Tag Archives: LGBTQ+

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 8: The One Jesus Loves

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Read John 13:21–26

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. Whatever you forbid on earth will be forbidden in heaven, and whatever you permit on earth will be permitted in heaven.” (Matthew 16:19 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “The One Jesus Loves” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 8: The One Jesus Loves. There’s a moment in John’s Gospel—quiet, easily skipped over—where the one Jesus loves rests close enough to feel his heartbeat during the Last Supper. That’s the moment. Not the foot washing. Not the betrayal. Not even the bread and wine. But that tender, reclining closeness—the physical resting of someone on the heart of Christ.

And what’s wild is how much the Church has tried to sanitize that moment, to make it feel safe, distant, holy in the sterile sense. But what if it’s holy in the intimate sense? What if the one Jesus loves doesn’t look like who we expected? What if the closeness that shocked people then still shocks them now?

Let’s be clear: I’m not saying Jesus was queer. We are called to understand and honor who the historical Jesus actually was. But we also have to take his teachings seriously—as they were taught—in light of what we know now. That includes recognizing what is good and just today, even if the Church once called it sin. Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not permission to distort the Gospel, but a responsibility to interpret it with holy wisdom.

So we have to ask: why has the Church been so determined to bind up difference? Why are we so quick to declare the “other” unholy? Do we really think God is going to get in line with our traditions? Or demand we return in line with Christ?

You are already the one Jesus loves. Not after you change. Not once you conform. Right now. As you are. The becoming isn’t to earn love—it’s a response to it. And the becoming is not into something you never were… but into the most real self you’ve ever been. Not the mask. Not the performance. But the raw, radiant, rooted you that God recognized before anyone else had a name for you.

To say “God is love” isn’t a vague Hallmark sentiment—it’s a fierce theological claim. Love like that doesn’t flinch at your truth. It doesn’t recoil from your scars or try to filter your story through a lens of respectability. Love like that draws you close—not to fix you, but to free you.

We don’t need to twist the Gospel into something it’s not. But we do need to hear it again with ears unclogged by fear and power. We need to understand the teachings of Jesus—not as a weapon against difference, but as a call to deeper love, deeper justice, deeper welcome. And yes, that means reexamining what the Church once called sin in the light of what the Spirit is revealing now. Because Jesus said what we bind and loose on earth will be bound and loosed in heaven. That’s not a threat—it’s a responsibility. So, again, why has the Church spent so long binding up beauty, truth, identity, queerness, color, complexity? Once more, do we really believe God is going to get in line with our traditions when they are not in line with Christ? Or are we finally ready to be snapped into God’s rhythm of grace?

The one Jesus loves is the one leaning in. The one close enough to hear the heartbeat. The one others overlook, sanitize, push aside—and yet still finds themselves pulled close to the chest of Christ. Not rejected. Not erased. Loved. And named.

So lean in, beloved. That space was always yours.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The Gospel doesn’t erase you. It draws you closer to the truth of who you’ve always been.

PRAYER
Loving Jesus, I lean in. I rest on your chest. Let me hear your heartbeat louder than the noise of this world. Let your love redefine me—not into someone else, but into the truest me. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours

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Read Genesis 1:26–27

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands except the one who receives it.” (Revelation 2:17 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and modified by the author; Poetry: written by Tristan Robert Lange, Human-authored.

Part 6: God’s Pronouns Include Yours. I’ve never liked being called by my last name. Still don’t. It feels cold. Generic. Like I’m being categorized instead of known. “Lattig” belongs to my family—but I’m Todd. That’s who I’ve always been.

Todd, who loved stuffed animals and begged his mom for a Cabbage Patch Kid. Todd, who played with Barbies and battled He-Man in the same afternoon. Who couldn’t do a push-up, but could name every doll in his sister’s toy chest. I loved stories, softness, and strength—not in opposition, but in harmony.

From a young age, I always related better with girls than boys. I wasn’t a jock. I wasn’t loud or aggressive. But I was me.

And still, over and over again, the world tried to rename me. With titles. With assumptions. With ideas about what boys should be, how men should act, and what it meant to belong.

But God never got my name—or my identity—wrong.

“Male and female he created them.” It’s one of the most quoted lines from Scripture—and one of the most misused. For generations, the Church has clung to this verse as proof that gender is fixed, binary, and divinely assigned. But Genesis 1 wasn’t written to define gender roles or validate modern ideologies. It was written during exile—as poetry, not policy. As worship, not anatomy.

Yes, the text refers to biological sex. Ancient people observed male and female bodies. That’s not in dispute. But the assumption that those two categories fully explain the image of God? That’s not biblical. That’s cultural. And when the Church weaponizes this verse to police identity, it distorts the very passage it claims to uphold.

We know now what the ancients didn’t: biological sex isn’t a strict binary. Intersex people exist—and always have. So even on a physical level, “male and female” doesn’t describe everyone. But what’s more, gender identity—who we know ourselves to be—isn’t written on our bodies. It’s written in relationship, language, experience, and soul. And God knows all of that. None of it is outside the image. None of it is outside the blessing.

Genesis 1 says we were created in the image of God. That’s the focus. “Male and female” is part of the poetry—but it’s not the punchline. The image of God is bigger than bodies. Bigger than binaries. Bigger than the limits we love to impose.

Because the point of the creation story was never to flatten diversity. It was to name it holy.

We talk a lot in the Church about being called. Called to ministry. Called to serve. Called by name. But rarely do we stop and ask: what name?

Because the name people use for you—and the pronouns they choose to affirm or deny—tell you everything about whether they see you as a child of God, or just a role to play.

Too many people know what it feels like to be misnamed in God’s house. To be told, in subtle or not-so-subtle ways, that their identity is a problem, a phase, a sin, or a distraction. That who they know themselves to be—whether trans, nonbinary, or otherwise outside the norms—is somehow outside the image of God.

But Scripture tells a different story.

The God of the Bible is not obsessed with rigid categories. God is obsessed with calling people by name—and sometimes even changing those names when the old ones no longer fit.

Abram becomes Abraham. Sarai becomes Sarah. Jacob wrestles with God and is renamed Israel. Simon becomes Peter. Saul becomes Paul. Jesus is named Emmanuel—and called the Christ. In every case, naming is not about control. It’s about calling someone into the fullness of who they are.

When we tell someone their pronouns don’t matter, we’re not defending God. We’re denying the very thing God does best: calling people into life by name.

This isn’t about pronouns being trendy or political. It’s about pronouns being personal. They are shorthand for dignity. For visibility. For the image of God reflected in someone’s life.

When someone tells you their pronouns, they’re not demanding special treatment. They’re inviting you to see them as they truly are—without pretending, without performing, without hiding.

And when a church refuses to honor that? When it insists on old names, dead names, wrong pronouns, or no pronouns at all? It’s not holding the line of faith. It’s blocking the tomb. Because you can’t shout “Come out!” like Jesus did—if you’re unwilling to unbind what holds people back.

The call of Christ is not to enforce conformity. It’s to participate in resurrection. And resurrection is always personal. It doesn’t just raise the body—it restores the name.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
The image of God is not limited to male or female—it includes all who bear God’s breath and name. To honor someone’s identity is not rebellion. It’s resurrection.

PRAYER
Creator God, you shaped us in your image—diverse and whole. You call us by name and see us clearly, even when others try to define us by roles or fear. Help us listen when others speak their truth, and speak our own with courage. May our sanctuaries become places where identities are honored, not erased, and where your image is seen in every name, every pronoun, every beloved life. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb

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Read John 11:38–44

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“You have been raised to new life with Christ. So set your sights on the realities of heaven…” (Colossians 3:1 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using Adobe Firefly and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Coming Out of the Tomb” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 5: Coming Out of the Tomb. He hadn’t meant to open it. The photo album. It just fell off the shelf while he was reaching for something else. Thick, vinyl-bound. The kind that smells like old glue and ghosts. He sat on the floor and flipped it open—page after page of some other boy’s life.

Except the boy was in dresses. Hair curled. Smiling. Always smiling. And every part of him wanted to scream. Because that was him. And it wasn’t.

He remembered how tight the shoes were. How the lace itched. How the compliments stung. “So beautiful.” “Such a pretty little girl.”

He remembered the way his chest sank every time someone used the wrong name—not just wrong, but impossible. Like they were naming a stranger that only he had to become.

He didn’t have words for it back then. Just a hollow ache. Just a sense that something was off and he was the problem. So he learned to perform. Smile for the camera. Say thank you. Don’t make it weird.

But now, as a grown man flipping through a scrapbook of someone else’s expectations, he felt it like a funeral—one he never asked for but had been made to attend.

Years ago, he came out as a trans man. Not for attention. Not to make a point. He was just done pretending. Done shrinking. Done dying politely.

But the album was still there—heavy as ever, shelved like scripture. And sometimes, someone would still flip it open and smile wistfully, landing on a page and saying, “You were always such a happy little girl.”

He never knew what to say to that. They meant it as a memory. But to him, it was a myth. A horrible lie, sealed in plastic, that almost cost him his life.

He closed the album. Not with anger—but with a strange kind of peace. The past couldn’t be undone, but it didn’t get the final word. He was alive now. Fully, finally, painfully alive. And that’s when resurrection really begins.

When Jesus stood outside Lazarus’s tomb, he didn’t blame him for being dead. He didn’t call him out with judgment. He called him by name: “Lazarus, come out.” And then—this part is easy to miss—he turned to the others and said, “Unbind him. Let him go.”

Friends, resurrection doesn’t end at the moment of awakening. It begins there.

Coming out is a resurrection. And like all resurrections, it’s messy. It doesn’t happen with makeup done and hair perfectly styled. It doesn’t look like a Hallmark moment. It often looks like staggering out of a dark place, wrapped in grave clothes that other people put on you. It looks like truth rising through dust. Like life interrupting someone else’s narrative.

Too many people think coming out—whether it’s as queer, trans, disabled, neurodivergent, or simply not what they expected—is some act of rebellion. They call it selfish. They call it sinful. They call it confusing. But what if it’s holy?

What if resurrection means walking out of the tomb with your head held high, even if your voice still shakes? What if grace looks like unwrapping the grave clothes of shame, fear, and forced performance—and refusing to let other people call that death life? And what if the church’s role isn’t to stand at the entrance of the tomb demanding answers, but to help unbind the ones God has already called to rise?

Because if Jesus called Lazarus by name, you can be sure he knows yours too. And when he calls, he doesn’t say, “Come back.” He says, “Come out.”

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Coming out is not rebellion. It is resurrection. And Jesus is the one who calls you by name.

PRAYER
God of the living, you call us out of shame and into truth, out of silence and into song, out of tombs and into life. Help us to hear your voice—and to follow. When others still see a corpse, you see a beloved. Give us courage to rise, and surround us with people who help unbind what no longer belongs. In the name of the risen Christ, who knows our names and our scars, Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 3: Blessed Are the Misfits

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Read Matthew 5:1–12

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.” (1 Corinthians 1:27 NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Holy Unbecoming” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 3: Blessed Are the Misfits. When I was in sixth grade, I got into a fight with a kid who had bullied me before. This time, I lost. Badly. I can’t remember the punches, just the shame. The trying-to-be-normal and never quite passing. The teasing in the hallways. The mockery I swallowed to survive. But what I remember most didn’t come from another student. It came from a teacher. One day, in front of everyone, she called me a queerbait.

Even then, I didn’t know exactly what it meant—but I knew it meant something. Something “off.” Something unwanted. Something wrong. I felt exposed. Named. Not in the holy way God names us. In the way the world does—by what makes us different. Strange. Easy to dismiss. Fun to fear.

My mom came in, furious, and the teacher backpedaled: “I didn’t mean it like that. I just meant… he’s unique. Different.” To her credit, that never happened again and she always treated me with respect and decency afterward, which hadn’t always been the case in past experience.

Maybe she thought she was offering a compliment. Maybe she was trying to explain away something society told her not to say aloud. But the damage was done. Not just by the word—but by the implication that being different was something to be whispered around, excused, or coded.

Years later, I’ve come to see that word for what it means. Queer. Strange. Different. Odd. Unique. And I claim my queerness. Isn’t that exactly who Jesus was talking to on that hillside in Matthew 5? Not the put-together. Not the powerful. But the meek. The mourners. The hungry. The harassed. The ones who didn’t fit in the world’s boxes and couldn’t pass the purity test.

Blessed are the misfits. The ones who walk into a room and feel the silence first. The ones who carry stories that don’t tidy up into sermon illustrations. The ones who are called names—and find belovedness anyway.

Maybe Jesus wasn’t offering a list of spiritual goals to strive for. Maybe he was simply describing the kind of people already sitting in front of him—tired, tender, poor, rejected, queer—and saying, “You’re the ones God sees. You’re the ones God blesses.” He wasn’t telling them to get their act together. He was telling them they already belonged.

That’s still radical. Especially in a world that tells us to clean up, shut up, shape up, and stop queering up just to be welcome in the streets, let alone in the pews. But Jesus didn’t start his ministry with a call to perfection. He started with a call to blessing—for the ones most often excluded from it.

I used to think blessing was something we had to earn. Now I know it’s something we recognize when we stop pretending. When we bring our full selves—awkward, unsure, complicated—to God without apology. When we stop performing and just show up. Jesus doesn’t say, “Blessed are those who figured it all out.” He says, “Blessed are you.”

The Beatitudes were never about who could rise to God’s standard. They were about who already mattered—exactly as they were. That includes the ones who’ve been laughed at, passed over, kicked out, called names, and rejected by the very people who claim to speak for God. And in Matthew 25, Jesus makes it clear to those who wish to exclude: You are excluding me.

So if you’ve ever felt too queer, too awkward, too unsure, too complicated—know this: you’re already held in divine favor. You’re not outside the blessing. You are the blessing. Jesus didn’t wait for you to get it together. He looked right at you and said, “Blessed are you.”

Indeed, blessed you are!

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
Jesus doesn’t bless the ones who perform best. He blesses the ones who show up real. If you’ve ever been called “too much” or “not enough,” hear this: you are exactly the kind of person the Kingdom belongs to.

PRAYER
God of the outcast and the overlooked, thank you for calling us blessed even when the world calls us broken. Help me to see the holiness in what makes me different. Help me stop hiding and start healing. Let me live in the light of your love—just as I am. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional, Series

Beloved & Becoming, Part 1: Not Who We Wished God Made

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About This Series
Started during Pride Month 2025, this series is for anyone who’s ever been told they had to become someone else to be loved by God. It’s a journey of returning to the sacred self God created—especially for those whose stories have been silenced or shamed.

Read Psalm 139:13-16

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them. People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7b NLT)

We live in a world obsessed with image, identity, and self-improvement—but rarely in ways that honor the sacred self God already created. From a young age, we’re taught who to be, how to behave, and what parts of ourselves to silence if we want to be accepted. Some of us spend years trying to become the version of ourselves that others will finally call good. But what if holiness isn’t about becoming someone else? What if it’s about remembering who we were all along—the person God saw and called good from the very beginning?

Image Caption: Image: AI-generated using DALL-E (OpenAI) and customized by the author. Used with the devotional “Not Who We Wished God Made” at Life-Giving Water Devotions.

Part 1: Not Who We Wished God Made. He stood in front of the mirror like it was a witness. Shirt off. Breath held. Not to admire—never that—but to prepare. He tugged at his shirt before even putting it on, stretching it so it wouldn’t cling. Shoulders slouched inward, more defense than posture. He didn’t hate his body—not exactly. But he’d spent years treating it like something to apologize for.

And the mirror remembered.

It remembered the kitchen table—age eight—when his uncle laughed and told him to stop stuffing his face or he’d turn into a walking meatball. “Better learn now, kid. Nobody marries the fat one.” The words stuck harder than the food ever did.

It remembered middle school, when boys hooked their fingers through the loop on the back of his shirt—the so-called “fag tag”—and yanked, grinning as they spit the word like gum. It was supposed to be funny. It wasn’t. And it didn’t stop.

It remembered the church potluck, the woman at the serving table who gave him a second helping with a wink and said, “Don’t worry—God loves us big boys too.” Her tone was sweet. The shame was not.

It remembered the date who ghosted. The pastor who called his baggy clothes a sign of humility. The job interview where no one looked him in the eye until he mentioned his degree.

Every time he dressed, it became a kind of translation. What do they want to see today? Not too loud. Not too soft. Not too “emotional.” Not too “fabulous.” Just… not too much.

He didn’t want to be admired. He just didn’t want to be erased. And in that quiet, staring back at himself, he still wondered—though he feared the answer—if God looked at him the same way he did: through the eyes of everyone who’d wished him smaller.

The psalmist wrote, “You made all the delicate, inner parts of my body and knit me together in my mother’s womb.” That’s not a metaphor for a sanitized version of ourselves—it’s the raw, real beginning. God saw everything—every curve, every quirk, every contradiction—and called it wonderfully made.

But that’s not the version most of us were taught to love. Somewhere along the way, someone handed us a template: be strong, but not soft. Be pure, but not weird. Be faithful, but not too much of yourself. The result? We try to become who we think God wished God made—shaving off the parts that might offend, hiding the parts that don’t “belong.”

Yet Psalm 139 isn’t about who we might become if we work hard enough. It’s about the God who already saw us and called us good. Before the world told us to shrink, God was already forming something beautiful. Before the bullies, the uncles, the pulpits, the potlucks—God was already knitting. Already blessing. Already calling us known.

When we try to become someone else for the sake of belonging, we aren’t just hiding ourselves—we’re denying the sacredness of God’s design. That doesn’t mean we don’t grow, repent, or transform. But transformation doesn’t mean erasure. Becoming doesn’t mean abandoning. It means unfolding—step by step—into the truth that was planted in us before we ever knew how to be afraid of it.

The question isn’t whether God loves us. That part is settled. The question is: will we stop wishing to be someone else long enough to believe it?

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
God doesn’t love the version of you you’ve performed to survive. God loves you. The real, unfiltered, unpolished you. That’s where becoming begins.

PRAYER
God, forgive me for chasing someone you never asked me to become. Help me remember who you made me to be—and to trust that it is good. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT (OpenAI).

Devotional

Rad Inclusivity

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Read Acts 10:44-48

ALSO IN SCRIPTURE
“For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of all and richly blesses all who call on them” (Romans 10:12 NLT).

Acts 10:44-48 unveils a profound moment in the early Christian community, showcasing the inclusive nature of God’s love. Peter, a devout Jew, visits the house of Cornelius, a Roman centurion, to share the Gospel. As Peter speaks, the Holy Spirit descends upon Cornelius and their household, manifesting in tongues and praise. This event astonishes Peter and the Jewish believers present, as they witness the outpouring of the Holy Spirit on Gentiles. It challenges their preconceptions and affirms God’s intention to include all in the redemptive plan.

This passage confronts the ethnic divisions prevalent in the early Church, affirming that God’s grace transcends cultural barriers. It proclaims the universal scope of the Gospel, inviting all people, regardless of ethnicity or background, into relationship with God. Through the Holy Spirit’s work, God affirms the equal standing of all, dismantling the exclusivity that once defined religious identity.

Desmond Tutu exemplified this radical inclusivity in his life and ministry. As a prominent figure in the fight against apartheid in South Africa, Tutu tirelessly advocated for justice and reconciliation. Rooted in their spiritual convictions, Tutu challenged the oppressive structures of racism, insisting on the inherent dignity and worth of every individual. His commitment to inclusivity reflects the transformative power of the Gospel to break down barriers and unite diverse communities in love and solidarity.

Like Desmond Tutu, we are called to embody the inclusive love of God in our lives. This requires us to confront our own biases and prejudices, recognizing the divine image in every person we encounter. It compels us to actively pursue reconciliation and justice, advocating for the marginalized and oppressed. By extending grace and hospitality to all, we participate in God’s redemptive work, fostering communities of belonging and acceptance.

In our world today, there are countless examples of individuals who embody the rad inclusivity of God. Consider the work of Malala Yousafzai, a Pakistani activist for female education and the youngest Nobel Prize laureate. Malala’s advocacy transcends cultural and religious boundaries, as she champions the rights of girls and women worldwide. Her courage and determination reflect the universal call to justice and equality, inspiring countless others to join in the pursuit of a more inclusive society.

Moreover, the LGBTQ+ community offers a profound testament to the diversity and beauty of God’s creation. Despite facing discrimination and persecution, LGBTQ+ individuals continue to affirm their inherent dignity and worth as beloved children of God. Their resilience and authenticity challenge us to embrace a more expansive understanding of God’s love, one that celebrates the full spectrum of human identity and experience.

As followers of Christ, we are called to stand in solidarity with those who are marginalized and oppressed, advocating for their rights and dignity. We are called to be agents of reconciliation and healing, working to dismantle the systems of injustice that perpetuate inequality and division. Through our words and actions, may we bear witness to the inclusive love of God, who welcomes all into God’s embrace.

THOUGHT OF THE DAY
In God, there is no “us” and “them”—only beloved children of God.

PRAYER
Loving God, thank you for the gift of your inclusive love, which knows no bounds. Help us to embody this love in our relationships and interactions, breaking down barriers and extending grace to all. Empower us to be agents of reconciliation and healing in our world. Amen.

Devotion written by Rev. Todd R. Lattig with the assistance of ChatGPT, an AI language model developed by OpenAI.