Pulling Up a Chair in the Messy Middle

 

In life, one comes to understand that we are on a journey shaped by incremental discoveries; small moments of learning that slowly form who we become for the people around us. Growth rarely arrives fully formed. Instead, it unfolds through missteps that teach us humility, core beliefs that are tested and refined, and muscles of compassion that must be intentionally strengthened over time. The journey itself matters, not just the destination.

How a person engages these processes determines the kind of presence they become in the lives of others. Some choose to grow into safe spaces—people who can hold tension, listen without rushing to judgment, and extend love, compassion, and grace even when things are unresolved. Others, often without intending to choose a different path. That road can lead to harm: wounding others, marginalizing the vulnerable, or grasping for power at the expense of those with the least voice. The difference between these paths is not perfection, but posture.

The Gospels show us that Jesus consistently chose the path of the messy middle.

In Matthew 9, we find Jesus doing something deeply unsettling to the religious leaders of His day: “While Jesus was having dinner at Matthew’s house, many tax collectors and sinners came and ate with him and his disciples” (Matthew 9:10).

This was not a strategy meeting or a debate. It was a meal. Presence came before resolution. Relationship preceded repentance. When questioned, Jesus responded, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick… For I desire mercy, not sacrifice” (Matthew 9:12–13).

Jesus did not wait for people to have it all figured out before sharing a table with them. He did not require certainty, behavior modification, or theological precision as the price of belonging. Instead, He entered people’s lives right where they were—complex, unfinished, and often misunderstood. That is the messy middle.

For LGBTQ people, this space is not theoretical—it is lived reality. Many have found themselves pushed to the margins of faith communities, told—explicitly or implicitly—that they must resolve their identity, suppress their story, or remain silent in order to belong. Yet the way of Jesus tells a different story. Jesus consistently stands with those who have been excluded, misunderstood, or harmed by religious systems. He draws near, not away.

Choosing to live in this space does not mean abandoning convictions or pretending sin doesn’t matter. Jesus never does that. But it does mean resisting the urge to reduce people to categories, labels, or talking points. It means believing that transformation is more likely to happen in the context of love than exclusion, and that God is at work long before we see the finished product.

Living in the messy middle requires courage. It is far easier to retreat into rigid certainty or to disengage altogether. But Jesus shows us a better way—one that refuses both harsh judgment and passive indifference. He stands close enough to heal, to challenge, and to restore, all at the same time.

For those of us who follow Jesus, the question is not whether we will encounter messiness—we will. The question is what kind of people we will become in it. Will we be safe places where LGBTQ people experience dignity, protection, and mercy? Will we stand with them when they are targeted, misunderstood, or harmed? Will we choose proximity over power, presence over performance, and love over fear?

Choosing the path of the messy middle aligns our lives with the Jesus found in the Gospels; the Jesus who pulls up a chair, breaks bread with the overlooked, and trusts that God is still writing the story. And in doing so, we may discover that the messy middle is not something to avoid, but a sacred space where grace does its deepest work.