Gallivanting Rainbows

Introduction: The Quiet Battle Within

There was a time when I believed faith and sexuality existed in two separate worlds, both unreachable from the other. In my childhood home, God was the center of everything. Church was more than a building; it was a community, a culture, and a guide for how to live. The Bible sat on the coffee table, and Sunday services dictated the rhythm of the week. And yet, even before I had words for it, I knew I was different.

By the time I understood I was gay, my understanding of God was already deeply woven into my sense of self. To my family and my church, homosexuality was framed as a moral failing, a spiritual sickness that needed curing. What do you do when your identity, the very essence of who you are, is treated as a contradiction to the faith you hold dear?

The Paradox of Love and Condemnation

Christianity teaches love, but the LGBTQ+ experience within many Christian communities is shaped by rejection. For years, I lived in that paradox. I prayed for God to change me. I volunteered in ministries, hoping my service would make me “good enough” to be healed. Every sermon about sin felt like a direct message from the pulpit to my heart, as if my presence in the pews was a scandal all its own.

What hurt the most wasn’t just the theology—it was the silence. No one spoke of being gay in my church unless it was framed as something broken. There were no conversations about LGBTQ+ Christians finding grace. It was always about repentance, deliverance, and resisting temptation. I sat through countless youth group lectures about purity, yet the only relationships discussed were heterosexual ones. My silence became survival.

A Moment of Crisis

At 19, I stood at the edge of a cliff both figuratively and literally. It was a cold spring evening, and I had driven to a secluded spot overlooking a valley near my university. My Bible sat on the dashboard. I had spent the week reading arguments for and against “gay Christianity,” hoping someone else’s theology could give me permission to exist as both.

But I felt nothing but emptiness. If my sexuality made me unworthy, then what was the point of faith? And if God loved me, why would God create me only to condemn me for something I could not change?

In that moment, the only prayer I could whisper was: If you’re real, meet me here.

The Long Road to Reconciliation

God did meet me there—but not in the way I expected. There was no voice from heaven or sudden clarity. Instead, what followed was a slow unraveling of everything I thought I knew. I read books by affirming theologians and personal testimonies from LGBTQ+ Christians. I found online spaces where faith and queerness weren’t opposites, but two truths that could coexist.

I began to understand that the Bible, like any ancient text, was shaped by culture, language, and human interpretation. Passages often used to condemn LGBTQ+ people were not as clear-cut as my childhood church had taught. In fact, Jesus himself never once spoke about homosexuality. But he did speak about love, justice, and the dangers of religious gatekeeping.

This was not a rejection of God, but a return to the heart of faith—a faith built on compassion, not condemnation.

Christianity’s Reckoning with LGBTQ+ Lives

The paradox is not just personal; it’s structural. Christianity, especially in its more conservative forms, has historically struggled to make space for LGBTQ+ people. It’s not just a theological debate—it’s about belonging, safety, and survival. LGBTQ+ Christians are often forced to choose between their faith community and their authentic selves.

The church’s stance on sexuality is often framed as a matter of moral clarity, but for those of us who live in the overlap of these identities, it’s about survival and spiritual wholeness. When churches claim that LGBTQ+ people are welcome “as long as they change,” they are offering conditional love, which is no love at all.

Finding My Own Theology

Faith, I’ve come to learn, is not about having all the answers. It’s about the courage to ask better questions. I believe God loves me—not despite my queerness, but including it. My queerness is not a test to overcome; it is part of the image of God reflected in me.

My theology now centers on radical inclusion, the idea that God’s table is wide enough for every identity, every orientation, every person who longs for connection with the divine. I am still learning, still growing, but I no longer see my sexuality and my faith as enemies. They are companions on the same journey.

Conclusion: The Paradox Becomes a Promise

The paradox of being gay and Christian is not that these identities contradict each other, but that they reveal a deeper truth: God’s love is bigger than human doctrine. Faith is not about fitting into a narrow mold; it’s about daring to believe that love is bigger than fear, bigger than theology, and big enough to hold us all.

I am both gay and Christian, and I no longer apologize for either. That, to me, is faith fulfilled.