When Kindness Meets Accountability: A Conversation with a Reverend About Queer Allyship

I get a lot of hate online. Most of it comes in the form of comments, but the worst—the most despicable—show up in my direct messages.

About a month ago, I got one that hit differently. Maybe it was the day, maybe it was my state of mind, but for some reason, it really got to me. It made me feel like a kid in a schoolyard, cornered, alone, with no one around to help. And I didn’t want to feel like that anymore.

So I shared it.

Now, I forgot to take the name off the post. And some of you—coming from a kind place—decided to do some detective work. You found out where this person worked, you sent me that information, and you took action without asking me what I wanted.

And when you do that to a marginalized person, you’re not just putting them at greater risk—you’re taking away their agency. Sometimes, being an ally means asking permission to be an ally first.

Now that you know that, I want to finish the story for all you Nancy Drews and Harriet the Spies out there.

The Parish and the Silence

The person who sent me that hateful message worked at a parish—and this particular parish was being praised as a queer and trans ally.

Some of you sent screenshots of your conversations with the reverend, and I saw that she had my name. My contact information.

And so I waited. And I waited. I waited a month.

I don’t know why, but something told me today—pick up the phone and call her. So I did.

I introduced myself and told her, “I know that you know that I know that we all know what’s going on.”

She sounded surprised. I could tell she was scared, and her voice was filled with shame. I didn’t want her to feel that, but I let her talk.

She told me, “I didn’t know what information I was allowed to share with you or how to share it.”

But she did say that a meeting had taken place, and this person had resigned of their own will.

And I could hear it in her voice—she thought that was the answer I was looking for.

But it wasn’t.

What True Allyship Looks Like

Because I wasn’t looking for an answer. Like most of us, I just wanted someone to hear me. Not just listen—really hear me.

So I asked her, “Now that this person is gone, have you thought about safety?”

She said, “Yes, we’ve thought about the safety of our parish and our parishioners.”

And I asked her, in the kindest way I could in that moment, “Did you think about my safety?”

And she said, “No, I didn’t.”

I could feel the humility in her voice. And I said, “Thank you so much for your honesty. I really appreciate it.”

I told her that I’m a speaker and an educator. That a lot of the people I talk to are leaders in faith-based communities. They hang the rainbow flag in their church, they put the right words on their website, they say they’re a safe space.

But what are they actually doing once that flag is up?

“Allyship is an action word. It doesn’t end when you put up a flag.”

And in the most humble way, she asked me, “What could I have done? What should I have done? What can I do now?”

Action Over Optics

I told her, “In my case? A phone call.”

“First, check in. Make sure I’m okay. Let me know what actions have been taken for my safety. Log it in your records. Did you contact the police? Is it on file?”

“But most importantly—what are you doing for the marginalized, vulnerable people you’re welcoming into your holy space?”

“What are the next steps? What policies are you going to change? What policies are you going to create to make sure this doesn’t happen again? And how are you going to constantly reassure them that they are safe?”

And she was so thankful—for what, I don’t know. My openness? My willingness? Maybe just for the conversation itself.

And I told her, “The only reason I had the courage to call you today was because I had watched Reverend Budde’s speech. I was so moved by her message of mercy, by the kindness that poured out of her.”

Something about that reverend reminded me of Reverend Budde.

“She had a Christ-like quality that made me feel comfortable enough to reach out.”

And it turned into a conversation where we didn’t just listen to each other—we heard each other.

We heard each other’s hearts.

Permission to Pray

And before we hung up, she asked me something I had never been asked before.

“Can I have your permission to pray for you?”

I told her, “First of all, my husband is a Baptist. And even though I’m not a practicing anything, he prays for me every night. And I love it.”

I told her, “This is the first time a Christian didn’t use that against me. Because when someone says, ‘I’ll pray for you,’ it usually comes as a threat. It’s the first time anyone has asked my permission to pray for me.”

She told me, “I’m going to pray for your safety.”

And I said, “Thank you for respecting my agency.”