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“Queer” is not about who you’re having sex with (that can be a dimension of it), but “queer” as being about the self that is at odds with everything around it and that has to invent and create and find a place to speak and to thrive and to live.
— bell hooks
I’ve always been queer, but it took me quite a while to realize it. Even after coming out as gay, I struggled with the language of “queer” because, like many people, I grew up hearing it as a slur. The word still lands that way in many places—I remember the shocked look on faces in rural England when I used it, as if I’d said a curse word.
But as I’ve wrestled with my identity, learned the history of LGBTQIA+ liberation movements, and deepened my faith, I’ve come to resonate with “queer” as much as I do “Christian.” In fact, to follow Jesus of Nazareth—to be an authentic Christian—is to be queer.
To be queer generally means two things. First, it’s a catch-all phrase for the LGBTQIA+ community—those who embrace non-heterosexual orientations or non-cisgender identities. Second, it means disrupting arbitrary norms to make space for diverse, often marginalized expressions. In this sense, to be queer is to resist the repression of our true selves and the forces demanding we conform. It’s a radical declaration that we will live authentically as God created us, not as religion or culture tells us we must.
To be queer is holy—it affirms that God doesn’t make mistakes, that our unique expression reflects divine creativity. It refuses to blaspheme our Creator by trying to limit or suppress the image of God within us. In this broad sense, queerness is a calling every person should embrace. As Paul wrote, “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Romans 12:2). To be queer is to see beyond the masks and roles that hide our light.
bell hooks defines queerness as “being at odds with everything around it,” and that feels right. We live in a world built by systems designed to benefit a few. What’s accepted as “normal” has always been constructed—and can be changed. Today, as awareness of diversity grows, more people recognize that demonizing difference harms us all. Movements of resistance have queered our societies for the common good by questioning and challenging these false “normals.”
Yet one institution remains most resistant to queering: Christianity. Religions are slow to change, and Christianity has long fought to preserve power. Reformers throughout history—Luther, the abolitionists, women’s rights advocates—were branded heretics for demanding something new. But change came anyway. These movements queered Christianity: they disrupted, reimagined, and renewed it.
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Over the past fifty years, we’ve seen another reformation around LGBTQIA+ inclusion. Nearly every mainline Protestant denomination in the United States now affirms queer people—allowing marriage, ordination, and full participation in church life. Even within Catholicism, Pope Francis has allowed blessings for gay couples and affirmed baptism and godparent roles for transgender people. These are small but significant steps.
Still, the majority of global Christianity remains anti-queer. Many churches still preach that homosexuality is an abomination and that women must submit to men. The only way to challenge such doctrines is through queering—through radical honesty, disruption, and love.
Some resist that word. Even many queer Christians would rather seek acceptance than transformation—hoping to be welcomed as “normal.” I understand that desire. I once wanted the same. But I’ve come to see that being normalized within oppressive systems does not lead to liberation. The problem isn’t just a few misinterpreted Bible verses. It’s that within a few hundred years of Jesus’ life, his radical movement was absorbed by empire, transformed into rites, rules, and dogmas enforced through fear and exclusion.
For centuries, that institutional Christianity—aligned with political power—has defined what’s “true” and silenced everything else. It’s a version of faith that often looks nothing like Jesus.
When I became a Christian, I wanted to follow Jesus, not an institution. But I was told there was no difference—that to be faithful to Jesus meant loyalty to the church. I learned its doctrines and politics, and as I conformed, I was rewarded with inclusion and privilege. Yet as I read the Gospels, I saw Jesus existing outside institutions, constantly challenging them. I realized that neither I nor my church looked like him.
That discomfort became conviction: queering Christianity is the most faithful response. Not just to include queer people, but to challenge every aspect of theology and ethics that fails to reflect Jesus’ radical inclusion. To queer Christianity is to reimagine faith beyond conformity, to center love as our ethic and liberation as our aim.
This means no longer seeking inclusion in traditional Christianity but re-forming it—creating subversive, queerly spiritual communities that mirror Christ’s spirit. It means learning from all who reveal divine truth, knowing all truth is God’s truth. It means being comfortable being called heretics, because faithfulness often looks like rebellion. Our goal isn’t to be accepted by institutions but to build communities of radical belonging, where diversity of belief and being is celebrated.
Jesus himself never heard the word “Christian.” He never built a church or preached a doctrine. So, inclusion within “Christianity” cannot be the end goal. What we need is a queer revolution of faith—a reclaiming of the radical, inclusive, justice-centered way of Jesus that challenges every empire, every hierarchy, every system that crushes human souls.
To be queer is to live that revolution every day—to embody divine creativity, resist conformity, and love without limit. That, to me, is what it means to be born again.
Excerpted with permission from Queer & Christian: Reclaiming the Bible, Our Faith, and Our Place at the Table by Brandan Robertson (Macmillan Publishers, 2025).