In a church and a world that would see the queer community scattered and isolated, More Light Presbyterians gathered their network for a retreat focused on rest and community. What I witnessed at the More Light Presbyterians retreat at Ferncliff was this: when queer people are given space to rest together, to tell the truth about their lives, and to be fully known, something holy happens. Community itself becomes a balm of healing, rest becomes an act of resistance, and strength is renewed for the work that remains.
We arrived at Ferncliff Camp and Conference Center with one shared commitment: rest and community. Nothing more. No workshops to attend, no plenaries to sit through, no productivity to prove our worth. Instead, we sat in rocking chairs on porches, lingered over meals, and told our stories — stories that, for some, are not safe to tell in the places they call home. In that space, surrounded by chosen family, those stories came out in tears and laughter, without explanation or defense. We did not have to justify ourselves. We simply had to show up.
Even nature seemed to echo our experience. A local flock of goslings moved across a nearby creek under the watchful eye of an unlikely guardian — a duck. Wherever the geese went, the duck followed. I found myself returning to that image again and again. Maybe the duck had lost its own flock. Maybe it had simply chosen something new. Whatever the reason, the truth was clear: belonging is not always about sameness. Sometimes it is about who stays and who cherishes our differences.
Love is more stubborn than polity.
That same truth surfaced in worship. Tony Larson (he/him), co-moderator of the 226th General Assembly, named plainly what many of us carry: the harm done by a denomination that has fractured community, denied vocations, and delayed justice for far too long. But he also pointed to moments of hope — ordinations made possible by affirming congregations, and a General Assembly “straining for justice” in debates like POL-01. His words lingered: love is more stubborn than polity.
As I listened, I looked around and saw heads nodding, eyes welling with tears. I realized something subtle but profound: my story was not remarkable here. In many Christian spaces, my experiences are met with shock or discomfort. Here, they were understood before I spoke. People did not flinch at the hard parts or avoid the painful details. They leaned in. In that recognition, I was able to relax and open myself to whatever God had planned for the weekend.
The structure of the retreat made room for the Spirit to lead. Claudia Aguilar Rubalcava (she/her), More Light Presbyterians’ director of engagement, shaped a schedule spacious enough for people to find what they needed. Some fished quietly by the water. Others gathered around the fireplace or wandered off to pet the donkeys. Groups formed and reformed — packing hygiene kits at the Church World Service warehouse, racing down slides, or simply sitting in companionable silence. There was no single way to participate, only an invitation to be present. And in that freedom, community took root.
It also became clear how necessary this space was. Again and again, conversations returned to the same reality: many queer Presbyterians are still navigating rejection, delay and erasure. Some are still being denied ordination because of who they are. Others serve in churches that refuse to recognize their families or their gifts. For those of us who have found affirming communities, it is easy to forget how scarce that support still is. Hearing these stories was painful — but it was also illuminating. The work of More Light Presbyterians is not finished. There is still more light needed in our churches.
There is still more light needed in our churches.
And yet, alongside that truth, there was celebration. Those who have been in this movement for decades told stories that felt nothing short of heroic — of showing up to General Assembly year after year, often dismissed or ignored, using their own time and resources just to make queer presence undeniable. They endured defeat after defeat, trusting that God would work through their witness. Because of them, many of us now stand in spaces that would not have been possible otherwise. Their persistence invites a question: what are we called to bear witness to today so that future generations do not know the traumas we have endured?
By the time we reached closing worship, the theme of rest had deepened. Reflecting on the seventh day of creation, we were reminded that God’s work did not culminate in productivity, but in rest. Rest was not an afterthought — it was part of the work of creating. God rested, knowing there was still more to create. That reframed everything. If even God rests in the middle of ongoing work, then rest is not avoidance. It is preparation. It is, in its own way, justice.
Because the forces that seek to diminish queer lives rely on exhaustion. They count on our burnout. So we rest — not as escape, but as resistance. We rest like God. We nap like Jesus. We dance like Miriam. We play like children. We make room for joy and restoration so that what we are building together has a chance to endure.
If you were not at Ferncliff this year, you are still part of this story. We know the weight you carry. We know how isolating it can feel. And we want you to know: you are not alone. Some people will see you fully and call you beloved. We have scars that match yours, and we have found relief in sharing our stories.
If you feel like a lone duck in your pond, know this — there is a flock that will choose you, too.
Editorial note: The author of this article is a board member of More Light Presbyterians. You can learn more about More Light Presbyterians at mlp.org. To get connected to the More Light network, send a message to [email protected].
