Unlikely Altars

I want to be crystal clear about something—because life is too short, and love is too important, to be vague. If you can’t accept my LGBTQ friends as they are—if you can’t recognize the full humanity, dignity, and worth of my chosen family—then I’m not sure how we can keep calling each other friends. I know that sounds harsh. I know some will say, “ But I love the sinner, just not the sin. ” To which I respond: “That’s not love. That’s branding.” Nobody feels loved when they’re being quietly (or loudly) disapproved of. And nobody feels safe around someone who prays for them to be someone else. My partner Dale is a beautiful human and a fierce, protective mom to two amazing kids who are part of the LGBTQ community. And I’m not just speaking up for them - - after all, I love them as my own. I’m also speaking up for Rick, John, MacMichael, Danny, and every other friend who calls the LGBTQ community family. Because they are family. To me. To each other. To God. So how could I possibly say I love them—and then cozy up to people who think they’re an abomination? How could I claim to follow Jesus and still treat some of God’s children like second-class citizens? Being an ally means making hard decisions. Not just about what I believe, but about who I stand with. And who I won’t stand against just to keep the peace. Now, a little history lesson for those of you who like a good Reformation-era mic drop: In 1521, a German monk named Martin Luther was hauled before a council of religious authorities and asked to recant his writings—writings that called out corruption in the Church and insisted that grace couldn’t be bought or earned, only received. Faced with pressure, threats, and the full weight of the religious establishment, Luther reportedly replied: Here I stand. I can do no other. God help me. It wasn’t just theological defiance. It was moral clarity. A refusal to deny what he knew to be true. A statement that sometimes faith means standing your ground—even when it costs you. So here I stand. Now listen, I’m not comparing myself to Martin Luther. Yes, we technically share a name, but only one person ever called me “Martin”—and that was my mother, and only when I was in deep trouble. You’ve never truly felt conviction until you’ve heard your full name shouted from the kitchen in a tone that could part the Red Sea. So no, I’m not a 16th-century reformer with a hammer and a list of 95 grievances. I’m just someone with a laptop, a good cup of chai or Mountain Dew, and a deep conviction that love should never be up for debate. I’m not saying we have to agree on everything. We can disagree about the best barbecue, whether it’s pronounced “pee-can” or “puh-cahn,” or whether the Mets will ever win another World Series. ( Let’s just say I’m praying without ceasing. ) But we can’t disagree about this: every single person—gay, straight, trans, nonbinary, questioning, closeted, out and proud—is a beloved child of God, deserving of dignity, belonging, and full inclusion. Not despite who they are. But because of who they are. So, if you’re unwilling to see that—if you cannot bring yourself to welcome my friends, my family, Dale’s kids, and so many others into your world with open arms—then I’ll be honest: I don’t think we’re walking the same path anymore. That doesn’t mean I hate you. It just means I choose them. Because choosing them is choosing love. Choosing them is choosing Jesus. Choosing them is choosing to bless what God already calls good. So again—here I stand. Not in judgment, but in solidarity. Not with bitterness, but with resolve. Not with fear, but with love. And if that makes you uncomfortable… maybe that discomfort is holy ground. Maybe it’s an unlikely altar. Maybe it’s exactly where God is waiting.

There are moments in ministry that stay with you—not because you got it right, but because you didn’t. This is one of those moments. I’ve long considered myself an ally of the LGBTQ+ community. In private conversations, in my own theology, and often from the pulpit, I preached a gospel of grace and inclusion. I said it plainly and often: In Christ there is no Jew or Greek, no left or right, no red or blue, no straight or gay. We baptized the children of LGBTQ+ couples. We welcomed same-sex families into our churches. I tried to live and lead in ways that embodied the wide embrace of God’s love. But lately I’ve been asking myself the question that won’t leave me alone: Was it enough? Should I have done more? Because while I preached inclusion, I also sometimes softened my language to avoid division. I tried to hold tension, to nudge hearts gently. I didn’t always name the harm being done to LGBTQ+ people by the Church—not boldly enough, not clearly enough. I tried to keep the peace, even when peace was a luxury the most vulnerable couldn’t afford. And the answer I’ve come to is: No. It wasn’t enough. Because belief isn’t always enough. Preaching isn’t always enough. Quiet welcome isn’t always enough. Not when queer and trans people are being excluded, erased, vilified—by churches, by policies, by people who claim to speak for God. Some of the churches I pastored later chose to leave the United Methodist Church and align themselves with the Global Methodist Church—a move rooted, in no small part, in opposition to LGBTQ+ inclusion. That breaks my heart. I grieve that my time among them didn’t shift their trajectory. I grieve that my efforts at inclusion, while sincere, may not have gone far enough to counter the pull of exclusion. I didn’t always speak up when I should have. I didn’t always name the sin of institutional silence or the damage of doctrinal rejection. And I know now that silence is not neutral. Silence protects the status quo. Silence leaves others to do the fighting alone. To the LGBTQ+ community: If you ever wondered where I stood—please know I was with you. But if you ever felt unsupported, unsafe, unseen—I am so sorry. I should have done more. I am trying to do more now. This blog is called Unlikely Altars because I believe the sacred often shows up in uncomfortable places—in the truth we’d rather not face, in the prayers we don’t know how to pray, even in regret. Maybe this moment is an altar too: a place of repentance. A place to begin again. To be clear: I believe your love is holy. Your lives are sacred. Your families are real and beautiful and blessed. You have always belonged—in the Church, in the heart of God, and in the story of grace we are still trying to tell. I can’t change the past, but I can choose the future. I can commit to being louder in love, bolder in solidarity, clearer in conviction. I can use whatever voice I have left to say what should have been said long ago: You are beloved. You are not a disruption to the gospel—you are a living witness to it. If I have ever failed you with my silence, I hope these words become something more than just an apology. I hope they become a turning point. This is my altar—not of wood or stone, but of silence laid down and truth picked up. Here, I offer my regret, my good intentions, and my fears. And I make this commitment: to speak with love, to stand with courage, and to never again mistake quiet for faithful. A Prayer God of mercy, Forgive the silence that protected me and not the ones who needed shelter. Heal the wounds I helped cause by what I left unsaid. Let this confession be more than words— Let it be a turning, a re-forming, a re-commitment to love boldly and live truthfully. Make me braver. Make your Church kinder. And may all your beloved children—of every orientation and identity—know they are seen, safe, and sacred in your sight. Amen.

Pride Month is many things. It’s a celebration of love, identity, joy, and survival. A season for parades and playlists, pronouns and painted crosswalks—not because being loud is trendy, but because being quiet was once the only way to stay safe. For so many, silence was a survival strategy. Visibility is a victory hard-won. For me, Pride has become one of those Unlikely Altars—a place where the sacred shows up in sequins and protest signs, in drag shows and dance floors. Where holiness doesn’t whisper—it shouts, sings, sparkles, and survives. It’s color and confetti and community. It’s drag queens and denim jackets covered in buttons. It’s couples holding hands in public without apology. It’s dance floors that feel like sanctuary. It’s laughter echoing where fear once reigned. But Pride is also a remembrance. It remembers Stonewall—not as a branding opportunity, but as a riot sparked by the brave defiance of Black and brown trans women who were tired of being harassed and erased. It remembers the queer elders who carved out space where there was none—who built chosen families, underground bars, churches without buildings, and movements that made it possible for so many of us to breathe a little freer today. It remembers those we’ve lost—to violence, to silence, to hatred and shame. It mourns the holy ones the world never gave a funeral, but whom heaven surely welcomed home with open arms. Pride carries their names in protest signs and candlelight vigils. It holds their memories like sacred relics. Pride is protest, too. Because too many are still told they don’t belong. Because too many kids still grow up afraid of their own reflection, unsure if they’ll be loved if they’re honest. Because laws still pass that make it harder for LGBTQ+ people—especially youth and trans people—to live, learn, work, worship, and simply be without fear. Because some pulpits still echo with shame instead of grace. Because churches still split over the question of whether love is allowed. And for allies like me, Pride is a holy invitation. To show up, even when it’s uncomfortable. To speak up, even when it’s costly. To listen more than talk, and to learn without being defensive. To love without asterisks, fine print, or theological disclaimers. Because every rainbow flag is more than a symbol—it’s a story. Every coming-out is an act of courage. Every chosen name is a declaration of dignity. Every drag performance, every Pride march, every “they/them” pronoun is someone’s sacred truth spoken out loud. Pride Month is, in its own way, an Unlikely Altar. A street parade that looks more like the Kingdom of God than many sanctuaries ever have. A communion of glitter and grace. A place where the excluded lead the procession. A celebration that says, “You’re not just tolerated—you’re treasured.” And in a world that still gets this wrong far too often, that kind of truth? It’s nothing short of holy.

When I was a kid, my father was a mystery—real in theory, but invisible in practice. Kind of like the dragons in the storybooks. ( Thank you, Don Miller for this idea ). I knew fathers were real. I saw them in my neighborhood. At school events. Sitting in the stands. Telling bad jokes over dinner at my friends’ houses. I just didn’t see one in my own home. And for a long time, I assumed that meant there was something wrong with me. I’ve written before about my biological father and the worn leather baseball glove he left behind. How that glove held more than its shape—how it held absence, too. A reminder of what wasn’t there. That glove sat packed away in a box for years. Not flashy. Not mysterious. But quietly full of memory. It didn’t hold answers. Just questions. Who was he? Did he ever think of me? Would we have tossed this ball around, had things been different? Looking back now, I realize that old glove was the first thing that hinted at something bigger—something sacred hidden in the ordinary. Maybe that’s what theology really is. It taught me that absence can be tangible. That love, even when missing, can still leave a trace. That longing is its own kind of prayer. But this story isn’t only about what wasn’t there. It’s about what came to take its place. One day, my mom brought home a man who seemed enormous. Over six feet tall, driving a Chevy station wagon that felt like a spaceship to a kid who had only known a one-parent universe. I remember looking up at him and thinking, Is this what it feels like to stand next to a mountain? At the time, I didn’t know how to name it. But something began to shift. He didn’t try to replace anyone. He didn’t make promises or declarations. He just… stayed. Through the slammed doors, the smart mouth, the years when I gave him every reason to walk away, he didn’t. He never wore a cape. Never rode a dragon. But he showed up with groceries and grace. With quiet patience and fierce loyalty. And he caught more than baseballs—he caught my older brother and little sister. His name was Warren. He never asked to be anyone’s hero. But as I think about it he was mine. He passed away a few years ago. And while I told him thank you in a hundred little ways over the years, I don’t know if I ever said all of this. I hope he knew. I think he did. Because love like his doesn’t go unnoticed. It sinks in. It stays. It shapes the life it touches - - just like that glove shaped a hand that once wore it. And now I have two boys of my own. Connor. Zach. They are both dads themselves. You didn’t come with instruction manuals. You didn’t ask for me to carry all my old questions into fatherhood. But you gave me the gift of becoming a dad—not in theory, not in longing, but in full, beautiful reality. And I want you to know this: Being your father has been the greatest grace of my life. I hope you know. I think you do. Because that’s how love works. Passed down not just through blood, but through presence. Through staying. Through choosing. Through gloves handed down and hands held on the hardest days. This Father’s Day, I’m thinking of the man who stepped into the gap for me— And the sons who have filled my life with more joy than I could have imagined. None of it is a fairy tale. It’s better. It’s real. And it’s sacred.

The Belmont Stakes usually comes with less noise. Unless there’s a Triple Crown contender, it’s quieter. Fewer hats. Less hype. No trumpet fanfare announcing history in the making. And maybe that’s exactly why it matters. Because sacred doesn’t require spectacle. Sometimes, the altar isn’t at the front of the crowd, draped in roses, or blanketed in Black-Eyed Susans, or waiting for a crown of carnations. Sometimes it’s in the back row, in the shadows, in the space where no one’s keeping score or waiting for glory. Sometimes, holiness just looks like showing up. If the Kentucky Derby is the grand stage—fanfare and fever dreams—and the Preakness is the scrappy sequel full of fight, then the Belmont, in years like this one, feels like a regular Saturday that most folks scroll past. But that’s the unlikely altar, isn’t it? Not the headline moment—just the kind that quietly holds the whole story together. The Belmont was run anyway. And wouldn’t you know it—same result as the Derby. Same top three. Same come-from-behind winner who waited until the final stretch to surge past the leaders again. There’s something sacred in that, too. Because most of life isn’t Triple Crown moments. It’s ordinary time. Quiet faith. Long, slow miles when no one’s cheering. When you run not because the world is watching, but because the race is yours to run. I watched the race while babysitting my granddaughter, who was making a glorious mess of the spaghetti I cooked just for her. Not a big night—just a full one. Full of sauce-stained joy, soft wonder, and a little magic spilled across the living room. And after she was tucked into bed, we raised a glass—not a mint julep or a Black-Eyed Susan, but a Belmont Jewel. And that felt right. The Belmont Jewel has never been the star of the show. It doesn’t come with its own silver cup or folklore. It’s just bourbon, lemonade, and pomegranate. Unassuming. Refreshing. It shows up late in the season, after the crowds have thinned and the stakes have lowered. And yet, somehow, it’s exactly what the moment needed. Maybe that’s the message of the Belmont itself: There’s beauty—even blessing—in what gets overlooked. And maybe that’s why Dan Fogelberg’s lyric landed hard again: “The chance of a lifetime in a lifetime of chance.” It’s not just about chasing big dreams—it’s about noticing small ones. The little flashes of grace that show up in spaghetti smiles, in late surges from behind, in ordinary days when no one’s paying attention. It’s about how sacred chances don’t always come with fanfare. Sometimes they arrive like a whisper. Sometimes they’re handed to us in the form of a child, or a quiet evening, or a race that doesn’t seem to matter—until it does. Because maybe the chance of a lifetime is simply the chance to live it. To show up. To keep running. To keep loving. Especially when no one’s watching.

To my LGBTQ+ siblings and neighbors, whose courage humbles me— Happy Pride Month. I want to say something that should’ve been said a long time ago, and said more often: You are loved. Fully. No exceptions. Not in spite of who you are, not as a “God-loves-you-but…” kind of thing. Just… loved. Period. And while I say this with my whole heart, I’m also carrying sorrow - - and yes, heartbreak. Because in Texas, where I live, lawmakers have passed Senate Bill 12, a law passed earlier this year, set to take effect September 1, 2025. It bans school-sponsored LGBTQ+ clubs - - stripping away vital spaces where queer students could gather, be seen, be safe, and know they belong. My heart is broken. As an ally. As a person of faith. As someone who believes school should be a place for growth, not shame. Let’s be clear: this isn’t about protecting children. It’s about erasing the ones who don’t fit someone else’s definition of “acceptable.” And as someone who follows Jesus—the Jesus who welcomed the outcast, who defended the excluded, who never once asked someone to shrink to be loved—I can’t stay quiet. I won’t. We were called to be people of love and instead, far too often, we’ve chosen fear dressed up in religion. We’ve preached inclusion and practiced exclusion. We’ve claimed grace for ourselves and forgotten to offer it freely. There are so many ways we’ve gotten it wrong. And if you’ve been hurt - - by a church, by a Christian, by a culture shaped by both - - I just want you to hear: you did not deserve that. You are not a mistake. You are not someone God is disappointed in. You are a gift. Pride is about joy. About presence. About refusing to apologize for being beautifully, wonderfully, unapologetically you. It’s about surviving when the world said you shouldn’t. It’s about taking up your space in the world—and in the pews, and at the communion table, and under the stars where God saw you and said, “This is very good.” If the Church or the state has made you feel like there’s no room for you - - I want you to know: that wasn’t Jesus. That was us, missing the mark. Pride Month gives me a chance to say what I should say all year: You are beloved. You are sacred. You belong. And if no one’s ever said it to you from a pulpit or a pew or a prayer—hear it here, now, from me: I see the holy in you. And I’m standing with you. Maybe this is the Unlikely Altar: a broken heart that refuses to give up on love. So, to every LGBTQ+ person - - to those in Texas and beyond: To those who’ve been made to feel like your existence is “too controversial” To the ones who wonder if it’s safer not to be yourself at all, To the ones who’ve lost a safe space but haven’t lost your spirit Here is my prayer for you: May you find allies in unexpected places. May you never believe the lie that your life is less than sacred. May your identity never be a source of shame - - only of strength. May you be met with fierce kindness, quiet solidarity, and loud joy. And may you never, ever forget: There’s nothing wrong with you. There’s so much right with you. With love, An ally, A Christian, And a work in progress

I never had a catch with my dad. Not once. Not even close. He chose to leave pretty much, long before I knew what to do with a ball or how to spell “mitt.” One day he was there, the next—he wasn’t. No goodbye. No warning. Just gone, like a foul ball that disappears into the stands and doesn’t come back. I didn’t even know what I was missing at the time. You can’t grieve what you don’t understand. But as I got older and saw other dads playing catch with their kids—heard the thump of leather in the air, saw the high-fives and the laughter—I started to understand exactly what I didn’t get. Then one day, years later, I was digging through an old box when I found it. Inside among papers, certificates and other stuff, was a baseball glove. His glove. It was worn and dusty, creased like it had lived a life. I slipped my hand inside. It didn’t fit quite right. No way it could fit, he was left-handed. He was a southpaw. And I never knew. It hit me, standing with his glove, that I didn’t even know what hand my father threw with. That glove had never been mine and never would be. It wasn’t a gift. It was just… something he left behind. I kept it. Tucked it back into the box. Closed the box and returned it to the shelf. Funny enough, there’s another box in the same closet. That one holds his ashes. So now I’ve got a box with his body, and a box with his glove. One for the man who left, one for the game he never played with me. Now, if you know me, you know I love baseball. For me it is the metaphor for life, The long season. The rhythm. The fact that you can fail seven times out of ten and still be considered great. That’s probably why Field of Dreams always hits me like a fastball to the chest. Especially the end—Costner turning to his dad, voice a little shaky, asking, “Hey Dad… wanna have a catch?” Every single time, I lose it. Doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen it. That moment wrecks me. Because that was my dream. Always. That was the moment I never got. But here’s where the story turns. Not long ago, I was in the backyard with one of my sons. We were messing around; we grabbed gloves (both right-handed ones, thank you very much) and I him tossed a ball. He threw it back. And there it was. We were having a catch. Just like that. No soundtrack swelling. No ghosts in cornfields. Just a dad and his kid, throwing a ball back and forth. And I’ve gotta say—it was one of the best things ever. That backyard moment didn’t fix what I missed growing up. But it rewrote the story. It baptized the ache. It reminded me that I don’t have to pass down what was handed to me. I get to choose something different. I get to show up. That glove—the one that never quite fit—still sits in the box. But lately, I’ve thought about taking it out. Maybe even setting it on a shelf. Not because it’s sacred, but because it tells the truth. That even something left behind can hold a thread of redemption. It’s a reminder, of the father who disappeared, of the son who chose to stay, and the backyard catch that said, this story isn’t over. I never had a catch with my dad. But I get to have one with my boys. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it’s more than enough. Because I still believe in baseball. I believe in gloves that don’t fit and grace that does. I believe in showing up—even when it wasn’t shown to you. And I believe that when this life winds down, and the lights go soft, I’ll hear a voice—quiet, kind, and holy—“Hey kid… wanna have a catch?” And I’ll know exactly who it is.

We watched the Preakness this past Saturday. We didn’t throw a full-on party like we did for the Derby—no fancy hats, no fun foods. But we still honored tradition in our own small way: not with a Mint Julep, but with a Black-Eyed Susan, the official drink of the Preakness. Just a quiet afternoon, and a drink in hand. A little ritual. A little altar, in its own unlikely way. The weather in Baltimore was perfect—a sharp contrast to the mud-soaked chaos of the Derby a few weeks earlier. And while no one sang “Run for the Roses,” I still found myself humming it—because honestly, what’s a springtime horse race without a little Dan Fogelberg in the background? One horse in particular caught my attention—Gosger. He was the one I was pulling for. Not because he was flashy, but precisely because he wasn’t. At 20:1 odds, he was the forgotten one—overlooked and underestimated. But what really made me root for him was his name. One of his owners, a woman named Donna Clarke, chose “Gosger” not for flair or branding, but in honor of a Facebook friend, Jim Gosger. A name I should have recognized—but didn’t. I’ve been a Mets fan for as long as I can remember. The 1969 Miracle Mets are etched into my memory like sacred scripture—Seaver, Grote, Koosman, Swoboda. But Jim Gosger? Honestly, I had to look him up. He played in 39 games that year. I didn’t remember him—but Donna Clarke did. And that horse—like his namesake, nearly forgotten—almost made history. He ran his heart out, finishing just a half-length behind the favorite. It felt right that it happened at the Preakness—the middle child of the Triple Crown. Not the glamorous Derby with its roses and celebrities. Not the Belmont with its history-making potential. Just the Preakness: scrappy, quieter, easy to forget. And to be honest, the whole story reminds me of my beloved Mets. The Yankees are more like Churchill Downs—steeped in legacy and pageantry. The Mets? They’re more like Pimlico. Gritty. Quirky. Prone to chaos. And yet, every so often, capable of something miraculous. You don’t root for the Mets because it’s fashionable. You root for them because they make you believe anything is possible. That the overlooked and underestimated still have a shot. That long shots can still run the race of their lives. And sometimes, even when they fall short, they remind you what heart looks like. There’s something quietly beautiful about that. Because Gosger the horse didn’t run in the Derby. He didn’t get the spotlight. He just showed up at the Preakness—the middle space—and gave it everything he had. And Gosger the Met? He wasn’t the star. He was one of the many in the background who helped hold the miracle together. So, where’s the unlikely altar? It’s in the choosing. In the small but defiant act of remembering someone who could have been forgotten. Donna Clarke didn’t pick a name to impress the crowd. She picked a name that mattered. And in doing so, she built an altar—not out of stone or stained glass, but out of memory and meaning. Altars don’t always stand in cathedrals. Sometimes, they show up in a name, in a race, in a drink raised quietly on a Saturday afternoon. Sometimes, they run.

Mother’s Day is tender terrain. For some, it brings joy—a chance to celebrate the women who raised us, nurtured us, cheered us on. But for many, it’s more complicated. It can carry a quiet ache that sneaks up without warning. A scent. A song. A laugh that sounds too much like hers. Or simply the sharp truth: She’s not here. Some grieve mothers who were a steady presence. Others mourn the absence of that kind of love. Some carry the weight of children lost far too soon—or children who never came. Some made the brave, invisible decision not to become mothers. Others mother daily, without ever being called “Mom.” And all of it—every version of love and loss—is sacred. I was part of a gathering Friday evening at Kingwood Funeral Home, a quiet space for those holding heavy things on this weekend. We cried. We laughed. We remembered. And I was struck again by how love never really leaves. It just changes form. It shows up in the way we fold towels, the way we stir our tea, the way we still talk to the air like someone’s listening. Grief is just love that’s had to take a different shape. And it has a way of leaking out—through stories, songs, silent rituals no one sees. Two cups of coffee when there’s only one person. A contact still saved in the phone. A casserole made without a recipe, because you know it by heart. It’s funny how stitched into our lives someone can be—until they’re gone, and suddenly we notice everything. The phrases coming out of our own mouths. The craving for a dish we swore we’d never eat again. The way we hold others, the way we were once held. It’s in the towel folding and the soup stirring. In the way we carry their memory like a photo tucked in our chest pocket. And not every mother was gentle or safe. For some, “Mom” is a complicated word. Maybe she wasn’t there. Maybe she hurt more than helped. Maybe she couldn’t show up the way you needed. If that’s your story, you belong in this reflection too. Your grief is no less sacred. Your truth, no less valid. And those who mothered without the title? They are the quiet heroes in the background. The aunts, teachers, neighbors, chosen family. The ones who packed lunches, listened without judgment, and brought snacks when everything felt like too much. Whether they were related by blood or not, they offered a kind of presence that shaped us. Mother’s Day is loud in the world—brunch specials and pastel greeting cards. But here, in this quiet corner, we make space for the full truth. The complicated stories. The holy ones. This is an Unlikely Altar A place to lay down grief and pick up memory. A place to let yourself feel what you’ve been holding in. To cry. To laugh. To remember. We remember the spicy moms, the loud ones, the unembarrassable ones. The ones who gave advice no one asked for, who made casseroles and life plans in the same breath. The ones with purses that could produce a Band-Aid, a pen, and a snack at a moment’s notice. The ones who stirred tea with a butter knife and never got names right, but made everyone feel like family. We say their names. We tell their stories. Because remembering is how we keep love alive. So if the tears come today, let them. If a memory makes you laugh out loud, don’t hold it back. If all you can do is sit quietly and breathe, that’s holy, too. Grief is not a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of great love. And those we love? They are not gone. You are not alone. Love stays. And so do they.