Juniper LaNunziata (they/them)

“Hey Juniper! My name is Zach! I am really, really good friends with Josh Stephens and so glad you reached out and befriended me. I hope you are doing well!”

This is the first message I sent my dearest friend Juniper on August 18th, 2019. Juniper LaNunziata is the third story in this series of queer people who have vibrantly enhanced and reconstructed my life.

A huge shift was taking place in my life, the catalyst of which was leaving a full time job in ministry to pursue a different career. In our evangelical culture, the opposite is often touted. However, I needed a fresh start. I felt stuck and empty. I was digging deeper into belief systems and structures and kept finding slavery instead of freedom. So I pressed pause on my esteemed missional career and walked away. I found purpose in making coffee and telling stories.

Even in this newfound freedom, I could not evade this nagging, disconnected religious belief system that urged me beyond giving up.

During this reconstruction, I remember connecting with some friends in similar situations. Josh and Ashley Stephens were huge influences in my life. They told me about their friend Juniper, who relocated to Greenville for a career in Children’s Ministry at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church. Even as a born and raised Lutheran and former evangelical missionary, I was still baffled by the vast differences of the Episcopal Church. But if there was one thing I needed, it was a community of people I could crash into with my rants, my questions, my fears, my anger.

Juniper connected with me at first on social media, hence my overly excited message. We chatted back and forth with a slew of curse words to describe the unique religious trauma associated with the civil war on denominational structures in modern day America.

DEEP BREATH! I was not alone. My questions were not offensive. My deepest fears could take up space without an argument. That was a drastic difference from previous experiences. I always thought it bothersome that my simple questions and curiosity had the power to threaten the existence of a religion.

The next time I bumped into Juniper was on a Wednesday night at the quaint St. Paul’s Chapel. As a business owner, Sunday is the one day I get to slow down. Nothing felt restorative about waking up early, dressing up, and attending a Sunday morning service. But this Wednesday night chapel, with the warm wooden floors and the echo of voices singing and chanting in unison, created a space big enough to release my questions. It gave me space to explore myself. A few pews in front of me, I glanced over and saw the most gorgeous kimono draped over Juniper’s broad shoulders. It’s long, delicate fabric followed every movement of their body.

This was the beginning of one of the most restorative friendships in my life. Juniper was a safe place to land. They created space to unpack the heavy bag of bitter, painful experiences I had been collecting along my journey. One by one, and sometimes two or three times a piece, I would reveal a morsel of energy that formed around these experiences. It would often end with Juniper looking me in the eyes and saying, “I am so sorry that happened to you.” And slowly, we created space in my bag to collect new, magical moments.

Juniper, if I had to do all of this over again, I would have been lost without your guidance. Your mothering spirit held my hand and brought me face-to-face with my deepest fears. Each of your apologies gave me the redemption and softness I longed for in so many of the hyper-masculine leaders of the church. Together, we discovered the way systems are often created to strip people of autonomy and uniqueness. You modeled for me a deeper, more fulfilling relationship with my creator. One that is not shaken by my questions or offended by my existence.

You are a vibrant light to so many children, who need a better relationship with their creator than a structure could ever provide. May your queer existence continue taking up a place at the table, just as you have taught me. And as we hold hands in unison, may we share this beloved prayer that we have breathed many times before:

“All shall be well and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.”