Two of the most moving scenes for me in Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey had to do with… well… hold that thought.

First,

• a quick detour through a Greek word;

• some thoughts on an unfortunate translation in the Bible;

• my opinion on a serious misconception within Christian theology;

• stuff about/from Jesus…

And then we’ll come back to The Odyssey.

What’s in (an Old Greek) Word?

For my money, one of the great misconceptions in Christian theology arises out of choices made in how to interpret this one specific ancient Greek word.

Of course, the blame cannot solely be laid at the feet of translation—as though, if we just found a better word then all would be well… probably not—yet the way this word gets translated in English certainly hasn’t done this particular theological misconception any favors.

I’m referring to the Greek word, σῴζω (sózó).

If you look up sózó in any Greek concordance you’ll get some version of:

That’s pretty straightforward for the most part. (Although, note that sózó can be used literally or metaphorically. You need the context to grasp how best to read it.)

But there’s another dimension to sózó beyond the saving/rescuing/delivering component, which is when sózó conveys:

Sure, I can see how there’s an immediate and obvious connection between English words like “save/rescue” with “heal/wholeness,” but there are also meaningful differences. Differences we ignore at our own peril. Specifically because (and this goes back to my point above about how an unfortunate English translation has contributed to a theological misconception) when we hear the word “saved” in today’s world, especially in a religious context, our minds almost immediately go to “life after death.”

Yet what comes to mind when you hear the word “heal?”

Or, “be made whole?”

Exactly.

You’re thinking of the here-and-now.

You don’t take antibiotics to be fixed after you die, you take them to help heal you now. You don’t go to a therapist to work on your mental well-being for after you kick the bucket, you seek to find emotional and psychological wholeness for this life, the one you’re actually living.

Therein lies the dilemma.

While we may know (kinda) what sózó meant two thousand years ago, how do we try and translate/adapt it for our world today?

The Dilemma of Interpretation

Translators face two distinct problems when thinking through which English word (or words) best capture sózó.

First: in what sense (literal or metaphorical)? Second: in what time (now or post-death)?

To the first question, is sózó being used literally:

• “sózó us Lord, we are perishing!” Mt 8:25. In this case the disciples were freaking out in a boat during a storm happening in that moment. They desired actual saving/rescuing/sózó’ing.

Or is sózó being used metaphorically:

• “whoever would sózó his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it” Mt 16:25. It seems clear Jesus wasn’t literally talking about dying and not-dying.

Settling the literal-vs-metaphorical usage of sózó isn’t all that complicated. The context generally makes it clear.

Where it gets murky is when scholars and translators try to work out whether or not sózó is being used to refer to life here and now or life in the thereafter.

My hot take?

I’m not sure we should ever read sózó and think it is pointing to life after death.

At least not in the Synoptic Gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke (see footnote for one possible exception).1 In the Synoptics every single time sózó shows up it is clearly in reference to something happening here and now. Whether a rescuing or a healing, whether literal or metaphorical, the action and the expectation is always for an experience of life now.

I will add that John’s Gospel is a bit different in how it uses sózó, and requires a bit more attention. For example, if all you knew about the life of Jesus came from John, and if you were taught (or even just assumed) that John was written-as and intended-to-be a literal, historical account of the life of Jesus, then translating sózó as “saved” and thinking in terms of “life after death” is reasonable. For example:

For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him. -John 3:17

I am the door. If anyone enters by me, he will be saved and will go in and out and find pasture. -John 10:9

If anyone hears my words and does not keep them, I do not judge him; for I did not come to judge the world but to save the world. -John 12:47

If someone wants to read those verses and think that John was using sózó to mean an experience or event that happens after death, I’d understand.

I’d only ask them if they’ve considered that John was written much later than the Synoptics (so likely isn’t as reliable in terms of quoting Jesus accurately); and that John was written with a different purpose than the Synoptics (meaning, it’s much more concerned with theology, philosophy, and ideas… not so much historicity or biography).

Point being: the usage of sózó in John might be more of a reflection of later church theological imagination than an attempt to do the same thing that sózó is doing in Matthew/Mark/Luke.

All that to say,

if sózó in the Gospels was never used by Jesus to mean “something that happens after death,” then that leads to…

A Misconception in Christian Theology?

Interpreting sózó as “saved” in English (at least most of the time, as is the case) has quite possibly contributed to the ongoing assumption/belief that to be saved is about what happens when we die.

And I think that is the great misconception.

I suggest that instead of being an event or experience of the afterlife, salvation is a process in this life.

And if that is true (or at least true enough) then what might happen if, instead of translating sózó as “saved”—which conjures ideas of afterlife in our Western, American, modern ears—we read sózó as healing and wholeness? Which are perfectly legitimate meanings for sózó, it’s just that translators don’t use them that often.

Or suppose the context does indeed have a “rescue/deliver” connotation to it, then I still suggest we keep it in the frame of the here-and-now.

Because of course we can be delivered from things that prevent us from wholeness now.

What it Means to be Saved

Look, I know this may sound wild to people.

After all, most of us have been conditioned to think of Christianity as a religion about Heaven and Hell.

Most people, whether in the church or out, have internalized the idea (through explicit teaching or even just implicit cultural artifacts and media) that “salvation” is about what happens when we die. So having someone (as I’m doing here) suggest otherwise sounds… well… absurd. And wrong. And ignorant.

And maybe I am. I don’t know.

But when I look at what sózó meant in its original context (the Greek world), and when I look at how Jesus used the word over and over again (specifically in the Synoptic Gospels), I don’t think it’s outlandish to say that sózó was (and therefore is still) intended to be about life here and now.

Perhaps salvation—if that’s the word we decide to stick with—is best thought of as the ongoing process or project of being made whole.

Perhaps salvation is the healing of our fractured parts.

Perhaps salvation is the rescue and deliverance from the choices, the factors, the elements, the systems, the people, and the stories that disintegrate us.

Put simply, Salvation is the re-membering of our brokenness. It is the coming back home to our unified self.

Okay… NOW we are ready to talk about The Odyssey.

Odysseus’s Salvation

Let me be clear: I do not think that Christopher Nolan was attempting to tell a Christian story with The Odyssey. Nor do I think that he was trying to smuggle in Christian themes. In my article last week about how The Odyssey helps us to better understand why Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed in Genesis 19, multiple people made comments under the false impression that I was somehow suggesting that The Odyssey was about Genesis 19.

No, no, and nope.

That being said, as someone who to tries to be Christian, and as somehow who views the world through a particular set of Christian-flavored lenses, it’s only natural for me to, at times, see Christian ideas/values/principles in the art I consume. I won’t apologize for that.

So if a reader cannot see the difference between doing that (which I am doing) and making a claim that The Odyssey is a Christian movie, or is about the Bible in any way (which I am not doing), then I don’t know what to tell you. Moving on…

This article began with me saying, “Two of the most moving scenes for me in Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey had to do with…” allow me to finish that thought:

The two scenes that moved me most were both about Odysseus’ salvation.

And hopefully with all the work I did to tell you what I mean by “salvation,” the following will make more sense.

Salvation Moment #1: When Odysseus finally surrendered, let go, and trusted.

After being drugged by Calypso for seven years and kept in a fugue state where he didn’t remember who he was, how long he’d been there, or that he had an identity and a family beyond the island, Odysseus was mercifully given a way out by Calypso. She slowed down her feeding him of the lotus plant and allowed him to regain his memories.

But when the final moment came, and Odysseus hit the point where he not only remembered his wife and son but he also wanted to go home to them, only one option was before him. Only one path if he truly wanted to go home.

After years of defying the gods,

after years of going his own way,

after years of trying to control the uncontrollable and avoid the unavoidable,

Calypso says this to him:

You're a man who needs to control his fate. But you cannot control this.

You must give yourself to the storm, give yourself to Poseidon. And take your punishment.

Give up the fight, give up control and live.

It is a leap of faith you haven't yet made, Odysseus.

Odysseus tried many different things to get home and they all ended in abject failure. Worse, they ended with the deaths of his entire crew.

The one thing he hadn’t tried?

Letting go. Giving up control.

I loved Nolan’s choice to illustrate this by having Odysseus build the weakest and meekest raft ever (he should’ve had Moana build it for him). And once upon this rickety, barely floating contraption, Odysseus basically assumes the savasana yoga pose—the ultimate posture of letting go. Of release.

Of… in a word… trust.

And against all his prior beliefs about the way the world works, against all his assumptions about how one ought approach teh world, against all his decades of conditioning to function one certain way (ie, be in control), Odysseus discovers the liberating truth that one can never fully know until they experience it… that we find our rescue when we release control.

For Odysseus, finally letting go and choosing to trust (in Poseidon) instead of himself was, for him, a moment of salvation.

Put another way: If we want to find our life, first we must be willing to lose it.

Salvation Moment #2: When Odysseus Named His Deepest Shame

Miraculously (or, maybe not… maybe, predictably) the letting go worked and Odysseus made it home.

But his project of wholeness-making (aka, salvation) was still in process. It’s almost as though he made a kind of vertical reconciliation (with the gods) but needed still to make a horizontal reconciliation (with humanity).2

One of my top three favorite scenes from the movie is Odysseus-as-beggar sitting on the stoop of his wife/queen Penelope telling her about the Trojan War. That moment is, I’d suggest, Christopher Nolan’s single greatest contribution to the 3000 year old project of reading/adapting Homer’s The Odyssey.

He took Odysseus’ greatest triumph and turned it into his deepest shame.

As I wrote here, when Odysseus describes the sacking of Troy to Penelope we, the audience, finally understand why Odysseus dragged his feet for 20 years to return home. He was crushed under the weight of shame, realizing that his idea (the Trojan Horse) was not just a complete abandonment of his commitment to Zeus’ Law, but it was a move of such deception that it led to a night of slaughter and destruction the likes of which no human soul can endure.

While Odysseus watched women and children be slaughtered in Troy, the weight—not just of war, but of the utter abandonment of what it means to be human—undid him.

Civilization began its unravelling that night, and Odysseus felt like he’d pulled the first thread.

Any person who has ever made a choice—especially one that represents the exact opposite of what you’ve always stood for—and watched as it results not just in suffering for others and yourself, but in the shattering of worlds (literally and/or metaphorically), can relate to what Odysseus must’ve felt.

And that level of intense, deep shame caused a rupture inside of Odysseus. He split. His soul rent in at least two, if not more.

But he found sózó,

he found rescue,

he found wholeness and healing,

when he stopped running from his mistakes. When he came home: literally to Ithaca, and metaphorically to himSelf.

Admitting to himself and to his wife that he did wrong—by the gods, by the people of the world, by his own Self—was truly a salvific moment for Odysseus.

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I don’t know how to resolve all conflicts in relationships, but I do know a trick to at least give yourself a shot at it.

One of my favorite books is When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön.

In Chapter 21 she describes the human propensity to return over and over again to our same old patterns. We all develop these habits, these ways of trying to soothe ourselves (or, more likely, numb ourselves) in an attempt to deal with our sadness, loneliness, and fears.

When chaos or stress or anxieties or conflict arises, we each have our go-to moves, and usually these moves, these tactics, were developed early in our childhood as means to keep us safe. They “worked” insofar as we did, technically, survive. But now those same go-to maneuvers and habits hold us back. They work against us rather than work for us.

If you care at all about the quality of your life (and I hope you do), and if you care about the health of your relationships (and I hope you do) then we might now ask,

Okay so how do we break those cycles and habits and patterns?

To that end, one line in particular from Chapter 21 jumped out at me when I first read it twelve years ago. Its impact on my life was both immediate and profound.

Here’s the passage, and I’ve bolded the line I’m referring to.

Read more

The notoriously wicked ancient cities of Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed because of homosexuality.

Why were they destroyed, then?

I’ve spent the aforementioned past 15 years trying to teach on precisely that. And for as much as I’ve written about it, created online content about it, and travelled the country to teach it, I’m not sure I’ve been near as effective as Christopher Nolan’s latest masterpiece, The Odyssey.

Yep, that’s right. I submit to you that Nolan’s three-hour blockbuster based on the most legendary Epic of all time may actually be all that a person would need to watch in order to understand the ancient Jewish story found in Genesis 19—the very one that many Christians have erroneously believed (and continue to believe) is a story about God’s judgment of homosexuality.

I’ve now seen the film twice. In fact this is the first time I’ve ever gone to a theater on back to back nights to watch a movie. I love it. For so many reasons. But today I just keep thinking about how The Odyssey perfectly illustrates why the ancient Jewish people told the story of Sodom and Gomorrah.

Allow me to explain.

First, I’ll briefly share why Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed due to homosexuality. This should be obvious by now. Then I’ll offer takeaways from The Odyssey and what I felt was its biggest idea (spoilers for the film, btw. I know the story is 3,000 years old, but some of Nolan’s authorial adaptations are unique, and I’ll be spoiling them.) Finally, I’ll show why I think this movie perfectly captures and explains the legend of Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah

In case you need it, here’s a quick primer/reminder on the story found in Genesis 19.

As I said, 15 years ago when I studied this story in earnest for the first time, I came to the unavoidable conclusion that this story has nothing to do with homosexuality, and nothing to do with the question of whether or not God (or the Bible, or the ancient Jewish people) were against the idea of two people of the same sex being in a loving, mutual consenting relationship.

And once you see it, it’s impossible to unsee it.

Even now if I do my best to try and read Genesis 19 with the lens of, “The reason these cities were wicked was because the men were gay” I just cannot get there. It’s absurd.

Consider just the following two details:

1. The storyteller repeatedly emphasizes that “all the men of the city” surrounded Lot’s home. There’s no statistical possibility for “all the men of the city” to be gay.

2. The mob was hell bent on forcing themselves on the outsiders. At stake was what we’d now call gang rape—horrific and rightly worthy of judgment. Not at stake? The matter of a mutually consenting relationship between people of the same sex.

That alone is sufficient to understand that Genesis 19 isn’t about homosexuality as an orientation (the men in the story are not gay), nor is it about the morality of same-sex relationships. To that point, if the story has any intention to condemn sexual behavior, the only rational conclusion is a condemnation of trying to force yourself on to another person (to say nothing of the group aspect of it all).

But then the case against the idea that Sodom and Gomorrah were destroyed over homosexuality grows even stronger when you see how other, later Biblical writers talked about the legend of S&G’s destruction.

Two examples:

• The prophet Jeremiah connected the failures of the prophets during his time to that of the wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah. “In the prophets of Jerusalem I saw something horrible: They commit adultery and tell lies. They encourage evildoers so that no one turns from their wickedness. In my eyes, they are no better than Sodom; its people are like Gomorrah.” (Jeremiah 23:14)

• Then Ezekiel flat out wrote, “This is the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were proud, had plenty to eat, and enjoyed peace and prosperity; but she didn’t help the poor and the needy. They became haughty and did detestable things in front of me, and I turned away from them as soon as I saw it.” (Ezekiel 16:49-50)

None of the later Biblical writers connect Sodom and Gomorrah with something like homosexuality or same-sex relationships.

I hope the point is made.

Sodom and Gomorrah is not, was not, and ought not be thought of as a story condemning homosexuality.

So what was it about?

Time to talk about Nolan and The Odyssey.

It’s All About Zeus’ Law

From the opening scene to the movie’s climax, one particular thread held the multiple timeliness and perspectives together: the importance of Zeus’ Law.

For the ancient Greeks, Zeus’ Law was their North Star of morality. It set them apart from other civilizations and, importantly, it enabled them to build one of the greatest Empires.

So what was Zeus’ Law?

It was a code of hospitality. If a stranger shows up at your door or on your island then you were required to provide shelter and food.

Their built-in culture of, and commitment to, hospitality allowed the Greeks to travel far and wide because they knew they’d be taken care of. It also fostered deep trust between groups and families that otherwise might be at war.

Zeus’ Law established a foundation, a safety net of basic needs, to ensure all people—especially strangers—would be taken care of.

On top of that sat a theological layer as well, which The Odyssey made plain multiple times. The movie pointed out that we ought always ensure a stranger is tended to because that stranger might very well be a god in disguise.

Zeus’ Law worked because it had both a compelling carrot and stick. The carrot: providing hospitality for strangers is beneficial to all. The stick: you might be entertaining a god, so beware.

This fundamental posture animated ancient Greece in ways that spread all throughout the known the world. They even had a word for it: xenia, which literally means, “guest friendship. (BTW, that’s where we get our word xenophobia from, which means the fear of the Other.) If you’ve seen the film, then you recall just how deeply Telemachus and Penelope (Odysseus’ son and wife) held fast to Zeus’ Law, even though it put their own well-being at risk.

I’d put it like this: Extending hospitality—especially to outsiders, beggars, and strangers—is the backbone of civilization. As long as we care for one another, and as long as we care for those who are not-like-us and who are in need, we will be okay. But should we fail to do this?

That’s one of the questions the movie explores.

The Failure to Uphold Hospitality

Before he left for war and joined Agamemnon’s army to attack Troy, Odysseus cherished and embodied Zeus’ Law. His commitment to xenia, to showing hospitality, illustrated the bedrock of his own family’s value structure, yes, but it was also a picture of the entirety of the Greek people’s civilization.

That is why Odysseus’ abandonment of Zeus’ Law was so consequential. He pulled the rug out from under everything.

In one of the best scenes of the movie, Odysseus (disguised as a beggar) has an extended conversation with his wife, Penelope, in which he confesses the guilt he’d been carrying since the war. As it turns out, Odysseus’ most famous move, the singular idea that won him fame and won the battle against Troy, had become the source of his deepest shame: the Trojan Horse.

This great deception took Zeus’ Law and didn’t just set it aside as wartime inconvenience, no, in order for the Trojan Horse to work it had to fully rely on and lean in to the heart of Zeus’ Law, all so that it could be turned on its head.

Like in Akido, the Japanese martial arts that uses the momentum of an attacker against them, the Trojan Horse pretended to be a gift that one could safely bring in to your home—only once inside, instead of exuding hospitality, the “gift” exerts horror.

In earlier parts of the film when we see the sacking of Troy (e.g., when Menelaus tells the story to Telemachus), you find yourself rooting for Odysseus and others. After a 10 year campaign of suffering on the beach, they finally get their victory!

But when Odysseus recounts his own telling of that fateful night to Penelope? We see the same battle on screen, but this time we watch as women and children are slaughtered and buildings are razed to the ground. It’s not a victory to cheer as much as it’s an execution to look away from. It’s the kind of hunting that Odysseus shuns earlier in the film, when you have such an advantage over your prey that’s it not even fair. It’s why he plucks his bow, to at least give the animal a chance.

The people of Troy had no chance. And it was Odysseus’ plan that took it from them.

To make the point crystal clear, in the final viewing of the defeat of Troy we watch as the men grab, hold, and (thankfully not shown) behead a young girl. And it is in that moment when you realize who the girl was: Athena in disguise.

The total undoing of Zeus’ Law was complete.

And from that moment on, from the burning of Troy and the inversion of xenia, we are told about the domino falling collapse of civilization.

All movie long the audience is told about the terrifying prospect of the coming of the People from the Sea, barbarian marauders who arrive on boats to rape and pillage. But we never actually see them. Why?

Because the brilliant gut-punch of Nolan’s vision is that it was those who left the shores of Troy victorious who were in fact the Sea People. The terrifying invaders who Penelope and others feared were in actuality the men who followed her husband.

So what was the central failure of Odysseus and his men?

What led to the collapse of civilization?

The abandonment of Zeus’ Law.
The neglect of xenia.
The choice of violence and domination instead of hospitality and care.

Which takes us back to Sodom and Gomorrah.

The Real Sin of Sodom

I can feel the air in the room deflate a bit whenever I stand on a stage and say, “The reason Sodom and Gomorrah got destroyed was because of hospitality, not homosexuality.”

It sounds so thin. Hospitality? Really?!

I try to explain how hospitality in the ancient world was held in much higher esteem than it is today, and how it encompassed far more than what we think of nowadays. We might hear “hospitality” today and think of mints on a pillow, snacks for party guests, and playing smooth jazz in the background so everyone vibes nicely.

But hospitality in the ancient world was about so much more than that, and it meant so much more than that. It was, in short, the metric by which your morality was measured. If you showed hospitality to outsiders (aka, xenia, aka, Zeus’ Law) then you would be well thought of. If you refused—or worse, if you took advantage of outsiders, or harmed them in some way—then your reputation as wicked would spread.

With that (and with The Odyssey) in mind, read again how Ezekiel described the “sin of Sodom.”

“This is the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were proud, had plenty to eat, and enjoyed peace and prosperity; but she didn’t help the poor and the needy. They became haughty and did detestable things in front of me, and I turned away from them as soon as I saw it.” (Ezekiel 16:49-50)

Those ancient cities had the provisions, they had the food and the wine, they had the shelter and the safety… but instead of helping the poor and needy, they dragged them into the streets and abused them.

Even Jesus had something to say about the virtue of hospitality.

In Matthew 10 he sends out his disciples to go village to village announcing the Kingdom of Heaven. They were to rely on the hospitality of others, and when they received hospitality they were instructed to stay and bless the home. But to the homes that rejected them? Those who failed to practice xenia?

“If anyone refuses to welcome you or listen to your words, shake the dust off your feet as you leave that house or city. I assure you that it will be more bearable for the land of Sodom and Gomorrah on Judgment Day than it will be for that city.”(Matthew 10:14-15)

I hope the point is clear. The Jewish tradition behind the wickedness of Sodom and Gomorrah came down to their failure to show hospitality. And that is why God (in the story, that is) destroyed them.

I know that sounds harsh. Extreme. And your’e not wrong.

But for that time, for that culture, for that era, it was that serious. And that seriousness is what The Odyssey conveyed so brilliantly.

Christopher Nolan’s bold suggestion that the very balance of a civilization hinges on whether or not its people embody hospitality is, in my opinion, the perfect encapsulation of why the story of Sodom and Gomorrah was told at campfire after campfire, for generation after generation, and finally got preserved as one of the founding stories of the Abrahamic faith.

The Bible teaches us that for Yahweh, for the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, the care of the outsider was crucial It was central to what it means to be good. Or, in a much more basic sense, it is part and partial of what it means to be human.

And when we lose track of that?

When we oppress the other instead of care for them,

when we reject the outsider instead of welcome them,

when we plunder our neighbors instead of provide for them,

when we demonize those who are different instead of searching for their humanity,

then we become like Sodom.

We become Gomorrah.

We are the Sea People who’ve completely lost track of the Way.

Perhaps judgment is an appropriate response.

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Have You Seen it Yet?

I’d love to know your thoughts/experience with seeing The Odyssey.

What stood out to you? How did it make you feel? What did you walk away with (if anything)?

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POST-SCRIPT-EDIT

Interested in understanding more about the Bible and homosexuality? Including my full thoughts on Genesis 19 (Sodom and Gomorrah)?

My first book, UnClobber: Rethinking Our Misuse of the Bible and Homosexuality is available wherever books are sold.

And my follow up to UnClobber is set to release November 17, which you can pre-order now. But What About: The Most Asked Questions on Faith, the Bible, and LGBTQ Inclusion

There are a handful of questions that pop up with a high degree of regularity when I travel.

One of the most frequently asked questions is,

“Colby, why do you do this?”

The “this” in question is in reference to my work with The UnClobber Initiative—which is to say, my now 15+ years of trying to educate and resource people with better beliefs around LGBTQ inclusion in the church.

It’s a good question, and most folks who ask it do so with added qualifiers of, “Why, as a straight, cis, white man do you do this work?”

The implicit assumption is often: Why do something that doesn’t directly benefit you?

For starters, I’d suggest that “doing things that don’t directly benefit you, but instead benefit others” is kind of a hallmark of being Christian. You know, the whole…

• “Blessed are the peacemakers” (Matt 5:9)

• “Whatever you do for the least of these you do for me” (Matt 25:40)

• “It is more blessed to give than receive” (Acts 20:35)

…that kind of thing.

But then there’s also a point to be made about how advocating for the full inclusion of LGBTQ people in the church (as well as society) actually does benefit me. Raising the tide of human flourishing lifts the boats of all people. You know, the whole…

• “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere” (MLK Jr)

• “Nobody’s free until everybody’s free” (Fannie Lou Hamer)

• “If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together” (Lilla Watson)

… that kind of thing.

Besides, as a follower of Jesus I have chosen to opt in to a worldview that sees all of humanity as being connected. We are all one body, therefore, in the words of Paul, “If one member suffers, all the members suffer with it, and if one member is honored, all the members celebrate with it.” (1 Corinthians 12:26)

So I suppose it is enough to answer the question, Why do I do this work, by merely saying: Advocating for the liberation and well-being of those in our society who suffer as a result of intolerance and religiously motivated bigotry is the Christ-like thing to do.

That, to me, feels like the bare minimum. The starting point. The kind of reasoning that I both gladly accept and also cannot see any argument against.

However, for me, it also goes deeper than that.

I also do this work because, well, first a quick story from the Gospel of Luke. Found in chapter 18, this story also shows up in Matthew and Mark but I prefer the Lukan version for a reason I’ll explain in a minute.

The story starts,

35 As Jesus came to Jericho, a certain blind man was sitting beside the road begging.

36 When the man heard the crowd passing by, he asked what was happening.

37 They told him, “Jesus the Nazarene is passing by.”

38 The blind man shouted, “Jesus, Son of David, show me mercy.”

You may well know that being blind in that day and age would’ve been a tough gig. Not only was society not setup at all to accommodate those without vision, but there also existed an added layer of some people believing that such a state was divine retribution for sin. This blind man, then, was not only destined for a life of roadside begging, but he likely carried with him the shame draped upon him by a community who assumed he deserved what he got.

Sitting beside the road, forced to ask others to explain life to him, was a picture of this man’s larger state of being. Namely, that of an Outsider.

And to make matters worse, he would’ve been deemed ritually unclean by his physical condition. Unfit to take part in religious community. It’s no stretch to suggest this man was pitied at best and outright shunned at worst.

Which explains what happens next.

39 Those leading the procession scolded him, telling him to be quiet,

In Mark’s account of this story we read that Jesus was traveling with his disciples. So when Luke describes “those leading the procession,” I’m assuming and imagining he’s referring to said disciples.

Whether it was the actual twelve or not is beside the point. Rather, it is enough to hear that there were those out front, leading the way, traveling with Jesus, seeking to be disciples of their rabbi, who were the ones that turned to the blindman on the side of the road and… did what? Welcomed him? Helped him stand? Walked him over to Jesus? Hollered at Jesus to hold up a second?

Nope.

They scolded him. Shushed him.

Here was a man who had the audacity to try and cross the (totally arbitrary and utterly dehumanizing) boundaries of who’s in/who’s out, who’s clean/who’s unclean, who’s good/who’s bad.

And the disciples, the leaders of the movement, were not having it.

Shush, man. We have places to go and important things to do. Our Teacher doesn’t have time for you. You’re being a nuisance. A distraction.

In other words, you’re there for a reason, so stay there.

But this time it was the man who wasn’t having it. So,

39 … he shouted even louder, “Son of David, show me mercy.”

This time his shouting worked. He caught Jesus’ ear.

40 Jesus stopped…

Now, I like to think at this point in the story Jesus had a couple options available to him. Upon hearing a man across the way shouting at him:

1. Jesus could have walked over to him and asked, “Yes? What would you like?” But he didn’t do that.

2. Jesus could have turned around and hollered across the crowd, “YES, MY MAN? WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?” But he didn’t do that.

3. I supposed Jesus even could have bent over, spit in the dirt, and made one of his famous Sight Restoring Mudballs (John 9:6). Then flung it threw the air like Patrick Mahomes, perfectly splashing the man’s face for a healing mud mask. But he didn’t do that.

No, what Jesus did next (at least according to the Lukan account, which is why I prefer it) captures the essence of why I do what I do.

40 Jesus stopped and called for the man to be brought to him.

Did you catch it?

After hearing the cries of the blind man Jesus stops, turns to the very people who just moments ago shushed the blind man, and he tells them, “bring the man to me.”

The one you just rebuked? Go get him.

The one you just tried to keep quiet? Go get him.

The one you attempted to keep in his place as an outsider? Yeah, go get him and bring him to me.

To the men who just moments ago had been responsible for reinforcing the socio-religious boundaries of in/out, good/bad, us/them, Jesus charged the task to undo it all.

That wall you just built to keep that person out? Go tear it down.

As it was back then, so it is today. Because take one guess as to who have been the responsible parties for all the efforts over all the years to keep LGBTQ people on the outside? Who have been the policy makers, the theology creators, the boundary enforcers? Who have built the walls that have decisively and with piercing clarity told LGBTQ people that they are unclean and do not have the same access to Jesus as the rest of us do?

Yeah, people like me: Straight, cis, men.

It has been people like me (and in my early years in ministry, actually me) who have “shushed” and “rebuked” those on the margins seeking equal access to the mercy of Christ.

So why do I what I do?

Because many years ago, while reading this exact story from Luke 18, I heard Spirit’s voice loud and clear: Go get them and bring them to me.

I have been a part of and been complicit in systems that have for far too long sought to dehumanize and discriminate against those who identify as LGBTQ. And even though I’ve repented of such sins years ago, it will take more than my lifetime to counter the centuries of oppression.

Yet my lifetime is all I have to give, and so I give it.

Therefore,

to the extent that I can help tear down the walls of separation,

to the extent that I can expose the toxicity of non-affirming theology,

to the extent that I can get the message out to as many people as possible that we are all God’s beloved children just as we are,

I will keep doing this work as best as I know how.

That’s why I do this.

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p.s. If you’re curious about some of the other most asked questions I get about LGBTQ inclusion, the Bible, and faith, consider pre-ordering my next book, But What About. It responds to loads of them :)

p.p.s. If you’d like to learn more about The UnClobber Initiative, and how you can help partner in the work of making churches safer for LGBTQ people, go here.

Ten Years Ago

Ten years ago I checked off a bucket list item: ✅ Publish Book.

Since then, UnClobber: Rethinking Our Misuse of the Bible on Homosexuality, has gone on to:

• Sell over 50,000 copies;

• Change the hearts and minds of thousands of people on LGBTQ inclusion;

• Get translated into Spanish;

• Be expanded into a second edition with a study guide, preaching guide, and additional chapters;

• Provide the catalyst for most of my traveling ministry these past four years;

• Become the source material for online courses;

• Inspired the creation of a non-profit ministry, The UnClobber Initiative; and

• Get incorrectly called “Unclobbered” (as in, past-tense) more frequently than it gets called by its actual name. It’s fine. I’ve come to accept and even appreciate it.

Experiencing the way UnClobber has transformed people and churches has been one of the highlights of my life this past decade.

Which is why I am STOKED to ANNOUNCE the upcoming release of my next book:

BUT WHAT ABOUT: The Most Asked Questions on Faith, the Bible, and LGBTQ Inclusion

But What About (St Martin’s Essentials) is set to release on November 17th, and it’s the bomb dot org (.com was taken, sadly).

This book is a direct result of my decade+ work with UnClobber, because here’s what I’ve learned: For many people their path to full inclusion of LGBTQ people (and/or, their full acceptance of themselves) was on the other side of the clobber passages.

Once they sorted out those six passages? They good.

For other people, however, even after engaging the clobber passages they still have questions.

Good and reasonable questions.

Such as:

• But what about Adam & Eve?

• But what about Biblical marriage?

• But what about God creating two genders?

• But what about ex-gay stories?

These have been the kinds of questions that have filled my inbox and shown up at live events for years now,

and it’s time to respond, baby!

Look, most sequels suck.1

But this is less sequel and more sequential.2 If you read and liked UnClobber, then just imagine this as the next 18 chapters in my ongoing effort to do my part to help eliminate bad ideas and resource better beliefs for LGBTQ inclusion.

More to say on But What About in the comings months. I just wanted to make this exciting announcement for my Substack readers. 🙌🏽

Pre-Order Today

Because I know that most of you don’t live in some remote off-the-grid shack where you’ve avoided internets and technologies for years, I'll assume that you’ve all heard the message: Pre-Orders are important!

Since I know that you know this already, I won’t bother telling you. Instead, I’ll just drop some links below and let you do your thing.

What I will say, though, is that between now and November 17 (pub day) I will be working on some special schtuff for people who do decide to pre-order.3 Stay tuned for more on that.

Pick your Pre-Ordering poison, my loves.

Powells (My Local Portand Bookstore)

Bookshop (Support local store near you)

Amazon (fast/cheap/morally deflating)

Barnes & Noble (Rad they've survived)

Target (like Amazon but... better?)

Books-a-Million (solid choice)

Consider this post my formal PSA.

(Alternatively, consider this…

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On Sunday, March 24th, 2019, I gave what I can now call the worst sermon I’ve ever delivered.

Not from a content or delivery perspective. But from a failure to read the room and using the pulpit to try and control a narrative. A crisis was brewing in our congregation and my frightened ego had more influence on what I preached that day than was wise.

It’s taken me years to fully digest what transpired, but now I think back on that morning with equal parts cringe, shame, and sadness.

So naturally, I want to write about it. Such is the blessing/curse of the writer/memoirist.

(I will say upfront that I’ve tried to make amends with the ones I hurt the most that morning. I don’t know if I’ve gotten to all of them, so in the event anyone ends up reading this who remembers that sermon, and remembers feeling not-okay with it, please know that I’m sorry. Your unease made and makes sense.)

The Situation Surrounding that Horrible Sermon

It’s hard to tell the story of that horrible sermon without giving a full picture of the context that led to it. And it’s hard to give the full context without telling stories that aren’t (exclusively or wholly) mine to tell. So forgive me if part of this feels unsatisfactory and/or vague. The story may only kind of make sense because you won’t be able to fully comprehend the context, but I think that’s okay. You’ll get it enough.

However, there is a risk when leaving some gaps unfilled. I’m opening myself up to you making certain assumptions or drawing conclusions that aren’t real or true. But in the name of privacy, those are risks I accept.

Okay enough throat clearing. Here’s what I’ll say regarding the events leading up to that absurd sermon I preached.

Five weeks prior to Sunday, March 24th, we had a disastrous Elder Board meeting involving emotional disruptions, deep disagreements, and hurt feelings.

All of which were made worse by my lack of leadership.

You see, at that point our church was about five years old and I was still serving as the Chair of the Board. It’s not uncommon in the church and in the non-profit world for the leader/president/pastor to also run the Board in the organization’s infancy, but I really should have transitioned out of that role by year five. Trying to run a Board, lead a church, and co-pastor with a spouse was a recipe for disaster.

And boy did disaster strike.

Many painful things resulted from the fallout of that tragic Board meeting, but germane to this article I’ll just say that the immediate impact was: a Board member resigned, multiple families left the church, and we lost some of my dearest and closest friends.

In fact, 2019 was such an awful year (because of the fallout) that personally, the pandemic isolation of 2020 was a welcome respite.

Details of that infamous Board meeting, and what led to the eruption and eventual exodus of key families and close friends, shall remain private. But I can tell you that I have many regrets about the choices I made during that time. Looking back I can see how some of my instincts and intentions were noble, but the impact of certain choices had devastating consequences. While trying to defend and protect someone I loved, I hurt and alienated other people I loved.

That makes me sound better than I was… so let me be clear: those efforts to “defend and protect someone I loved” were not executed perfectly by any means. I had a lot to learn about conflict resolution, power dynamics, communication, listening, boundary setting, and leadership. A bull may have the purest of intentions (oh look! he’s shopping for his mother! how sweet), and yet his clumsy and bulky frame is still the primary reason there is shattered china all over the shop’s floor.

Still Gotta Preach, Tho

Anyway, 2019 sucked rocks for me (and many others) in the church, but here is one of the many wonderfully bizarre (aka, ridiculously stressful) things about pastoral work. Every seven days you have to show up and do your thing regardless of life’s circumstances.

So in the spring of 2019, even though our church was on the verge of a split, I still had to write and deliver a sermon practically every Sunday morning.

As I see it, sermons should at the very least be an outflow of the heart and soul of the preacher. We spend hours during the week opening ourselves to what God would want to say through us, then we try and organize that in an interesting/compelling/engaging way so that we can eventually face one of humanity’s biggest fears (public speaking) and deliver what hopefully is a message inspired and sustained by the Spirit.

That’s the hope. The ideal.

But in reality, for many preachers, life and stress and chaos and constraints all conspire together to muck up that process. To interrupt or even corrupt the flow. Now yes, sometimes sermons are aided by the real-life intrusion of events and emotions. But other times a sermon suffers because too much of the preacher’s own crud blocks the flow of the Spirit.

And what I’m getting at is, on Sunday March 24th, 2019, the accumulating crud of navigating the chaos of friends and (chosen) family leaving the church over grievances that—in many ways—I agreed with yet couldn’t do anything about, absolutely impacted my sermon. Not in the good way.

Which helps to explain why I delivered a sermon in which:

• Fear was the primary author,

• My Ego was the leading character,

• I wrapped some otherwise-interesting nuggets of truth into a larger ball of trying to control the narrative,

• I wounded and alienated dear friends of mine, and

• It took me an embarrassingly long number of years to admit all of this.

Read more

In short, I think t…

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Jesus’ Thoughts on Worship

Imagine if our worship was less focused on theological accuracy and more grounded in personal honesty?

What if the aim of worship had less to do with the rightness of our rel…

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No? That’s just me? (cue Ho…

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The first verse of the cherished hymn, Amazing Grace, ends with this proclamation:

I once was lost, but now I'm found;

‘Twas blind, but now I see

By pulling in the metaphor…

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Not Picking Sides

Except for extreme cases, most friends of couples who are divorcing begin the process by “not wanting to pick sides.” You’re familiar with this, yes?

While such an intent has a beautiful heart behind it, this posture often gets abandoned as time goes on. And look, no judgment here. This stuff is complicated and messy. Adult friendships all by themselves and even under the best circumstances can be challenging. Add on top of that the distress caused when one of the couples in the friend group separates? Woof.

This can especially be true when one or both people in the divorce fall prey to the temptation to juice up their subjective narrative of “why the divorce happened.” Which makes sense. The sympathy of others feels good—I know this first hand. In the ensuing months after our separation, during my deepest grief, it felt good to have people rally to my side; to have friends reinforce my narratives; to have people tell my how it’s probably better for me that I’m not with the other person any more anyways. This kind of full-throated support can act as salving balms to a bleeding heart.

So I get it. It’s human to bend the truth a bit, or omit certain details when we are hurting because it might generate the kind of sympathy that brings temporary relief from the grief.

But one of the many side effects of juicing our side of the story like that is how it inevitably impacts the friends and family doing their best to “not pick a side.”

So today I want to explore the phenomenon of losing friends from a divorce. Specifically my own experience of it. Though I knew such friend-loss is a thing that happens, I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel—even now, 3.5 years later—when it happened to me.

Dividing (Relational) Assets Post Divorce

If a divorced couple is able to quickly pivot from “married” to “good friends,” then everyone in their social orbit (as well as family!) exhales with great relief that they won’t have to take sides.

But such a thing doesn’t happen very often. It is the exception that proves the rule.

Even in cases where a couple might start out with intentions of navigating post-marriage life well, often times the unfolding of the divorce process jostles those intentions enough to cause disruptions in the fabric of the friend group.

So let’s just call it like is: in most divorces there’s not only a division of financial and material assets, there’s also a division of relational assets.

The Pain of Losing Friends in a Divorce

As the title of this post says, even though I knew this would (very very very likely) be the case with me and my ex, it still hurt(s) real bad.

There are a handful of people who were our closest friends that I might not realistically ever see or talk to again. And even if we do cross paths, clearly the friendship has been severed.

Grieving the loss of friendships at the same time as grieving the loss of a spouse, while also grieving the loss of being full-time parent, is truly (pardon the gendered language, but I am me) a nut-punch of epic proportions.

Here are a few ways it hurt and still hurts:

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It’s impossible to choose a favorite, but if…

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NEW STUDY SHOWS INCREASE IN ANTI-GAY BIAS

When it comes to attitudes and tolerance toward gays and lesbians, from about 2000-2020 America experienced an historically rapid pace of moving from an unfav…

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“Alright, I’ll see you there,” I holler at Tim as he clo…

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I know, you barely even remember me at this point!

(But for those who do, and have kept their paid subscription, there’s a free THANK YOU gift for you down below :)

This newsletter has been pretty silent as of late, but there’s a good reason.

I’m in my final stretch of finishing the first draft of my next book.

How fun is THAT?!

This next book will be a follow up to UnClobber.

Here’s what I mean.

As I’ve been doing this work for the past 10+ years I’ve seen firsthand the power when people can rightly understand the clobber passages. And for many folks, that’s all they needed on their way to full LGBTQ inclusion.

Oh, we were wrong about Sodom and Gomorrah?

Oh, Leviticus doesn’t condemn homosexuality?

Oh, Romans isn’t a universal judgement of gay people?

Oh, Corinthians doesn’t exclude LGBTQ people from being Christian?

Right on! LFG.

When that happens, amazing. I’m here for it. It was, after all, the path I took to inclusion.

However… what I’ve learned is that other people have follow up questions.

Good and reasonable follow up questions. Such as…

• But what about Adam and Eve?

• But what about Biblical marriage?

• But what about Gender, and God making male-and-female?

• But what about those ex-gay stories I sometimes hear about?

These are the kinds of questions that flood my inbox and show up at my events.

And these are the topics I’m addressing in this next book.

But wait there’s more…

because in addition to addressing the FAQ’s from the not-yet affirming crowd, I’m going to offer my own “But what abouts….”

• But what about the trajectory of inclusion seen in the story of the church?

• But what about the Divine preference for Diversity we see in the Bible?

• But what about the reality that beliefs are not the point?

• But what about the breadcrumbs of inclusion sprinkled throughout Scripture?

This book (tentatively titled, But What About) has been my hardest book to write so far. It’s taken me far longer than I anticipated. In fact, it was originally due on October 1st, and I had to ask for (and graciously received) an extension from my editor.

The last couple months if anything is on my calendar that is NOT “Write Book,” I cancel or reschedule it.

The only TV I’m watching at night is basically sports and reality TV, because I don’t want any other narratives in here (points to head). This is also why I stopped listening to podcasts in the morning when I shower, get ready, and make coffee.

Stay. Focused.

So yeah, that’s why I haven’t had the capacity to write for Perspective Shift. I should be back here more regularly come January.

Thanks for understanding!

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In the Meantime

In lieu of some written content, may I tempt you with the last couple sermons I’ve preached at Denver Community Church? Where I joined the Teaching Team earlier this year?

A Thank You Gift

I know that quite a few of you dropped your paid subscription these past couple months (about 10%… oooof), and I get it. The affordability crisis is real, and you probably couldn’t justify paying for a subscription for something that wasn’t regularly providing you with value.

For those that are still with me, either because you support me and this work regardless of the frequency, or because you just haven’t remembered to cancel yet, thank you!

As a thank you I’d like to give you an exclusive peek at the first draft of the Introduction. I think it perfectly captures where this book plans to go.

Introduction to “But What About”

Imagine a world where your devotion to Jesus and your love for Scripture do not block affirmation, but instead they make LGBTQ inclusion inevitable.

Look, I get it, I used to skip Introductions, too. I don’t need you to tell me what you’re going to tell me, just tell me. Quit clearing your throat and get to it already. Cut the fluff, deliver the goods (which is likely what my editor will say about this entire opening bit, we shall see). But then I went to Europe with my friend Larry, had dinner below the cobblestone streets of France where the walls were lined with barrels of Bordeaux, and learned something that forever altered my posture toward Introductions.

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Today I want to pick up where …

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Question for you: Is there a proper/improper way to feel when someone dies?

Generally speaking I’m of the opinion that we should be reaaaalllly slow to judge

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