Fifteen years ago, 2009, I came out to my evangelical Baptist church in Whitehorse, Yukon, over Easter week. My last official duties as the Deacon of Worship were to lead the Maundy Thursday service—but I didn’t know they were my “last.” I wrote a poem called “Nobody called it the Last Supper” and read it during the service. I can’t find the poem right now, but the gist of it was that no one knows when the Last of anything will happen. The consequences of our actions, our revelations, may disrupt the future of Suppers with those we love. Mine did. THEN it becomes the “last” in retrospect.

I wanted to commemorate this anniversary (though it moves around according to the moon) by creating a painting of the last supper, but with the chaos that is implied in the Da Vinci painting, and the chaos that happened when I came out to each family at my church individually over dinner during Holy Week back in 2009.

Nothing is the same after that dinner for Jesus— Judas runs off to betray him; Jesus is arrested, tried, convicted, sentenced, murdered.

Nothing was the same for me either. There was a lot of tears. People were sad, angry, and felt betrayed. Forgive me, but I placed myself as Jesus in this painting—this is “Coming Out at the Last Supper.” Not to say I am a savior. But my Holy Week of 2009 followed his week a little too closely. I understand a small part of his journey during that week. But I also think many LGBTQ folks might resonate with this as many of us experience the chaos of coming out to those you love. And especially if you are my age–the chances of you having had a difficult, explosive coming out are very high. It is still not completely safe for many queer and trans folks to come out to their families today–no matter their age.

The Bible’s account of this night has Jesus desperately trying to tell them what was about to happen, but disciples didn’t quite get the metaphor— and then arrest, etc, etc. But Jesus had been trying for some time to come out to his friends and disciples, not as queer, but as the Son of God. Some of them “got it”— others only got it after he came back from the dead.

There is a family on the right of the painting that pulls me in, and I suppose this could go both ways: Perhaps the mom is using “me” as an example of what her kid better not become, and the queer kid is covering their ears for safety. Though, it could be that the mom is trying to help her kid come out… but that is NOT what happened in 2009 and not what I was thinking as I painted it. (But, I will note that it is what happens today—when I hear from former church members who have left that church– they tell me that my coming out, as raucous as it was, helped prepare them for their own child’s coming out and they DO point to me as a way of understanding their own child’s moment. And the moment is not chaos— it is full of love. And I am so thankful for that.)

Wine is spilled. People argue with you. Some mock you and make sure that they are louder than you—so their message of non-acceptance is heard first. Some push you away, or push away the image of you. Some walk away with their wine to think about it. Some clutch each other because they feel betrayed and hurt. Some are just shocked. Okay, 2009-shocked. Maybe people aren’t shocked as much in 2024. But an evangelical church family might be just as shocked as they always have been. Building up a prejudice or a fear or hate can make coming out destructive for them— they’ve built a wall and connected it to their faith, to God, and so coming out isn’t just a word— it is a demolition. Their faith feels like a structure that is about to come down. So, shocked may still be the right word. Especially if some American politicians and pastors help reinforce that faulty structure, strengthen that wall.

Keep the LGBTQ people you know (and those you don’t) in your prayers as they have suppers every day, with their families, with their church families, as they weigh their options, thinking maybe this supper is the one they’ll come out.

Happy Maundy Thursday, Happy Easter, my friends. I love you.

I didn’t know how this painting would come out last night— it had me worried. But I love it now.

I didn’t know how coming out would go— it had me worried. But I am so glad I did it now.

Fifteen years has proved it was the best decision I could have made. I now have a wonderful welcoming and affirming Baptist church that I am active in, with people who love me for who I am, and all that I am. I am so glad I kept my faith and found other churches.*

“Coming Out at the Last Supper,” 24 x 36, acrylic on canvas, available.

* The great church that took me in when I didn’t know where to go: Whitehorse United Church with Bev Brazier as pastor. The church I am in now, First Baptist Church of Dayton ,with Kent Berghuis and Jason Alspaugh and Dave Coggins as pastors, sustains me.