You Don't Owe Us Your Coming-Out Story National Coming Out Day, micro-queering, and the church's responsibility to change the room
By Lily White
On October 11, we celebrate National Coming Out Day. This annual LGBTQ+ awareness day supports those who choose to “come out of the closet.” Whether this happens on October 11 or any other day of the year, it can be a monumental moment for an LGBTQ+ person to speak their truth out loud to friends, family, and loved ones. Many queer* people take this step not knowing what the reaction will be. Too often, children are estranged from their parents, relationships are lost, and church members are excluded from their faith communities.
For many in the queer community, the benefits of coming out can outweigh the reasons for remaining in the closet. Reduced stress, improved mental and emotional health, community connection, and deepening relationships are just a few. Our progressive churches encourage LGBTQ+ people to “come out,” live their truth, and embrace visibility. As a lesbian who is out of the closet, I can affirm that coming out can be liberating and powerful, while also being complicated, risky, or simply not the right choice for everyone.
So I'm wondering, if we encourage LGBTQ+ people to come out, what responsibility do those of us on the other side of the closet door have for the room they enter?
From time to time, I hear from churches that have already chosen to become welcoming and affirming, open and affirming, or reconciling. Someone will ask, “How do we let LGBTQ+ people know we've made this decision? How do we get LGBTQ+ people through our doors?”
My response is, “I'm sure they're already there.”
Queer people may be choir members, worship leaders, teenagers, ministers, visitors, grandparents, deacons, and door greeters. Some are out, some are not, and some are still discovering who they are. What happens when the question changes from “How do we get LGBTQ+ people through our doors?” to “How do we ensure the belonging of the LGBTQ+ people who have been here the whole time?”
Welcome isn't the same as belonging. Welcome says, “We've made a place for you at our table!” Belonging says, “This table is for all of us, and it will change because you are here!”
Hospitality isn't just greeting people at the door. It's creating a space where people can belong. If a left-handed person sits at a dinner table, we might offer them the seat on the end so their elbow won't bump someone else's. If a person in a wheelchair comes to the table, we'll remove a chair to make room for them. We don't ask them to explain why they need space. We simply recognize that the table should accommodate the people gathered around it.
And perhaps, as we listen to one another, we discover that the table needs to change in ways we hadn't imagined.
The church has a particular responsibility to do this. Regularly, we observe Communion, the physical representation of Christ's table among us. We proclaim that Christ's welcome is not ours to restrict. Yet how often do we behave as though the table belongs to us, and we get to decide who deserves a seat?
My beloved church people, LGBTQ+ people do not owe us their coming-out stories before we owe them belonging. The church's responsibility doesn't begin when someone discloses their identity.
In John 4, Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman at the well. Jesus doesn't begin by asking about her life, who she is, or to whom she's married (or not married). He asks her for water. Before their conversation turns to her personal life, Jesus has already crossed a social boundary and recognized that she has something to offer. She isn't merely the recipient of his inclusion. She possesses something Jesus is willing to receive.
Welcome says, “I have something you need.”
Belonging recognizes, “You have something we need, too.”
We see something similar in Mark 5, when a woman who has suffered from hemorrhaging for twelve years reaches out to touch Jesus' clothing. She approaches quietly, hoping to receive healing without drawing attention to herself. And she is healed before she tells Jesus her story. Her disclosure isn't the price of receiving grace. When she does tell him the whole truth, Jesus calls her “daughter.”
Throughout the Gospels, Jesus challenges the boundaries that religious and social communities have constructed. He doesn't wait for people to prove they belong before extending grace. Often, his encounters challenge everyone around him to reconsider who belongs in the first place.
What might happen if our churches followed that example?
Perhaps on National Coming Out Day, LGBTQ+ people aren't the only ones being invited to come out. Perhaps the church needs to come out of the assumptions that keep us from recognizing who is already in the room.
Recently, I've been thinking about the idea of micro-feminism, small, intentional actions that challenge the everyday assumptions and practices of patriarchy. What if we practiced something similar that I'll call micro-queering?
Micro-queering is the practice of making small, intentional choices that interrupt heteronormativity and cisnormativity in everyday life. In other words, we stop assuming that everyone is heterosexual or cisgender unless they tell us otherwise.
Here's a little thought experiment. What if, for one day, you imagined that everyone you encountered might be LGBTQ+? What would change about your conversations, your expectations, or the questions you ask? Would you assume that the woman mentioning her spouse has a husband? Would you ask a young man whether he has a girlfriend? Would you imagine that every child in your congregation will someday marry someone of another gender?
The point isn't to replace one assumption with another. It's to recognize how often we make assumptions without even realizing it.
Micro-queering might mean using inclusive language in worship, rethinking the examples we use in sermons, examining the assumptions embedded in children's curriculum, or making space for people to share their pronouns without requiring anyone to do so. It might mean looking at our church forms, leadership structures, and traditions and asking whom we imagined when we created them.
These are small practices, but small practices shape congregational culture. They communicate belonging long before anyone has to ask whether they are welcome.
We shouldn't require LGBTQ+ people to come out before we give ourselves permission to change the room.
And let's remember, changing the room isn't simply about making queer people more comfortable. Our congregations become richer when we allow the gifts, experiences, questions, and wisdom of queer people to shape our common life. We may discover new ways of understanding Scripture, practicing hospitality, building relationships, and experiencing God.
That's the difference between inviting someone to sit at our table and recognizing that the table belongs to all of us. Belonging means allowing the people gathered there to change the conversation, the menu, and perhaps even our understanding of the feast itself.
So this National Coming Out Day, I invite our churches to ask a different question. Instead of asking how to get more LGBTQ+ people through our doors, ask what the LGBTQ+ people already inside those doors experience. Do they see themselves reflected in our worship and leadership? Can they bring their whole selves to the table? Are we willing to let their presence change us?
My friends, let's come out of our assumptions. Let's change our language, our practices, and our expectations. Let's create communities where no one must disclose their identity to receive the hospitality and love of Christ.
Because you don't owe us your coming-out story before we owe you belonging.
*This author uses “queer” and “LGBTQ+” interchangeably throughout this article.
Rev. Lily White (she/her) is passionate about cultivating spaces of connection, celebration, and belonging rooted in justice and beloved community. She earned her Master of Divinity with a Baptist specialization from Perkins School of Theology, where she was recognized as a Baugh Scholar and participated in L@s Seminaristas, an ecumenical Latiné student group rooted in justice and community-building. Lily lives in Austin, Texas, with her wife, Kris, and their two cats, Maeve and Nina. She loves to travel and read.
