It looked like segregation, except it was the remix in which black people had decidedly more power over the space. I would later find out that there were plenty of black tourists in the same line I was in, but the optics were striking all the same.

Once I stepped inside the sprawling space, I marveled at its beauty. But the images that stuck with me most were of the people sitting inside. I saw a woman who I knew was married to another woman. Directly behind me was a gay man I knew. I ended up sitting between two gay men. All of them were regular churchgoers, yet none of them appeared torn about being there.

Of course, there have always been gays, lesbians, bisexuals and trans people inside churches. Although their talent might be on display in, say, the choir, their sexuality was far less pronounced. As in, don’t ask, don’t tell, just sing your li’l gay self off for God.

And indeed, I did clock plenty of gays in the First Corinthian choir. But it felt different from what I was accustomed to. I knew what it was like to be around Christians who knew of my sexuality but who merely tolerated me. It reminds me of my mother, because while we love each other dearly, we have, uh, differences over what Jesus makes of that side of myself.

In church that day, everyone seemed to be welcomed and behaved as such. In the front row, which was reserved for pastors of the church, I saw a sea of women. Women were typically marginalized out of leadership roles in the church. In Catholicism, no such roles even existed. But on that day in that church, there were more female pastors than male pastors.

During the service, the pastor called on visitors to stand; I did so reluctantly. Toward the end, he called on those who wanted to join the church to approach the altar. I stayed in my seat. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, saints.