Standing Firm in the Evil Day

“For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world…”

—Ephesians 6:12

When Paul wrote these words, he was not speaking metaphorically about vague personal problems. He was writing as a man deeply familiar with empire, law, and state power. Paul lived under Roman rule, a system that enforced order through military might, legal control, and rigid social hierarchies. Roman law determined whose bodies mattered, whose relationships were legitimate, and whose lives could be constrained—or erased—for the sake of stability.

Paul himself had been imprisoned, beaten, and placed under house arrest. His letters were often written under surveillance or confinement. When he spoke of “rulers,” “authorities,” and “powers,” his audience would have understood that he was referring to real governing structures—political, legal, and religious systems that claimed ultimate authority over people’s lives.

And yet Paul is careful. He does not encourage violent revolt. He does not call for vengeance. Instead, he reframes the struggle. The problem is not individual people, but systems shaped by fear, domination, and exclusion. These systems, Paul insists, are not aligned with God’s reign—even when they wrap themselves in moral or religious language.

That is why he urges believers to “take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on the evil day, and having done everything, to stand.” (Ephesians 6:13)

The armor Paul describes—truth, righteousness, faith, salvation—mirrors the equipment of Roman soldiers, but with a radical twist. This armor is not meant to harm others. It is meant to protect the vulnerable soul against a world that demands conformity at the cost of integrity.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, this history matters. Unjust laws today—those that restrict healthcare, criminalize identity, undermine families, or legitimize discrimination—function much like the systems Paul knew. They are often justified as “order,” “morality,” or “tradition,” but their real effect is harm. They tell certain people that their lives are suspect, their love illegitimate, and their presence a problem to be managed.

Paul’s words remind us that standing firm against such systems is not rebellion against God—it is fidelity to God.

Paul also knew that resistance cannot survive on anger alone. That is why he tells the Philippians:

“Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just… think about these things.”

—Philippians 4:8

In a world that constantly told early Christians they were dangerous, deviant, or disposable, Paul urged them to guard their inner lives. Fixing our minds on truth and justice is an act of spiritual resistance. It keeps oppressive systems from colonizing our hearts.

And finally, James offers wisdom born from a persecuted community as well:

“Humble yourselves before the Lord, and he will exalt you.”

—James 4:10

Humility here is not submission to injustice. It is a refusal to let power define worth. Early Christians had little social standing, no legal protection, and few allies. Their hope rested not in empire, but in God’s faithfulness to lift up those the world pushed down.

That hope continues to sustain LGBTQ+ Christians today.

• To stand firm is to say: we will not internalize lies about who we are.
  
• To resist unjust systems is to say: God’s justice is larger than human law.
  
• To take up the armor of God is to protect love, truth, and dignity—especially when they are under threat.

The call remains the same across centuries: 

• Stand.
  
• Not in hatred.
  
• Not in despair.

But in faith that the God who sees injustice also walks beside those who refuse to bow to it.

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Moment of Zen: Shopping

Some people love to shop. Some people hate to shop.

I mostly enjoy it—as long as the store isn’t too crowded.

And even if shopping isn’t your thing, there’s always the quiet pleasure of people-watching.

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Under the Covers

It is so cold this morning that I feel like I should have gone to bed last night wearing a sweater. When I sleep, I almost always wear a T-shirt and no pants because my legs get ridiculously hot at night. I’m generally a #5 on this chart—but from past comments, I’m guessing a fair number of you are solid #20s.

As I write this, it’s –6 degrees, with a projected high of 4. Thank goodness it’s my work-from-home day. The very first thing I did this morning—after feeding Isabella—was make a hot cup of tea and pull on sweatpants and a hoodie. I may overheat when I sleep, but the moment I get out of bed? I’m instantly frozen.

Winter really does keep us humble. 🥶🫖

* * * * * Red Alert * * * * * 

Possible spoiler ahead…

On a completely different note—has anyone else watched the latest episode of Star Trek: Starfleet Academy? It feels increasingly clear to me that Jay-Den is a gay Klingon. He’s played by Karim Diané, who is unmistakably gay, and the show has already teased that Jay-Den will have a romantic storyline at some point.

I originally assumed that would be Kyle from episode three, but after this week’s episode… I’m not so sure. The scene between Jay-Den and Darem felt very sexually charged. I genuinely thought they were about to kiss.

Was it just me, or did anyone else feel that spark too?

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The Broken Dawn

I’ve been reading The Broken Dawn, the first book in The Silver Throne series by Aurora Chatsworth—a gay historical romance set in a fictionalized, pre–World War II Sweden. The novel follows the forbidden love story between Prince Harald and Jakob Eliasberg, a scholarship cadet at a military academy. Their relationship unfolds against rigid class divisions, rising political tension, and the unmistakable shadow of an approaching war, all while the royal family actively opposes their bond.

And honestly? It’s been really good.

It checks a lot of my boxes. I love history. I love m/m romance. I love military history—though my heart will always belong more to World War I than World War II. Still, this novel hits that sweet spot where personal intimacy and looming catastrophe coexist, and I found it hard to put down last night. I eventually had to tell myself: You have to go to work tomorrow. You need sleep. And Isabella will absolutely wake you up earlier than you want her to. (She always does.)

This is Chatsworth’s first novel, and it appears to be self-published. There are a few editing issues—some phrases are definitely overused—but surprisingly few outright typos, especially compared to what you often see in self-published fiction. Overall, the story is engaging, emotionally grounded, and compulsively readable.

Aurora Chatsworth is a pen name, but her background adds an interesting layer to the book. She holds a B.A. in History, which becomes very apparent as you read. Before turning to fiction, she worked as a costume designer for circus, theater, and historical reenactment—then pivoted to law school, spent ten years practicing as an attorney, and later joined the U.S. Diplomatic Service in 2012. She has served overseas in the Caribbean, Europe, and the Middle East. That combination of historical training, visual detail, legal thinking, and diplomatic experience gives the novel a distinctive texture and perspective.

Book two in The Silver Throne series is due out in April, with book three scheduled for October. The Broken Dawn is her first novel under the Aurora Chatsworth name (she also writes on diplomatic policy under her real name), and I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing where the series goes next.

What makes The Broken Dawn especially resonant is how it situates a queer love story in the uneasy calm of prewar Europe—a moment when old hierarchies still held power, even as they were beginning to crack. Same-sex desire existed everywhere in this period, but it survived in secrecy, coded spaces, and stolen moments, particularly within institutions like the military that prized discipline, masculinity, and conformity. By placing Harald and Jakob’s relationship inside a rigid academy and a royal household obsessed with legacy, Chatsworth reminds us that queer history is not a modern invention—it has always unfolded alongside political anxiety, rising nationalism, and the ever-present threat of violence. Their love matters precisely because it exists in the shadows of what we know is coming.

But alas—I’m almost finished with The Broken Dawn, and I won’t have another installment waiting for me for several months. The familiar reader’s melancholy is setting in already.

Thank you Susan for suggesting The Broken Dawn.

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Dream, Interrupted

I woke up around 2 a.m. from a dream that felt unusually detailed and annoyingly unfinished.

The setting was Hattiesburg—but not Hattiesburg-me. It was Hattiesburg with the body, mind, and self-awareness I have now. A woman I knew in high school was throwing a birthday party for me at a bar. In real life we’ve drifted far apart into very different worlds (her MAGA, me reality), but in the dream she was cheerful and oddly thoughtful. A former colleague from Vermont was there too, along with several other women I half-recognized. All women…except for one man.

He stayed close to my old friend most of the night. He had curly dark hair, stylishly cut, and tight jeans that made it impossible not to notice his round, compact backside. His mannerisms were just slightly gay, but also comfortably masculine—like someone who knew exactly how he looked and didn’t mind being seen. I assumed he was her date, so I only allowed myself to notice him in that distant, respectful way reserved for attractive men you think are taken.

He seemed shy around me, though, and because he was younger, I didn’t imagine he was paying me any real attention.

We were all gathered near the bar at one point—she facing the counter, me turned sideways—and he stepped into the narrow space between us, his back to me. Then the crowd shifted and he was suddenly pressed right up against me. His backside brushed my crotch, not accidentally but not entirely on purpose either. I put my hands on his hips to steady him, expecting him to step forward.

Instead, he leaned back more, fitting himself against my chest and stomach like it was the most natural thing in the world. He even made a small sound—soft, surprised, and not entirely displeased.

After a moment he said, almost teasingly, “What does it take for you to notice me?”

I told him I had noticed him, but I thought he was with my friend. That’s when she turned around and said, “Oh no, I brought him because I knew he’d be your type.”

He smiled and added, “And you are most definitely my type.”

Dream logic took over after that. Somehow he was from Chicago. Somehow he was in graduate school in a department I couldn’t quite pin down—English? Engineering? Architecture? Polymer Science? Somehow my high school friend and my grad school friend were the same person. None of it made sense, and all of it felt completely reasonable.

I told him I didn’t think someone like him would be interested in someone like me—older, with a dad bod, less hair than I used to have. He told me that was exactly what he found attractive. I told him he was exactly what I found attractive. He wasn’t a twink, but he had that twink-adjacent energy—probably late twenties, the age I was back when I was in grad school.

Eventually the party moved from the bar to a house—everyone came along. It was the house my grad school friend used to live in behind her grandparents’ place. Later in real life, I actually rented that house myself, but in the dream it simply made sense that we were there.

At some point I was sitting on the couch. I motioned for him to come over. He sat down on my lap, straddling my legs and facing me. Everyone else seemed to fade away. It was just the two of us, knee to knee, chest to chest, crotch to crotch, close enough to feel each other’s breath. We kissed. Hands began to roam. Clothes began to shift—shirts half unbuttoned…

And then my brain, like a cruel editor, cut the scene.

I woke up annoyed, amused, and very aware that my body had been fully invested in the story. I went to the bathroom, then typed out notes about the dream before going back to bed, hoping it might resume where it left off.

It did not.

Normally I wouldn’t bother recording a dream like that, but I knew I’d forget it if I didn’t. And since I was off work today for a Botox appointment at noon, I figured I could afford a little extra sleep…even if my subconscious decided to leave me suspended in unresolved tension.

Amazingly, Isabella did let me sleep until after 5 a.m.

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