It is comforting in the Song narrative that the Beloved quickly comes to her senses and gets up, then pursues the Lover at significant personal cost (5:7), reminding herself in the process of how beautiful and, yes, desirable, He is.  Happily, she is soon re-united with Him and bliss is resumed.

In Laodicea, we are left with a cliffhanger situation; will they let the Lord in or not? The major difference in this passage is that Jesus is disgusted with their complacent behavior and threatens discipline or even violent rejection if they don’t wake up (Rev. 3:16).  We are left to write the ending of that narrative in our own hearts, minds, and lives.  I’d rather identify with the Beloved than with the Laodiceans.

The years-long battle in my denomination regarding faith, leadership, and sexuality forced my body into a perpetual state of fight or flight.  A sense of distress, rather than rest, was the norm, and I could no longer accurately assess when I was genuinely at threat. In this state, I was easily pushed past my emotional and physical limits into panic attacks, racing thoughts, racing legs, apparently, and a general feeling of anxiety and dread.

My friend’s comment opened my eyes to something I had normalized and, and initiated a two-year process of returning my heart, mind, and body to a sense of safety.     

What follows is an assortment of practices that helped me build resilience not only for the hardships I’d already experienced, but for the ongoing stressors that queer Christians face as part of their everyday lives.  I share them as examples of things you might consider or practice to help you return yourself to a sense of safety, which is really what resilience is: the capacity to endure hardship and return yourself to a sense of safety, so that you might experience life to the full.    

Depression and suicidal ideation have a high prevalence in LGBTQ+ spaces. But correlation does not mean causation. Just because a person is LGBTQ+ does not mean that their same sex attraction, gender incongruence, or queerness is the root cause of their mental health struggles. Rather, a greater source of mental health issues is treatment by others. And it isn’t just treatment of LGBTQ+ people on an individual level, but on a community level too. 

LGBTQ+ people experience collective trauma, meaning that the traumas that happen to people who are LGBTQ+, even in other locations, leave a deep and personal impact. An example would be the Pulse Night Club shooting in 2016. LGBTQ+ people also experience generational trauma, not because our parents struggled with some kind of sexual sin that made us queer; no, the trauma experienced by LGBTQ+ people throughout history impacts us today. Examples of such traumas would be the AIDS/HIV epidemic and the treatment of LGBTQ+ people in Nazi concentration camps. Intersectionality matters as well. For LGBTQ+ people who have other marginalized identities, such as being a woman, BIPOC, AAPI, an immigrant, or neurodivergent, their mental health struggles are amplified.

Which takes me back to James (and similarly Romans 5:3-5, and hey, let’s not forget pretty much the entire book of Hebrews in light of 12:5-13). When we seek the face of God, perhaps we should wrestle with the reality that, given our fallen state and natural inclinations, trials become a necessary means of showing us our weaknesses and shaping us to be more like the One we seek. Perhaps these time are, through the power of the Holy Spirit, even a gift from God. 

Because the loneliness and rootlessness I experienced growing up as a military brat and have experienced for much of my adult life have given me a deep longing for home and because the instability and dissolution of my marriage has made me acutely aware of the inability of human relationships to satisfy that longing, I resonate deeply with Hebrews 11: 14 For people who speak thus make it clear that they are seeking a homeland. 15 If they had been thinking of that land from which they had gone out, they would have had opportunity to return. 16 But as it is, they desire a better country, that is, a heavenly one. 

This is why the ex-gay promise—that orientation change is the standard outcome for gay Christians pursuing holiness—was so devastating for sexual minorities. It wasn’t a promise God ever actually made. Despite what some who promoted the ex-gay narrative claimed, Scripture never gave us reason to believe that changing one’s orientation—or, pattern of enduring attractions—was something God guaranteed. At the same time, a Christian life without any hope isn’t the answer either.  Gay Christians need to let go of the unbiblical hope for orientation change and instead embrace different, gospel-centered kinds of transformation in our sexuality—changes we can genuinely hope for and expect to see by God’s grace. Though the gospel does not promise orientation change, we are not powerless to submit our sexual desires and temptations to the lordship of Christ. We can trust the Holy Spirit to strengthen us to do this, further nurturing holiness within us as this takes place.

There are Christians in my life who think I'm deceived because I accept that I am gay. They assert that I've placed my identity in sinful temptations rather than in Christ, or that I have a demon that would leave if I just let one more person pray for deliverance. I'm happy to let them maintain their opinions, but I won't let their critiques or hesitations hinder me from the assignments God has prepared before me (Matt. 10:14, Eph. 2:10).

Instead, I'm putting my hands to the plow and not looking back (Luke 9:62). I'm going to the highways and byways to call everyone who will respond to the wedding supper of the Lamb (Matt. 22:1-14). I'll do everything within my ability, by God's grace, to embody the Gospel to others like me who never had a clear witness of what it's like to walk with Christ as an unashamed queer person.

Many may view us as irrelevant. They may tell us LGBTQ+ Christians don’t exist. They may try to minimize our stories. But what an honor we have to offer our voices, our presence, and our gifts nevertheless? To use our unique vantage point and our experiences to direct people to Christ? To give evidence that He is trustworthy? To participate with Him in the unfolding of His most grand dreams for our society?

Yes, we (even we!) are part of “a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for His possession, so that we may proclaim the praises of the One who called” (1 Peter 2:9). 

As we gather this year, I’m hopeful not just for what’s ahead but for who is being raised up. I anticipate seeing even more allyship rise—not performative, but deeply rooted in love for LGBTQ+ people and a desire to see the whole Church flourish.

And I’m also expectant—so expectant—for how LGBTQ+/SSA people will continue to rise up and bless the Church and its communities. Not just on stages or podcasts or in overseas ministry (though those are beautiful), but in the ordinary rhythm of everyday life. You are building, encouraging, praying, cultivating. You are creating spaces where God’s Kingdom can be known on earth—a Kingdom rooted in truth, in love for all people, in a love for yourself, and in a love for God that echoes in eternity.