This sermon comes from our 2025 LGBTQ Pride Month worship service at St. John’s Presbyterian Church in San Francisco, CA.
If you take Route 441 south out of Knoxville, Tennessee,
then turn right at the Sonic,
turn left at the giant iceberg at the Titanic Museum,
past the Days Inn, Lumberjack Show, and Go-Karts,
another Days Inn, Lumberjack…
and another…
then left at the Toy Story knock-off mini-golf
(not too far or you’ll hit the Bush’s Baked Beans factory),
you will find yourself
in a land of rhinestones and rainbows:
Dollywood!
In the middle of a state that’s become hostile to queer people,
Dollywood has become a sanctuary.
Because of Dolly’s loud, inclusive spirit,
folks know they’ll be seen, known and understood
inside those gates.
We all need people who see, know, and understand us.
That everyday miracle is how the Church was born.
As the story goes,
on a day called Pentecost,
early followers of Jesus huddled in a room,
when all of the sudden,
a howling, fiery wind swept through everyone.
Others rushed in to see what was happening
only to discover that the windswept people
could somehow speak every language.
They were confused, stunned.
They thought everyone was drunk. (Really.)
But somehow, they could look around and say,
“I’m seen and known and understood.”
This is an amazing sanctuary.
But also a dangerous one.
Because of what’s right outside the door.
The people gathered in that room
had followed in the footsteps of Jesus,
a man who had just been killed
after he threatened “normal” life,
questioned the way things are done,
spent time with those no one wanted to,
said “welcome home” to those who were cast out,
cried with those who were hurting,
hugged people no one would even touch,
dined with those others called disgusting,
and said, “Look at this world. Everyone is so beautiful.”
People couldn’t take that and wanted to erase him.
They tried.
But they couldn’t.
And so this group of followers bravely gathered
to keep telling the story
and keep loving the world when the world wouldn’t.
But right outside the door,
the world still didn’t want to hear it.
They still don’t.
There is a strange spirit rising again in our world.
It is not one person,
or one leader,
or one party.
It is an old story that says people who are different
are dangerous,
or wrong,
or sinners,
or evil.
That queer people are less-than and unworthy.
This Pride Month,
this spirit hit me hard when
the name of Harvey Milk was removed from a military ship.
(This is to say nothing about putting names on warships.)
This news took me out. I had to lay down.
I was confused, stunned, sad.
“You don’t want to honor his name?” I asked myself.
“You don’t want us to be proud of that name?”
“You don’t want us to look up to that name?”
The name of a man
Who spoke up about gay rights when no one would?
Who gave people permission to be themselves?
Who helped calm the fear of people afraid to live life?
Who had people from all over the country writing him letters to tell him that his courage had saved their life?
Who was killed because he gave too many people,
the “wrong” kind of people, hope for a future?
You don’t want us to look to that name?
The name of Harvey Milk?
You want it erased.
You want it go away.
You want people like him to go away.
You want us to go away.
You want me to go away.
That is a scary thing. A strange spirit.
I know many of you have felt that fear, too.
And while I can’t tell you what’s on the horizon,
I do know there is a different way,
a different Spirit.
It is that howling, fiery wind Spirit
that sees people
and wants nothing more than to know and understand them.
That calls queer people
beautiful, remarkable, gorgeous, good, holy.
That in the face of all things
isn’t afraid,
but undyingly hopeful.
That Spirit sweeps through our Pride season,
a sanctuary from all that is right outside our doors.
And that might be what we need most right now: Sanctuary.
Sanctuaries aren’t places where escape
and pretend everything’s OK.
Or places to lock the doors
because we’re too scared to go outside.
Sanctuaries are places and moments
where we hear the deep truth about who we are,
where we are cared for in word and in deed,
where we are seen and known and understood,
where we get the strength and courage
to open our doors and tell that story to others.
That’s sanctuary.
This Pride,
I pray we can find sanctuaries
and be sanctuaries
wherever people need them.
To our allies,
let the queer people in your life know
that you’ve got their back,
no matter what.
And to all my queer siblings:
In this time when the world is trying to erase you
and this strange spirit is looming over our lives,
may you find sanctuary,
like cinnamon bread in a rocking chair at Dollywood,
in the story of who you are.
You are good. So good.
Created good. Called good.
You, just by being you, in your body,
are so strong, so brave, so resilient.
The ways you see this life
and the ways you express yourself in it are beautiful.
You are a gift that this world needs.
This is the story of who you are.
It is written by God and no one else.
Never forget it.
And never forget that you are loved.