The More Loving One

The More Loving One

By W. H. Auden

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

About the Poem 

Most of us have, at one time or another, loved someone more than they loved us. It may have been a crush that was never returned, a relationship that slowly faded, or simply an admiration that remained one-sided. Those experiences can leave us feeling embarrassed or even foolish, as though loving deeply were somehow a weakness.

W. H. Auden offers a different perspective.

He imagines the stars as beautiful, distant, and completely indifferent to us. They neither know nor care that we spend our nights gazing at them. Yet we continue to marvel at their beauty. We do not expect the stars to love us in return. So why should we believe that every human affection must always be perfectly balanced?

The heart of the poem is one of the most beautiful lines Auden ever wrote:

“If equal affection cannot be, / Let the more loving one be me.”

At first glance, it sounds almost heartbreaking. But I don’t think Auden is encouraging us to become doormats or to remain trapped in unhealthy relationships. Instead, he is recognizing that love is never a competition to see who gives exactly fifty percent. Love is a gift freely offered. If we only choose to love when we are guaranteed an equal return, then our love is really a transaction.

As a gay man, I also hear something else in these words. For many LGBTQ+ people, especially those of earlier generations, first loves often existed only in silence. We admired classmates, coworkers, neighbors, or friends who never knew how we felt—or who could never return those feelings. Loving from a distance was, for many of us, a painful but familiar experience.

Yet those loves were not meaningless simply because they were unreturned. They helped shape us. They taught us compassion, patience, and empathy. They prepared us for the day when we would finally find someone capable of loving us back.

The final stanza reminds us that even if the stars disappeared, life would go on. We would grieve their loss, but eventually we would learn to appreciate even an empty sky. Healing does not erase love. It teaches us that our capacity to love survives disappointment.

The greatest risk in life is not loving too much. It is allowing disappointment to convince us never to love again.

“The More Loving One” was first published in W. H. Auden’s 1957 collection Homage to Clio. Like much of Auden’s later poetry, it combines philosophical reflection with conversational language. Rather than writing a traditional romantic poem, Auden uses the stars as an extended metaphor for beauty, admiration, and emotional imbalance.

The poem asks whether love must always be reciprocal to have value. Auden ultimately suggests that it does not. Loving another person—even when that love is not fully returned—is not a failure but an expression of generosity and humanity.

The final stanza shifts from longing to acceptance. The speaker acknowledges that loss would be painful but also believes that the human heart possesses an extraordinary capacity to heal and continue finding beauty in the world.

About the Poet

W. H. Auden (1907–1973) was one of the most influential English-language poets of the twentieth century. Born in England, he later became an American citizen and wrote extensively on love, faith, politics, psychology, and the human condition. His poetry ranges from highly intellectual meditations to deeply personal reflections, often blending formal structure with everyday speech.

Auden was also one of the most prominent openly gay literary figures of his era. Although society often forced LGBTQ+ people into secrecy during much of his lifetime, his experiences informed many of his reflections on love, longing, intimacy, and belonging. His longtime relationship with poet Chester Kallman was complex but enduring, and themes of imperfect love frequently appear throughout his later work.

More than fifty years after his death, Auden’s poetry continues to speak to readers because it embraces life’s ambiguities. Rather than offering easy answers, he reminds us that love is worthwhile not because it is always returned, but because it reveals the very best of what it means to be human.

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Monday Morning Daydreams

Monday mornings always seem to arrive a little too quickly. I wish I could wake up on a Monday actually looking forward to the week ahead. Instead, here I am with my usual routine—watching the news, drinking a cup of coffee, and mentally preparing myself for another work week.

One of my coworkers is on vacation this week, and another won’t be back in the office until Wednesday. That means I’ll have the museum to myself today. I usually enjoy the quiet, but first I have to find the motivation to get ready and head out the door. Eventually, the coffee will do its job, and a hot shower will wake me up the rest of the way.

If I could choose where to wake up this morning, though, it definitely wouldn’t be here. I’d much rather be in Montreal. I’d love to spend a week north of the border, with enough time to take a day trip—or maybe even spend a night—in Quebec City. I’ve visited Montreal in the spring and in the fall, but I don’t think I’ve ever been there during the summer. I imagine the cafés bustling, the parks full of people, and long evenings strolling through Old Montreal or the Village, people-watching and admiring all the handsome men passing by before settling in for a leisurely dinner on a patio.

Maybe someday. Until then, it’s a pleasant little daydream to help get me through the Monday blahs. I hope everyone has a wonderful week!

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Faith Is the Victory

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” 

— Hebrews 11:1

There have been seasons in my life when finding a church home has been difficult.

Part of that comes from my background. I was raised in the Churches of Christ, and there is still something deeply moving to me about hearing a congregation lift their voices together without instruments. There is something beautiful about hearing nothing but human voices singing praise to God. Paul’s words have always resonated with me: “singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts” (Ephesians 5:19).

At the same time, being an LGBTQ+ Christian can make finding a church complicated. Some of us have been told outright that we don’t belong. Others have quietly walked away after years of hearing that our very existence is incompatible with following Christ. Thankfully, many affirming churches now welcome LGBTQ+ believers with open arms, but not everyone has one nearby.

For me, there is another obstacle as well: anxiety.

I’ve never liked walking into church alone. Even when I know I would likely be welcomed, anxiety whispers that I don’t belong or that everyone is watching me. It’s much the same reason I sometimes struggle to go to the gym without a trainer. Once I’m there, I’m usually fine. It’s getting through the door that’s difficult.

For a long time, I wondered whether these struggles somehow made me less faithful.

Then I realized something important.

My relationship with God has never depended on whether I could walk through the doors of a church building.

Faith is what joins us to God.

The writer of Hebrews tells us that faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Faith is not confined to a sanctuary. It is not dependent on someone else’s approval. It is the confidence that God is present even when circumstances make us feel isolated.

Jesus said, “Whoever comes to me I will never drive away” (John 6:37). The invitation is His, not ours to earn and not anyone else’s to revoke.

That doesn’t mean church isn’t important. Scripture encourages believers “not neglecting to meet together” but to encourage one another (Hebrews 10:24–25). Christian community strengthens us, teaches us, and reminds us that we do not walk this journey alone.

Yet there are seasons when gathering with other believers simply isn’t possible. Sometimes there isn’t an affirming congregation nearby. Sometimes illness, caregiving responsibilities, anxiety, or painful experiences make walking through those doors feel impossible.

Even then, God has not moved away.

Paul reminds us, “For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come… nor anything else in all creation will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord” (Romans 8:38–39).

Not rejection.

Not anxiety.

Not distance.

Not the opinions of others.

Nothing.

Those words always remind me of the old hymn Faith Is the Victory:

Against the foe in vales below

Let all our strength be hurled;

Faith is the victory, we know,

That overcomes the world.

The victory isn’t that every obstacle disappears. The victory is that none of those obstacles can separate us from Christ. They may keep us from a building for a time, but they cannot keep us from the God who loves us.

Faith remains the bridge.

Faith remains the assurance.

Faith remains the victory.

If you are unable to worship with a church this week—whether because of geography, anxiety, past wounds, illness, or any other reason—remember that God’s presence is not limited to a sanctuary. Read Scripture. Spend a few quiet moments with Him. Listen for His voice in the stillness. And if you are searching for a church home, don’t give up hope. Trust that God will guide you in His time.

Until then, hold fast to the assurance that no one can stand between you and the love of Christ. As Hebrews reminds us, faith is “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” Sometimes that assurance is exactly what carries us through until we find our way home.

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Moment of Zen: Sleeping In

After feeding Isabella this morning, I did something I almost never do—I fell back asleep. Every once in a while, an unexpected extra hour or two of sleep is exactly the kind of peace we need.

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When My Heart Kept Changing the Story

Yesterday, I mentioned that while catalogs, department store underwear sections, and advertisements for men’s underwear fueled many of my earliest fantasies, there was one boy who seemed to dominate my imagination. I thought I’d take a stroll down memory lane today because those memories aren’t really about teenage lust. They’re about a young man trying to understand feelings he didn’t yet have the words to describe.

I remember the first day of seventh grade. Some of the boys in my class were picking on me. I don’t remember exactly what they said, but it was probably about my voice, the way I moved, or simply because I was different. There was a new boy in our class that year, and he stepped in and put a stop to it.

We were never best friends, but I always admired him. He was handsome, athletic, blond-haired, blue-eyed, and seemed to have the effortless confidence I wished I possessed. Looking back, I like to think he admired something about me too. I certainly wasn’t athletic, but I was smart, and I hope he respected that. Whether that’s true or simply the way memory softens over time, I don’t know. What I do know is that people didn’t seem to bother me when he was around, and he was one of the genuinely kind people I remember from those years.

For a long time, I didn’t understand why he occupied so much of my imagination.

My fantasies almost always started the way I thought they were supposed to. I’d try to imagine being attracted to a girl, because that’s what I believed normal teenage boys were supposed to do. Somehow, though, those daydreams always drifted back to him. Every single time.

The strange thing is that I knew almost nothing about being gay. Everything I had heard came from playground insults, whispered jokes, and the cruel stereotypes that were common in the South during the 1980s and early 1990s. I didn’t have positive role models. I didn’t know any openly gay people. I certainly didn’t have anyone telling me that it was okay if I happened to be one of them.

Instead, every fantasy ended with shame.

I’d lie awake afterward feeling guilty, wondering what was wrong with me and why I couldn’t make my mind work the way I thought it should. I may have been a good student, but when it came to understanding my own heart, I was completely lost. Looking back, I wish someone had simply told me that it was okay to like other boys. It wouldn’t have erased every struggle, but it might have spared me years of believing there was something broken inside me.

It wasn’t until college that someone finally gave me a different way to think about it.

One of my psychology professors, who was also a clinical psychologist, allowed us to submit anonymous questions for class discussion. One student asked, “How do you know if you’re really gay?”

His answer was simple. He asked us to think about our romantic and erotic dreams. When we dreamed about someone we desired, was it a man or a woman?

I don’t know that there’s any single question that can define a person’s sexual orientation, and I wouldn’t claim that his answer applies to everyone. But it applied to me.

In that moment, I realized something that had been true for years. No matter how hard I tried to imagine girls, my thoughts always found their way back to boys. More specifically, they had almost always found their way back to one particular boy.

That realization didn’t magically erase years of guilt or fear, especially after growing up in a conservative religious environment where being gay was presented as sinful and where the AIDS epidemic was often spoken about with more condemnation than compassion. But it did give me permission to admit something to myself that I’d been trying very hard not to see.

Sometimes the hardest person to come out to is yourself.

Looking back now, I don’t remember those fantasies with embarrassment. I remember them with compassion for that confused thirteen-year-old who was simply trying to understand himself with almost no guidance at all. He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t choosing to feel the way he did. He was just beginning the long journey toward understanding the person he had been all along.

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