Dear Friend,
I’m not even sure I should be writing this.
But it’s Pride Month. It’s been three months since we found a church here in Canada. Pride flags are everywhere. And I keep thinking about you, and all the conversations I never really had. Maybe there just wasn’t a right time before. Or maybe I just didn’t make time.
So here’s my attempt now.
You already know I’ve shown support in small ways—liking posts, watching your performances, cheering on your wins. But I’ve also been quiet. Too quiet, probably. And that’s something I’m starting to wrestle with.
The truth is, I never learned how to talk about these things. I grew up in a religious world where being gay—or being seen as gay—was treated with discomfort, even fear. I’m a minister’s kid. I served in church leadership. I was part of a system that didn’t always call it hate, but called it doctrine.
Somehow, I came out of that world still feeling comfortable around LGBTQ+ friends. Maybe it was the people I met. Maybe it was my own internal questions. Or maybe I just couldn’t believe that God—if He really was love—could look at someone like you and say, “You don’t belong.”
In our circles, the word used was “tolerance.” It meant you could stay in the room, but we didn’t approve. It meant we respected you, as long as you were willing to change. I hate that now. That mindset told people to shrink themselves just to fit into our comfort zones.
And yet, my family never showed direct hatred. They used “langga” and treated everyone kindly, even those who were openly gay. But the doctrine—the written rule—still said your life was sin. That contrast confused me for a long time.
I grew up getting teased, too. People joked I was effeminate. They called me things. Relatives laughed it off. I was straight, but I felt like I had to prove it. Even when I was already in a relationship, the teasing didn’t stop.
I never let that turn into resentment. But I did feel exhausted trying to meet other people’s definitions of manhood. And it made me think about how much harder it must be for you—just trying to exist.
What stood out to me over the years wasn’t just your resilience, but your intelligence. You were never the stereotype people threw around. You were sharp. Thoughtful. Kind. And despite everything thrown your way, you didn’t fold.
I want you to know I saw that. I still do.
And yes, I have to say this too: this journey of learning about you—understanding you more—has been tied to my journey of faith. I can’t untangle them. I grew up with a version of God that didn’t have room for you. But I never believed that version was complete.
I left church for a while. And in that in-between time, I found myself exploring other traditions. I remember tuning in to a synagogue in New York during Shabbat. The rabbi gave a sermon about pride—ga’avah in Hebrew. She said it was the kind of pride that lifts someone above others, the arrogant kind. But then she reminded us that all of us were created tzelem Elohim—in the image of God.
That stuck with me. Because the Pride you live out? It isn’t arrogance. It’s a claim to dignity. A celebration of being alive and whole, as God made you.
Eventually, I returned to Christianity. I attended online church with a community within the Presbyterian Church (USA), which is openly affirming. One of the pastors was gay. I also watched from afar as the United Church of Christ in the Philippines reaffirmed its stand for LGBTQ+ inclusion. I celebrated when the Iglesia Filipina Independiente ordained its first transgender priest.
When I arrived in Canada and joined my wife, we started attending a church from the same denomination that planted our home church in the Philippines. They have wrestled with sexuality for decades. But we came just as the conversation was opening wider, even if it meant disagreement.
One former missionary we met told my wife plainly, “We shouldn’t gatekeep God. If someone wants to seek Him, let them come.” And our local church community echoed that. They said this was a “non-essential” issue—not because it didn’t matter, but because it shouldn’t bar people from God’s love.
That comforted us. Because deep down, we knew that love doesn’t work like a checklist.
You don’t need to share my faith for me to respect you. If you don’t believe, or follow another path—that’s okay. I still see you as created, full of worth.
Here in Canada, I learned the term 2SLGBTQ+—Two-Spirit, Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer or Questioning, and more. I admire that the “2S” is placed first, in honor of Indigenous peoples. I hope one day the Philippines takes bold steps too. A SOGIE Equality Law, long overdue, could help protect you. But it will take more than laws. It will take people unlearning prejudice.
I can’t speak for every Christian. Some will find this letter wrong. Maybe they’ll say I’ve compromised. Maybe I have, if that means choosing people over rigid interpretations. But if the Gospel is good news, it has to be good news for you too.
Being an ally now means seeing people as people—no tiptoeing if faced with someone who might be queer. In the hospital, I started asking patients for their preferred name and pronouns. It was a small act, but it mattered. It told them, “You’re safe here.”
And to queer youth reading this: I may not fully understand, but I’m listening. If you need someone, I’m here. You don’t have to explain yourself to be respected. You are already enough.
I still worry about people I hurt with my silence. I wonder if I’ve ever said something wrong without knowing it. But I’m learning. And if I could say just one thing to you—whoever you are, wherever you are—it’s this:
You matter. You are loved. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.
Happy Pride.
“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear…”
—1 John 4:18
