I anointed him with a spirit of peace and prayed blessings upon his life from Exodus 33:12–23 and Psalm 33:4–5. It was a treasured moment, between both queer biological siblings and siblings in Christ. It was a moment of encouragement and a reminder that the Lord uses us to bless one another. A reminder that we need one another.

See, for years, I saw myself in my faith walk as a solo traveler going from place to place (on a canoe, for whatever reason). While I saw other boats in the water with me, few were going in the same general direction, and fewer still knew how to help in emergencies, in heartbreaks, in moments of deep, heart-wrenching struggle. To be clear, I had (and still have) some very dear friends who have been absolutely loving and gracious – and present – but there were elements of my life that they could not fully understand. I was "Side B" before "Side B" was a term since I grew up in a Korean Canadian immigrant church that lacked understanding, education, and experience with the LGBTQ+/SSA community (although, to be clear, they did their best to support and love me). For almost two decades, I was resigned to the apparent fact that this would be a very lonely walk… but I also saw it as worth it. Now, here I was, meeting all these people at once, sharing our life histories, our coming-out stories, and our first crushes… and I felt understood and seen in ways that I hadn't been before. There was no need to explain how I, a Korean pastor's kid, could be gay from a young age (I came out to myself when I was 12). There was no need to clarify how often I ate kimchi or if my smaller eyes meant that I had a smaller field of vision. There was no need to dampen my "gayness" to be less…colorful.

Most of us have been in straight male Christian spaces and know what it’s like to feel unseen and left out. If this blog post were a Men’s Breakfast at church, we’d start with a few NFL references, lead into something self-depricating about our much-smarter wives (but it would still make us look good), and then move into porn accountability groups and bacon. 

God is always in remembering-time. And when we remember–whether a Scripture or a moment of beauty, or an act of grace–we mirror His nature.

As I memorize the Beatitudes, I skip over or misremember words. Still, phrases come back to me, grounding me in the truth: God remembers me–my worries, needs, and hopes.

This month is Asian American and Pacific Islander (AAPI) Heritage Month. As a 3rd generation Chinese American, I think of my parents in Southern California, my silly biracial nephews and niece, and both of my grandmothers in Los Angeles. The shared meals and the stories–all part of remembering-time that shapes identity and belonging.

I anointed him with a spirit of peace and prayed blessings upon his life from Exodus 33:12–23 and Psalm 33:4–5. It was a treasured moment, between both queer biological siblings and siblings in Christ. It was a moment of encouragement and a reminder that the Lord uses us to bless one another. A reminder that we need one another.

Because, in my fiery soul, I have a hope that burns brightly. It is a hope that, like Jesus approaching Samaria, we look toward the dim corners of our table and know that we have to go there. Not to dominate with our own fire but to see and tend to the flames that have been neglected, both by society and by our own community… Because the thriving of this table is not someone else’s responsibility. It belongs to each of us.

Sometimes, people will ask me why I need a word for being asexual.  They will ask me why it even matters. They will ask me why it is included under the LGBTQ+ umbrella.  After all, it's not like asexual people are getting discriminated against, right? And I want to start by saying that suffering is not comparative. All pain matters.  The biggest struggle I have had as an asexual person is continually being doubted. I am not believed, not by Christians, not by non-Christians, not by anyone. Several years ago, I was at the doctor's office getting some shots, and they wanted to give me one to protect against STDs.  I told them I was asexual and had no plans to be sexually active.  The doctor looked both ways in the empty room, leaned close to me, and said, "Honey, I'm not your mom. You can be honest." Our world is so saturated by sexualized things that most people don't seem to even be able to comprehend that someone like me exists.  Even when I'm standing right in front of them explaining myself, they're still sure I must be confused!  I just haven't met the right person, clearly. 

It was almost Lent, and Pastor Mary was answering a question she often heard from students: Why does Easter even matter? And to put a much finer point on that question, What does Jesus’ resurrection have to do with something that matters a lot to us, like sex?

Well. Hold my grape juice. 

One of the most central resurrection texts we have in the New Testament is 1 Corinthians 15. It’s like Paul’s “ICYMI (in case you missed it) before we’re done here” moment: if Christ’s resurrection isn’t for you and if it doesn’t change absolutely everything for us in this life and in the next—then we’re all liars, our ministry is useless, your faith is meaningless, and all we can look forward to is death.