From Confession To Commitment

by P.K. Sund

As the new millennium began, I was in seminary, studying theology with the goal of becoming a pastor. Like many ministry students, we moved from one doctrinal issue to the next—examining Scripture, forming positions, applying theology.

At my seminary, there was strong support for women in pastoral leadership. Coming from Sweden, that didn’t seem strange to me. But as I studied the Bible, I found myself hitting a wall: if I accepted the legitimacy of women pastors, the same interpretive principles seemed to point toward the affirmation of same-sex marriage. And that was a line that seemed unimaginable to cross.

So I didn’t.

For years, I dismissed any argument that led in that direction, using a theological shortcut: “If you accept gay marriage, everything unravels.”

I used that logic to shut down real questions—my own and others’. I believed I was loving everyone God put in my path, including LGBTQ people. But in reality, my “love” came with conditions. It didn’t allow for full inclusion. It didn’t affirm their relationships or their callings.

We even saw ourselves as progressive—baptizing gay people, for instance, with the justification that baptism was the first act of obedience, and that God would eventually “work on them.” I remember defending our policies to other pastors: “Leadership requires a higher standard.” That “standard,” of course, quietly excluded anyone in a same-sex relationship—labeling them as morally unqualified without even needing to name it.

There’s one moment I can’t shake. A lesbian couple came to a large gathering at our house. As they were leaving, one of them lingered in the kitchen and said quietly, “Pray for my wife—she really needs Jesus.” I was struck by her sincerity. And yet, I knew so many of us in that kitchen were silently thinking, So do you.

That moment haunts me. 

Since then, God has done a deep, humbling work in my life. He’s revealed more of himself—his love, his mercy, his welcome. This past year we reached a point where my wife and I decided to dive deeper into the topic. Business and life leaned in harder than ever, and it ended up one of the toughest years of my life—and most transformative.

I’ve felt exhausted, ashamed, even heartbroken. I’ve asked myself: How did I not see this? How many people could we have reached with a fuller gospel? How much hurt did we cause by our silence—or our theology?

Not out of malice. But out of ignorance. Out of fear. Out of inherited assumptions I had never truly interrogated.

Eventually, I realized: I had never paused to honestly and open-heartedly ask what the Bible truly teaches about LGBTQ people—not just to defend a pre-set position, but to seek truth.

Using the same interpretive tools we used in seminary—context, history, language, purpose—I started to study with fresh eyes.

That journey took me to a place I never thought I’d go.

It was disorienting at first, even frightening. But over the span of several months, it led to a deeper clarity, a broader vision of God’s love, and a more expansive understanding of Scripture.

What I found wasn’t compromise. It was Christ. A Jesus who includes the excluded, restores the rejected, and challenges systems that prioritize purity over people. A gospel that truly is good news—for everyone.

In a time when division is everywhere, I believe now more than ever that we must speak up. My wife and I see each LGBTQ person as a bearer of God’s image—created to shine, to lead, to love, to reflect Christ. And yet for so long, the Church didn’t just overlook them—we actively silenced and sidelined them.

I thought I was being gracious. I thought I was defending truth while loving people well. But now I see: we failed to honor the image of God in everyone. We failed the mission of Jesus. We failed the LGBTQ community.

I think often about what it must feel like to be welcomed into a church, already carrying the weight of societal rejection, only to realize that even there—even in God’s house—you’re still considered “less than.”

So I need to say this clearly: I’m sorry.

To LGBTQ individuals, to your families, to your allies—to anyone harmed by the theology I once held or the systems I upheld—I offer a deep and personal apology. I can’t speak for every Christian leader, but I must take responsibility for my part. I also grieve for the women called by God to lead, who were dismissed or disempowered by the same narrow frameworks. We missed the movement of God among us. We held back the Church by limiting the voices God had clearly chosen.

I can’t rewrite my past. But I can commit to my future.

I will speak up for my LGBTQ friends.

I will affirm the calling of women to lead.

I will follow Jesus—who tears down walls and invites everyone to the table.

And I will root it all not in culture, but in the gospel. In the Bible. In the character of a God who redeems, restores, and includes.

I trust that grace covers my failures. But forgiveness doesn’t erase responsibility. I want to make right what I once made wrong. And I pray that those affected by my past words or silence might hear the sincerity of my regret and my commitment to change.

P.K.