These blossoms only last a day.
I’ve felt this kind of grief before. I suspect you have, too. Grief over someone who has passed away is expected – a natural, human response to having loved someone so dearly. That deep sadness is sacred; holy and enduring – oftentimes relentless and unpredictable. And yet we know that there is grief for the living losses, too. We tend to minimize these losses because they may seem small in comparison to what other people go through. But loss is still loss, and I want to acknowledge that.
❥ A medical diagnosis that now divides time into “before” and “after.”
❥ A loved one struggling with addiction, or other mental health conditions that impact how they relate to others.
❥ Family estrangement
❥ A move
❥ Infertility
❥ The loss of a marriage, or a job –
a faith community, or a friendship.
Grief over life changes, past experiences, dashed hopes and dreams, and unmet expectations – all of that is hard, too. We don’t often talk about that kind of grief.
I’ve experienced many living losses over the years, and I’ve tried to manage that grief in so many different ways. But I’ve only found one thing that actually works:
I have to walk right through it. I have to let myself really feel it. Pull up a chair, and sit with it.
Cry. Rage. Mourn. Vent (to a trusted person). And when I can, I practice gratitude. No numbing, no avoiding, no distracting (anymore). Just wading through the messy, exhausting, uncomfortable feelings of grief. I tend to myself gently: sleep when my body calls me to rest, eat nourishing food, engage in gentle movement like walking or yoga. And I ask for help when I need it.
After the shifting and the changing, the twisting and turning, the fear and the uncertainty, the discomfort and the pain, comes a new way of being. Like the end of the morning glory, and the awakening of fresh blooms – a new season. On the other side of grief there is another place that will hold beauty, too.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been alone in my house in the past five years. And even though I welcome a little extra space, the stillness feels new to me. That first week of school, my spirit led me to the apple orchard – the same one where we once took wagon rides, and picked blueberries; where we planted peach trees and spoke gently to horses as we fed them grass through the fence. Those memories are tucked into my heart, as new memories are being made. I whispered a word of gratitude, and found my way to the farm stand. As I selected the perfect ears of corn for supper, I thought of those wild and free toddlers, now turned responsible and determined teenagers, who would be gathering around our dinner table later that evening. Conversations now shifting from Matchbox cars to Honda Accords; from Halloween costumes to Homecoming dresses.
Things are changing,
and there is still goodness.
Nothing haunts us like the things we don’t say.
-Mitch Albom
I confess it’s taken me too long to write these words. So first, an apology to my LGBTQ+ friends/family/neighbors:
You are beloved. I hope you already know that.
I’m sorry the Church has caused you so much pain – in word, in deed, in silence.
I’m sorry I contributed to that hurt. I sat quietly in my church pew for far too long.
I’m sorry the Church continues to exclude you and/or debate LGBTQ+ inclusion.
I’m sorry they literally debate whether or not you belong.
You belong. In the Kin-dom of God, we belong if we want to belong.
It’s taken me a long time to hit “publish” on these words. With every attempt, my words have felt inadequate. But the time is now. According to the Human Rights Campaign, there have been more anti-LGBTQ+ bills introduced in state houses this year than in each of the previous five years.
Hate crimes are on the rise, with some of the highest increases in LGBTQ+ people. There will never be a better time to lift our voices. As imperfect as my words may be, I am reminded that stories change us. Sometimes they get us to think outside of our own lived experiences. So this is my humble attempt to add my voice to the choir of other Christians who stand with the LGBTQ+ community.
Here’s what this essay will not attempt to do: debate Christian sexual ethics. I’ve already tried to do that, and it is utterly exhausting. I’ve spent countless hours and so much energy trying to persuade others who never wanted to be persuaded. It left me hurt, sad, angry, disoriented, and depleted. Pete Enns says, “the Bible doesn’t speak…we interpret.” If Christians do not take on a posture of humility and curiosity, if they hold tightly to the traditional view of marriage (as between one man and one woman) because “the Bible is clear,” then it becomes nearly impossible to persuade them to consider other interpretations. This perceived certainty ends all nuanced conversations. All I can do is share my experiences and perspectives – and leave the real work to the Holy Spirit. I’m convinced that’s how true transformation happens anyway. My job now is to stand as an ally, if you will allow me to call myself that. I stand in solidarity with my LGBTQ+ loved ones. I boldly proclaim that the world is better with you in it, just as you are, with all of the many gifts only you can offer the world.
And I also want to be a friend to the curious Christian – those who sit quietly in their pews with a hunch that the Holy Spirit just might be up to something. Because when you’re sorting out what you’ve been taught in light of new evidence, it can be a lot, it can be lonely, and it can be scary, knowing that these new convictions might mean losing your entire community. That is a legitimate fear, and I will not sugarcoat it: if you follow Jesus into the margins, standing outside the city gates – it will cost you. But I assure you there is goodness there, and there is hope beyond those city walls. I have been convinced that the Kingdom of God is much greater, and wider, and expansive and inclusive than we were ever taught to believe. And I have been convicted for a very long time that being an ally within the Church is important and necessary work.
Church is supposed to be a place where we find community, a place where everyone should find belonging. After considering the statistics on suicide among the LGBTQ+ community, we must feel a sense of urgency. We must be willing to ask the question, “Could we have been terribly wrong about this?” And could we imagine a world where LGBTQ+ people felt safe to come to church exactly as they are, without fear, fully welcomed and accepted and included in all aspects of church life?
In 2021, I walked away from my church. Sometimes I feel like my church left me. I walked away after trying really hard to move the needle forward on LGBTQ+ inclusion, only to find myself at a crossroads. My outsides did not match my insides, and my conscience would not allow me to stay. For too long I was a silent ally in the church, mostly because the church just didn’t talk about it, and regretfully because I didn’t think it impacted me. But I began to understand that when our neighbors flourish, we all flourish, too. “Seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.” -Jeremiah 29:7
I also began to consider what message I was sending to the LGBTQ+ community as I participated in an institution that did not honor them and their God-given gifts, without placing heavy burdens and expectations on them. Knowing and believing what I do now, how could I continue to be a member, and participate in leadership capacities knowing that my LGBTQ+ friends were not afforded the same privileges? I served my church whole-heartedly and with gladness, I loved my church. In the end, we couldn’t agree on the matter of inclusion, and I could no longer hold that tension. I understand that full inclusion for many evangelicals is just a bridge too far to cross, but sadly many of us become church casualties when policies are chosen over people.
In response to George Floyd’s murder in 2020, many churches started recognizing the importance of denouncing racism, as we should. In fact, we need to continue educating ourselves, we must be willing to engage in uncomfortable conversations, we need to confront racism and practice lament, repentance and reconciliation. We need to welcome diverse voices and leadership. This work of course should be ongoing. (Should be.) And as I considered racism in the American church, I began to look around and ask the question, “Who else are we missing? What other voices are not being given a seat at the table?”
I started asking more questions. Just as I was trying to diversify my library with books by people of color, I started reading books by queer authors. I started paying attention to what other churches and denominations were doing, the good and the bad. I listened to podcasts, and followed more LGBTQ+ voices online, particularly queer Christians. We can learn so much from them about faith and hope in the face of persecution. Because even after they’ve been let down by the Church – often misled, rejected and shunned – they still love God. They seem to be able to separate the God who loves them from the Christians who have deeply wounded them. They still want to belong. They still keep showing up. They are some of the most faithful people I know.
What about Scripture?
If you want to do violence in this world, you will always find the weapons.
If you want to heal, you will always find the balm.
― Rachel Held Evans, A Year of Biblical Womanhood
It’s become clear to me that we can use the Bible to support any argument we want to make. We can find Bible verses that support slavery, and we can find those that oppose it. We can find Bible verses that subjugate women, and we can find verses that liberate us. We can find Bible verses that wage war, and we can find verses that advocate for peace. We can use Bible verses as “weapons” against LGBTQ+ people, and we can find verses that support inclusivity – the “balm.”
In my daily wanderings, I seek to find the balm. I am not a theologian, and the more I learn it seems the less I know – but I choose to read the Bible through a liberating lens, which naturally leads me to texts of welcome. And there is one story in particular that widens the circle of inclusion for me.
Transformative Encounters
In Acts 10, we read about Peter’s vision and his encounter with Cornelius. Cornelius, a captain of the Italian Guard and a “good man,” was prayerful and compassionate, and kind. His faithfulness caught the attention of God, who sent an angel to him through a vision. The angel told him to send some of his men to the town of Joppa where Peter was staying with Simon the Tanner. They were to find Peter and bring him back to Cornelius.
The men did as they were told. About noon the next day, as the men made their way to Joppa, Peter went onto his roof to pray. “He became hungry and wanted something to eat…” (This made me chuckle. A devout Jew, a disciple of Jesus, a leader in the Early Church distracted by food in the middle of prayer time. 
) “…and as the meal was being prepared, he fell into a trance.” (v. 10) Then the vision:
He saw heaven opened and something like a large sheet being let down to earth by its four corners. It contained all kinds of four-footed animals, as well as reptiles of the earth and birds of the air. Then a voice told him, “Get up, Peter. Kill and eat.” (v. 11-13)
He resisted. A devout Jew would never eat anything that was not kosher. Levitical law had strict guidelines regarding what foods were clean and unclean. Then Peter heard the voice again: “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.” (v. 15) Three times this message was repeated before the blanket was taken back up to heaven.
As Peter sat there, trying to understand the vision he just encountered, Cornelius’ men approached Simon’s front door and asked to see Peter. They explained that Captain Cornelius was instructed by an angel to bring Peter to his house to hear what he had to say. “Then Peter invited the men into the house to be his guests.” (v. 23) Perhaps this encounter alone reveals the beginning of a transformation. It would have violated strict religious rules for a Jew to invite a Gentile into his home. Perhaps Peter’s thoughts were already shifting and evolving. Proximity does that.
The next morning, they made the long trek to Caesarea where Cornelius was waiting for them. Cornelius greeted Peter and then got down on the ground to worship him. “Stand up,” he said, “I am only a man myself.” (v. 26) Perhaps Cornelius was trying to show honor to Peter as God’s messenger, but Peter made it clear he wasn’t to be worshipped and that they were on equal footing. Could he have acknowledged Cornelius, a Gentile, as someone who was also created in the image of God?
You are well aware that it is against our law for a Jew to associate with a Gentile or visit him. But God has shown me that I should not call any man impure or unclean. So when I was sent for, I came without raising any objection. (v. 28-29)
God had shown him.
Peter was beginning to realize that his vision had greater significance than he had originally thought. It went much deeper than its literal meaning and his limited understanding – it went far beyond the traditional rules and rituals regarding clean and unclean foods. Ethnic divides existed between Jews and Gentiles, often resulting in violence. Here, God was working through Peter and Cornelius to break through that barrier. And through this transformative encounter, Peter began to understand.
Cornelius began to tell the story of his vision with the angel, the one who told him to send for Peter. And they waited for whatever God had put on Peter’s heart to tell them.
I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right. (v. 34-35)
Then Peter shared about the good news of Jesus Christ to all of the Gentiles in the home, and the Holy Spirit fell upon them. The believing Jews who had come with Peter couldn’t believe it! The gift of the Holy Spirit, given to “outsiders.” The non-Jewish “outsiders” were now “in.” God was making all things new.
God had shown him. Through this transformative encounter, God revealed to Peter that we are all equal in His eyes. Would we recognize a transformative encounter if God presented us with one? Are our biases preventing us from seeing what God is doing among us? Does the church place barriers to belonging?
This story is repeated in Acts 11. Whenever there is repetition in the Bible, it reminds me to pay attention. It’s like God is saying, ‘Perk up, dear ones. This is important.’ Could he be trying to pull our attention back from our easily distracted minds and hearts and desires, prompting us to consider what we may not be ready to hear? What could this story mean for us in our current time? Isn’t God still making all things new?
And since God gave these Gentiles the same gift he gave us when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, who was I to stand in God’s way?” Acts 11:17, NLT
The Character of Christ
As followers of Christ, we should be transforming into His likeness, taking on Christ-like characteristics as best we can within our human limitations. And what is the character of Christ? He is loving, unconditionally. He is humble. He is compassionate. He is inclusive. He is just. He serves the underserved. He stands with those deemed ‘other.’
And how do we know if we are transforming into the likeness of Christ? We look to the fruit. Is the evangelical church bearing good fruit? Who is flourishing under our policies and practices and theology? -not just in our own households, but among our neighbors’ households, too. When we consider the effects of purity culture, sexual abuse and sexual abuse cover-ups within the Church, abuses of power within the Church, restricting women’s leadership potential within the Church, Christian Nationalism, refusing to enact common sense gun reform, neglecting to welcome refugees, etc. etc. – I would say that the evangelical church is producing some really rotten fruit. And yet, we are quick to dismiss loving, covenantal same-sex marriage. We’re so consumed by trying to control trans kids that we haven’t the time or empathy to love them or seek to understand them. And after listening to the stories of gay Christians, I think it’s fair to say that the non-affirming theology is not bearing good fruit. Let’s remember – all believers are members of the body of Christ, the Universal Church. Who are we to tell them they can’t become members of the local church? Who are we to stand in God’s way?
Resources to Consider
I am under no illusions that Church culture and beliefs will change overnight, or that one essay is going to change anyone’s mind. But if you’re unsure of what you believe about LGBTQ+ inclusion in the Church, I ask you to follow that curiosity wherever it leads. There are LGBTQ people in your pews. There are youth who are wondering if it’s safe to come out. Now is the time to choose a position because standing in the center doesn’t help those on the margins.
I am not an expert on any of this, and there’s still so much for me to learn. I share my thoughts and experiences and perspectives here, but they have been shaped (and continue to be shaped) by so many who have been brave enough to share their own stories. A quick Google search will guide you to a variety of resources, but here are a few that have informed me on my path:
Torn: Rescuing the Gospel from the Gays-vs.-Christians Debate, by Justin Lee
Changing Our Mind, by David Gushee
The Reformation Project, Matthew Vines
A Moment of Pride: Jen and Sydney Hatmaker on Being Gay and Loved
Blue Babies Pink: B.T. Harman shares his journey of being a gay Christian in the American south.
Eugene Peterson authorized biography backs up that ‘yes’ on LGBTQ inclusion
The End?
I wrestled for a long time with how to end this piece. And then it occurred to me: Maybe this isn’t this end. For some of us, maybe this is just the beginning – an invitation to follow our curiosity toward our own transformation. We can have our own transformative encounters, just as Peter did. When we love, support, befriend and listen to people in the LGBTQ+ community (as well as their families/allies), it changes us for the better. Our lives are enriched by those relationships. Proximity does that.
Love God, love people. It really is that simple.
If you’ve gotten this far, perhaps you too have a hunch that the Holy Spirit might be up to something. And maybe that hunch isn’t just a hunch. Maybe God is guiding us to create a more diverse and inclusive Church. Remember, we were all once outsiders, made insiders through Christ. Follow your curiosity to the margins. And I’ll meet you there.
xo. Jana
Reflected
Hi friends.
I know it doesn’t seem like I’m writing, but I am. In an effort to write with more intentionality, I’ve embarked on a self-imposed Advent Writing Challenge.
I am working through Kate Bowler’s Advent Devotional, “The Season of Waiting (and waiting…and waiting…). Kate is a NYT bestselling author and associate professor of American religious history at Duke Divinity. Kate is witty and charming, but what I appreciate most about her is her ability to live in the both/and. Life can be so, so hard, and yet we can also find moments of hope and joy. Having been diagnosed with stage IV cancer years ago, Kate doesn’t sugar-coat anything. I really love that about her. She’s able to hold the tension of hard and good, which is such a necessary and honest approach to living.
Each day there is a small Bible passage to read, along with a short devotional and a reflection question to ponder. It’s not too late to jump in. If you’re interested, you can download it here. (It’s free, and it feels like a gift.) I’ve created this little writing challenge for myself where each day I set my timer for 10 minutes and reflect on the question for that day. I have pages of writing, and I thought I’d share just one piece with you.
I’m no poet, but for some reason my spirit led me to reflect on this question through poetry. I’ve been reading a lot of Mary Oliver, so perhaps I’ve been inspired by her. (I know I’ve been inspired by her.) Anyway, it was fun to play around with words in a different way.
The reflection question was: Describe a time you experienced the divine in an everyday moment lately. This is my response:
Reflected
The divine presence of God,
reflected in the whisper of the leaves
gently dancing in the trees.
In the solitude of a quiet trail –
birds, frolicking in the canopy above
squirrels, playing tag in the wilderness.
A pink sunset, like stepping into a masterpiece,
and the heart-shaped rock that reminds me
God is still here.
The freedom of the mountaintop
after a really difficult climb –
I catch my breath and lose it at the same time.
Overlooking all of God’s creation,
knowing it extends so much farther
and wider than my eyes can see.
The awe.
The awareness of my smallness
in comparison to God’s greatness.
Not that God thinks I’m small.
God is just so expansive –
and Their love is equally so.
Far and wide like that mountaintop.
Extending to all of us.
No exceptions.
And nothing can separate us from that love.
We only have to believe.
We timidly walked up to the old church building, a beautiful stone edifice that has ministered on the same street corner downtown for over a century. Years ago, the local soup kitchen purchased the building when the church had dwindled in size. For that reason, it was difficult to find the entrance to the meeting space that the church now rents on Sundays. We entered through the oversized front doors into the sanctuary only to find a few homeless men sitting in the pews. Boxes upon boxes of food and clothing were stacked on the pulpit – likely offerings from the community to serve the ever-increasing number of neighbors who need support.
Outside, a few of the regulars were eager to point us in the right direction. A gentle man, whose face told a greater story of battles fought and won, greeted me at the side door. “Are you here for church?” He welcomed us in, pulling out a few old folding chairs from a dark corner of the room. They weren’t expecting guests. This was a church service for a comfortable community, a small gathering of folks who had been coming here for years. This was my first time, though I didn’t feel like a stranger. I imagined that this is what an AA meeting would be like. A close circle of worn faces, in various stages of brokenness, coming together to experience Immanuel – God with us.
I listened to a female priest teach from the Gospel of Matthew. How refreshing to hear a woman’s voice from the pulpit, or rather from her chair in the circle where she remained one of us. No pretense, no arrogance, just a part of the body with a word for the weary; motherlike in nature. Her interpretation of a familiar text was refreshing in its newness. In walked a younger gentleman. He’s late, and it appears he has a developmental disability. He’s loud and unaware of the social faux pas he makes as he barrels into the room, large in form and in personality. He falls asleep in the service and Mother Pastor gently wakes him to offer him communion. There is no shame, no scornful face or wagging of fingers, and no offense taken. She doesn’t want him to miss the opportunity to partake in this sacred ritual.
She offered prayers to every soul. Some people just wanted a general blessing, because perhaps that week had been gentle to them. Others requested prayers for their loved ones. “Please check on Rachel. She’s feeling really down and she’s talking about suicide.” Pastor Mother had already spoken to her. Another woman thanked everyone for their prayers – her struggling son is doing okay for now and just moved into his new apartment. It was a vulnerability you don’t often see in a church space. It was as if Mother Pastor was gathering her hens one by one to store under the care of her wings. I’ve never seen such intimacy at a worship service; such things aren’t often discussed on Sunday mornings – they’re hidden behind shame and this false belief that if we have the “joy of the Lord” everything should be going well with us. If we are right with God, then we will be blessed. If we’re struggling, perhaps we just aren’t faithful enough. It was refreshing to see God dwelling amid the darkness as I know He does. Immanuel, God with us.
That was the first and only time I visited that old stone church, but the character of Mother Pastor left an impression on my heart that is still very tangible. There are plenty of biblical maternal images for God in the Old Testament. There are six verses alone in the Psalms where God shelters his people under his wings, just as a mother hen provides refuge for her clutch. Jesus himself uses the same metaphor when he assumes that divine role in both the gospels of Matthew and Luke. Throughout the scriptures we see a God who is a provider, a protector, who is full of mystery and tethered to Her children by love. What if we saw more of that care and vulnerability on Sunday mornings, from our pastors and ourselves?
Maybe our world would be kinder
and gentler.
Maybe we would extend more grace
and be freer to forgive.
Maybe we’d be more honest
and experience more connection.
Maybe we’d have more compassion, empathy and understanding,
and see more hearts transformed.
Maybe we’d be more inclusive,
and more loving.
Maybe we’d be braver
and the world would be more just.
Maybe we’d experience true peace, God’s kingdom revealed here on Earth.
Maybe this is the work that is ours to do – reflecting the motherlike character of God out into the world. Instead of allowing our hearts to become hardened by cynicism and fear and anger, we remain soft. We contend for it. Maybe this is how we actually change the world, by simply loving the people in front of us. Perhaps that is the gift we can offer the world, just as Mother Pastor did that day, at a sparsely attended church service, in a soup kitchen, on a ragamuffin street corner downtown.
Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.
May it be so.