When people first hear I’m critical of organized religion—especially Christianity—they sometimes assume that our guest ranch might not be welcoming to people of faith. That couldn’t be further from the truth.
The truth is, I care less about what God you pray to and more about how you treat the people around you. If you bring kindness, curiosity, and compassion, then you’re welcome at my table. But if you show up to “save” me or anyone else with unsolicited sermons and dogma, then we’re going to have a different kind of conversation.
Over the years, I’ve had my fair share of guests who arrive with a Bible in one hand and a mission in their heart—to tell me about their savior, ask if I’ve been saved, and assume that my queerness is something to be corrected. You can imagine how that goes over with me. As the saying goes, religion is like a penis. It’s fine to be proud of yours—but don’t whip it out in public.
But I’m also not here to demonize all Christians. In fact, some of my most heartfelt and healing conversations at the ranch have been with people who identify as devoutly religious. The difference is: they live their faith rather than perform it.
Take, for instance, the older couple who stayed in one of our yurts not long ago. They were sweet, talkative folks—he was a veteran, worked in Homeland Security, and let me know he’d voted for 47 three times. He was also a born-again Christian. Now, you might think we’d have nothing in common, but he shared openly, and I listened. Then I shared my experience as a gay man who lost his Army ROTC scholarship under "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell." I shared my upbringing as 1st Generation American with my immigrant grandparents and parents who came to the US from post-fascist Italy.
I shared my spiritual beliefs. We talked about what it means to truly be “welcoming” in a religious space, and how that often doesn’t match the lived experiences for LGBTQ folks like myself. We didn’t agree on everything. But we engaged. We heard each other. I could tell I had some sort of impact.
At the end of their stay? A 5-star review with promises to return. I don’t need see a cross—I need see character.
When I meet Christians who embody the actual teachings of their prophet —unconditional love, non-judgment, and forgiveness—we're speaking the same language, no matter the theological wrappings.
When someone asks me how to respond to a Christian who insists on proselytizing, I say this:
First, recognize what’s being revealed. When someone loudly professes their faith or tries to convert others, that’s not strength—it’s insecurity. A person secure in their beliefs doesn’t need to convince others of their merits.
If someone asks, “Have you accepted our savior into your heart?” They’re probably struggling with whether they’ve done so themselves. That’s the reveal.
Second, hold your boundaries with grace. If someone wants to debate your soul, you can simply reply, “I live my values. If yours are kindness and love, we are walking a similar path.”
Lastly, remember that you’re not here to prove anything. You don’t owe anyone an argument. You’re not less worthy because you don’t meet their religious criteria. Remember all that when scrolling through comments on Pride posts. They can all be summed up as bots, trolls, or a character revealing their own insecurities. As Jinx Monsoon says, “water off a duck’s back.”
The work we’re doing, celebrated this Pride Month—living our values, holding our boundaries, reclaiming our spaces—is powerful. It's not always easy, but it’s sacred. It’s what changes hearts and minds—not by force, but by example.
So, no—I don’t hate Christians. I just hold them to the same standard I hold everyone else. Live what you preach. And if love is at the center of your gospel, we’ll get along just fine.
