Well, this past week has been… exactly what I expected.
Some people really didn’t like what I’ve had to say. Others have reached out with deep gratitude, saying they finally feel seen, heard, and understood. And honestly? I’m holding both responses with open hands.
I’m not intimidated by criticism—honestly, as an Enneagram 8, I welcome thoughtful, objective feedback. And I don’t find validation in praise either (if I’m being honest, I tend to question people’s motives). I don’t write to win approval. I write because I believe these conversations matter—and because staying silent never sat well with me.
So often, conversations about inclusion start with logistics. Is there room? Can we make space? Do we have the capacity? But when it comes to LGBTQ+ inclusivity—especially in faith communities—these questions often mask a deeper one:
Do we actually want everyone here?
Let’s be honest… we can invite people to the table, but if we never offer them space to speak, to lead, to shape the conversation, then it’s not really inclusion. If we control the menu, the agenda, and the tone of the gathering, we’re not building community. Real belonging demands more than a seat; it requires shared power, mutual respect, and the humility to be changed by voices different from our own.
So the question isn’t “Who’s invited?”—it’s “Who feels truly welcome, truly heard, and genuinely valued when they get there?” Because until the table becomes a place of shared ownership, not just extended hospitality, we’re not practicing justice—we’re just rearranging the furniture.
With this being the last post in this series, I want to explore what it means to create not just a bigger table, but a more courageous one—one where love isn’t conditional, and belonging isn’t up for debate.
I’ve heard people say you can’t drink coffee and be a Christian.
I’ve also heard people say the same about alcohol.
You can’t be gay and be a Christian.
You can’t get a tattoo.
You can’t vote for a Democrat.
You can’t vote for a Republican.
You can’t be divorced.
You can’t cuss.
You can’t doubt.
You can’t question the pastor.
You can’t miss church on Sunday.
You can’t wear certain clothes.
You can’t listen to secular music.
You can’t practice yoga.
You can’t be rich.
You can’t be poor.
You can’t go to therapy.
You can’t have anxiety.
You can’t love Jesus and still struggle.
You can’t be a woman and preach.
You can’t read a different translation of the Bible.
You can’t love people too radically, or else you’re “watering down the gospel.”
Honestly, the list is long—and often contradictory.
But here’s what that long list tells me:
We don’t all read Scripture the same way.
We bring our stories, our cultures, our traditions, and our wounds to the Bible.
And how we interpret it often says more about us as it does about God.
So when someone says, “You can’t be gay and be a Christian,”
I no longer hear a definitive theological truth.
I hear an interpretation—one shaped by how they’ve been taught to read Scripture.
That’s why we need to keep asking better questions.
Not just “What does the Bible say?” but “How are we reading it?”
And maybe even more importantly: “What kind of God are we revealing in the way we read?”
Because the truth is, how we read the Bible has never been static.
Take the word “homosexuality,” for example. Many people assume it’s always been in Scripture—that it’s a fixed, unquestionable part of God’s Word. But that’s simply not true.
As I mentioned in a previous post, the word “homosexual” didn’t appear in any English translation of the Bible until 1946—in the Revised Standard Version. That’s nearly 2,000 years after the New Testament was written, and centuries after the Bible was first translated into English. In the original Greek, the words used—like arsenokoitai and malakoi—are complex, debated, and deeply context-specific. Scholars still argue about their exact meaning. But what we do know is this: the modern concept of sexual orientation didn’t even exist in biblical times.
So when we say “the Bible clearly says…”—especially when it comes to LGBTQ+ people—we have to pause and ask:
Are we interpreting Scripture faithfully?
Or are we projecting modern assumptions onto ancient texts?
Are we seeking truth?
Or are we defending what makes us most comfortable?
And even more than that:
Are we using Scripture as a weapon—or as a window into the heart of a God who consistently lifts the marginalized, welcomes the outsider, and redefines who belongs?
Because how we read the Bible will always reveal the kind of God we believe in.
Is that God harsh, distant, and conditional? Or is that God radically loving, just, and present—especially with those who’ve been pushed to the margins?
The difference matters.
Not just for theology—but for real people with real lives, real pain, and real hope.
The truth is, Christians have always read Scripture differently. Across denominations, cultures, and generations, we’ve come to different conclusions about what’s literal, what’s cultural, what’s timeless, and what needs context.
For some, drinking alcohol is a sin. For others, Jesus turning water into wine is all the clarity they need. And yes, there are even communities who believe coffee is off limits because of its stimulating effect. The point isn’t who’s “right”—the point is this: our understanding of Scripture is always shaped by how we read it, where we read it from, and who taught us how to read it.
So when we talk about topics like LGBTQ+ identity and inclusion, the question isn’t just what does the Bible say?—but how are we reading it? Are we taking time to understand the cultural context, the original language, and the overarching story of God’s love and justice? Are we reading to exclude or to invite? To shame or to understand?
If we’ve been taught that God’s love has limits, we may struggle to believe that full inclusion is possible. But if we’ve experienced the Spirit of God moving in and through the lives of LGBTQ+ people—and if we approach Scripture with humility, curiosity, and care—we might begin to see something new. Or perhaps, something ancient and true, but often missed:
Belonging doesn’t require erasure.
God’s image shows up in all kinds of bodies and stories.
Reading the Bible faithfully means holding space for both truth and transformation.
I’ll end with this…
For years, one of my greatest fears wasn’t just being wrong—it was what might unravel if I admitted I was wrong. Especially about something as deeply rooted as my “biblical stance” on LGBTQ+ inclusion.
Because if I was wrong about that… what else might I be wrong about?
It felt like tugging on a single thread that could undo the whole fabric of my faith.
And for someone who built their life on certainty, clarity, and theological boundaries—deconstruction wasn’t just scary. It was off-limits.
It wasn’t that I lacked compassion.
I just thought love meant telling the truth—even when it hurt.
But what I didn’t realize was that truth without humility can harden into something unrecognizable from the Jesus I claimed to follow. And fear of being wrong kept me from seeing the harm that my “clarity” was causing.
I thought my faith would fall apart if I opened that door.
But what I’ve found—on the other side of honest questions and sacred wrestling—isn’t less faith.
It’s a deeper faith.
Less about rigid certainty, and more about radical trust in a God who’s big enough to hold our doubts, and kind enough to transform our understanding without shaming our past.
So no—deconstruction wasn’t an option for me…
Until it became the only faithful path forward.
A path toward a more honest faith.
A faith not built on fear of getting it wrong, but on the courage to ask deeper questions.
A faith that makes room for complexity, nuance, and growth.
A path toward Jesus—not the version I was handed, but the one I kept catching glimpses of in the margins, in the tension, in the faces of people I was once taught to exclude.
It wasn’t a path I chose lightly.
It was slow. Painful. Lonely at times.
But it was also liberating. Healing. Sacred.
Because sometimes, the most faithful thing you can do… is let go of what no longer reflects the heart of God—and trust that what remains will be true and more like Christ.
Searching for Jesus in A̶m̶e̶r̶i̶c̶a̶ Chattanooga 