To All Those Who Try to Shove Me Back in the Closet

An Open Letter from a Gay Pastor Who’s Done Shrinking

Earlier last week, someone came into my office and—very kindly, very casually—told me I shouldn’t talk so much about “the gay thing.” That there’s so much more to me. And they’re right: there is more to me. But when I preach, I speak from my own life. And being gay is part of that life—part of my body, my relationships, my calling, and my faith.

And the truth is, it wasn’t just this person. It’s people from the church of my youth. It’s some family members. It’s the quiet comments. The passive-aggressive prayer requests. The emails signed “in Christian love.” It’s the whole chorus of people—some well-meaning, some not—who have, over the years, suggested that if I could just tone it down a bit, I might be easier to love. Easier to hear. Easier to follow.

But this past week, it was that one person who tipped the scales.

So here’s my response…to this person and to all the others who try to shove me back in the closet:

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Dear Committee of Concerned Christians™

You don’t get to tell me which parts of myself I’m allowed to bring to the pulpit.

Yes, I’m gay. And yes, I talk about it sometimes. Not because I’m trying to “make it about the gay thing”—but because it is part of my life. My body, my love, my grief, my joy, my story. I preach from that place not to center myself, but to be honest about the lens through which I experience God.

And let’s be real: no one has ever come into my office and said,
“Hey, you talk about quilting too much.”
Or “Could you tone down the theology?”
Or “You really bring up pastoral care a lot.”

But the second I mention something about my actual lived identity—a story about a man I’ve loved, a time I felt unsafe, or the joy I’ve found in being queer—suddenly it’s “too much.”

Let me ask you this: Why is it only the sacred parts of me that make you uncomfortable?

Because what you’re really saying is:
“I’d be more comfortable with your queerness if you didn’t remind me it exists.”

And honestly? That’s not about me. That’s about you.

Because my queerness is not a distraction.
It’s not a sermon illustration.
It’s not a theological conundrum.
It is part of my divine design (Psalm 139:14).

It’s how I read Scripture—with curiosity, resistance, and liberation in mind.
It’s how I connect with the marginalized—because I am one (Luke 4:18–19).
It’s how I love—with tenderness, depth, and a whole lot of glittery grace (1 Corinthians 13:4–7, emphasis on the glitter).

Yes, of course there’s more to me than being gay.
There’s also more to me than being a pastor. Or a quilter. Or a theologian.
But nobody ever tells me to stop talking so much about those things.

And yet here I am, being told—by someone sitting in my office—that I “shouldn’t talk so much about the gay thing.” As though it’s an add-on. A footnote. A blemish I’m drawing attention to. But that’s the thing: I don’t need to hide what God has called holy (Acts 10:15).

And while we’re at it, let me say this with every ounce of clarity and conviction in me:
Being gay is not a sin.

What is sinful?
Demanding someone amputate parts of themselves to fit into your version of holiness (Romans 12:1–2).
Calling love broken (1 John 4:7–8).
Calling shame righteous—when what God really asks is justice, kindness, and humility (Micah 6:8).
Twisting God’s name into a leash—using it to bind, silence, or condemn (Exodus 20:7).

Because let’s be clear about this:
Jesus never said they’ll know we are his followers by our doctrine. Or our worship style. Or our sexual purity. Or our theological correctness.

He said they’ll know we are his disciples by our love (John 13:35).

Love that makes room (Romans 15:7).
Love that listens before it lectures (James 1:19).
Love that doesn’t require people to hide the best parts of themselves to be welcomed (Luke 14:13–14).
Love that liberates (Galatians 5:1, 13).

So if your version of Christianity demands that I mute my story, hide my queerness, or question my worth—then it’s not love.
And if it’s not love, it’s not Jesus (1 John 4:7–8).

My life—my very existence—is not up for debate.
It is not a theological problem to be solved.
It is not a “thorn in the flesh.”
It is not a season I’ll grow out of, a test I’ll one day pass, or a part of me God forgot to fix.

My life is a testimony (Revelation 12:11).
My queerness is a gift—one of the Spirit’s many sacred expressions (1 Corinthians 12:4–6).
And my calling is not contingent on your comfort—for the gifts and calling of God are irrevocable (Romans 11:29).

I already know what’s coming. I can practically hear my mother’s voice saying this is “God trying to get your attention,” calling me to repent and return to “the true way.” And I imagine a few family members reading this right now with furrowed brows and whispered prayers for my soul.

But here’s what I know to be true:

I have found more of God in the embrace of queer love than I ever did in the echo chamber of evangelical shame.

I have seen the fruit of the Spirit in queer community (Galatians 5:22–23).
I have heard the voice of the Shepherd call me by name—and I know that voice (John 10:27).
And I have tasted and seen that the Lord is good—and not once has God asked me to become less myself in order to be loved (Psalm 34:8).

I have encountered the unconditional love of God in drag shows and gay bars—those sacred, glitter-strewn sanctuaries where joy is resistance and chosen family is communion. There, no one asks me to be smaller. There, I am embraced fully. There, I’ve witnessed more honesty, welcome, celebration, and healing than I ever did in all those Sunday morning pews that couldn’t make space for my story.

So no—I will not be silenced.
I will not shrink.
I will not contort myself into a sanitized version of God’s image to make you feel more at ease.

Because the pulpit is not a closet.

And I refuse to be shoved back in.

Sincerely (and sick of your respectability politics),
James
Still gay, still called, still preaching.

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To my queer siblings, fellow clergy, artists, seekers, and saints:
May you know—deep in your bones—that your story is not too much.
Your voice is not too loud.
Your presence is not too political.
Your love is not too risky.

You are not a theological debate.
You are not a broken mirror.
You are not the exception to grace.

You are fearfully and wonderfully made.
You are called.
You are gifted.
You are beloved.
You are the reflection of a God whose image is bigger, bolder, and queerer than we’ve ever dared to imagine.

So keep showing up.
Keep telling the truth.
Keep preaching from your life, loving from your core, and creating from your fullness.

Because your queerness is not an obstacle to ministry.
It’s a testimony.
It’s a compass.
It’s a kind of holy resistance.

And we need you. Every radiant, resilient part of you.

Don’t let anyone shove you back into the shadows.

You were made to stand in the light.

Amen.