Unlikely Altars

Sometimes, the altar isn’t built of stone. No stained glass. No priest in a robe. Just a hospital room, a folding chair, and the uncomfortable realization that this might be the last real conversation you ever have with someone you love. Not exactly the setting we picture when we think of holiness. And yet—there it is. In one unforgettable episode of THE PITT , the adult children sit at the bedside of their dying father. Someone suggests they tell their dad four simple things. Not a speech. Not a grand gesture. Just four, quiet sentences: I love you. Thank you. I forgive you. Please forgive me. That moment felt like holy ground. No lightning bolt. No choir of angels. But something sacred settled into the air, like grace in street clothes. These four phrases come from the work of Dr. Ira Byock, a renowned palliative care physician who’s spent his life helping people die well—and helping the rest of us not completely blow the chance to say what matters most. In his book The Four Things That Matter Most, Dr. Byock distills a career’s worth of bedside wisdom into a simple but profound truth: when people are dying, what they most need—and what we most need to say—can be boiled down to these four sentences. They don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the past. But they open a door. And often, that’s enough. Dr. Byock’s framework echoes the deeper rhythms of Hoʻoponopono, a traditional Hawaiian practice of reconciliation and restoration. In its original form, families would come together to “make things right” through confession, forgiveness, and mutual accountability—sometimes with the help of a spiritual elder or healer. It was part therapy, part liturgy, part family intervention. The goal wasn’t to win. It was to heal. And isn’t that what we all want in the end? Here’s the part that keeps gnawing at me: Why do we wait until someone’s dying to say the truest things? Why do we save our best words—the vulnerable ones, the ones that crack us open—for the deathbed instead of the dinner table? Why do we think we have time? Maybe those four phrases aren’t just for the dying. Maybe they’re for the living, too. Maybe they’re not only the last things we say — but the things that hold us together all along. Think of them as a kind of relational liturgy. A four-part prayer for love in the real world. I love you - - Not the greeting-card version, but the kind that holds steady through disappointment and dishes left in the sink. Thank you - - A daily practice of naming what we usually overlook. I forgive you - - Not because it’s easy, but because bitterness is heavier than it looks. Please forgive me - - T he most human of all prayers. These aren’t just nice sentiments. They are sacred tools. And most of the time, we forget we’re holding them. So, over the next four posts, we’ll open each phrase like an offering—not just for the dying, but for the living who are stumbling through love and loss in real time. You won’t find case studies or dramatic TV scenes here. Only real stories—the kind that linger, surprise, or quietly change everything. You don’t need a diagnosis to speak these words. You don’t need a priest, a perfect script, or a mountaintop. You just need a relationship worth fighting for. A moment of honesty. And maybe a little courage. Because the sacred doesn’t always arrive in robes and incense. Sometimes it sounds like “I’m sorry,” whispered over coffee. Sometimes it’s a shaky “Thank you” muttered in the car. Sometimes it’s a plain sentence, said just in time. It doesn’t look like much. A sigh. A sentence. A pause. But that’s the thing about Unlikely Altars — sometimes they show up dressed like ordinary life.

My friend is a hero of mine. Not because he wears a cape. Not because he speaks in lofty words or quotes Scripture from memory. Not because he’s got his life together. (He’d be the first to laugh at that idea.) But because he shows up. He shows up when people are hurting. He shows up when something needs fixing or someone needs lifting. He shows up with hugs, silence, stories—whatever the moment calls for. He serves without fanfare. He listens without judgment. He gives without needing to be noticed. And lately, he’s tired. Bone-tired. Soul-weary. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away with sleep. The other day, he read something I wrote about Old Fashioneds. I wanted him to read it—because he's in recovery, and I trusted him enough to be totally honest with me. He was. And that opened a deeper conversation. He told me he’s looking for something. A rhythm. A ritual. A way to keep going when everything feels heavy. He didn’t call it a prayer. He didn’t call it church. He just said he needed something. A breath. A pause. A bit of meaning to lean on. I think a lot of us are looking for that. Some people find it in Scripture or a sanctuary. Others find it in walking their dog, or washing dishes, or sitting on the porch and watching the world not ask anything of them for a while. We don’t always need big answers. Sometimes we just need one quiet moment that doesn’t ask anything of us—except to be exactly as we are. My friend isn’t big on organized religion—too many walls, too much noise, too many people talking about God while forgetting to be kind. And yet, the way he lives—his compassion, his presence, his stubborn hope—tells me his faith is real. Maybe more real than most sermons. So, today, this post is for him. And maybe for you, too. If you're feeling tired. If your body is worn and your soul feels bruised. If your faith is hanging by a thread. If you’re not sure what you believe, but you still want to believe in something. I see this kind of weariness everywhere lately. My manager is working fifteen-hour days, pushing himself beyond what feels human, trying to keep everything from falling apart. The weight she carries isn’t just in the hours—it’s in the constant pressure, the never-ending to-do list, the silent worry no one sees. I think of a woman I met who stayed by her husband’s side in the ICU for more than two weeks. There were no visiting hour limits for her—she hardly ever left. Day after day, night after night, her presence was the only comfort he had in a place where hope felt fragile and time slowed to a crawl. Others are grieving, burned out, holding it together on the outside while falling apart on the inside. And some can’t even name what’s wrong. They just know that everything feels heavier than it used to. This isn’t just the tired that comes from a long day or a short night of sleep. It’s the exhaustion that lives in your bones, in your spirit. It’s the kind of tired that accumulates over time—from caregiving, from chronic stress, from holding in emotions, from showing up for others while neglecting yourself. It doesn’t clock out when your shift ends. It follows you home. It wakes up with you. A nap won’t fix it. A weekend off won’t touch it. Even sleep can feel like it doesn’t reach the place that hurts. Because this kind of tired isn’t just physical—it’s emotional, mental, even spiritual. It's weariness that comes from meaningful things: loving people through crisis, holding others’ pain, carrying grief, trying to be strong for too long. What helps isn’t always a fix. Sometimes what heals is simply being seen. It’s someone looking at you with quiet understanding and saying, “I know you’re carrying a lot.” It’s being allowed to stop pretending you’re okay. Sometimes the most sacred thing isn’t a solution—it’s someone who stays. Someone who doesn’t try to fix you, just chooses to sit beside you and offer grace and peace. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is admit we’re tired. Not fix it. Not push through. Not pretend we’re fine. Just tell the truth. That’s what my friend did the night we talked. And thankfully, I didn’t rush to fill the silence. I just listened. And as I ended the call, I was reminded how much we all need room to be human. Sometimes faith doesn’t look like certainty. Sometimes it looks like showing up anyway. Sometimes it looks like a car ride for someone who needs to get to the doctor. Sometimes it looks like silence. Sometimes it looks like asking for a breath of meaning when you’re too worn out to pray. Sometimes, we’re all just tired. I know that I am. If that’s where you are, I hope these words help you breathe. I hope they remind you that even your weariness is seen. I hope you remember that your doubt is not disqualifying. And that silence and pauses are part of the prayer. May you find rest in unexpected places. And may the sacred sneak up on you— right where you are. Sometimes the altar isn’t built of stone. No candles. No hymns. Just this moment. Just this breath. Just this—your Unlikely Altar.

If you’ve ever driven a Jeep, you know about the Jeep Wave — that friendly little hand gesture between drivers that says, I see you. We’re in this together. It’s a simple, silent connection. An unspoken, open-armed welcome. But a few years ago, that wave got some company — in the form of rubber ducks. Have you ever seen a rubber duck perched on a Jeep — or a whole flock of them riding shotgun on the dashboard — and wondered what in the world they’re doing there? Whether you're a Jeep enthusiast or just duck-curious, the story behind those little plastic passengers is one worth hearing. It all started in July 2020. Allison Parliament had just moved to a new town and bought a Jeep Wrangler. After a particularly tough day, she spotted another Jeep parked outside a store and, on a whim, grabbed a rubber duck she’d just bought, wrote “Nice Jeep” on it with a marker, and left it on the windshield. Just as she was finishing, the Jeep’s owner, whom she described as a “burly, scary-looking, 6-foot-5 guy,” came out and asked what she was doing. She showed him the duck. He laughed. He loved it. He encouraged her to post it on social media. She did — and that one small act of kindness took off faster than a Wrangler on a dirt trail. Under the hashtag #duckduckjeep , Jeep owners across the country ( and then the world ) began buying rubber ducks, dressing them up in silly outfits, and leaving them on strangers’ Jeeps as surprise gifts — little tokens of joy, connection, and community. “Nice ride.” “You belong.” “Here’s something to make your day.” Jeep dashboards became “duck ponds,” and people smiled a little more. It’s quirky. It’s fun. It’s ridiculously wholesome. And it’s built entirely on kindness — no strings attached. Last Friday night, at a local Pride event, the company I work for gave out rainbow-hearted ducks. Same spirit, different crowd. It struck me that these tiny, cheerful ducks — given without condition — say something big: I see you. You matter. You belong. Wouldn’t it be something if we all lived like that? Not just Jeep people. Not just companies during Pride Month. Not just churches when it’s convenient. All of us. All the time. Because here's the truth: far too many people — especially in the LGBTQ community — have been made to feel like they don’t belong. They've been asked to tone it down, fit in, hide parts of themselves, or earn their way into acceptance. The Church has often been one of the worst offenders. We’ve wrapped exclusion in soft phrases like “love the sinner, hate the sin,” but love can’t thrive when someone feels they have to hide who they really are just to be accepted. Jesus never operated that way. He didn’t make people qualify for love. He welcomed the overlooked, the outsider, the ones pushed to the edge. He made room at the table. He waved first. He shared his ducks freely, metaphorically speaking. So what if we did the same? What if we turned our dashboards into duck ponds — reminders to choose kindness over judgment, joy over gatekeeping, welcome over fear? What if we waved more, loved louder, gave freely, and stopped acting like there’s a limited number of seats at the table? So, if you see me out on the road, feel free to wave. Come say hello. I just might have a duck or two to share. Because sometimes, grace shows up in the quirkiest of places. A gas station parking lot. A Pride festival. A church pew. Or sitting on the dash of a muddy Jeep. That’s the heart of this blog — finding the sacred in the everyday. A rubber duck as an Unlikely Altar. A silly little moment that points to something holy. Because belonging is holy. Kindness is holy. And every time we choose love — especially when it’s unexpected —we build one more altar in this world where grace can rest.

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—again this year. 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. Again. 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 a disruption. 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. Again. 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