Who: Rachel and Mariko
Church: Northminster Presbyterian
Lunch: Ankar’s Hoagies
Topic: Community and Inclusion
This week’s post is yet another example of the intersection between my personal journey and professional life. And if you’re reading this without much context, here’s a little backstory: this 52-week project was born out of a realization I had a couple of years ago—something both simple and deeply revealing.
As Sydney and I continued to grow Be The Change Youth Initiative, we couldn’t help but notice a pattern. With very few exceptions, nearly every person who felt deeply connected to our mission—whether as a supporter, volunteer, donor, or partner—shared one thing in common: they identified as Christian at some point in their faith journey. And that didn’t just include the folks who followed our work; it extended to the leaders of nearly every organization we tried to build meaningful partnerships with.
At first, this felt like a coincidence. But over time, it became undeniable: something about the way we framed our work, told our stories, and invited people in seemed to strike a chord with those shaped by Christian values and communities—whether they were actively involved in a church or not.
This week’s reflection continues that conversation.
I met Rachel last year. She works for a mental health organization in Chattanooga and was featured in one of our youth mental health videos. At one of our meetings, she told me about her church and invited me to attend with her family. And after several attempts to get it on the calendar for months, we finally made it happen… during PRIDE month.
It wasn’t planned.
Well… it wasn’t in MY plan.
The purpose of this post isn’t to critique or dissect the sermon—I’m not here to give a theological play-by-play. That said, I do want to acknowledge something that struck me as I sat in the service. If I had visited this church during the height of my evangelical conservative era, I probably would have walked away… disappointed. Not because anything was lacking, but because there was nothing to nitpick, nothing to fuel my confirmation bias or trigger a sense of theological superiority in the sermon.
It was thoughtful, grounded, and theologically sound—a clear and faithful reflection on the meaning of Pentecost. And in a strange way, that made me pause. It reminded me just how much I had once relied on disagreement to feel spiritually anchored, and how much my understanding of faith has shifted since then.
So what DID stand out?
Quite a lot, actually. From the moment I arrived—and even before I stepped through the doors—I was met with warmth and welcome. This church community was, without question, the most hospitable I’ve encountered in all 41 weeks of this journey. And what made it even more remarkable was, despite being a smaller congregation, it’s beautiful diversity—both generationally and ethnically. I saw grandparents worshiping beside young children, people of different cultural backgrounds sharing stories over coffee, and a deep sense of unity that didn’t feel forced or performative. It felt real—rooted in shared values and an intentional commitment to building community.
Hymns were sung. The Word was preached. Prayers—both petitions and praises—were lifted together in community. And somewhere in the stillness of that shared liturgy, it hit me.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve been part of many churches. Our family even helped plant one in Rhode Island. Some vibrant, some growing, some rooted in tradition, and all of them chasing relevance. If I’m honest, many of them—no matter how well-intentioned—felt performative. The lights, the transitions, the carefully timed emotional manipulation tempos… it was more production than proclamation. The sermon often felt like an accessory to the experience, not the heart of it.
But here, in this moment, surrounded by people who weren’t performing but simply participating, I was reminded of what church was always meant to be: a gathered body of believers, coming as they are, to remember, to worship, and to be formed—not entertained.
After the service, most of the congregation lingered outside, gathering around tables of snacks and joining in unhurried conversations. What struck me almost immediately was the way children were not only present in these spaces—but genuinely included. They weren’t shuffled off to the side or treated as background noise. They were invited into conversations, asked questions, and listened to with care. Their presence was seen as valuable, their voices as worth hearing. It was a subtle yet powerful reflection of a community that doesn’t just make room for children, but embraces them as full participants in the life of the church.
After the service, I joined Rachel’s family for lunch and had the opportunity to learn more about the church’s history—its values, its evolution, and the community it has cultivated over the years. One moment that stood out was hearing that Rachel and Mariko were the second gay couple to be married at the church. That detail wasn’t shared as a political statement or a theological debate; it was shared as a simple, beautiful part of their story—woven into the fabric of a community that fully embraces them.
In that moment, what I felt most wasn’t controversy or tension—it was reverence. A sacred recognition that the Spirit is alive and moving in this place, breathing new life into what the Church can be. It reminded me of Pentecost: how the fresh wind of God’s Spirit didn’t speak in just one tongue or to just one people, but was poured out in many voices, across lines that had once divided. That’s what I witnessed—diversity not just tolerated, but celebrated as holy. As Rachel spoke, I saw Christ in her, and in the story she and Mariko carry. Their love wasn’t presented as an exception to be explained, but as a reflection of a community shaped by grace, truth, and the radical welcome of Jesus. It was a moment of deep peace—of being held in the light, not in spite of who they are, but because of who they are.
I’ll explore more about the distinctions between the “Big C” Church (the global body of believers) and the “little c” church (individual local congregations) in my next post, especially around their varying stances on LGBTQ+ inclusion. But as we talked, there was a moment that transported me—viscerally and emotionally—back to a conversation in Austin in 2019, when I sat across the table from Jason. It was that same feeling of being gently but profoundly confronted with someone’s lived experience—one that challenged everything I had once believed about who could fully belong in the church.
I recently had a conversation with a friend who asked how I engage with people—especially those who are unwavering in their belief that someone cannot be both a member of the LGBTQ+ community and a follower of Christ. Honestly, I’m not sure I have a perfect answer for that. But over the years, I’ve come to think of these conversations less like debates to be won and more like those “choose your own adventure” books I read as a kid. Except in this case, it’s not about choosing the next plot twist—it’s about tracing where someone’s theology is actually leading them.
When someone holds a rigid theological view on any topic, I try not to start by pushing back directly. Instead, I ask questions that uncover the roots of their belief: What do they think salvation is? Who do they believe Jesus came for? What role does grace actually play? These questions aren’t just rhetorical—they’re intended to move the conversation toward something deeper than rules or doctrine. They help both of us wrestle with what the gospel actually means.
At the end of the day, my hope is always the same: to guide the conversation toward the heart of Jesus. Not a theological system, not a proof text war—but Jesus. The one who continually defied expectations, welcomed the outsider, challenged the self-righteous, and made belonging the starting point, not the reward for good behavior. If we’re not centering our conversations there, I’m not sure we’re really talking about the gospel at all.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 