God Is Not Mad I’m Gay—

She's just mad I waited so long to come out...

I’ve told parts of my story before. In sermons. In conversations. In whispered late-night truths and quiet tears. But I’ve never told it quite like this—openly, freely, during Pride month, in a space I’ve claimed as mine.

Coming out wasn’t a one-time event. It was—and still is—a sacred unraveling, a choosing again and again to live into my truth. Not for applause. Not to prove anything. But to stop shrinking, and start breathing.

I knew very early that I was gay. I didn’t have the language, but I had the feelings. When the other boys in my elementary school class were getting crushes on the girls, I was secretly swooning over the boys. Of course, I kept that to myself. I wasn’t born yesterday. I went to a conservative Baptist school where the theology came with a heavy dose of fear, and where even the idea of difference was treated like a disease. So I learned early how to edit myself. I became fluent in silence. In middle and high school, I mastered the art of conformity. I wore the mask, played the part, and tried not to let the truth slip out from the seams.

But the thing about pretending is that it costs you something. And eventually, I realized I was losing more than I was gaining by staying hidden. In my early twenties, I began to come to terms with the truth I had long buried. I remember the moment I finally said it to myself, like a secret only I could hear: I’m gay. And even though it wasn’t shouted from a rooftop, it might as well have been. Because in that soft, private confession, something broke open. That was the first "yes" I gave myself. And once I said yes, I couldn't go back to no.

I started coming out to classmates and professors, and to my surprise and deep gratitude, they were incredible. Open arms. Warm hearts. Genuine affirmation. They saw me and didn't blink. It was some of the first real encouragement I received, and I still carry that grace with me.

But when I began coming out to friends and family, the story shifted. With some, it was beautiful. With others, the response was far less tender. Denial. Dismissal. Silence that echoed louder than words. Abandonment in places I thought were safe. I came out in layers. And with each new layer, I held my breath, hoping for love—and sometimes, receiving the opposite. The people who were supposed to love me no matter what—some of them simply didn’t. And I won’t sugarcoat it: it hurt. Deeply. That kind of pain doesn’t just vanish. It lingers.

But so does the joy. The wild, glittering, technicolor joy of living as your full self. Of not apologizing. Of not carrying shame like a second skin. I found beauty in creating a chosen family—people who see me, love me, laugh with me, cry with me, and remind me that queerness is not a curse, it’s a gift. And baby, it sparkles.

Coming out didn’t wreck my faith. It transfigured it. It made it real. Honest. Tender. Fierce. It’s almost as if God came out with me. As I embraced my truth, I discovered a God who had been there all along—not wagging a finger, but holding out a hand. The God I know now is bigger than the boxes I was raised with. She dances in glitter and wraps us in fierce, maternal grace. They delight in us. He calls us beloved before we even find the words.

The gospel got queered for me—and thank God for that. I stopped believing in a God who needed me to perform holiness and started trusting in a God who already knew me and called it good. Jesus wasn’t in the temples trying to impress the elders. He was out in the streets, on hillsides, at the water’s edge, making space for the ones religion tried to erase. That’s where I found church. Not in a building, but in community. In whispered prayers and shouted laughter. In shared meals and knowing glances. In the quiet reassurance that I am not alone.

I don’t even really like the phrase “coming out” anymore. It makes it sound like we owe the world a declaration. Like we have to prove something. Honey, I am not a press release. I am a whole human being. These days, I think of it more like letting people in. Who has shown themselves worthy of holding my heart? Who sees me and doesn’t flinch? Who doesn’t ask me to tone it down, but dares me to shine brighter?

There is so much courage in ordinary things. Holding my boyfriend’s hand in public. Saying "my partner" in a room where I’m not sure I’m safe. Choosing tenderness anyway. Courage isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s quiet and stubborn and holy. And it is always liberating.

So wherever you are right now—out, in, halfway there, still trying to find the words—this is for you. If you’re not ready to come out, you don’t have to. You are still holy. If you just came out and feel like you’re free-falling, we’re here to catch you. If you’ve been out for years but still carry the ache of rejection, know this: your wounds are valid, and your story is not over.

To the person afraid to speak the truth: I see you. To the one who just shouted it from the rooftops: I cheer for you. To the one whose family turned away: I grieve with you. To the ally who wants to help but doesn’t know how: Just show up. Hold space. Love loud.

Pride is protest and parade. It’s glitter and grief. It’s holy rage and sacred tenderness. It’s the refusal to disappear. It’s the joy of being. The miracle of still being here.

A Blessing for Pride Month

May this month meet you exactly where you are—whether you’re loud and proud, or quiet and questioning. May the Spirit wrap you up in her shimmering quilt and whisper, “You are mine, exactly as you are.” May the God who queered the gospel walk beside you in the parade and sit beside you in the closet. May your courage rise with the sun and your glitter fall like grace.

For those who are out: may you walk in freedom and joy. For those not yet out: may you know you are not alone. For those wounded by rejection: may healing find you, hold you, and remind you that you are not a problem to be fixed, but a person to be loved.

You are beloved. You are radiant. You are already a blessing.

Happy Pride, my loves. Shine on.