But all these well-meaning "welcomes" leave me clueless as I try to find a church to belong to. I'm not looking for a church where I am merely welcome—I'm looking for a church where I'll be loved, edified, and discipled. I'm looking for a church that will see me as part of the body of Christ, with gifts to offer and holiness to pursue.

Our February masterpiece is Jesus Christ Pantocrator, a Byzantine mosaic from the 12th-13th centuries located at the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. The word “Pantocrator” means “ruler of all,” and Pantocrator images were some of the most common depictions of Christ in the ancient Byzantine church. 

A core part of my theology is that God is good. Good in big ways, not some abstract concept. Good like ice cream on a hot day, hot chocolate after a winter storm, or a hug from a far-away friend. Belief in God being so richly good was a real confusing challenge to my feelings about celibacy... Why would a good God call me to something so... frankly, so bad.

One reason that many Christians see celibacy as being unfair and even unattainable in the long term is our incorrect assumption that love and intimacy are most deeply found in sexual relationships. In reality, while the marriage covenant and sexual bond are indeed deep places of love and intimacy, they are by no means the only (or even best) ways for humans to find and flourish in intimate relationships.

Whether due to geographic moves, church leadership changes, disagreement in beliefs, or even church harm, looking for a church is a common enough experience… but it comes with unique complications for LGBTQ+ folks. Having been on this journey for two years now, I’ve decided to document what I’ll be calling “The Great Church Search.”

If I’m honest, though, I can waste a lot of time avoiding my Dad. Scared to ask for what I need because some weird lie of independence has convinced me I have to set out to build for myself, make for myself, and care for myself. Old wounds make me fear rejection, and rejection makes me fear asking. I live not as an heir, a son, but as a worker, a servant, trying desperately to earn his keep.

During these darker nights, what I love most is observing the twinkling holiday lights, a vivid reminder to me that "on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned." (Matthew 4:16) Thanks to our Emmanuel Jesus, we are free to experience inextinguishable light, hope, and joy now and in the glorious life to come.

I have long maintained that Advent is the most queer of all liturgical seasons. This can neither be proven nor disproven, so most of my friends roll their eyes at me and refuse to take the bait, but I’m pretty sure I’m right. Advent is a time of longing for God and waiting in darkness, and we sexual and gender minorities have deeply formative experiences of longing and waiting.