The Problem of Shame-Based Theology

A Guest Post by Keanu M. Heydari

Photo by Renaud Confavreux on Unsplash

A few weeks ago on Twitter, I was involved in a little online skirmish on the topic of sexual ethics and sexual identity, one that began in the replies of a tweet, then spilled over into quote tweets of those replies, followed by more tweets to keep the conversation churning. The details are not that important, but suffice it to say that a real conversation ended up not being possible, but theological positions were helpfully (and perhaps painfully) clarified. In the midst of the flurry of tweets, I came across a lovely bit of solidarity and support expressed in a short thread by Keanu Heydari, from whom I differ on certain points of theology but with whom I agree on the danger of what he calls a “shame-based theology.” I reached out to ask if he would like to expand on that thread for my readers. He agreed, and what follows is the result.

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In November 2022, I presented a paper at the American Academy of Religion meeting in Denver titled “Celibate Gay Christians: Vies singulières devenues d’étranges poèmes.” At the time, I argued that a distinct identity had emerged at the crossroads of conservative Christianity and queerness: gay Christians who affirm their sexual orientation while embracing celibacy as a theological conviction. I framed this as a paradox—one that neither fit within the traditional ex-gay movement nor fully aligned with LGBTQ-affirming theology. I suggested that these individuals challenged evangelicalism’s rigid categories of sexuality and identity, forcing a deeper reckoning with its theological contradictions.

Yet in hindsight, I see that my argument, though structurally sound, was too neat. I underestimated the profound ways that theological traditions shape personal experience. A Side B Catholic navigates celibacy, church authority, and community in ways that differ drastically from a Side B evangelical. While my original framing emphasized a historical and ideological paradox, the reality is far more complex and is marked by competing ecclesiologies, theological justifications, and lived experiences. What I once presented as a singular phenomenon now appears as a fractured, shifting set of commitments shaped by history, doctrine, and culture.

Side B Christianity, in its broadest sense, rejects the ex-gay notion (Side X) that sexual orientation can or should be changed, while also distancing itself from Side A theology, which affirms same-sex sexual activity and marriage as compatible with Christian faith. Instead, Side B insists that celibacy is the main theologically viable path for LGBTQ+ Christians—a position that often places its adherents in an ambiguous ideological space. On the one hand, they remain deeply embedded in conservative Christian traditions that view same-sex desire with suspicion. On the other, they refuse to disavow their LGBTQ+ identity, challenging the erasure long demanded by ex-gay theology.

While I remain critical of Side B theology’s reinforcement of these norms, I acknowledge that it is not a great danger facing LGBTQ+ Christians today. That distinction belongs to ex-gay theology, which remains not only conceptually incoherent but also deeply harmful. The ex-gay movement continues to perpetuate myths of “orientation change,” despite decades of evidence that such change is impossible and that attempting it causes significant psychological and spiritual harm. It thrives on false hope, shame, and coercion, making it one of the most insidious distortions of Christian teaching in modern evangelicalism.

This brings me to a recent statement by Christopher Yuan, a prominent advocate of ex-gay ideology. On February 11, 2025, Yuan posted on X (formerly Twitter):

“My position is consistent. I tell all believers that you should not broadcast your sin struggle. It is not appropriate for people to publicly share these things indiscriminately. We shouldn’t put our ‘sin pride flag’ in our profile name or put it in our bio. Instead, we confess to a small group of mentors, accountability partners, and prayer warriors. What we do publically [sic] admit is that Christians continue to battle their sin struggles.”

Yuan’s argument is not just flawed; it is theologically dangerous. His statement promotes a shame-based view of identity, distorts the purpose of Christian confession, and undermines the inclusive, liberating message of the Gospel.

At the core of evangelical theology, in Karl Barth’s sense, is the proclamation that all people are made in the image of God (imago Dei). If this is true, then sexual orientation is not a flaw to be hidden but part of what makes us fully human. By reducing LGBTQ+ identity to a “sin struggle” that must be kept private, Yuan perpetuates a theology of secrecy and repression—one that contradicts the foundational Christian conviction that God blesses human diversity as part of creation.

Furthermore, his call for LGBTQ+ believers to remain silent creates an unjust double standard. Straight Christians can speak openly about their lives, their relationships, and their struggles. But LGBTQ+ Christians, according to Yuan, must keep their identities confined to controlled spaces—small groups, prayer circles, “accountability partners.” This is a violation of the Protestant Reformation’s core principle of the priesthood of all believers (1 Peter 2:9), which insists that all Christians have direct access to God’s grace without needing permission from theological gatekeepers.

Yuan’s framework not only weaponizes confession but also distorts its meaning. Confession in the Christian tradition is not about forced secrecy or self-erasure—it is about truth-telling, reconciliation, and liberation. In contrast, Yuan’s approach turns confession into a social discipline mechanism, forcing LGBTQ+ believers into silence, isolation, and self-policing. This reflects a broader evangelical strategy to keep queerness invisible, rendering LGBTQ+ Christians as theological ghosts—allowed to exist, but only in whispers.

Yet genuine Christian faith is not meant to be hidden. It is meant to be lived publicly, embodied in the pursuit of God’s justice and love. Yuan’s argument that LGBTQ+ Christians should avoid “broadcasting” their identities echoes a long history of efforts to push marginalized people into the shadows. The Church has long championed the dignity of racial justice movements, women’s rights, and economic justice. It should do the same for LGBTQ+ believers. Jesus himself taught: “Let your light shine before others” (Matthew 5:16). Publicly acknowledging one’s identity is not “sin pride” but an act of truth-telling, a witness to God’s work in our lives. Suppressing identity does not lead to holiness, instead, it leads to spiritual suffocation.

At its best, evangelical theology embraces liberation for the oppressed. It proclaims a Gospel that frees people from legalism, shame, and fear. Yuan’s theology, however, does the opposite. It weaponizes confession, turns identity into a burden, and reinforces the same systems of secrecy and control that have long harmed LGBTQ+ Christians. Jesus consistently stood with the marginalized and rejected. He rebuked religious leaders who imposed heavy burdens on others while refusing to lift a finger to help (Matthew 23:4). If the Church is to remain faithful to its calling, it must reject the theology of secrecy, control, and shame. The good news of the Gospel is that God’s grace is free and unconditional. It is offered to every person without requiring them to hide, diminish, or disown their God-given identities. True faith does not demand silence. It calls for bold, unapologetic witness to the radical love of Christ.

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Many thanks to Keanu Heydari for sharing this thoughts here! If you want to learn about his multifaceted work, you can find information on his website.