People are often surprised by how much I love Jesus.
Not the way most Christians talk about Jesus. Not the weaponized version. Not the one used to threaten queer people or enforce belonging. The Jesus I love lived in the margins. The one who walked toward suffering, not away from it.
I’ve always wrestled with faith.
When I was 13, I saw images of children starving during a famine in Africa. I remember asking myself, if God exists, why aren’t they being saved? Why aren’t prayers enough?
That question never left me.
What I eventually understood is this... faith was never meant to replace action. We are the hands and feet. We are the ones who show up. Prayer was never the endpoint. It was the invitation.
Faith is not certainty. It is participation.
It is showing up even when your tank feels empty.
Our culture talks endlessly about self-care, about protecting your energy. And that matters. But faith also asks something harder. It asks you to trust that when you give what you can, something will refill you. That what you offer is not lost. That care circulates.
That’s mutual aid.
We give what we can.
We ask for what we need.
We trust that community knows how to care for itself.
I feel my faith the same way I feel the sun on my face and the breeze on my skin on a warm summer day on the golf course. You can’t see it. You can’t measure it. But it’s there. It moves through you. It reminds you that you are alive and connected to something larger than yourself.
Being queer taught me something about God that institutional religion never could.
God is not threatened by who I am.
God is present in how I love.
God is present when we witness each other.
God is present when we refuse to let each other disappear.
It takes energy to show up. It takes something out of you. But it also fills you.
Because every time we care for one another, every time we refuse indifference, every time we stand beside someone who would otherwise stand alone, we participate in something sacred.
Not because we are special.
Because we said yes.
💛💛💛
Lenten Reflection · Parable of the Man in the Flood
A man’s town begins to flood. The water rises to his porch, and a neighbor in a truck stops and says,
“Get in. I’ll take you to safety.”
The man replies,
“No, thank you. I have faith. God will save me.”
The water rises higher. He retreats to the second floor. A rescue team in a boat comes by and shouts,
“Climb in! We’ll get you out.”
The man says,
“No, thank you. God will save me.”
The water rises again. He climbs onto the roof. A helicopter hovers overhead and lowers a ladder.
“Grab on! This is your last chance!”
The man refuses.
“I have faith. God will save me.”
The water keeps rising. The man drowns.
When he arrives in heaven, he asks God,
“I had faith. Why didn’t you save me?”
God replies,
“I sent you a truck, a boat, and a helicopter. What more did you want?”
Faith isn’t passive waiting. It’s recognizing that God shows up through people. Through action. Through community.
Through us.
Right now, my friend Sonja is raising money for We The Gente, an organization dedicated to empowering Latino individuals and families through education, career guidance, mental health support, and basic needs.
This is what faith looks like in practice. Not abstract belief. Concrete care.
If you’re able, consider helping her reach her birthday fundraising goal: https://www.facebook.com/donate/903744395895869/903744422562533/
Because sometimes the truck is a donation.
Sometimes the boat is mutual aid.
Sometimes the helicopter is simply showing up for one another.
And sometimes, we are the ones sent to help.
Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.
Let’s just say it.
“Not all men.”
Fine.
But enough men. Enough men who don’t speak up. Enough men who laugh. Enough men who go along to get along. And that includes Olympic athletes. The U.S. men’s hockey team wins gold. Good for them. They played well. First gold since 1980. Historic moment.
Then they get on a celebratory call with the President - this country’s clown shoe of a leader - who takes the opportunity to diminish the U.S. women’s hockey team. You know. The women who have medaled in every Olympics since women’s hockey became an Olympic sport. The women who consistently outperform the men. And what happens?
They laugh.
This is why I hate, “Not all men.”
Patriarchy doesn’t just look like overt misogyny. It looks like loyalty to other men. It looks like protecting access. It looks like staying silent so you don’t disrupt the vibe. It looks like bonding over women being minimized and used as the punchlines. It’s the same energy that protects sexual abusers. The same energy that shrugs at workplace discrimination. The same energy that claims to “protect women’s sports” while casually disparaging women athletes.
I’m tired of INCEL culture. I’m tired of Red Pill podcasts. I’m tired of grown men calling themselves “alpha males” like we’re in a National Geographic documentary. And I ask this sincerely when I talk to my straight women friends about their dating experiences. Do men even like women?
Because a lot of behavior doesn’t suggest affection. It suggests entitlement. It suggests proximity without respect.
My life is different. I decenter men. Honestly, I like women too much not to. I am a woman. And, women have been treated like property, trophies, or accessories to men for thousands of years. We have only recently had the option not to center men. And they cry about it. Men are still structuring the world in a way that forces us to orbit them.
If men want to prove they’re not all trash, then prove it. Prosecute the powerful abusers. Call out your friends. Refuse the laugh. Interrupt the joke. Don’t nod along when the President diminishes women who have objectively outperformed you.
Be better.
Do better.
And if that makes you uncomfortable?
Good.
Because here’s what keeps happening: men claim to protect women. Protect our daughters. Protect women’s sports. Protect family values. From who?
Other men.
Statistically. Historically. Empirically. Women are overwhelmingly harmed by men they know. Not bears. Not shadows. Not abstract threats. Men.
And here’s the trap. Bad men create the harm. “Good men” distance themselves from the bad ones. But too many good men stay silent when the bad men are powerful.
Lenten Reflection · John 8 Revisited
John 8 isn’t about stones. It’s about hypocrisy.
A group of men drag a woman into public, ready to condemn her for sexual sin. They are confident. Righteous. Certain they are on God’s side. And Jesus exposes the real issue: not her behavior, but theirs.
We love condemning the visible sin in other people while ignoring the rot in ourselves. We quote Scripture at gay people like it’s a weapon. We threaten hell. We clutch pearls. We pretend moral superiority. Meanwhile?
Adultery is referenced repeatedly in Scripture. Dishonesty. Exploitation. Abuse of power. Pride. Greed. Violence.
And yet those sins get forgiven quickly when the sinner is straight. Especially when he’s male. Especially when he’s powerful.
Make it make sense.
It doesn’t.
We tell the gays and theys they are an abomination, but we shrug at infidelity. We excuse misogyny. We normalize abuse. We laugh when women are diminished. We elect men with documented harm toward women and call it “family values.” John 8 exposes something terrifyingly modern: We are very comfortable condemning the people who threaten our social order.
We are much less comfortable confronting the people who benefit from it.
Straight men are not morally superior. They are socially protected.
And protection without accountability breeds rot.
Lent is not about shaming marginalized people into compliance.
It’s about repentance. About integrity. About turning inward before pointing outward.
If you’re quoting the Bible at queer people while staying silent about powerful men harming women, you missed the entire point.
Jesus didn’t side with the mob.
He exposed it.
God, please save me from this nonsense. Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.
I’ve been thinking a lot about working at the Circle K.
People come in almost every day. Regulars. Familiar faces. For many folks, especially people who are unhoused, it becomes a kind of third place. Not home. Not work. Just somewhere warm. Somewhere predictable.
We’re a few blocks from The Landing, the Warming Center, The Salvation Army, and Mayo Park. A lot of folks who live in the park come through our doors. Many buy a soda because it’s cheap. Ninety-nine cents. A dollar and seven cents after tax.
And more times than I can count, someone comes up a few cents short. Because capitalism, we deny the sale. And because capitalism, we eventually dump the soda down the sink.
After a while, I started asking myself, "What is five cents when someone can have a moment of comfort?"
I know the argument. “That’s irresponsible. They shouldn’t be spending their last pennies on sugar.” Sure. I can think that way too. But judgy-mcjudgerson aside, what I realized is this: sometimes that soda is the one small reprieve someone has from living a very hard life.
Many of these folks are dealing with addiction, serious mental illness, criminal records, or all of the above. Some are deeply difficult people. Some are just regular humans trying to survive, in transition, waiting for the right resource, program, or opportunity to land.
And here’s the truth we don’t like to say out loud, most of us are far closer to losing our housing because of a job loss, accident, or medical event than we are to becoming billionaires and launching ourselves into space.
There’s a woman who comes in regularly. She carries her entire life in a suitcase, like many do. Every time she sees me she says, “Thanks for showing up. I like seeing regular faces. I like the stability. And just so you know, if I ever saw you broken down on the side of the road, I’d stop to help you.”
I told her, “I appreciate that. It’s nice when someone stops. Not if I’m broken down.” I chuckled with her about it.
I don’t know her backstory. But I know mine. I’ve had unstable housing. I’ve needed help. If I didn’t have friends, family, and resources at certain points in my life, things could have gone very differently.
I’m grateful for my life. I tell people all the time, “I’m thriving compared to a lot of folks.” And because people showed up for me when I needed just a little support, I try to do the same.
So I started a soda pop fund.
Nothing formal. Just my pocket change in a cup in my locker. When someone comes up short, I say, “It’s good. I got you. Bring it back next time or pay it forward.”
And you know what? If I can make a person's day by fronting them 99 cents, why not!?
Kahlil Gibran wrote, “There are those who give little of the much which they have—and they give it for recognition… And there are those who have little and give it all. These are the believers in life, and their coffer is never empty.”
Today at work, it got a little chaotic. I was helping a customer. A regular was chatting with me. Someone else wanted my attention. And suddenly my friend Richie hands me his sweater and says, “Put this on so you’re not cold.”
My coworker Brendyn starts laughing and says, “Everyone is converging on Vangie.”
I looked up and said, “Not helpful, Brendyn," shaking my head. "Okay, everyone, back up. Let me finish what I’m doing and then I’ll give you the attention you want.”
Sundays are traditionally for church.
But for a lot of people, church looks like a Circle K counter. Familiar faces. Warmth. Someone remembering your name. Someone saying, “I got you.”
Lenten Reflection:
I keep thinking, if Jesus were alive today, he’d probably work at a place like a Circle K. Somewhere ordinary. Somewhere people come every day just to get through it. Somewhere you learn names, notice patterns, and understand that five cents can matter more than theology. He’d bend rules for compassion, not for profit. He’d know that people don’t need fixing before they deserve care. They’re just...thirsty.
Lent asks us to notice where God actually shows up.
Not in perfection.
Not in moral superiority.
But in ordinary acts of care.
Scripture doesn’t tell us to give only when it makes sense or when the recipient meets our standards. It tells us to give from the heart.
“Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.” - 2 Corinthians 9:7 (NIV)
Lent isn’t about grand gestures.
It’s about small faithfulness.
Five cents. A soda. A sweater. A familiar face.
Maybe the question isn’t, “Is this responsible?”
Maybe the question is, “Does this help someone get through the day?”
That’s how beloved communities are built.
One ordinary act at a time.
Take care of yourself. Take care of each other.
