My painting, “Coming Out at the Last Supper,” to be part of exhibition at L’Antiquaille in Lyon, France

My painting, “”Coming Out at the Last Supper,” will be part of an exhibition happening in July at L’Antiquaille, a museum of Christianity in Lyon, France, as part of a larger exhibition put on by the Archdiocese of Lyon on depictions of the Last Supper in Art. My painting is in the final section of the exhibition labeled “Blasphemy? Maybe not.” This part of the exhibition asks viewers to think about how queer artists are exploring aspects of inclusion in the ministry of Christ.

I am SO honored to be part of this exhibition. My painting was found online by the person curating the exhibition and I was asked in 2025 if I wanted to be a part of it.

Many artists have depicted the Last Supper. It’s a popular tableau. It’s also been a part of marketing–since it is so famous. Anytime you have everyone on one side of a table, you have the chance of making the tableau. Try it at home!

It’s easy to do, even accidentally. In the 2024 Summer Olympics in Paris, there was a controversial staging of a part of the Opening Ceremonies, where drag performers, enjoying a Dionysian feast on stage, were criticized for (possibly) forming/ staging the famous tableau from Da Vinci’s Last Supper. This time, perhaps because it was queer people performing, it was seen as mocking Christianity. The performers said they were trying to talk about the wide inclusion celebrated in France and Paris specifically, that Paris invites everyone to enjoy the feast. So there was a question over how you can depict the Last Supper. I don’t know that there’s a direct correlation to this exhibition. But it is food for thought.

I painted “Coming Out at the Last Supper” in early 2024 as part of a Lenten and Eastertide group of paintings depicting Christian events in the life of Christ before and after Easter through a queer lens. Queer being a WIDE lens meaning rethinking all sorts of things—

I painted Jesus hugging Mary when SO many people believe Christ wouldn’t allow her to hug him.

I painted Jesus appearing to the disciples to show them his hand but I have the light coming through the hole in his hand.

I painted the Road to Emmaus in the style of Mary Engelbright.

I had fun.

Coming Out at the Last Supper

I had heard so many stories of queer people who come out to their families at dinners, often BIG dinners, like Easter dinner, Christmas, Thanksgiving dinners. It makes sense to do that, in some ways. All of your family is together in one place–something rare as you get older. You have something you want to share with them that is very personal and important. It is a beautiful thing you want to share. No one “comes out” to shock their families and friends–and they certainly don’t WANT negative reactions. They come out to share who they are. To reveal, to become closer.

We share all sorts of personal announcements at dinners, don’t we? “We’re having a baby!” or “We’re getting married!” or “I just had something published in the New York Times!” We may have grown up with lots of great moments at the dinner table telling our parents how school is going, what kind of discoveries we made today around the neighborhood. So it’s natural to share at the dinner table.

Jesus also shared at the dinner table. The Last Supper was full of revelation for him—“someone will betray me” and oh, Judas, it’s you. Earlier he came out as the Son of God. He teaches them here how to make dinner into a way to honor their relationship with him.

Judas abruptly leaves Jesus’ last supper, called out by Jesus as a betrayer, and then Jesus is arrested later.

Some people come out to their families and are deeply supported by them. However, this is a recent development over the last thirty years.

Many queer people who came out at the dinner table in earlier decades were truly shocked to find out how upset their families were. Often it was a “Last Supper” for them too.

I thought there was some interesting parallels to Jesus coming out as the Son of God— a blasphemy that he was crucified for– and queer people coming out as queer. Both are about identity. Who are you? Can those who are closest to you understand who you really are?

Details of the exhibition are still forthcoming so I will tell you more when I know!

Anyway, I’m excited about the exhibition. If you are in France in July or afterwards (I’m not sure how long the exhibition will be up), and you get to see this exhibition, would you snap a picture of yourself with the painting? I would love that.

My Burden Gladly Bearing

How do we protect those we love from those who question their very worth, their humanity, their right to exist? How do we protect ourselves from that constant batt-le?

Bears are pretty powerful all by themselves, but sometimes armor is called for. Bears have claws and poundage and teeth and jaws. But these are bears I found inside music–and they work differently. In the Bible, Paul talks about putting on the armor of God–and describes breastplates of righteousness, helmets of salvation, sword of the spirit, etc. Far be it from me to edit SAINT Paul– known for his perfect wisdom about what to do with women in the church, about singleness, about sexuality– but I’m going to anyway.

The bears I had didn’t defend me by attacking others; they defended me by empowering me and equipping me with better armor, better defensive structures.

They gave me a Helmet of Empathy– a way to see others struggling to see me, a way of understanding where they were coming from so that I could see them as worthy of love too; frankly, a helmet of Salvation further divides us into “saved” and “unsaved,” worthy and unworthy. Empathy makes us all worthy of being saved, protected, understood.

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The Ascension of Jesus, Attended by Sparrows

I have to think birds came to Jesus as he ascended into the heavens. In my mind, they would have come to say goodbye, or hello, or just to be playful with the only person they’d ever seen fly. We are told many times in the Bible that Jesus cares about the fates of birds, specifically sparrows, common in Jesus’ area and time, as plentiful and as associated with humans and human habitats as they are today. People thought they were annoying. Some still do.

When I was a child I had a neighbor who killed sparrows on purpose.

He was an older gentleman with the largest house on the block. LD was his name. He had erected a purple martin house at the back of his fenced property, which adjoined the back of our unfenced property (we were living in the church parsonage while my dad was pastor at Braymer Baptist Church). When one puts up a purple martin house, I was told, you want purple martins to come and nest there–not sparrows, or any other bird. It seems to me in retrospect that it’s arrogant to think you open up free apartments and reject whatever birds they attract. He didn’t want those bird houses filled with “nasty” sparrows, so he installed cages at the bottom of the pole of the purple martin house, cages where he placed enticing food to attract sparrows.

So for the birds he wanted, he created homes; for the birds he didn’t, he created cages.

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A Healing Breakfast on the Beach: Jesus and the Restoration of Peter

Peter learns to forgive himself.

“A Healing Breakfast on the Beach (After Easter Series),” Jerome Stueart, (11 x 15) watercolor and mixed media on paper. 4-22-2025.

A good meal can heal us.

This is a depiction of a beautiful story (John 21) of Jesus, after he comes back from the dead, visiting his friends. It’s not unlike stories from friends I’ve talked to who have had someone pass recently. Stories of healing conversations with loved ones who have died. These stories have a similar theme, though maybe they didn’t see their friend quite so “in the flesh,” but the idea of a healing conversation still rings true and is common. We need to have old wounds resolved and healed after someone dies. Part of grieving is healing wounds that we might be keeping alive inside ourselves.

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Coming Out at the Last Supper

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.

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