I Was Expelled From My Church. I Was Found Guilty, but I Do Not Feel Sorry

In July of 2024, I underwent an official heresy trial initiated by the Church of the Nazarene, the denomination in which I was ordained as a minister more than 30 years ago. I was charged with teaching against church doctrine and misconduct for calling the church to become LGBTQ+ inclusive.
The trial verdict: guilty. According to the discipline committee’s trial report, my crimes include having “sown deep seeds of confusion and division” and “leading people away from sound doctrine.” According to the ominously written decision, “The seriousness of offenses cannot be overstated. Only eternity will show how many souls have been led astray through his false teaching.”
I was ordered to surrender my ministerial credentials, and my church membership was taken. In technical terms, I was both defrocked and excommunicated.
Losing my religious identity is a big deal to me. Church has been the center of my life for as long as I have memories. I faithfully went to Sunday School and church camps as a child. I attended a Christian college, graduated from seminary, and taught religion for 20 years in the denomination’s universities. Few people have been more invested in the Church of the Nazarene.
I changed my mind about queer issues over thirty years ago. I became queer-affirming after reading scripture and thinking through the central arguments.
I decided to stay in the denomination. I wanted to help queer kids and bring change from within. In the past thirty or so years, I’ve felt a little guilty that I could not be more open about LGBTQ+ matters. But the payoff was helping my university students come to terms with sexuality issues and teaching them about a loving God.
In 2021, a conservative group brought accusations that I was queer affirming. They had plenty of evidence because, over the past ten years or so, I had become public about my views. I was writing books and articles advocating for full queer inclusion, and I talked often about inclusion on podcasts.
The most blatant advocacy for queer people came in a massive book I edited with my daughter Alexa that we called Why the Church of the Nazarene Should be Fully LGBTQ+ Affirming. The book included more than ninety essays from queer voices, allies, and scholars advocating for queer inclusion. To critics, the book represented heresy of the highest order. To queer people and their allies, it represented tangible hope that love might prevail in a church long known for following rules.
In the summer of 2023, I was given the charges that led to my trial in the summer of 2024. The first act of the disciplinary committee in my case was to say I could not talk to anyone about the trial.
I wanted transparency. So I told them I would not comply. I then published my defense as a book called My Defense a month before the trial. I also shared email correspondence and took my case and the situation to social media. I did this, in part, because my conversations with queer people had convinced me that opening the process to a public spotlight was most likely to bring positive change. Hiding in the closet isn’t healthy.
The trial itself was tense, and I’m grateful to my wife for accompanying me. The disciplinary committee was adamant that I and my witnesses could not question the theological basis for my charges.
This was ironic, of course, because I was being charged with teaching against doctrine, which is all about theology. When I paraded fellow theologians to testify, it was clear committee members were theology babes compared to me and these leading scholars.
But I was found guilty. My ordination was taken, and my membership was removed. In an important sense, I failed.
While I’m heartbroken over the verdict, I’m not sorry about all I did to precipitate it. I’m a straight, cis-gendered, white guy who enjoys a lot of privilege. I consider it a point of pride to have argued for the full inclusion of LGBTQ+ people in the Church of the Nazarene. If loving and advocating for queer people is a crime, then I stand guilty.
My ousting will not surprise most queer people. They’re accustomed to being judged, condemned, and kicked out. In fact, many people wondered why I would remain in a denomination known for non-affirmation. Others wondered why I chose to endure the pain inherent in a trial process. It would have been easier for me to walk away silently.
In an important sense, I was involuntarily pushed out. But in another sense, I voluntarily chose a path I suspected would take me out. I want to see the church I love and for which I have sacrificed to affirm queer people fully.
I have my reasons for wanting change. First, I try to follow Jesus, and the love he lived and taught. To stay faithful to Jesus, I think traditional Christians must change their views on sexuality. I stayed, in part, to argue that loving queer people means fully including them in the life and leadership of the church.
Second, I endured the trial process because I hoped to encourage queer people and their allies. My status as a leading theologian provided a platform for me to advocate for full queer inclusion. I’m happy to report that thousands of queer people and allies sent notes of gratitude. Many say my stand gives hope that others will come alongside them.
I’ve been advocating for loving change for some time. But I did not expect the range of emotions I felt as the process unfolded.
Leading up to the trial, I experienced periods of anxiety. This involved shortness of breath, sleepless nights, tension, and mood swings. I gained weight. I worried about what people would think of me, and then I worried about worrying about what people would think of me. The process was not good for my health.
Now that I’ve been excommunicated, I’m feeling a new set of emotions.
On the one hand, I feel free. I don’t have to cross my fingers when reciting doctrines that make no sense. I don’t feel pressure to fall in line with incompetent religious leaders. I’m not worried about using precise language to appease denominational authorities.
On the other hand, I’ve lost a major form of my identity. I’m no longer part of a community that greatly shaped my sense of self. Rather than belonging to a team, I’m now a religious-free agent. This loss of identity is a bigger deal than I expected it would be.
What I feel most strongly is self-respect. I’m proud to have stood for love. I’m proud, in part, because I’m convinced Jesus also loves queer people. I think God celebrates queer identities, orientations, and healthy sexual behavior. So should we. I’m also proud to stand with loving Nazarenes and other religious people in queer affirmation.
The consensus in the human sciences—psychology, sociology, medicine—says queer people can live healthy lives. My friendships with queer people confirm this consensus. Many queer relationships promote flourishing. I’m happy to be on the side of health and wholeness rather than secrecy and shame.
So, despite being excommunicated and defrocked, I’m proud to have stood for love. That’s what matters most. I don’t know if I’ll affiliate with another religious group. Time will tell. Whatever happens, I’m not sorry for doing what love does.
Thomas Jay Oord, Ph.D. is a theologian and scholar of multidisciplinary studies. Oord directs doctoral programs in Open and Relational Theology at Northwind Theological Seminary.
All views expressed are the authors’ own.
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