From the Cross to the Closet: Reflecting on Holy Week Through a Queer Lens

Holy Week is a journey.

A journey from celebration to betrayal—from palms waving in the streets to a cross on a hill -- From death to life.

It’s a story about love misunderstood, a body broken by power, and a hope that refuses to be buried.

For many LGBTQ+ folks—especially trans people—this story hits close. Not just spiritually, but physically. Emotionally. It mirrors real, lived experiences.

Palm Sunday marks Jesus entering Jerusalem to cheers and celebration. People saw him as a liberator. But crowds can turn fast—we know that. We’ve felt it. One day, we’re embraced and applauded. The next, we’re judged. Dismissed. Told we were only lovable when we fit the mold, when we made others comfortable.

Good Friday brings it all into focus. It’s the stark reminder that the world punishes what it can’t control—what it refuses to understand. Jesus wasn’t crucified for being “nice.” He was killed because he challenged power. He stood with the outcasts. He redefined who was worthy of love—and it turns out, that includes everyone. He scared the religious gatekeepers. He upset the political powers.

For queer and trans people, that cross isn’t just a symbol. It’s rejection from churches. It’s laws that try to erase us. It’s violence. Misgendering. The jokes that cut deep. The heartbreak of being told we must pick between our faith and our identity.

But here’s the thing: Jesus doesn’t watch from a distance. He stands with us. He looks us in the eyes and says, “You are not alone.”

Then comes Easter.

The stone is rolled away.

The tomb is empty.

And who gets to see it first? Not the priests, not the politicians, but women—people the world called unreliable. God chose the margins for the miracle.

And when Jesus rises, he doesn’t return for revenge. He comes back with open wounds and open arms. He returns with tenderness.

That’s the promise for us, too: that our pain doesn’t disqualify us. Our stories don’t need to be sanitized to be sacred. Resurrection isn’t about passing or pretending. It’s about living in our full, messy, radiant truth—and finding out we’re still loved.

If the church really wants to be Christ’s body, it has to follow his lead. It has to listen to the people it’s pushed out. Believe queer and trans voices. Let go of power and perfectionism. And rise instead in love, humility, and holy courage.

Because the resurrection wasn’t just a miracle—it was a movement. A statement that empires don’t get the last word. That exclusion doesn’t win. That queer people, trans people, all of us—belong.

We believe in a God who says, “You are my beloved.”

We believe closets are tombs, and coming out is resurrection.

We believe following Jesus means daring to love, to hope, and to rise again and again.

So may we walk this road not as strangers, but as family—beloved, blessed, and bold.

And may we emerge, like Christ, not diminished by what we’ve faced, but radiant in our truth.