There are weeks when the world feels unbearably loud. Threats, warnings, and declarations seem to fill every corner of public life, and lately much of that noise has centered on Iran. Some political figures have spoken in tones that feel almost apocalyptic, invoking divine sanction, cosmic battles, and the language of holy war.
For anyone who has lived under weaponised religion — and LGBTQ+ Christians know that terrain intimately — it’s unsettling in a way that goes deeper than politics.
And then, unexpectedly, a very different voice broke through.
Not from a podium.
Not from a press briefing.
But from the farthest point human beings have ever travelled.
Four astronauts, suspended in the vastness of space, reached a distance no one had ever reached before. From that unimaginable vantage point, Earth was not a battlefield or a map of enemies and allies. It was a tiny, shimmering sphere — fragile, blue, and astonishingly small.
Just before they lost contact with Earth, one of the astronauts spoke of Jesus.
Not Jesus the warrior.
Not Jesus the divider.
Not Jesus invoked to justify violence.
But Jesus who taught us to love our neighbour as ourselves.
The contrast could not have been more striking.
Back on Earth, the rhetoric has been escalating. News reports have described senior U.S. officials framing conflict with Iran in explicitly religious terms — speaking of divine plans, cosmic showdowns, and God‑ordained battles. Some have used language that critics say risks turning political tension into spiritual warfare, blurring the line between national strategy and apocalyptic imagination.
For many LGBTQ+ Christians, this kind of language is painfully familiar. We have seen how easily the name of Jesus can be used to sanctify harm.
We have watched the bible twisted into a weapon. We have lived under sermons that claimed God demanded our suffering.
So, when powerful people invoke Jesus to bless violence, it hits a tender place.
It isn’t only the politics that trouble us. It’s the theology beneath it — a theology that imagines God as a commander of destruction, a Jesus who chooses sides, a faith that thrives on fear.
And then, from the vastness of space, came a different theology entirely.
Imagine it: The silence of deep space. The Earth hanging behind you like a fragile ornament. The realisation that everything you have ever known — every conflict, every border, every argument, every fear — is contained within that tiny sphere.
From that vantage point, the divisions we cling to seem almost absurd. The lines we draw between nations, religions, identities, and ideologies disappear. The planet is one. Humanity is one. Our shared vulnerability is undeniable.
And into that silence, an astronaut spoke of Jesus’ love.
Not as a slogan.
Not as a political tool.
But as a truth that still matters when everything else falls away.
There was something profoundly poignant about that moment. When you are standing at the edge of human possibility, looking back at the only home we have, what rises to the surface is not fear, not dominance, not divine violence — but love.
The contrast is almost painful in its clarity.
On one side:
A Jesus invoked to justify conflict.
A Jesus who blesses missiles.
A Jesus who divides the world into righteous and unrighteous.
A Jesus whose name is used to amplify fear.
On the other side:
A Jesus whose love is wide enough to hold the whole planet.
A Jesus who calls us to love our neighbour — not just the neighbours we like, not just the neighbours who agree with us, but all of them.
A Jesus who stands with the vulnerable, not the powerful.
A Jesus whose message still rings true from the farthest reaches of space.
These are not minor differences. They are two entirely different theologies. Two entirely different visions of what it means to follow Christ.
One shrinks the world into a battlefield.
The other expands it into a home.
Astronauts often speak of something called the “overview effect” — the shift in consciousness that happens when you see Earth from space. Borders vanish. Conflicts seem small. The fragility of life becomes overwhelming. Many describe a sudden, fierce love for humanity, a desire to protect the planet, a sense of connection that transcends every division.
It is striking that the astronaut’s words about Jesus came from that place.
Because if there is anything Jesus consistently tried to do, it was to expand our vision. To widen our compassion. To break down the walls we build. To remind us that our neighbour is not just the person who looks like us, believes like us, or loves like us, but the person we would least expect.
From space, that teaching becomes literal.
There are no “others” when the entire world fits into a single frame.
As LGBTQ+ Christians, we know what it is to live under the shadow of weaponised faith. We know how it feels when Jesus’ name is used to justify harm. We know the fear that comes when powerful people claim divine authority for violence.
But we also know something else:
We know the Jesus who meets us in the quiet places.
We know the Jesus who heals, not harms.
We know the Jesus whose love has carried us through rejection, shame, and fear.
We know the Jesus who sees us — fully, tenderly, joyfully — and calls us beloved.
So, when I hear an astronaut speak of Jesus’ love at a distance of over 250,000 miles from Earth, something in me settles. Something in me remembers. Something in me hopes.
Because that is the Jesus I know.
And that is the Jesus the world needs.
When the world feels loud with threats and rhetoric, it is easy to forget who Jesus is. It is easy to be swept up in fear. It is easy to believe the voices that shout the loudest.
But perhaps we need to listen for the quieter voices — the ones that speak from places of awe, humility, and wonder. The ones that remind us that love is still the centre of the story.
If love is the last word spoken before losing contact with Earth, perhaps it should be the first word we speak to one another here.
Based in France, Liz Queyrel reports on LGBTQ+ Christian life across France and greater Europe.