🌈 Bold, Beloved, and Called

“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

— 1 Peter 2:9 

 

“For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of self-discipline.”

— 2 Timothy 1:7 

 

“Love is patient, love is kind… It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”

— 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7–8 

 

As Pride Month draws to a close, we are invited not to retreat—but to rise. We should not pack away our rainbow flags or tuck away our truths—we should plant them firmly in the soil of our daily lives. We have explored who we are (fearfully and wonderfully made). We’ve reclaimed the image of God within us (queerly reflected). We’ve healed what shame tried to break, found boldness in our truth, and committed to growing where we are planted. now, we turn to three things that comes next.

 

We are called to serve God.

 

Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:16 (“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”) offer a powerful commission: Let your light shine. Not dimmed for the comfort of others. Not hidden behind polite silence. But out in the open. Joyfully. Authentically. As a witness to what God has done in and through us.

 

Scripture tells us that we are a royal priesthood, a holy people, God’s own. That’s not conditional. That’s not for someone else. That’s for us. We are called not in spite of who we are, but because of who we are. We are called out of shame and silence, out of marginalization and fear, into God’s marvelous light. Our queerness, our tenderness, our truth—they are not spiritual liabilities. They are spiritual gifts.

 

Through God’s gift, we are bold.

For many LGBTQ+ Christians, Pride has historically been about survival—holding onto life, faith, and hope in a world that tried to silence us. And that survival has been sacred. But now, we are called to more than surviving. We are called to joy. To deep, radiant, unashamed joy.

Paul writes in Philippians 4:4, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.”  Not only when things are easy. Not only when we’re safe. But always. Because joy—real joy—is an act of spiritual resistance. It’s a declaration that we are still here, still beloved, and still building something beautiful. It takes courage to live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian. It takes courage to love ourselves in a world that taught us to hide. It takes courage to believe that the Spirit speaks through our lives.

But here’s the truth: we were not given a spirit of fear. We were given the Spirit of power—to stand tall. The Spirit of love—to resist hate with grace. The Spirit of self-discipline—to hold fast to our faith even when others misunderstand it. Holy boldness is not loud arrogance. It is quiet faithfulness. It is showing up fully, beautifully, honestly—day after day. Pride is not just a celebration. It is a declaration: We are still here, and we are still beloved.

 

We are love in motion.

 

Love is not just a feeling—it is a force. It bears burdens. It holds space. It speaks truth. And LGBTQ+ love is no less holy than any other. In fact, many of us have learned how to love through rejection, through hiding, through longing. We have had to fight to love ourselves, to love one another, and to believe that God loves us too.

Our lives as LGBTQ+ Christians are not a detour from faith—it is a testament to it. Our honesty, our resilience, our capacity for love—these are lamps lit by the Spirit. When we love openly, we reflect the God who is love. When we celebrate joyfully, we reflect the God who rejoices over creation. When we live truthfully, we reflect the Christ who never apologized for healing, embracing, and breaking the rules to welcome the outcast.

We are not just welcome in the Church—we are vital to its witness. Our pride doesn’t end with the parade. It continues in our daily living, in our compassion, in our courage to shine. So now, let that love flourish. Let it speak. Let it heal. Whether you’re single, partnered, celibate, dating, married, or questioning—you carry within you the kind of love that “never fails.” Love that transforms. Love that reflects God.

God calls us to be courageous. He made us part of His royal priesthood. He called us into the light—not despite our queerness, but through it. He gives us boldness to live as He created us. God gives us strength to resist shame, and tenderness to love others as He love us. We carry His love—patient, kind, and enduring—into a world that so desperately needs it, especially in this climate of hate that seems to permeate our political, secular, and, far too often, religious worlds.

 

We are chosen. We are courageous. We are love in motion.

 

As Pride Month ends, may our truth continue to shine, our love continues to grow, and our calling becomes ever clearer. Let the world see what God is doing through us—a radiant reflection of bold, beloved queerness.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Moment of Zen: Colors of the Rainbow 🌈

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The First Pride Was a Riot

In the early hours of June 28, 1969, something extraordinary happened on a quiet stretch of Christopher Street in New York City. After years—decades—of police harassment, social invisibility, and the criminalization of queer existence, a group of drag queens, trans women, gay men, and lesbians refused to be silent. When officers raided the Stonewall Inn—a dingy, Mafia-run gay bar in Greenwich Village—the community inside and outside the bar erupted in defiance. What followed were six nights of protest, resistance, and righteous rage. The Stonewall Riots weren’t the beginning of LGBTQ+ activism, but they were the spark that ignited a global fire.

 

“The First Pride Was a Riot.” That slogan adorns t-shirts, protest signs, and banners today as a reminder that our liberation was not handed to us—it was demanded. It was thrown back in the faces of billy clubs, shouted in the streets, and carved into the consciousness of a country that would rather not have seen us at all. Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Stormé DeLarverie—names that should be shouted from rooftops—were part of this uprising. They fought not just for acceptance, but for dignity. For survival.

 

The summer of 1969 marked a turning point. In the year that followed, LGBTQ+ organizations across the U.S. multiplied, and on the anniversary of Stonewall in 1970, the first Pride marches were held in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. These were not corporate-sponsored festivals with rainbow floats. They were loud, political, and unapologetic marches for visibility, safety, and rights.

 

Stonewall happened in a cultural moment when the world was already in upheaval: the Civil Rights Movement, the Women’s Liberation Movement, and anti-Vietnam War protests were reshaping the American political landscape. The gay rights movement joined that chorus—and for a time, especially into the 1970s, it began to sing with joy and newfound sexual freedom. The 1970s became a decade of exploration and visibility. Gay men in particular embraced a new culture of liberation: discos pulsed with rhythm and energy, bathhouses became places not of shame but of connection, and artists, writers, and activists pushed boundaries in the public eye.

 

But the joy of that revolution would come under brutal siege in the 1980s with the emergence of the AIDS crisis. As friends and lovers died in staggering numbers, the government remained indifferent, slow, and cruelly silent. The queer community rallied again—not just to mourn, but to fight. Groups like ACT UP and the Gay Men’s Health Crisis forced a reluctant nation to see us, to acknowledge our grief and fury. Stonewall had taught us how to protest. AIDS taught us how to organize for our lives.

 

And still, here we are.

 

Today, we celebrate Pride with parades, with community, and yes, with joy—but we cannot forget the riot that began it. Nor can we ignore the threats we continue to face. In this current political climate, with a Republican administration openly hostile to LGBTQ+ rights, we are watching hard-won freedoms come under attack. Trans healthcare, anti-discrimination protections, even the right to teach honest history in schools are being stripped away state by state. Pride is not just a celebration—it is a protest. A defiance. A promise that we will not go back.

 

The Stonewall Riots were not polished, pretty, or corporatized. They were angry, spontaneous, and necessary. We owe our thanks to those brave souls who threw bricks, linked arms, and stood their ground. And we honor them best not just with rainbows—but with resistance.

 

So wear that shirt with pride: The First Pride Was a Riot. And remember why.

 

🏳️‍🌈⸻🏳️‍🌈

What does Pride mean to you this year? How do you honor the history while living in the now? Share your reflections in the comments below. 

Male-Order Desire: The Bold Legacy of International Male

Long before Grindr profiles and Instagram thirst traps, gay men turned to other sources for affirmation, fantasy, and fashion. And for many, there was nothing quite like opening the mailbox to find the latest issue of International Male—a glossy, unapologetically flamboyant catalog filled with mesh shirts, tight pants, deep V-necks, and men whose smoldering stares made it very clear: this wasn’t just about buying clothes.

From its founding in the 1970s through its peak in the ’80s and ’90s, International Male became a low-key lifeline for gay men across America. And even if it never explicitly said the word “gay,” the message was clear: these clothes—and these bodies—were for you.

International Male was launched in 1974 by Gene Burkard, a San Diego-based entrepreneur with an eye for flamboyant fashion and emerging markets. His goal? To create a mail-order catalog for men who wanted more than just workwear and flannel. This was high-collared, disco-era glam for men who wanted to be seen—and desired.

Though never overtly labeled as gay, the catalog’s aesthetic left little doubt. Muscular male models posed in silky robes, sheer tank tops, and outrageously tight trousers, often in settings that felt more boudoir than boardroom. But because it was technically a fashion catalog, it flew under the radar. For closeted men in conservative towns, this was covert contraband—an acceptable, even respectable way to engage with queer desire.

At its peak in the 1980s and early ’90s, International Male had over 3 million customers. Its sister brand, Undergear, took things even further, focusing almost entirely on underwear and swimwear. Both catalogs were often tucked under beds, stuffed in gym bags, or secretly flipped through while pretending to look for a new blazer.

The magic of International Male was never really about the clothes. It was about fantasy. About possibility. About creating a world where men could be sexy, flamboyant, and free.

For gay men—especially those in the pre-Internet era—the catalog served as coded affirmation. It said, “You’re not alone.” It offered a vision of masculinity that didn’t have to be rugged or repressed. It could be styled, sensual, even sultry.

As queer studies scholar Shaun Cole writes in Don We Now Our Gay Apparel, catalogs like International Male offered not just fashion but “performances of masculinity” that pushed boundaries and created new scripts for how men could look and be seen.

Other Icons of Queer Print Culture

International Male wasn’t alone. There was a whole universe of catalogs, zines, and magazines that played pivotal roles in gay history:

Physique Pictorial (1951–1990)

Launched by Bob Mizer, this “fitness” magazine was the first to feature nearly nude muscular men in a semi-legit format. It helped launch the careers of models like Joe Dallesandro and inspired generations of artists, including Tom of Finland.

Honcho, Mandate, and Blueboy (1970s–1990s)

Glossy gay lifestyle and erotica magazines that blended porn, interviews, fashion, and personal ads. They gave gay men access to a world far larger and more glamorous than their own.

A&F Quarterly (1997–2003)

While technically a catalog for Abercrombie & Fitch, under Bruce Weber’s lens it became a bold, glossy celebration of homoerotic youth culture—shirtless boys in golden fields, bathed in natural light and coded desire.

Undergear

A spinoff of International Male, this catalog was even more explicitly erotic—offering thongs, jockstraps, sheer briefs, and loungewear photographed with far less subtlety.

BUTT Magazine (2001–2016)

Launched in Amsterdam, BUTT was an indie, raw, and refreshingly honest publication that celebrated gay sex, intimacy, and everyday life. Pink pages, candid interviews, and gritty photography made it a cult favorite.

The Argument for Art

As with erotic photography and gay porn cinema, there’s a growing argument that catalogs like International Male should be remembered not just as pop culture oddities but as legitimate artifacts of queer history and visual art.

They reflect the shifting landscape of male identity. They archive our fantasies, our insecurities, our attempts to be beautiful in a world that once told us we didn’t belong.

Today, collectors preserve International Male catalogs as kitsch, camp, and cultural gold. Exhibitions of old issues have appeared in queer history museums, and documentaries (like All Man: The International Male Story, 2022) are reclaiming the catalog’s legacy as both fashion history and queer resistance.

For many gay men, flipping through International Male was a ritual—a private moment of longing and laughter. It was how you discovered new shirts and new dreams. How you imagined a body that might one day be yours—or in your bed.

And perhaps that’s the enduring power of such catalogs and magazines: they made desire visible. They turned clothing into code, fashion into fantasy, and mail-order into memory.

So, here’s to International Male—to its satin shirts, its sultry stares, its sneaky subversiveness. It was never just about the clothes. It was always about the possibility of being seen.

Further Reading and Viewing

• All Man: The International Male Story (2022 Documentary)
• Don We Now Our Gay Apparel by Shaun Cole
• The Male Nude: A Modern View by David Leddick
• Archive scans of Physique Pictorial, Blueboy, and BUTT Magazine
• Retrospective fashion articles on International Male in The Advocate, Out, and W magazine

🌈 Rooted in Love, Growing in Grace

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind…And you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”

— Matthew 22:37, 39 

 

“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce…But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you… and pray to the Lord on its behalf,

for in its welfare, you will find your welfare.”

— Jeremiah 29:5, 7

 As we move deeper into Pride Month, our celebration continues—not just as a public witness, but as a deeply spiritual journey. This week, we turn inward to examine what it means to love ourselves as God commands—and what it looks like to thrive right where we are, even if the place we find ourselves is far from perfect.

To live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian is already an act of courage. But to thrive—to truly love ourselves, and to build a life of meaning wherever we are—that’s holy work. And it’s not always easy.

 

Many of us have been told to leave certain parts of ourselves behind to belong. Others have been asked to move—emotionally, spiritually, or physically—to fit the mold of someone else’s expectations. But God’s Word reminds us: we are meant to love others as we love ourselves, and that means our own well-being matters. Our flourishing matters. Our joy matters.

 

This kind of love isn’t narcissistic—it’s necessary. Because when you believe you are beloved, you can begin to love others from a place of wholeness, not performance. When you root yourself in grace, you can begin to grow even in unfamiliar or uncomfortable ground.

 

In Jeremiah 29, God speaks to a displaced people in exile—not to promise a quick rescue, but to offer purpose in the waiting. “Build houses. Plant gardens. Raise families. Seek the good of the place where you are.” God doesn’t say, Just survive. God says, Live. Thrive. Invest. Pray. Root yourself in this moment.

 

So many LGBTQ+ Christians know what it’s like to feel out of place—in our families, churches, towns, or even within ourselves. And yet, even there, God is saying: Your life still matters here. You can still grow something beautiful in this soil. We don’t need the perfect setting to bloom. We need the assurance that God is with us in every setting.

 

Jesus reminds us that the greatest commandment has three directions:

1. Love God.
2. Love your neighbor.
3. Love yourself.

 

So many of us have learned to prioritize others, sometimes to our own harm. But this week is your invitation to remember: your wellness is not selfish. Your joy is not indulgent. Your rest, your healing, your wholeness—they glorify God.

Pride is not only about being visible to the world—it’s about being present to ourselves. It’s about knowing we are worthy of care, kindness, rest, and joy. It’s about believing that God’s image is reflected in us, even when others try to deny it.

Self-love, especially for LGBTQ+ people of faith, is a form of resistance against shame. But more than that, it’s a sacred rhythm: love God, love neighbor, love self. All three are part of the same holy breath. This week let’s not only celebrate who you are but care for ourselves as someone deeply loved by God. Build something real. Plant something hopeful. We should. rest in the knowledge that our lives have meaning right now, not just in some imagined better place.

We should build a life where love takes root in us, flows through us, and blesses the world around us. God’s love is rooted grace. He loves us fully and completely. God teaches us how to love ourselves in ways that honor Him—with gentleness, patience, and truth. When we feel out of place, God helps us remember that we are still present and active in this soil. He gives us courage to plant seeds of hope, to build something real, and to live boldly as a reflection of God’s enduring love.

 

We were made to flourish—not just in safe spaces, but in the very places where the world said we couldn’t. We were made to love—not just others, but the radiant reflection of God that lives in us. So go and build. Go and plant. Go and love. Even here, we can grow. Even now, we are already enough.

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️ 

Pride in Every Stroke: Gay Art Since 1970

Duane Michals, Male figure holding book, date unknown.

When the first Pride parade marched through New York City in June 1970—commemorating the one-year anniversary of the Stonewall uprising—it marked not only a political turning point but also an artistic awakening. No longer confined to coded symbolism or covert expression, gay pride began to blaze through the art world in bold, unflinching forms. Over the next six decades, LGBTQ+ artists harnessed the power of visibility to challenge oppression, celebrate desire, mourn loss, and imagine futures beyond shame.

The 1970s: Visibility and Liberation

David Hockney, Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), 1972.

David Hockney, Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool, 1966.

David Hockney, Domestic Scene, Los Angeles, 1963.

David Hockney, Man in Shower in Beverly Hills, 1964.

David Hockney, Nude, 1957.

David Hockney is known for his vibrant use of color, innovative techniques, and significant contributions to the Pop Art movement. He infused his work with subtle but powerful depictions of gay male intimacy. His 1971 painting Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures) captured not just a sunlit pool but a relationship dynamic—gaze, distance, vulnerability. It remains one of the most iconic queer paintings of the 20th century. Educated at the Royal College of Art in London, Hockney became celebrated for his depictions of California life, especially his swimming pool series such as Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool (1966). His artistic practice spans painting, drawing, printmaking, photography, stage design, and digital art, including pioneering work with iPad drawing apps. Openly gay, Hockney’s works often explore themes of intimacy, domestic life, and sexuality, and his expansive career has solidified him as one of the most influential artists of the 20th and 21st centuries.

Duane Michals, The Most Beautiful Part of a Man’s Body, 1974.

Duane Michals, Narcissus, 1985.

Duane Michals, He burned the letter that brought him the news that he was loved no more, date unknown.

Duane Michals, Moment of Perfection, c. 1980.

Duane Michals, Man Carrying a Chair, 1982.

Duane Michals, A Gigantic Beauty of a Stallion, from The Series Salute To Walt Whitman, 1970.

Duane Michals, Back Talk, 1970s.

Duane Michals, Take One and See Mt. Fujiyama, 1976.

Duane Michals (1932- ) is an influential American photographer renowned for his innovative use of photographic sequences and handwritten narratives that create intimate and poetic visual storytelling. Often blending dream-like imagery with deeply personal themes, Michals pushed beyond traditional documentary photography, favoring staged scenes to explore metaphysical questions, mortality, and human emotion. He used photographic sequences to tell poetic, often erotic, visual stories—like his haunting piece The Most Beautiful Part of a Man’s Body (1974), which explored vulnerability and sensuality through layered narrative. Michals' pioneering approach profoundly impacted contemporary photography, emphasizing that imagery could embody not only what is seen, but also what is felt, imagined, or deeply desired.

The 1980s–90s: Art in the Shadow of AIDS

As the AIDS crisis devastated the LGBTQ+ community, artists responded with fury, grief, and resilience.

Keith Haring, Silence Equals Death, 1989.

Keith Haring, Untitled, 1981.

Keith Haring (1958-1990) was a groundbreaking American artist whose bold, neon-outlined figures transformed urban spaces and gallery walls into vibrant canvases filled with queer joy and political urgency. Rising to prominence in the 1980s New York art scene, Haring used accessible imagery and public spaces—including subways and street murals—to communicate powerful messages on sexuality, AIDS awareness, and social justice. His iconic Silence = Death imagery became a rallying cry against apathy and inaction, galvanizing activism during the AIDS epidemic and amplifying voices within the LGBTQ+ community. Haring’s energetic style and activist spirit continue to resonate, ensuring his legacy as an artist who merged exuberant creativity with fearless advocacy.

David Wojnarowicz, Untitled (One Day This Kid...), 1990.

David Wojnarowicz (1954-1992) was a fiercely confrontational American artist, writer, and activist whose work channeled the raw power of queer rage into searing critiques of homophobia, censorship, and government inaction during the AIDS crisis. Emerging from New York’s East Village art scene in the 1980s, Wojnarowicz worked across media—painting, photography, film, and text—to expose the violence and vulnerability of queer existence. His iconic piece Untitled (One day this kid…) (1990) juxtaposes a childhood photo of himself with a prophetic, damning text that lays bare the grim realities faced by queer youth in a hostile world. Unapologetically political and deeply personal, Wojnarowicz’s art remains a visceral reminder of both the pain and defiance at the heart of queer survival.

NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt

The NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, begun in 1987, now contains over 50,000 panels. It is both a work of art and a massive, tangible act of remembrance and protest.

2000s–Present: Intersectionality and Expanding the Frame

Zanele Muholi, a South African visual activist, documents Black LGBTQ+ life through dramatic portraiture. Their series Faces and Phases offers a powerful visual archive of queer resilience. Mickalene Thomas reclaims the Black female body in rhinestone-studded paintings and photographic tableaux. Her work unapologetically fuses queerness, glamour, and political assertion. See Le déjeuner sur l’herbe: Les Trois Femmes Noires (2010), a reimagining of Manet’s painting through a queer, Black feminist lens. Cassils, a transgender performance artist, uses their body in durational, often physically intense works. In Becoming an Image, they strike a clay block in darkness while a camera flash records the violence—a metaphor for queer visibility and embodiment. Juliana Huxtable, a Black trans artist, poet, and performer, combines Afrofuturism, photography, and digital media to challenge fixed identities. Her self-portraits—gender-fluid, mythic, fierce—embody queer futurity.

Kehinde Wiley, Sleep, 2008.

More Artists to Explore

• Robert Mapplethorpe – his black-and-white male nudes remain some of the most iconic (and controversial) queer images in American photography.
• Kehinde Wiley – while not exclusively queer-themed, his work often presents Black men in romantic or intimate poses, reclaiming both history and homoerotic aesthetic.
• Hunter Reynolds – an AIDS activist and visual artist whose performance pieces and memorial works carry immense emotional and historical weight.
• Gilbert Baker – not only an artist, but the designer of the rainbow flag itself, one of the most enduring symbols of queer pride.

Pride as Resistance and Renewal

From murals to fashion, fine art to graffiti, queer art since 1970 has told the story of a people who refused to be erased. Pride in art has been about more than beauty—it has been about survival, protest, celebration, and memory. As Pride Month continues, remember that the movement is not only political—it is also creative. And in every painting, photograph, poem, and performance, LGBTQ+ artists have asked the world to see them not just as survivors—but as visionaries.

They Know This Will Kill Kids. They Did It Anyway.

 

Out of all the cruel, calculated, and heartless things the Trump administration has done over the years, I honestly think this one might be the lowest. And it makes me the angriest. I’m talking about their decision — part of the Republican budget plan from the start — to end an LGBTQ+ suicide prevention hotline by cutting federal support for it.

And let’s be clear: this wasn’t accidental. The Trevor Project, one of the most important and effective crisis intervention services for LGBTQ+ youth, was deliberately targeted in this budget process. The decision to defund this life-saving hotline wasn’t about fiscal responsibility — it was about ideology. About sending a message that these kids don’t matter, don’t deserve support, and should simply disappear from public life.

The timing wasn’t accidental either. It’s one more in a long string of attacks on the LGBTQ+ community that the Trump administration has launched just since the beginning of June. Pride Month — when queer and trans people are supposed to celebrate visibility, survival, and progress — has instead been marked by this administration using every opportunity to roll back protections, erase visibility, and push hateful rhetoric. This move to kill the hotline is cold and calculating — a deliberate choice to cause harm and inflict fear on a vulnerable community during a month meant to honor their dignity.

And for all the Republican talk of being so-called “pro-life”? This is just one more example of how hollow — and frankly how deadly — that slogan really is. They take away social welfare programs that leave children hungry. They gut protections for working families. And now they strip away suicide prevention services for the LGBTQ+ youth most at risk. Let’s be clear: “pro-life” means nothing to them. Their actions reveal the truth — they are pro-death when it comes to the most vulnerable. They are doing everything in their power to remove support and safety nets for those who need them most.

There is also a strong argument that this decision is not only morally and ethically indefensible — it may well violate civil rights laws and open the door to future legal challenges. When the government deliberately strips away access to life-saving services from a marginalized group — one that faces disproportionate rates of harassment, discrimination, and suicide — that can amount to deliberate indifference under civil rights standards. It can also create a chilling effect, reinforcing a climate of exclusion and hostility. Federal agencies are supposed to administer their programs without discrimination, and courts have recognized that targeting specific groups in ways that increase harm may violate constitutional protections under the Equal Protection Clause — or even Title VI or Title IX in certain contexts. This is not just political cruelty — it could, and should, be the subject of serious legal scrutiny.

Let that sink in for a moment. A hotline dedicated to saving lives — to answering desperate calls from LGBTQ+ youth in crisis — is being deliberately shut down. Not because of lack of need. Not because it wasn’t effective. But because this administration is ideologically hostile to those kids’ very existence.

And I do mean kids. Many of the young people who reach out to The Trevor Project and similar hotlines are teenagers — sometimes as young as 11 or 12 — grappling with feelings of isolation, rejection, bullying, abuse. They turn to these hotlines because they have nowhere else to go. And for the government of the United States to turn its back on them — to deliberately erase the “TQ” from its language, to send the message that they don’t exist or don’t matter — is unconscionable.

This isn’t “just politics.” This isn’t about religious differences. This is literally about life and death. Children will die because of this decision. That’s not hyperbole. The statistics on suicide among LGBTQ+ youth are heartbreaking — and undeniable. Cutting off a lifeline will only make it worse.

As someone who grew up in a deeply conservative and homophobic family, I know firsthand how much something like The Trevor Project could have meant. Back in 1994, as a scared teenager who had been taught that my feelings for other boys were sinful — that they would send me to hell — I didn’t understand my own sexuality. I was still in denial, confused, and terrified. But those around me had already convinced me that what I was feeling was evil.

One night, overwhelmed, I swallowed a handful of pills. Thankfully, all they did was make me sick — but at the time, I had no one to turn to. There was no hotline, no safe space, no adult I trusted enough to confide in. I survived, but many don’t. And I can’t help but think how different things might have been if I’d had a resource like The Trevor Project back then. I wish I could do more.

And even if you don’t personally “agree” with LGBTQ+ identity — even if you’re unsure or uncomfortable — how can anyone with a shred of compassion justify abandoning children in crisis? You don’t have to understand every aspect of someone’s identity to care whether they live or die. You don’t have to condone or celebrate LGBTQ+ lives to believe that kids deserve help and hope when they reach out.

I find myself asking: What God do these people believe in? Because it sure as hell isn’t the Christian God I was taught about. The God I believe in calls us to love our neighbor, to comfort the brokenhearted, to bind up the wounded — not to throw them away.

This news honestly makes me want to cry. Not in a performative way. In a gut-wrenching, soul-heavy way. Because I know the reality: young queer kids will be sitting in their rooms, alone, afraid, maybe thinking about ending their lives — and now they’ll have one less place to turn.

How could anyone do this? How could anyone look at a struggling 14-year-old trans kid, or a scared gay teen in a conservative household, and say: We are going to take away your helpline. We are going to pretend you don’t exist. We are going to make it harder for you to survive.

And how can Christians in good conscience support this? Jesus didn’t teach us to abandon vulnerable kids. He taught us to welcome them, to love them, to protect them.

Out of everything this administration has done — all the lies, the corruption, the cruelty — this hits me the hardest. Because these are children. And they deserve better.

And if it makes you angry too — good. Let it. But don’t let it stop there. Speak out. Write. Donate. Support the hotlines that do still exist. Vote.

Most importantly: You can help The Trevor Project continue its life-saving work by donating here: https://www.thetrevorproject.org/donate/. Without government support, they will rely even more on our generosity to keep the hotline going for those who need it most.

Because lives are on the line. And I, for one, refuse to look away.

🌈 God’s Image, Queerly Reflected

“So, God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”

— Genesis 1:27

 

From the very beginning, Scripture tells us something radical: that we are made in the image of God. This verse from Genesis is often quoted, but too rarely unpacked in its glorious, expansive truth.

 

What does it mean to be made in the image of God? It means we reflect God not in uniformity, but in diversity. Not in sameness, but in difference. It means every gender, every orientation, every body, every soul bears something sacred—something divine. Yet for generations, many LGBTQ+ people have been told the opposite. That our queerness is a distortion, a rebellion, an error. But what if our queerness is not a flaw, but a feature of God’s creativity?

 

God is not binary. God is not confined. God is creator, relational, mysterious, wildly imaginative. And we—queer, trans, nonbinary, gay, lesbian, bi, ace, and all beyond—carry that same creativity, complexity, and relational beauty within us.mWe are not outside God’s image. We are part of its full expression.

 

Think about the rainbow—a biblical sign of covenant and peace. Its beauty lies in its range. Each color distinct, yet part of a whole. The same is true of humanity. Our identity, your body, our orientation, our way of loving—these are not obstacles to divine reflection. They are evidence of it. We are part of the kaleidoscope of God’s presence in the world.

 

Queerness challenges rigid categories. It defies the neat boxes religion and society often try to impose. But perhaps that is exactly what the image of God does too. It disrupts our assumptions. It invites wonder. In a world eager to limit God’s likeness to the familiar, LGBTQ+ people expand the canvas. We remind the Church that God is still creating, still surprising, still delighting in what is “very good.”

 

God made us in His image, in all our beauty and complexity—our queerness reflects His creativity. When others try to diminish our worth, He reminds us that we carry the divine imprint. Our lives should be a mirror of His love, a reflection of His grace, and a celebration of the diversity He called good.

 

We are not a deviation from God’s design. We are a beloved echo of the divine voice that said, “Let us make humankind in our image.” Our queerness is not too much. It is not too different. It is exactly what it was meant to be: a radiant, holy reflection of the God who made us.

 

Go forth this Pride Month not just with courage, but with the joy of knowing that when you live as your full self, you show the world what God looks like.

 

🌈🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Before the Parades: Gay Pride in Art and Artistic Expression

“Braschi Antinous”, also known (wrongly) as Albani Antinous, the statue is composed of an antique head of Antinous and an antique body of Hercules, 2nd century AD, (Louvre Museum)

While the concept of Gay Pride as we know it—public marches, rainbow flags, and open celebration of LGBTQ+ identity—is a relatively recent phenomenon, the spirit of gay pride has long found expression through art. For centuries, queer individuals used artistic media to celebrate same-sex desire, intimacy, and identity in ways that defied societal norms and preserved a sense of dignity and joy. Long before the world was ready for open affirmation, LGBTQ+ artists—and their allies—used beauty, symbolism, and coded language to proclaim their existence and their worth.

Ganymede, Rome, 2nd century CE. (Vatican Museums, Rome)

Art has always provided a refuge for queer expression, especially in eras and regions where same-sex love was criminalized or pathologized. From the sensual male nudes of classical antiquity to the romantic portraits of Renaissance companions, art offered what public discourse denied: a space to affirm beauty and love between men. The sculptures of ancient Greece and Rome—Apollo, Ganymede, Antinous—didn’t just celebrate form; they canonized homoerotic ideals in marble and bronze. Even when later societies sought to suppress these themes, artists returned to them time and again, as if retrieving a sacred truth buried beneath centuries of shame.

David and Jonathan. Samuel & Pharaohs Daughter and the Infant Moses from Simeon Solomon’s 1854 Sketchbook (Jewish Museum London)

During the 19th century, artists such as Simeon Solomon in Britain and Wilhelm von Gloeden in Italy dared to depict love between men with unmistakable tenderness and eroticism. Solomon’s watercolors of biblical figures—David and Jonathan, Ruth and Naomi—recast religious stories as queer allegories, while von Gloeden’s photographs of young men in Sicily, staged in classical poses, cloaked desire in the guise of nostalgia and antiquity. Their works were often persecuted, sometimes destroyed, but they endure today as testimonies of queer pride in the face of rejection.

Photograph titled “Pastoral Idyll,” Wilhelm von Gloeden, 1913 (Private Collection)

In the 20th century, as queer identity began to coalesce into more defined social and political movements, art took on a sharper edge. Artists like Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz turned pride into protest. Their works channeled anger, loss, celebration, and eroticism in ways that were unapologetically queer—bold lines, graphic imagery, public installations, and furious calls to action during the AIDS crisis. At the same time, the poetry of Audre Lorde, the paintings of Paul Cadmus, and the photography of Robert Mapplethorpe revealed the many facets of queer life—from intimacy and sensuality to community and struggle.

“Untitled (565), Paul Cadmus, 1968, (Originally, the property of actor, cabaret singer, and Paul Cadmus’ muse and lover, Jon F. Anderson)

What unites these expressions across time is a fundamental belief: that same-sex love is beautiful, worthy of representation, and part of the human story. Whether through coded glances in Renaissance paintings or blazing neon activism in contemporary murals, gay pride has always found a way to speak. Even when silenced, it painted itself into the margins, waiting for a world that could see it clearly.

Apollo, Baccio Bandinelli, 1548 – 58, (Boboli Gardens)

Today, we celebrate openly. But let us also remember and honor those who celebrated in secret—those who, through brushstroke and verse, camera and chisel, gave voice to a pride they couldn’t proclaim aloud. They remind us that Pride is not only about visibility, but also about creation. And art, in all its forms, remains one of the truest expressions of queer existence and resilience.