Under the Fig Tree

Recently, a post I shared sparked a passionate online conversation about God’s identity, gendered language, and the Church’s teachings. The dialogue that followed revealed something deeper than theological disagreement—it revealed how fragile our ability to speak with both conviction and compassion has become. For many, the mere suggestion that we reexamine how we talk about God was seen not as an invitation to dialogue but as a threat. As the thread grew, comments turned defensive and increasingly personal. Eventually, the administrator removed the thread entirely. While the details of the disagreement no longer remain visible, the underlying tensions still echo in my heart. In John 8:32, Jesus promises that “the truth will make you free,” but he never said the truth would be easy to receive—or to speak. What remains with me is not the anger or the accusations, but a renewed commitment to engage hard conversations with integrity and to create space where the Holy Spirit can breathe. Even when others try to shut down that space, I believe God calls us to keep it open.

I believe theology matters. The words we use about God shape how we see each other, how we treat one another, and how we understand our own identities as beloved children of God. In Genesis 1:27, we are told that humankind was created in God’s image, male and female, which tells us that divine mystery holds more than one frame of reference. The language we inherit—especially Jesus’ use of “Father”—is sacred and worthy of reflection, but it does not give us license to weaponize God’s self-revelation against those whose lives don’t fit cleanly into inherited categories. 1 Corinthians 13:2 reminds us that even if we “understand all mysteries and all knowledge,” without love we are nothing. Theological inquiry is not the same as theological warfare. When we reduce disagreement to name-calling or dominance, we lose sight of the Christ who spoke with grace even as he taught with authority. Christian conversation should not be a contest to win—it should be a communion that deepens our reverence for the One who is beyond all names.

This experience reminded me why I write. I write to explore the intersection of tradition and transformation, where questions are not signs of rebellion but expressions of faith. I write to wrestle with the mystery of God, much like Jacob wrestled with the angel in Genesis 32, refusing to let go until a blessing emerged. I write because I believe theology should lead us toward healing, not hierarchy. On this platform, disagreement is welcome—but only when it is offered with humility and care. Ephesians 4:29 urges us to “let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up,” and that is the spirit I hope to cultivate. When we forget this, our theological debates cease to be conversations and become spiritual battlegrounds. I am not interested in policing boundaries of orthodoxy that exclude others; I am committed to the deeper work of spiritual hospitality. This is why I will continue to hold space for dialogue that is both bold and tender, truthful and kind.

I’m also mindful that many of the people who follow my work are LGBTQ+ Christians, allies, seminarians, and seekers who have been wounded by the Church’s misuse of theology. For far too long, Scripture has been twisted into a tool of exclusion, rather than a wellspring of liberation. Matthew 23:4 describes religious leaders who “tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others,” and I know too many people who have felt that weight. But the Gospel I follow is the one where Jesus says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). This platform is for those who are seeking rest, belonging, and truth that affirms the image of God within them. You are not required to prove your worth, defend your dignity, or debate your humanity. Your questions are welcome. Your presence is holy. Your voice matters here—not in spite of who you are, but because of who you are in Christ.

So as I move forward, I carry this experience not as a burden, but as a blessing in disguise. It has sharpened my focus, deepened my trust in the God who calls us to speak, and reminded me of the cost of prophetic witness. In Luke 4:28–30, we see that even Jesus was driven out of the synagogue when his message disrupted expectations. If the Word made flesh faced rejection, then we should not be surprised when our words—especially those rooted in love—are resisted too. Yet we press on, not to win arguments, but to witness to the wideness of God’s mercy. I will continue to write, to pray, and to wrestle with big questions. I will continue to hold space for conversations that challenge and stretch us. And I will do so with a heart rooted in Christ and a voice guided by love. If we are truly to follow the One who is the Truth, then let us also walk in the way of peace.