Sabrina Hodak recalls the pain of loneliness she felt as she tried to reconnect with her Jewish roots.
Islam filled a void in Mia Miller’s heart, but her joy was tempered by anxiety about “coming out a second time.”
As Sid Hai realised his true nature, his mind wandered into dark corners: “Will God allow this?”
Having navigated the tough roads of their teenage years but never compromising their faith, the trio say they are sending a powerful message to young people in 2024 that it’s possible to embrace both religion and queer identity.
Hodak, Miller and High are ambassadors for Beloved Arise, an organization that aims to support LGBTQ+ youth of all faiths, and will be celebrating Queer Youth of Faith Day on Sunday, the last day of Pride Month.
Beloved Allies aims to provide spiritual openings and support for LGBTQ+ young people and to challenge the notion that homosexuality and religion are mutually exclusive, said its founder, June Love Young.
This message is “not just important, but essential for LGBTQIA+ youth in 2024,” Young told USA Today. “For too long, the false dichotomy that we must choose between our faith and our identity has dominated the narrative, creating deep-seated shame, rejection and alienation among queer youth who find solace and strength in their spiritual beliefs.”
One in five LGBTQ+ young people say emotional connection is important
According to a 2022 survey by The Trevor Project, which provides crisis and suicide prevention services to LGBTQ+ people under the age of 25, one in five LGBTQ+ young people said their religion or spirituality is important or very important to them.
The survey also found that young people who said religion or spirituality was important also had significantly lower rates of depression (55%).
“In today’s world where mental health issues are so prevalent among young people, acknowledging that you can be queer and also deeply spiritual is a powerful message of hope and inclusion,” Young said.
But as LGBTQ+ groups partner with faith leaders and spiritual institutions move toward acceptance, the relationship between religion and queerness can be complicated.
For example, LGBTQ+ Catholics found a ray of hope when Pope Francis said, “If someone is gay, seeks God and has good will, I am not qualified to judge” during his papacy in 2013. In 2023, the Pope allowed priests to bless same-sex unions.
But the Vatican reaffirmed its opposition to sex-reassignment surgery in April, and even Pope Francis has made gaffes in recent weeks, using a derogatory term for homosexuals twice, according to Italian media.
Young predicts that religious spaces in 2024 will be “a hybrid,” with an increasing number of LGBTQ+ inclusive churches, synagogues, mosques and other institutions “still having a lot of traditional and exclusionary spaces.”
Beloved Allies believes that by sharing young people’s stories and experiences, inclusion can happen: “We can create a world where all young people feel valued and valued in both their faith and their identity.”
“Am I going to hell for this?”
High, 20, grew up in a devout Methodist family in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, and has volunteered at vacation Bible school and even sang hymns in sign language during virtual worship services.
The young man came out as queer in his early teens and as transgender at 17, and helped organize the city’s first Pride event.
One day at his family’s Methodist church, a member of the congregation called him over and handed him a list of Bible verses explaining why homosexuality was wrong.
Though High knew she “felt nothing but love from God,” she was shaken to her core. “Anyone in the queer community has that feeling of, oh, what’s going to happen now?”
When his mother came to pick him up, he got into the car crying and asked, “Am I going to hell because of this?”
From his mother, who was always there for him, he heard three reassuring words that wrapped around him like a blanket: “God loves everyone.”
Though his family left the church, the experience not only helped High reconcile his spirituality with his gender identity but also helped him deepen his faith over the years, finding solace and inspiration in the Bible, a text he once brandished like a weapon against young people.
He now advises other young queer Christians, often sharing his favorite Bible verse, 1 John 4:7: “I want them to know that they are loved by God. They are not broken, and they are not wrong.”
“The church’s hatred of gays only alienates them from God,” he said.
“This is a life that can exist.”
Hodak, 21, of Hollywood, Florida, is bisexual and Modern Orthodox, having grown up in a devout household, observing the holidays and attending synagogue on Saturdays.
But after he started attending public school, Hodak began to feel his connection to Judaism fading.
She vowed to reconnect with Judaism as a teenager and joined a local Jewish youth group. “I had a Jewish mentor who was very instrumental in my spiritual growth in Judaism,” she said.
But at the same time, she was discovering her sexual identity and realized she didn’t know any other queer religious people, which made her feel very alone.
“A few years ago, I had a very difficult conversation with a close mentor that left me feeling very upset,” she says. “What he was trying to say was that being part of the LGBTQ community and having faith are mutually exclusive. You can’t do both at the same time.”
Hodak began researching queer Jewish communities online and embraced the opportunity to become an ambassador for Beloved Arise.
“I felt a strong desire to represent people that I didn’t encounter in my life,” she said, “I didn’t grow up with queer people, Jewish people, religious people, and I wanted to spread awareness for other people that this kind of life could exist.”
“All of their identities are valid.”
Miller, 18, is from New Braunfels, Texas, and is a black, queer Muslim who was raised Christian.
“I’ve always been taught by Christianity and my parents that God will still love you no matter who you are,” they said.
But Miller, who came out as queer in high school, began to feel unsure about her spiritual identity. “There’s a lot of this myth that you can’t be queer and religious, and for a while I believed that,” she said.
As Miller began to explore other religions, they were drawn to Islam, tiptoeing toward another pivotal moment: “There was something that drew me to this way of life,” Miller said. The boy soon made the shahada, a declaration of faith to become Muslim, and it became a connection that filled “a hole inside of me.”
Miller said he learned about microaggressions targeting Black people as a child, including one time when the mother of a friend at school repeatedly touched his “amazing afro that he was so proud of.”
The vitriolic nature of prejudice took a new turn with Islamophobia, with one teacher telling Miller that she shouldn’t become a Muslim because “Muslims behead babies, are terrorists, and abuse women.”
“What was shocking to me was … she didn’t even realize that what she was saying was so ridiculous,” Miller said.
These experiences have helped fuel Miller’s drive as a fierce advocate for equality and a role model for young queer people struggling to find spiritual home.
“It’s so important to be that voice, that person that tells everyone that you are loved, that you matter, and that your identity is valid.”
