Sabrina Hodak recalls the pangs of isolation when she tried to reconnect with her Jewish roots.

Islam filled an empty space in Mia Miller’s heart, but the joy was tempered by nerves over a “second coming out.”

When Sid High came to grips with who he was, his mind wandered to dark corners: “Is God going to be OK with this?”

The three, who navigated tough teenage paths but never faltered in their faiths, say they are spreading a powerful message to young people in 2024: You can embrace religion – and your queer identity.

Hodak, Miller and High are ambassadors for Beloved Arise, a group dedicated to empowering LGBTQ+ youths from multiple faiths, which will celebrate Queer Youth of Faith Day on Sunday, the last day of Pride Month.

Beloved Arise aims to open spiritual doors and offer support for LGBTQ+ young people, flipping a narrative that being queer and religious are incompatible, says Jun Love Young,  the group’s founder.

The message is "not just important but essential for LGBTQIA+ young people in 2024," Young told USA TODAY. "For too long, the narrative has been dominated by the false dichotomy that one must choose between their faith and their identity. This has led to deep-seated feelings of shame, rejection and alienation among queer youth who find solace and strength in their spiritual beliefs."

1 in 5 LGBTQ+ youths say spiritual ties are important

One in 5 LGBTQ+ youths said their religion or spirituality is important or very important to them, according to a 2022 survey by the Trevor Project, which provides crisis and suicide prevention services to LGBTQ+ people under 25.

The youths who said their religion or spirituality was important also reported significantly lower rates (55%) of depression, the survey showed.

"In today's world, where mental health challenges are rampant among young people, affirming that one can be both queer and deeply spiritual is a powerful message of hope and inclusion," Young said.

But the dynamic between religion and queerness can be complicated, even as more LGBTQ+ groups partner with faith leaders and spiritual institutions move toward acceptance. 

LGBTQ+ Catholics, for example, saw rays of hope when Pope Francis said at the start of his papacy in 2013: “If a person is gay and seeks God and has good will, who am I to judge?” In 2023, the pope allowed priests to bless members of same-sex couples.

Yet the Vatican reaffirmed its opposition to gender-affirming surgeries in April. And even Francis has stumbled, using a derogatory term for gay men twice in recent weeks, according to Italian media. 

Young sees a "mixed landscape" in spiritual spaces in 2024. There are an increasing number of churches, synagogues, mosques and beyond that have embraced LGBTQ+ people, but "there are still many places where traditional, exclusionary views persist."

Beloved Arise believes that by sharing the stories and experiences of young people, inclusion will come, Young says. "We can create a world where every young person feels valued and cherished, both in their faith and their identity."

'Am I going to hell for this?'

High, 20, grew up in a devoted Methodist household in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He volunteered at vacation Bible school; he even did sign language for worship songs during a virtual service.   

The youth had come out as queer in his early teens and transgender at 17 and helped organize his city’s first Pride event.

One day at the family’s Methodist church, a member pulled him aside and handed him a list of Bible verses on “why being queer was wrong.”

High knew he “felt nothing but love from God” but was shaken to the core. “Anyone who is in the queer community has those thoughts of oh my gosh, what is going to happen.”

When his mother picked him up, he climbed into the car sobbing and asked: ”Am I going to hell for this?”

From his mother, who always stood by him, came three reassuring words that wrapped around him like a blanket: “God loves everyone.”

The family left the church, but the moment propelled High to not only reconcile his spirituality with his gender identity but helped his faith deepen through the years. And he has found comfort and inspiration in the Bible, once wielded like a weapon at the youth.

He now offers advice to other young, queer Christians, often giving them one of his favorite Bible verses, 1 John 4:7. “I want them to know they are loved by God. They are not broken; they are not a mistake.”

When churches are “hating on queer people, it only pushes them away from God,” he said.  

'This is a life that can exist'

Hodak, 21, of Hollywood, Florida, is a bisexual Modern Orthodox Jew. She grew up in a religious household, observing holidays and going to synagogue on Saturdays.

But Hodak started feeling her ties to Judaism slip away when she started attending a public school.

She vowed to reconnect as a young teen and joined a local Jewish youth group. “I had Jewish mentors that were very helpful in my spiritual growth in Judaism,” she said.

But at the same time, she was realizing her sexual identity – and felt very isolated when she found that she knew no other people who were queer and religious.    

“I had one very difficult conversation with a close mentor of mine a few years ago that made me very upset,” she said. “What he was trying to say was being in the LGBTQ community and being religious are mutually exclusive. You can’t be both.”

Hodak began delving into the Jewish queer community online and embraced the chance to be an ambassador for Beloved Arise.

“I really became impassioned to be that representation for others that I didn’t get to see in my life,” she said. “I didn’t grow up with any queer, Jewish, religious people. I wanted to do that for other people – to bring awareness that this is a life that can exist.”

'Their identity is valid – all of them'

Miller, 18, of New Braunfels, Texas, is a Black queer Muslim who grew up as a Christian.

“I always learned from Christianity and my parents that you can be yourself and God will still really love you,” they said.

But Miller, who had come out as queer earlier in high school, began to feel less sure of their spiritual identity. “There was a lot of this narrative that you can’t be queer and religious, and for a while, I believed that,” Miller said.

As Miller began exploring other religions, they became drawn to Islam and tiptoed toward another pivotal moment. “There was something pulling me toward this way of life,” Miller said. The teen soon made their shahada, a declaration of faith in becoming a Muslim, a connection that filled “a hole inside of me.”

Miller learned as a child of microaggressions targeting Blacks, once having a mother of a schoolmate repeatedly touch Miller’s hair, a “glorious Afro I was so proud of.”

Barbs of bias took a new turn with Islamaphobia. A teacher told Miller they shouldn’t be a Muslim “because they go around beheading babies and are terrorists and abuse women.”

Said Miller: “That was shocking for me … She didn’t even recognize that what she was saying is so ludicrous.”

These experiences have helped fuel Miller’s drive as a passionate advocate for equality and a role model for young queer people struggling to find their spiritual footing.

“It’s so important to be that voice, that person to tell people they are loved and they are important and their identity is valid – all of them.”

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