Living in the Light

“For all those who do evil hate the light and do not come to the light, so that their deeds may not be exposed. But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God.”

— John 3:20–21

There is something profoundly powerful about the idea of living in the light. Light reveals what darkness conceals. It illuminates the truth, exposes deception, and allows us to see ourselves and the world around us more clearly. In John 3:20–21, Jesus contrasts those whose actions cannot withstand the light of truth with those whose deeds reflect the goodness of God. For LGBTQ+ Christians, these verses carry a particular significance, especially for those of us who have spent part of our lives hiding who we truly are.

For generations, LGBTQ+ people have been told that our identities are something shameful, something that should remain hidden. Many of us grew up hearing that being gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender was incompatible with being a Christian. We were taught, either directly or indirectly, that acceptance by God depended upon denying an essential part of ourselves. Some of us learned to conceal our feelings, carefully guard our words, and construct lives that would satisfy the expectations of others. We became so accustomed to hiding that secrecy sometimes felt safer than openness.

Yet there is an important distinction between hiding something because it is wrong and concealing something because others have made it dangerous to reveal. Jesus speaks of those who avoid the light because their deeds are evil, but that is not the same as someone remaining in the closet out of fear of rejection, discrimination, violence, or losing the people they love. There is no shame in protecting ourselves when the world has not made it safe for us to live openly. Being closeted does not mean that someone is dishonest, sinful, or lacking in faith. Sometimes, it simply means they are doing what they must to survive.

Perhaps, though, we have been looking at the darkness in these verses from the wrong perspective. What if the darkness is not the closet itself, but the prejudice, hatred, and condemnation that force LGBTQ+ people into it? What if those who make us afraid to live openly are the ones whose actions cannot withstand the light of God’s truth? When someone uses religion to shame another person, threatens them with rejection, or convinces them that God’s love does not extend to them, that person is not spreading the light of Christ. They are casting shadows over someone else’s life. They are creating the very fear and secrecy that keep people from living authentically.

There is a painful irony in the fact that some of those who most loudly proclaim themselves defenders of God’s truth are the very people whose actions drive others into hiding. They claim to stand in the light while making the world darker for those they condemn. They demand that LGBTQ+ people repent of who they are while refusing to examine the cruelty, hypocrisy, and prejudice in their own hearts. They speak of righteousness while overlooking the suffering their words and actions cause. Yet the light of God’s truth does not shine only upon those whom society has labeled sinners. It shines upon all of us, exposing our prejudices, our failures to love, and the ways we sometimes use religion to justify hurting others.

The opposite is equally true. Those who embrace LGBTQ+ people with compassion, acceptance, and unconditional love help bring God’s light into the world. They create spaces where people no longer have to hide, where honesty is met with understanding rather than condemnation, and where love is celebrated rather than feared. Their actions reflect the truth Jesus describes because their compassion is visible in the way they treat others. They demonstrate their faith not by condemning people but by loving them. In doing so, they help lift the darkness that others have imposed and allow God’s light to shine more brightly.

Jesus tells us that those who do what is true come into the light. Notice that He does not say those who are perfect come into the light. He speaks of those whose actions reflect truth and goodness. This should challenge all Christians to consider whether their behavior genuinely reflects the teachings of Christ. Does our faith make others feel loved or rejected? Do our words encourage people to draw closer to God, or do they convince them that they are unworthy of His presence? Do we create an environment where people can live honestly, or do we make them afraid to reveal who they are?

These are not insignificant questions. Jesus consistently challenged religious hypocrisy and emphasized love, mercy, and compassion. He reached out to those whom society marginalized, welcomed those whom others rejected, and reminded His followers that loving God and loving one’s neighbor were the greatest commandments. If our understanding of Christianity causes us to treat others with cruelty rather than kindness, perhaps it is our understanding that needs to change.

For LGBTQ+ Christians, living in the light begins with recognizing that we are beloved children of God, created with dignity and worthy of love. Our sexuality or gender identity does not separate us from God’s grace. We do not have to become someone else to be worthy of His presence. The love we are capable of giving and receiving can reflect the goodness of God just as surely as anyone else’s. We should never allow the condemnation of others to convince us that our authentic selves are something shameful.

Of course, living in the light is not necessarily the same as coming out publicly. Not everyone has the freedom or safety to be open about their identity. Some risk losing their families, their livelihoods, their communities, or even their lives. We must never mistake their need for privacy and protection for a failure of courage or faith. God knows who they are, whether the rest of the world does or not. They can live truthfully before Him even when circumstances require them to remain closeted.

There is also a responsibility for those who claim to walk in God’s light. If we truly believe that truth comes from God, then we must be willing to examine the harm caused when religious teachings are used to exclude and condemn. We cannot claim to embrace the light while deliberately refusing to see the suffering of others. We cannot profess the love of Christ while making people feel unworthy of that love. The light Jesus describes should illuminate our own hearts as much as it illuminates the actions of those around us.

For those of us who have struggled to reconcile our faith with our identities, finding that light can be a long and difficult journey. It may involve questioning teachings we once accepted without hesitation, confronting painful memories, or learning to believe that God’s love really does include us. Sometimes, the hardest step is not convincing others of our worth but allowing ourselves to believe it. And sometimes, the most powerful expression of God’s light comes through another person who simply says, “I love you just as you are.”

The beautiful promise of John 3:20–21 is that truth and light belong together. We do not have to fear God’s light because we are LGBTQ+. We can come before Him as we are, without pretending to be someone we are not. God already knows our hearts, our struggles, our hopes, and our capacity for love. There is nothing about our authentic selves that comes as a surprise to Him.

Perhaps the greatest lesson of these verses is that we should be less concerned with exposing what others have been forced to hide and more concerned with examining the darkness our own actions might create. If we truly wish to walk in God’s light, we should strive to make the world a place where others no longer have to live in fear. We should replace condemnation with compassion, rejection with acceptance, and hatred with love.

The darkness is not who we are, and the light is not something we must earn. Those who force others into hiding should examine the shadows they cast, while those who offer love and acceptance help illuminate the path toward freedom. God’s light was never meant to drive us into the darkness. It was meant to remind us that we have always belonged in His love.

Moment of Zen: Autumn Leaves

Autumn is at its most glorious here in Vermont, where the mountains and hillsides are ablaze with brilliant shades of red, orange, and gold as we reach the peak of fall foliage season. There is something magical, yet fleeting, about the beauty of autumn leaves, a reminder that even as the seasons change, there is beauty to be found in letting go. “Autumn Leaves” captures that bittersweet beauty perfectly, its haunting melody evoking both the splendor of the season and the gentle melancholy of passing time.

Pic of the Day

Eleven Years Later

Eleven years ago this past Wednesday, I packed up my life in Alabama and moved to Vermont. I had no way of knowing just how much my life would change over the next eleven years. I knew I was beginning a new chapter, but I certainly couldn’t have imagined everything that chapter would contain.

I still remember how Vermont felt when I first arrived. The crisp autumn air, the mountains, the beautiful scenery, and the sense of possibility were almost intoxicating. After spending most of my life in Alabama, where I often felt constrained by other people’s expectations of who I should be, Vermont offered something I hadn’t fully realized I was missing: the freedom to simply be myself.

For the first time in a very long time, I felt like I could breathe.

I haven’t stopped loving Alabama. It will always be part of who I am. My Southern accent certainly hasn’t gone anywhere, and neither have my memories of growing up there. I still love Southern food, Southern hospitality, and many of the traditions that shaped my childhood. In fact, that Southern hospitality I was raised with has become an essential part of how I approach my professional life. I’ve developed a reputation for being welcoming, helpful, and willing to go the extra mile for visitors, students, and colleagues. Making people feel welcome and comfortable comes naturally to me because it’s simply how I was raised. It’s something I’m proud to have carried from Alabama to Vermont.

The two states may seem worlds apart politically and culturally, but they share more than people might think. Both have strong rural traditions, a connection to the land, and communities where people look out for one another. The difference, at least in my experience, has been the freedom I’ve found here to live my life without constantly worrying about whether I’m meeting someone else’s expectations.

Of course, moving to Vermont didn’t magically make everything better. In fact, some of the most difficult years of my life came after I moved here.

Not long after arriving, I lost one of my closest friends. His death devastated me, and the grief sent me into a depression that lasted for years. I had moved to Vermont hoping for a fresh start, only to find myself struggling just to get through each day. There were times when I wondered whether I would ever feel like myself again.

Therapy, unfortunately, didn’t help me the way I had hoped. If anything, it sometimes seemed to make matters worse. What did help was my friendship with Susan. She listened when I needed to talk, offered encouragement when I couldn’t find any for myself, and showed me a kindness and patience that I will never forget. I don’t know what I would have done without her during those years.

Depression also took a tremendous toll on my physical health. I gained a considerable amount of weight. Then came the diagnosis of type 2 diabetes.

I still remember crying when my doctor called to tell me. I was devastated. Diabetes was something I had feared, and hearing that I had developed it felt like one more thing going wrong in a life that already seemed to have more than its share of difficulties.

Looking back, though, that diagnosis became a turning point.

I was fortunate to find a wonderful primary care doctor shortly after moving to Vermont, and he has been with me ever since. He has encouraged me, worked with me through different treatments, and never made me feel as though my health problems defined who I was. With his help, my diabetes gradually came under control. Eventually, I was able to manage it through diet, and my weight began to come down.

The changes didn’t happen overnight. There were setbacks, frustrations, and times when progress seemed painfully slow. Along the way, I was also diagnosed with sleep apnea and began sleeping with a CPAP machine. My migraines, which had sometimes left me in nearly constant and debilitating pain, required their own long journey of finding treatments that worked.

Today, my life looks remarkably different.

I’ve lost a significant amount of weight and gone through more clothing sizes than I care to count. Sometimes I look in the mirror and still have trouble recognizing the person looking back at me. I can wear clothes now that I never would have imagined fitting into a few years ago.

But the most important changes aren’t the ones I can see in the mirror.

My diabetes is well controlled. I no longer need my CPAP. My migraines haven’t disappeared, and I still have some truly miserable ones, but they are no longer the nearly constant presence they once were. I have more energy, I feel better physically, and I can do things that would have been much more difficult just a few years ago.

Not every health problem has improved. The years of excess weight took a serious toll on my liver, and I was eventually diagnosed with cirrhosis. That’s something I’ll have to live with and carefully monitor for the rest of my life. My hope is that, with continued care, the disease will progress slowly enough that a liver transplant will remain a distant possibility rather than an immediate concern.

I’ve learned that improving your health doesn’t necessarily mean undoing every bit of damage that’s already been done. Sometimes it means doing everything you can to make the years ahead better than the ones behind you.

And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.

Yet, when I think about how much my life has changed since moving to Vermont, my health is only part of the story.

One of the greatest surprises has been my career. When I moved here, I never dreamed that I would eventually have what I consider my dream job. I had always loved history, teaching, and museums, but I never expected to find a position that would allow me to combine all three.

My work has given me opportunities I couldn’t have imagined eleven years ago. I’ve worked with fascinating historical objects, helped preserve people’s stories, developed exhibitions and educational programs, and introduced countless students and visitors to history in ways that go far beyond what they might find in a textbook.

I’ve also had the opportunity to teach, something that has always been close to my heart. There is a special satisfaction in watching students make connections between the past and the present, especially when an object helps them understand something that previously seemed distant or abstract.

Looking back, I realize that my Southern upbringing and my love of history have come together in ways I never anticipated. The hospitality I learned growing up in Alabama has become just as valuable to my work as the historical knowledge I acquired through years of education and teaching. Helping people feel welcome to explore, ask questions, and discover something new is one of the most important things I contribute professionally.

Over the years, my responsibilities have grown, and I’ve found myself taking on new challenges that have pushed me professionally and personally. My current role is one I could never have imagined holding when I first arrived in Vermont. There are days when work is exhausting, frustrating, and overwhelming, but I still consider myself incredibly fortunate to do what I do.

How many people get to say they found a job they never knew they wanted, only to discover it was exactly where they belonged?

I’ve changed in other ways, too. I’ve become more confident, more willing to speak up for myself, and more comfortable in my own skin. I’ve learned that I can be a Southern gentleman, a gay man, a Christian, a historian, and a Vermonter without any of those identities having to cancel out the others. They are all parts of who I am.

My faith has changed over these eleven years as well. Grief challenged it in ways I never expected, and there were times when I questioned things I had believed for most of my life. Yet those struggles also helped me develop a deeper understanding of faith, one rooted less in rules and expectations and more in love, compassion, and acceptance.

I’ve also continued writing this blog, sharing my thoughts, memories, frustrations, hopes, and occasional embarrassments with all of you. In many ways, writing has helped me understand my own journey. Sometimes I don’t realize how much I’ve changed until I look back at something I wrote years ago.

And, of course, I can’t talk about my life in Vermont without mentioning Isabella. That little black cat came into my life in 2016 and has been my constant companion ever since. She has brought me an enormous amount of comfort, affection, and amusement, even if she does occasionally seem to believe that my sole purpose in life is to serve her every whim. She’s been with me through some of my darkest days, and I can’t imagine my life without her.

Not everything about these eleven years has been serious, though.

I still laugh when I remember those first days in Vermont, when I was unpacking boxes and sleeping on an air mattress because my bed hadn’t arrived yet. Apparently, my curiosity about the local gay population was stronger than my desire to finish unpacking, because I opened Grindr to see who was around.

My bed hadn’t arrived, but a man did.

We hooked up, and the amusing thing is that I still see him occasionally, sometimes by chance and sometimes by design. I suppose that’s one way to make yourself feel welcome in a new state. 😂

My romantic life hasn’t exactly turned out the way I hoped it might. I still haven’t found that special someone with whom to share my life. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t sometimes make me sad. But I haven’t given up hope. Eleven years ago, I couldn’t have imagined much of the life I have today, so who’s to say what might happen tomorrow?

I’ve made wonderful friends here, lost some friendships to time and distance, and learned that relationships don’t always remain what we expect them to be. I’ve experienced kindness, disappointment, laughter, loneliness, and moments of unexpected happiness. In other words, I’ve lived.

When I think about the man who arrived in Vermont eleven years ago, I wish I could tell him a few things. I’d tell him that the years ahead wouldn’t always be easy. That he would experience heartbreak and grief, struggle with his health, and sometimes wonder whether he’d made the right decisions.

But I’d also tell him that he would find a career he loved, build a life of his own, discover strengths he didn’t know he possessed, and gradually become more comfortable with the person he had always been.

Most importantly, I’d tell him that he would find a place where he belonged.

Vermont isn’t perfect. No place is. There are things I miss about Alabama, and there are certainly things about Vermont that can drive me crazy. Eleven winters have done little to convince me that bitter cold is one of life’s great pleasures. But somewhere along the way, Vermont stopped being the place I had moved to and became home.

Perhaps that’s the biggest change of all.

Eleven years ago, I came here hoping for a better life. I didn’t find a life without hardship, disappointment, or loss. What I found was the opportunity to build a life that felt more genuinely my own.

And as I look toward the years ahead, I realize that I’m not finished changing, growing, or discovering what life has in store for me.

For the first time in a long time, that thought fills me with more hope than fear.

Pic of the Day

Sweet Dreams…

One of my first conscious thoughts when I woke up this morning was:

🎶 … dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree? 🎶

Yes, this is another recounting of one of my dreams. This is the second morning in a row that I’ve awakened in the middle of a lovely dream. Y’all are probably getting tired of me talking about dreams, but it’s only recently that I’ve started remembering them, and some are just too good not to share.

I won’t really talk about the dream I woke up from yesterday because it was based on a real memory, and honestly, it never got to anything particularly exciting. This morning’s dream, however, was a little more interesting.

It began with someone asking me a question I often get when people find out I’m originally from Alabama: “What do you think of Vermont winters?” It’s always some variation of that question. My answer is usually something along the lines of “I love them” or “I don’t mind them,” followed by “I hate the heat in the South.”

In the dream, someone either asked me about skiing, or I volunteered that I wished I enjoyed skiing but had never learned how. I mentioned that I’d once tried to learn to water ski but had never been successful.

That’s when things got interesting.

The dream began with an actual childhood memory that gradually transformed into something entirely different.

When I was growing up, my family had a camp on the Alabama River. We’d take our camper down there and spend our days fishing, swimming, and generally enjoying ourselves. It was a wonderful place to spend a summer weekend.

When I was a teenager, I tried to learn to water ski. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the upper-body strength to pull myself up out of the water. I remember getting into position behind the boat, holding onto the rope, and waiting for Daddy to take off. When he did, my skis went one way, and I went another. To make matters worse, I had trouble letting go of the rope and ended up being dragged underwater. Daddy stopped the boat, and I finally surfaced.

That’s where the actual memory ends and the dream takes over.

Apparently, in the dream, I was having some difficulty after surfacing, and my older brother’s friend jumped into the water and helped pull me back into the boat. Now, I don’t actually have an older brother, so that’s your first indication that my sleeping mind had decided to rewrite history.

And what a rewrite it was!

My imaginary brother’s friend was gorgeous, especially to a gay teenager who was still trying to come to terms with his feelings for other guys. Needless to say, I developed an immediate case of hero worship. I spent the rest of our time at the river getting to know him and following him around like a lovesick puppy.

When we returned home, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Then, one day, a letter arrived in the mail. It was from him! He wanted to know how I was doing, how the beginning of the school year was going, and all sorts of other ordinary things that suddenly seemed extraordinary because he was the one asking.

He and my brother were in college, which would have made him about nineteen, although in the dream he seemed only a couple of years older than I was.

I wrote back, and before long, we became pen pals. Remember, when I was a teenager, there was no texting, email, or instant messaging. If you wanted to communicate with someone who lived somewhere else, you wrote a letter, put a stamp on it, and waited for the mailman. There was something wonderful about getting a letter from someone special, even if waiting for the next one could seem like an eternity.

The following summer, we all returned to our camp on the river, and my brother brought his friend along. This time, he seemed to spend more time with me than with my brother. At night, he slept on the top bunk while I slept on the bottom, and my brother slept on the couch that pulled out into a bed.

After that summer, the letters continued, but now he occasionally called me on the telephone, too. I can only imagine how excited my teenage self must have been every time the phone rang and it was him.

Another summer passed, and once again, my brother brought his friend to the river.

One afternoon, while Daddy and my brother were fishing, he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Of course I did!

We followed one of the animal trails, probably a cow path, that wound through the woods along the river. We walked deeper into the trees, laughing and joking as we went. At some point, we stopped, and I found myself looking into his eyes. By then, I’d grown enough that we were about the same height.

And before I could think better of it, I kissed him.

It was just a quick kiss on the lips, but the moment I realized what I’d done, I jerked away and immediately began apologizing. I was terrified. I’d ruined everything! This wonderful friendship, which had come to mean so much to me, was surely over. I was probably on the verge of tears.

But instead of pulling away, he reached for me, drew me close, and kissed me back.

What had begun as a brief, impulsive kiss became something altogether more wonderful.

And then Isabella woke me up because it was time for her breakfast.

I got out of bed, fed her, and crawled back under the covers. As I lay there thinking about the dream, I drifted back to sleep.

And would you believe it? The dream picked up right where it had left off!

We were still standing in the woods, kissing. His strong, muscular body was pressed against my scrawny, awkward teenage frame, and for the first time, I knew that the feelings I’d been carrying around for so long were returned. We could feel each other’s erections through our shorts. It was the sort of moment a young gay boy could only dream about, especially growing up in Alabama when I did.

Then the dream jumped ahead another year.

It was summer again, and I was eighteen, preparing to begin college in the fall. By this point, our relationship had blossomed into a full-fledged romance. Whenever we managed to get a moment alone, we couldn’t seem to keep our hands off each other.

One afternoon, we took another walk through the woods, following the river farther than we’d ever gone before. Eventually, we reached the end of a narrow strip of land, something like a little peninsula, separating the main river from a quiet lagoon. The water there was deep enough for swimming but sheltered from the stronger current of the river.

He began taking off his clothes.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“We’re going skinny-dipping,” he replied, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Well, who was I to disagree?

We undressed and slipped into the water. Unlike the main river, where the water could be surprisingly cool, the water in this little lagoon was wonderfully warm. We swam together for a while, enjoying the privacy of our secluded little paradise.

Then he pulled me close and kissed me.

There we were, naked in the warm waters of the Alabama River, our bodies pressed together, with nothing between us and no one around to interrupt us. The kiss deepened, there was nothing between our erection this time, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that neither of us was particularly interested in swimming anymore.

And just as the dream was getting even better…

My alarm went off.

I opened my eyes, realized it was time to get up and write my blog post, and immediately thought:

🎶 … dreams are made of these
Who am I to disagree? 🎶