In-Sight PublishingRev. Brandan Robertson on Queer Theology, Christian Discipleship
Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen
Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project
Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/06/15
Rev. Brandan Robertson is a queer Christian author, activist, and pastor with a Master of Theological Studies from Iliff School of Theology. A former evangelical, he is now a leading voice in progressive Christianity and inclusive theology. In this interview with Scott Douglas Jacobsen, Robertson discusses his dual definition of queerness—as identity and resistance—and critiques the misuse of scripture by conservative movements. He advocates for queer hermeneutics, spiritual authenticity, and building “new tables of grace” beyond institutional church walls. Robertson’s theology challenges binary norms and invites LGBTQ+ individuals to reclaim their place within the Christian story.
Scott Douglas Jacobsen: Rev. Brandan Robertson is a queer Christian author, activist, and pastor known for his work at the intersection of faith, sexuality, and social justice. A former evangelical, he is a prominent advocate for inclusive theology. He has built a significant platform and has been referred to as a leading voice in progressive Christianity. He is the author of several books, including True Inclusion, The Gospel of Inclusion, and Queer and Christian: No Contradiction.
He holds a Master of Theological Studies from Iliff School of Theology in Denver, Colorado, and serves as a spiritual leader, public theologian, and advocate for LGBTQ+ inclusion in the Church. For those reading this internationally or from a United Nations perspective—such as the LGBTI Core Group—it may be useful to note that “LGBTQ+” is the most commonly used terminology in the United States, whereas “LGBTI” is more typical in UN documents.
Through preaching and pastoral work, Robertson seeks to reclaim Christianity as a force for radical love, justice, and liberation—especially for those historically marginalized or excluded by religious institutions. First question: I’ll begin with a spontaneous question, and then move on to the prepared list. How does your dual definition of queer identity and resistance reshape an understanding of Christian discipleship?
Rev. Brandan Robertson: Yes. The way I use the word queer in this book—and the way I’ve used it to describe my own identity for over a decade—is twofold. First, it refers to the umbrella term for the LGBTQ+ community. But second, I draw from thinkers like bell hooks, who describe queerness as a position of resistance to systems of domination and conformity.
We live in a society where we are conditioned to perform certain identities, to wear social masks, and to conform in order to be accepted. But I believe the gospel of Jesus—the core message of the New Testament—is inherently subversive. It challenges political, cultural, and religious pressures to conform and instead invites each person to live authentically, as their true, God-created self.
To follow Jesus, in my understanding, is to die to the false self and rise to new life—to the true self that reflects divine intention. Tragically, the institutional Church in many modern contexts has become the opposite of that vision. As a queer person raised in the Church, I was told I had to repress my sexuality, attempt to become straight, or remain celibate for life. But there is no solid biblical basis for such a mandate, and my book addresses this directly.
More than that, such teachings contradict the very essence of Jesus’s message—one of authenticity, honesty, and what he calls “abundant life.” So to be queer, in a theological sense, is not just an invitation for LGBTQ+ people, but for everyone—to reject imposed conformity, shed societal masks, and live into the fullness of who we are, just as God created us, in all our diversity.
Jacobsen: The Church has a long and varied history of scriptural interpretation. Are there any early or historical Christian movements that reflect the kind of inclusive and liberating vision you are advocating for today? So people do not take this as, “Oh, this is just a modern Christian reconciling their faith with LGBTQ+ concerns,” right?
Robertson: Yes. In one sense, it is absolutely true that this is a modern reconciliation—because the concepts of sexual orientation and gender identity, as we understand them today, did not emerge until the late 1800s, when modern psychology began to articulate these as distinct aspects of human identity. It was only then that we began to recognize that people have innate characteristics related to sexuality and gender.
So it is true that for the first fifteen hundred—or perhaps even more—years of Christianity, there was no direct conversation about homosexuality or gender identity in the way we speak about them today.
What did exist were conversations about exploitative sexual acts, such as pederasty or coercive relationships between men, which were common in the ancient world. There were also discussions on prostitution, adultery, and other elements of sexual ethics.
One key point I make in the book—and one that is supported by my PhD-level research in sexuality and theology—is that there has never been a singular, consistent Christian sexual ethic throughout Church history. That in itself is quite fascinating.
Jacobsen: So Christianity has not always maintained a consistent stance on premarital sex?
Robertson: Christianity has not always been anti–premarital sex. As I note in the book, there is not a single verse from Genesis to Revelation that clearly and explicitly condemns all sex outside of marriage. Likewise, when it comes to non-heteronormative sexualities and gender identities, Christianity simply did not address these topics until the modern era.
My historical theory—based on substantial evidence—is that in the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, particularly in the United States, there was a deliberate effort by conservative religious and political leaders to mobilize a new political movement. They needed cultural flashpoints to galvanize support, and they chose two highly emotive issues: homosexuality and abortion.
These became defining issues for what would eventually be known as the Religious Right and the modern Republican Party. This emphasis on homosexuality, then, was politically motivated—it did not emerge from serious biblical scholarship or theological inquiry.
In fact, the scholarly consensus is now quite clear: the Bible does not speak about homosexuality as we understand it today. The term itself did not exist. The biblical references often cited are addressing forms of sex that were either exploitative, transactional, or ritualistic—not loving, consensual, same-sex relationships.
So, the larger purpose of the book is to expose this distortion—to show that the emphasis on condemning LGBTQ+ people was a political strategy, not a biblically grounded or theologically sound position.
Jacobsen: As an olive branch, what does the Religious Right—or traditional Christianity—get right?
Robertson: That’s a great question. First, I want to distinguish between the Religious Right and conservative or traditional Christianity. They are not always the same thing.
I do believe that traditional Christianity gets something right in its emphasis on self-control and the ethical boundaries around sexuality—an emphasis rooted in the teachings of the Apostle Paul in the New Testament. Paul warns against excess, lust, and indulgence, and while those teachings have often been weaponized, they also offer valuable psychological and ethical insights.
The idea that sexual expression should involve mindfulness, responsibility, and respect is something I affirm in the book. What we saw during the sexual revolution, for instance, was in some cases a complete rejection of any boundaries. But I argue that a healthy sexual ethic—one grounded in self-awareness, integrity, and respect—can coexist with a queer-affirming theology.
We should be mindful and ask ourselves: Is what I am doing loving to myself? Loving to the person I am engaging with? Is it beneficial to us in a meaningful way? Or is this an expression of excessive lust, or an attempt to satisfy a psychological need that could be more appropriately addressed outside of sexual behavior?
In that sense, I will say traditional Christianity gets self-control right. The problem arises when that general biblical principle is extrapolated into an elaborate, rigid system of sexual rules that have no real biblical basis and are often objectively harmful. Many young people leave conservative churches as teenagers or college students precisely because they discover that what they were taught about sex and sexuality does not align with their lived experiences or the realities affirmed by science and psychology.
There is a better way—one where Christian sexual ethics are grounded in compassion, evidence-based insights, and space for discovery and growth. In that model, people are not shamed into conformity but are given grace to explore what a healthy, ethical sexuality looks like for them, free from the burden of unrealistic or harmful dogma.
Jacobsen: How does historical-critical exegesis challenge the so-called “clobber passages” of Genesis and Leviticus?
Robertson: Yes. I address all six of the commonly cited clobber passages—both Old and New Testament—in the book. This is perhaps the most frequent topic I discuss online as well, because most people simply do not understand how radically different sex functioned in the ancient world compared to today.
In antiquity, sex was not primarily about intimacy or mutual love; it was a social act and a marker of hierarchy and status. For instance, if you were a Roman citizen, you could have sex with almost anyone—slaves, women, boys—and it had nothing to do with your sexual orientation. The key factor was dominance and status. Roman men would often have sex with male slaves, not out of desire or love, but as a display of power. These acts were non-consensual, exploitative, and rooted in domination.
This framework is critical to understanding Leviticus. The same goes for the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, as well as references in Romans, 1 Corinthians, and 1 Timothy. What is being condemned in all of these passages is not loving, consensual same-sex relationships, but abusive, exploitative sexual behavior—typically between men—within a patriarchal framework.
In such a world, the person who was sexually passive—the one who was penetrated—was seen as being feminized, and thus degraded. This was considered deeply shameful in a society that equated power and masculinity with dominance. So, the moral objection was not against same-sex love—it was against being seen as effeminate or weak, which was abhorrent in patriarchal culture.
From a historical-critical standpoint, I believe the scholarship clearly shows that the Bible is condemning exploitative sex—not loving, equal partnerships. And I agree with those condemnations. I do not believe exploitative or abusive sex is ever moral or good.
But modern readers often lack that historical and cultural context. When they read, for example, “A man shall not lie with a man as with a woman—it is an abomination” in English, they interpret that as a blanket prohibition on gay sex. They do not realize that the original context reflects a vastly different world. That misunderstanding leads many well-meaning Christians to adopt a non-affirming view, simply because they have not had access to this broader, more nuanced understanding.
Jacobsen: How do the biblical figures Ruth and Naomi or David and Jonathan resonate with your own experience?
Robertson: David and Jonathan resonate with me more closely.
On the one hand, I used to resist the idea that we should read queerness into ancient texts. It is, admittedly, a historically complicated thing to do. But when I sat down and read the story of David and Jonathan in 1 Samuel, I realized that there is no way anyone can read the entirety of that story and not at least come away with some suspicion that there is something more intimate happening there.
David and Jonathan speak about each other in ways that are clearly homoerotic. David even says, after Jonathan’s death, “Your love for me was greater than that of women.” When Jonathan is killed, David weeps with a broken heart. At the beginning of their relationship, Jonathan strips off his clothes and armor and gives them to David—an act of deep vulnerability and intimacy—and tells him, essentially, “I want you to be protected because I love you.”
Yes, it is there in the text. What is even more fascinating is that this is not a new interpretation. If you go back and look at Jewish writings from thousands of years ago, there are rabbis who were already wrestling with this story—wondering what exactly is going on between David and Jonathan.
When it comes to Ruth and Naomi, I would not go so far as to say that they were lesbian lovers. The text does not support a definitive claim like that. But what I can say is that the purpose of the Book of Ruth—as even conservative scholars acknowledge—is to emphasize God’s radical inclusivity. Ruth is a Moabite, an outsider. She chooses to leave her own people after her husband dies, and stays with her mother-in-law, Naomi, saying: “Your people will be my people, and your God will be my God.” She makes a covenantal statement of loyalty, love, and belonging to Naomi.
I highlight this story in the book primarily because, over the past fifty years, many lesbian women have found deep meaning in this passage. They see themselves reflected in that relationship, in that devotion. Ultimately, what I want to say about these stories is this: it is historically impossible to prove that anyone in the Bible was straight or gay. Many of these stories are mythic in nature or did not happen in the way they appear in the text.
But the purpose of the Bible is not to be a forensic historical document. It is a sacred text that invites people—of every background—to find themselves in its pages. That’s what conservative churches often preach: “This book is for you.” But queer people have long been denied that same invitation.
There is now a growing lineage of people doing what I have done—reinterpreting Scripture through a queer lens. I wrote this book for a new generation, to say: you are allowed to be creative with the Bible. It is not a static, inerrant rulebook. It is a diverse library of stories filled with wisdom, metaphor, and mystery. You are invited to see yourself reflected in the faces of the saints and prophets of Scripture.
I see myself in David and Jonathan. I invite lesbians to see themselves in Ruth and Naomi. I invite transgender people to see themselves in Jacob, whose identity shifts over the course of his life. There are countless doorways into the text.
And I have seen firsthand how healing it is for queer people to be given permission to interpret the Bible from our perspective.
Jacobsen: Yes. That leads us into the next area. You mentioned queerness, and while you did not explicitly use the term, you were speaking about hermeneutics. So let me pose a neologism: queermeneutics—a fusion of “queer” and “hermeneutics.”
How might this kind of interpretive lens not only help people see themselves within their sacred tradition—especially in Christian scripture—but also enrich the broader field of theological discourse?
Say someone is in graduate school for theological studies. They are looking for tools to generate fresh wisdom in a contemporary context. How does this kind of hermeneutic add to the depth and vitality of Christian interpretive tradition, rather than detract from it?
Robertson: Here’s the thing. When I was an evangelical, I was taught there was only one valid hermeneutic—a literalist hermeneutic. That meant reading the Bible as historically and scientifically true in every detail, forever.
But that rigid, literalist approach is a relatively recent innovation. It has only really taken hold in the last few centuries. Even five hundred years after the Reformation, we can see how theological language and interpretive strategies have continued to evolve.
If you look at how the Church Fathers engaged with Scripture, they approached it allegorically. Early Jewish rabbinic traditions also embraced multilayered readings of sacred texts. There was no single hermeneutical lens that believers were required to use. Rather, Scripture was understood as a rich, dynamic text with many dimensions of meaning.
The queer hermeneutic I explore in my new book is not unprecedented—it is deeply rooted in liberation theology. We see how Black hermeneutics transformed Scripture during the Civil Rights Movement. Many Black leaders in the U.S.—Dr. King being one of them—read the Bible through the lens of the Black experience and persecution in America. For them, the Bible became a subversive document—a source of hope and liberation for the oppressed.
Queer hermeneutics follows in that tradition. It asks: What if this sacred text can speak to us? What if we, too, can find ourselves within it? And more radically, What if the very tools that have been weaponized against us can become tools of our liberation?
Take Paul’s words, for example: “Do not be conformed to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.” Conservatives interpret that as a call to moral separation from secular culture, even as a justification for marginalizing queer people. But what if Paul is actually inviting us to resist the world’s conformist systems—gender binaries, rigid social roles, and performative identities—and instead embrace the transformation into our authentic selves?
That is what a queer hermeneutic does. It does not assume that the Bible holds some static, inerrant authority on its own. It acknowledges that every reader brings their own experiences, identities, and questions to the text. The authority lies, in part, with the interpreter. And whether people admit it or not, everyone reads the Bible subjectively.
Queer hermeneutics simply makes that process explicit. I am reading the Bible as a queer person—with a clear, unapologetic agenda of liberation. Not just liberation for LGBTQ+ people, but liberation for everyone from the oppressive systems we’ve all inherited.
So I hope that this book will not only affirm queer readers but also invite heterosexual, cisgender readers to approach the Bible more playfully and creatively. That is how many of our ancestors in faith engaged with Scripture. It is only this modern inerrantist lens that has flattened the Bible into a lifeless, rigid text.
Jacobsen: Now, there is a movement—particularly visible in the United States—of people who claim to have “renounced” their homosexuality. It is sometimes labeled the “ex-gay” movement. While versions of it exist in Hispanic and other global contexts, it seems to be especially acute in American religious subcultures.
These individuals often become active expositors and advocates for a conservative, Religious Right agenda. But within that movement, there have also been high-profile cases where people later admitted they were essentially pretending. Would you speak to that?
Robertson: It was a strange kind of business model—essentially, a way of gaining acceptance and even making a career within Religious Right circles. Many of those individuals who were once publicly “ex-gay” have now renounced their renouncing. They’ve come to accept their sexual orientation after years of inner turmoil and public denial.
Jacobsen: What is your commentary on the ex-gay movement?
Robertson: I take a pretty clear—and honestly, probably the only black-and-white—stance in the book on this issue, because I believe it is dangerous. Over the last decade in ministry, I’ve spent a lot of time with individuals who identified as “ex-gay.” I went through conversion therapy myself. I tried to be “ex-gay.”
Every single person I have ever spoken to—no matter how conservative, no matter how deeply embedded in ex-gay rhetoric—has admitted, at some point, that they still experience same-sex attraction or gender-related conflict. Even those who’ve built platforms on their “deliverance” will quietly say, “I still struggle.” To me, that means you’re not ex-gay. You’re just suppressing or denying something intrinsic to your being.
That said, I support personal autonomy. If someone believes, based on their convictions, that the Bible prohibits homosexual behavior, and they choose celibacy or a mixed-orientation marriage, that is their decision. I may not recommend it, but I won’t deny them the right to make that choice or to share their journey.
What I am firmly against is the message that people have been “healed.” That is where real harm begins—especially for LGBTQ+ youth. When they hear these messages and enter conversion therapy, or pray relentlessly for change, and nothing happens—because sexual orientation is largely innate and unchangeable for most people—it leads to deep psychological distress, depression, and even suicidality. That is horrific. It is immoral. It is unethical.
So I state it clearly in the book: I do not believe “ex-gay” people exist in the way that term is used. If someone chooses celibacy or a heterosexual life while still experiencing same-sex attraction, they should say exactly that. Do not say, “God healed me.” Do not say, “Therapy healed me.” Because, based on both anecdotal experience and the research available, that is simply not how sexuality works for the vast majority of people.
Jacobsen: The only nuance is the fluidity of sexuality, which you touched on briefly.
Robertson: That is the one caveat. Sexuality is fluid for some people. So yes, someone might have once lived what we call a “gay lifestyle” and later find themselves in a heterosexual relationship. But from a psychological perspective, that is not evidence of healing or change. It is simply an expression of a broader spectrum of attraction—something more common for bisexual people.
We must acknowledge that without misrepresenting it. So yes, if someone identifies somewhere along the bisexual spectrum, their relational patterns may shift. But that is not a “cure.” That is human fluidity.
God does not want to “heal” you from your sexual orientation or gender identity. Psychology cannot “heal” you either—because I firmly believe these are innate identities, created by God. Any attempt to change them is, in my view, an affront to the Creator who made us as we are.
Jacobsen: I have interviewed one individual who has gone through conversion therapy—an author who underwent it. Former Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau spearheaded legislation to ban conversion therapy in Canada in 2022. It is a discredited pseudoscientific practice that seeks to change someone’s sexual orientation or gender identity. The practice has been banned in several countries: Malta (2016), Germany (2020), France (2022), Canada (2022), New Zealand (2022), Iceland (2023), Spain (2023), Mexico (2024), Greece (2024), and Belgium (2024). As of 2025, other nations are expected to follow suit. So—policy, legislation, legality, and psychological science all align with your critique and analysis.
Shifting gears—what do you mean by “new tables of grace” in the context of church reform and community building? As a non-Christian who is sometimes invited into Christian spaces, I recognize this is not my faith tradition to reform. But when issues affect broader culture—such as the ex-gay movement—they become fair ground for critique. Still, internally, this is a Christian matter. So, within that context, how do you define “new tables of grace,” and what is your vision for church reform and queer-led community building?
Robertson: Yes, thank you. This really highlights a division in the broader queer Christian movement in the United States right now. There is a sizable portion of the movement that is focused on reforming traditional Christian denominations—working to make them fully affirming, inclusive, and welcoming of LGBTQ+ people. I was part of that effort for a long time, and I continue to bless and respect that work.
But after a decade of doing this work, both through my experience and what I’ve seen in the lives of others, I came to a realization: queer people are not obligated to squeeze ourselves into existing structures that were never built with us in mind. We have the freedom to innovate—to create new expressions of faith that are authentic to queer experience and queer culture.
We already see this kind of innovation happening across many traditions. For example, there are cultural and ethnic expressions of Christianity—Black churches, Latinx churches, Korean churches—each of which reflects the lived experience of its community. There are also countless denominational variations. What I am advocating is not the creation of “gay churches,” per se—though they do exist, and I love and respect them deeply.
Jacobsen: The reviews do tend to say they’re fabulous.
Robertson: [Laughing] Truly! They are. And that joy and celebration are part of the spiritual power of those spaces.
But what I’m saying is this: many queer people—and many deconstructed people more broadly—are tired of fighting for a seat at a table that was not built for us. We are not interested in begging to be accepted anymore. We’re not here to argue theology every day just to prove our worth. We are ready to build new tables—what I call “new tables of grace”—where we decide the terms, where radical welcome is foundational, not aspirational.
These tables are not just for queer folks. They’re for anyone who has been cast out, burned out, or disillusioned by institutional religion. The vision is expansive: spiritual communities that are inclusive, justice-centered, rooted in love, and unafraid of creativity. They are sacred spaces where we gather not to debate our worth, but to celebrate it.
That is not what our faith is about. So, in the book, my invitation is this: yes, you can go to progressive Christian communities today. The majority of mainline denominations in the United States now affirm LGBTQ+ people. There are churches and spaces—virtually in every city—where queer people can walk in and be fully seen, embraced, and invited to show up in their fullness. These communities are often experimental. They are actively exploring what Christian spirituality might look like in new, vibrant, inclusive ways.
But I also say this: maybe the institution of the Church is not where you will flourish. And that is okay. You do not need to belong to the institutional Church in order to follow Jesus or live a meaningful spiritual life.
I want queer people to know they have permission to step outside of the Church and still live rich spiritual lives. There are new forms of spiritual community taking shape all around us—in culture, in art, in chosen families. For me, literally dancing in a queer bar on a Saturday night can be a transcendent spiritual experience—if I bring that lens to it. In fact, it can be as sacred as any evangelical worship service I attended in my past.
What I am trying to emphasize is this: let’s stop begging for a seat at a table that was never built for us. Let’s build our own table—the one God has already prepared for us. Because the Church does not get to decide who is welcome at God’s table. That table belongs to God, and God alone. And God has already invited all of us.
Jacobsen: We’ll be kicking off in three minutes. Last question—this is probably one you’ve been asked many times. What are your favorite Bible passages? Also, which version do you prefer?
Robertson: I would say the New Revised Standard Version, Updated Edition (NRSVue), which came out recently, is currently the most accurate and inclusive English translation. I love it. It also removes language that was inaccurately translated as referring to homosexuality in older versions.
My favorite passage is the story of the Ethiopian eunuch in the Book of Acts. One of the first people baptized into the Christian Church was a first-century sexual and gender minority—an Ethiopian eunuch, a dark-skinned person from a different culture. That was a profound realization for me.
Though it is a brief passage, the story is incredibly powerful. The author of Acts clearly intended to demonstrate that God’s love—through the Jesus movement—was always meant to transcend boundaries. It was meant to dismantle divisions between clean and unclean, insider and outsider. According to the Hebrew Bible, eunuchs were not allowed in the temple. And yet, the Ethiopian eunuch becomes the first person baptized into the Christian Church.
He has traditionally been referred to as Simeon. I like to think of Simeon—the Ethiopian eunuch—as the first queer saint. He represents the radical inclusivity of God’s kingdom. His identity encompasses differences in race, language, culture, gender, and sexuality. It is a stunning and profoundly beautiful moment in Scripture. And, unsurprisingly, I never heard it preached on in any conservative church I attended growing up.
Jacobsen: Excellent. Brandan, thank you so much for your time today. I appreciate it. It was a real pleasure to meet you—and thank you for sharing your insights.
Robertson: Thank you so much. I appreciate the conversation.
Jacobsen: Wishing you a wonderful day down there in your American whatever-you-want-to-call-it—I’ll be here in my soul-fresh paradise show.
Robertson: [Laughing] I love it. Enjoy it up there.
Jacobsen: Cheers. Bye.
Robertson: See you!
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