David K. Mercier
A reflection on finding sacred ground in disagreement at Oriented to Love
This is The Church
When I first walked into the room for the Oriented to Love dialogue, I was nervous. I didn’t know exactly what I was getting myself into, only that this weekend would bring together Christians who hold vastly different beliefs about sexuality and gender. Some had come from traditional churches that see LGBTQ identity as sin. Others, like me, had found peace and belonging in knowing that being gay and being Christian aren’t opposites.
We each had done some preparation assignments beforehand, so we knew basic things about one another. As I walked in, one participant recognized me, greeted me by name and with a hug. It immediately softened something in me and eased my nerves. The facilitators were so intentional about creating a space that felt both safe and sacred. From the very beginning, I felt cared for, like they were holding the room with wisdom, gentleness, and a deep trust that God was already at work among us.
What is Oriented to Love?
Oriented to Love is a ministry of Christians for Social Action. Its purpose is simple but profound: to bring together small groups of Christians who hold a wide range of beliefs about sexuality and gender, and to invite us to share our stories. It isn’t a debate, or a space for teaching doctrine. It’s a space for listening, being vulnerable, and seeing Christ in one another. The program’s goal is not to change anyone’s mind but to soften hearts and to help us practice the kind of love that holds tension instead of fleeing from it. Over the years, OTL has become a quiet, sacred movement reminding the Church that dialogue, when done in love, can be an act of worship.
Tension and Tenderness
Even in such a well-held space, there were moments of real tension. One of the participants believed that LGBTQ people choose their path and compared being gay to various extreme behaviors most consider sinful. I could feel the temperature in my chest rise as the conversation went on. For a moment, I felt myself slipping into defensiveness, something I’ve learned to expect when I feel unseen or misrepresented.
But in the middle of that tension, something unexpected happened. I spoke from a place of deep truth, not just debate. Later, another participant came up to thank me for what I said, something I barely remembered speaking because I’d been so flooded with emotion. In that moment, I realized it wasn’t just me talking. The Holy Spirit was at work in that room.
That experience left me both drained and grateful. It reminded me that courage doesn’t always look polished or calm. Sometimes it’s shaky and sweaty and spoken through tears, but it is still holy.
Moments of Grace
Grace showed up in surprising ways that weekend. A few people who hold very different theological views than mine went out of their way to tell me they saw my faith and that they could see the depth of my relationship with God through my story. Those were unexpected moments and they were so encouraging and impactful for me.
There were also a few who simply said, “I’m still figuring out what I believe.” Those words carried so much humility. They didn’t come to prove a point; they came to listen. Their openness reminded me that the Church is full of people in process, and that’s exactly how it should be.
Learning to Stay
Before the weekend, I thought my role was to represent the affirming side of the conversation to help others see that LGBTQ people can love Jesus wholeheartedly. But I left realizing that maybe my job isn’t to convince people to see things my way. Maybe it’s to model what it looks like to stay in the room, to keep the table open to all, and to treat people, even those who don’t affirm me, with respect and curiosity.
That doesn’t mean pretending that harmful theology isn’t harmful. It simply means recognizing that understanding grows slowly, and not every conversation will lead to agreement. The divide is sometimes too wide to bridge in one sitting. But even when no one changes their mind, something sacred happens when people stay long enough to really hear each other.
I used to think that “The Church” was a place where everyone believed the same thing. I’ve learned now how that’s just not the case. Sure, we should center on salvific beliefs. But there’s already so much theological diversity sitting in our congregations, we just don’t often talk about it honestly. In our dialogue circle, the spectrum was wide. Beliefs about gender ranged from “it’s purely biological” to “it’s a lived experience of identity.” Some saw same-sex marriage as sin; others saw it as sacred.
And yet, for a few days, we all shared one circle, one table, one Spirit.
The Church
The Church is the pastor who still believes in a traditional sexual ethic, but weeps with his gay congregant instead of condemning him.
The Church is the mom who isn’t sure what she thinks about gender identity, but chooses love and learning from her child over fear.
The Church is the queer believer who still shows up on Sunday, still sings the songs, still hopes the family of God can be bigger than exclusion.
This is The Church. Messy. Tense. Full of contradiction. But also full of grace.
When we stop pretending that unity requires uniformity, the Spirit has room to move. I’ve started using a phrase I recently learned – theological hospitality – to describe this posture. It means making space for differing convictions while centering our shared belief in Jesus. It doesn’t mean anything goes; it means we hold humility about what we don’t fully know or understand. The Bible itself is full of diversity: voices, genres, cultures, and genders. Why should we expect less diversity in the Body of The Church?
When Unity Looks Like Love
Unity in Christ isn’t agreement, it’s relationship. It’s the willingness to stay, to listen, to believe that God is working in people who read Scripture differently than we do.
It’s what I saw at Oriented to Love. People who had every reason to walk out of the room chose instead to stay. People who’d been taught their whole lives that someone like me couldn’t belong sat across from me, shared meals with me, prayed with me. We didn’t leave with consensus. But we left having encountered one another and I think, in that encounter, we encountered God.
I came away convinced that if The Church can learn to stay in rooms like that, to hold tension, listen to stories, and resist the urge to define faith by agreement, then maybe the world would start to see Christians differently.
Imagine a world where the Church is known for spreading love instead of hate.
Where believers can disagree profoundly and still share communion.
Where no one is turned away from the table because of who they are or whom they love.
That’s the Church I believe Jesus imagined.
A Word About Discernment
If you’re reading this and you’re part of a church that feels unsafe, please hear me clearly: I’m not suggesting you stay no matter what. There are spaces where staying means continuing to absorb harm, and that’s not what God calls you to. Sometimes the holiest act is to step away, rest, and find healing before trying again.
In January, I’ll be a part of a webinar about how to discern whether to stay or leave your church. More info here.
The Lasting Image
When I got home from Oriented to Love, I unpacked my bag and sat in silence for a while. I thought about the faces around that circle, people who came with fear, hope, and conviction, but left with something softer in their hearts. I thought about the way the Holy Spirit showed up not through agreement, but through presence.
I believe dialogues like this are what will transform The Church.
Because when we learn to stay at the table, especially when it’s hard, we begin to look a little more like Jesus.
If you’re interested in learning more about Oriented to Love, it’s a program of Christians for Social Action. Their dialogues bring together small groups of Christians across the theological spectrum to share stories and practice deep listening in the presence of God.
Be well,
David
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Leviticus 18
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