The Gospel of The Empty Chair

 

There are moments when I wonder how something meant to carry hope became so heavy in the hands of people searching for belonging, especially for LGBTQ+ people who have too often been told that God’s love has conditions attached to it.

I’ve watched, and been part of, churches that preach limitless grace while quietly placing conditions around who gets to experience it. I’ve been complicit in using Scripture as a tool to lock people out instead of as the open door it was intended to be. 

Somewhere along the way, we became so focused on protecting our comfort instead of welcoming people to the table that we forgot Jesus rarely operated inside comfortable spaces. Too many LGBTQ+ people have walked into sanctuaries carrying the weight of rejection, only to discover that the very places meant to reflect Christ sometimes deepen the wound instead of helping heal it.

The Jesus we encounter in the Gospels moved toward people first and foremost. He wasn’t focused on arguments, appearances, or approval. He intentionally sat at tables others avoided, touched wounds others feared, and reminded the forgotten that they were still seen by God. 

I cannot reconcile that Jesus with the version of Christianity that demands LGBTQ+ people erase parts of themselves just to be treated with dignity or welcomed into community. Yet too often, modern faith communities ask people to shrink themselves before they are allowed near the table.

“The Gospel of Open Chairs” was born out of that tension. It’s a reflection on exclusion, mercy, fear, and the kind of radical welcome that sits at the center of Christ’s message. Not a welcome that ignores truth, but one that remembers grace was never supposed to be rationed, and that the table of Christ was never meant to be reserved only for those who make others comfortable.

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The Gospel of Open Chairs

By Pastor Rob Townshend

Love always seems to come with conditions,
even though our Creator said it was limitless.
His people still find splinters of scripture
sharp enough to keep hands outside the door,
still dress old wounds in white linen
and call it peace while teaching loneliness.

Gasps are often heard in the “sanctuaries”;
pews tighten like clenched jaws,
and the passing of peace grows cold in fingertips
when those unlike us, who fall short just as we do,
walk in carrying visible scars
and remind us that we, too, need grace.

Belief becomes a prerequisite,
not merely a suggestion, but a weapon.
Creeds harden into locked gates,
and verses once meant to heal
are lifted like stones in trembling fists.
Mercy is cornered,
and belief becomes a means to belittle.

Transformation is proclaimed as a carrot,
yet the stick of injustice profanes His name:
“Sit here. Speak softer. Dress differently.
Become someone easier to explain.”
The table remains open only to those
willing to sand away their edges for comfort—
but this misses the point and paints God as a tyrant.

Quickly, we must return to the message:
the one spoken beside wells and supper tables,
the one that touched lepers before sermons,
the one that washed dusty feet without hesitation;
words we embrace for ourselves
yet withhold from others.
We miss the pulse of hope,
the open-handed heart of the Creator—quintessential.

The cross, a symbol meant for addition,
but feels like a curse
when you’re excluded from tables
or met with a smirk.
The reality is this: the goal of the King
is that every person is welcome inside;
a door thrown wide
by the One who dies so we could thrive.