What it Means To Be An Ally
What I’ve Learned as a Straight Pastor in a Queer Church
When I first stepped into Cathedral of Hope, United Church of Christ, I knew I was standing on holy ground. Not because of the size of the sanctuary, or the sound of the choir, or even the beauty of the stained glass; though all of those are breathtaking. It was holy because here was a church that had the audacity to proclaim God’s love for all people, and not just in theory. Cathedral of Hope was (and is) the living, breathing witness of God’s love embodied in the queer community.
As a straight pastor, serving at the largest LGBTQIA+ church in the world can sometimes feel like I am a guest at someone else’s family reunion. The laughter, the tears, the stories of survival and resilience, these belong first and foremost to my queer siblings who have fought to carve out sacred space in a world that too often rejected them. My role, then, is not to take center stage, but to stand shoulder to shoulder as an ally.
I didn’t always understand what that meant. Early on, I thought being an ally was mostly about “not being homophobic” or “welcoming everyone.” But allyship is more than passive acceptance. It is about showing up, speaking up, and stepping back when needed.
I remember one of my first Pride parades with Cathedral of Hope. I had on my clergy collar and I was a little nervous about how people might respond. Somewhere along the parade route, a young person shouted out, “I didn’t know pastors could be here!” Their voice cracked with disbelief and joy. The tears in their eyes reminded me that my presence wasn’t neutral. It was a declaration: God’s love is wider than the church has often preached. In that moment, I realized allyship isn’t just about ideas, it’s about presence.
Allyship has changed my faith. I grew up with a version of Christianity that insisted God’s love came with conditions. But at Cathedral of Hope, I have seen God’s love made flesh in drag queens blessing communion bread, in gay couples holding hands while singing hymns, in trans teens daring to believe that they are beautifully and wonderfully made. These aren’t just moments of inclusion, they are moments of revelation. They reveal the God who is always bigger, kinder, and queerer than we give credit for.
Being an ally, I’ve learned, is both obligation and opportunity. The obligation is to listen more than I speak, to educate myself rather than expect my queer friends to do the work for me, and to use whatever privilege I carry to help dismantle barriers that harm others. The opportunity is to grow. To let the courage of queer people expand my own understanding of faith, to see new dimensions of God’s love, to discover joy in places where I once carried only fear.
If you’re wondering what it takes to be a good ally, let me offer a few practices I’m still learning myself:
Listen deeply. Believe people when they share their stories of hurt and resilience. You don’t need to fix or debate, you need to hear.
Speak up. Silence in the face of injustice always sides with the oppressor. Your voice, even when trembling, can make a difference.
Keep learning. Theology, culture, language, it all evolves. Don’t get stuck in “what you’ve always known.” Stay curious.
Show up. Whether it’s Pride, a vigil, or Sunday worship, presence matters. Your body in the space says more than your bumper sticker ever will.
Step back. Allyship is not about taking the mic, but amplifying the voices that need to be heard. Sometimes the holiest thing you can say is nothing at all.
What I love about Cathedral of Hope is that it doesn’t just welcome people; it celebrates them! That’s an important distinction. Welcoming can still mean, “You’re invited, but please don’t make us uncomfortable.” Celebrating says, “We see you, we honor you, and we celebrate who you are because you reflect God’s image.” That posture has not only reshaped my ministry but my entire understanding of what it means to follow Jesus.
Every day at Cathedral of Hope, I am reminded that faith is not static. It is alive, changing, and challenging us to love bigger and bolder than we ever imagined. My journey as a straight pastor in a queer church has not been about me at all. It’s been about discovering that God’s family is more expansive, more colorful, and more beautiful than I ever dared to believe.
To my fellow straight allies, let me say this: don’t underestimate the power of your presence. Show up at the parade. Put your pronouns in your email signature. Challenge the “jokes” that dehumanize queer people. Donate to LGBTQIA+ organizations. And most importantly, keep your heart open. Allyship isn’t a badge you earn once; it’s a practice you recommit to every day.
I came to Cathedral of Hope as a pastor ready to serve. But in truth, this community has pastored me. It has taught me that love without limits is not only possible — it is the very heart of God. And honestly — I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Originally published August 29, 2025 on the Dallas Voice
