In the quiet corners of traditional religious life, there are moments that act as tectonic shifts. For Mark Tidd, the founding pastor of Highlands Church in Denver, that moment arrived 20 years ago in the form of a 7-year-old child named Hal.
At the time, Tidd was a pastor in Boulder, living a life far removed from his original plan to become an archaeologist. His path had already been redirected by personal upheaval, but the conversation he was about to have would redefine his entire theology. He met with a couple who, as he describes it, “looked like they’d seen a ghost.” They were the parents of two daughters, Haley and Emma.
“The parents said, ‘Since Haley has been 3 years old, she’s been saying to us, ‘How come if God made me a boy; I don’t have a wee-wee?’” Tidd recalls. The parents initially dismissed it as age-appropriate silliness. But by age 7, the situation had turned dire. Hal was experiencing suicidal ideation.
The night before they met with Tidd, the parents sat with their child and asked what would make life worth living. Tidd recounts the response with a sense of awe:
“This 7-year-old said, ‘I want you to believe me. I don’t want to be Haley. I’m Hal. And when you talk about me, talk about he, him, and his.”
Tidd admitted at the time that he didn’t know what to do. He began with practical support—ensuring the church’s building phase included a family bathroom so Hal could feel safe. But the mother pushed further. She asked the question that every marginalized person eventually asks of an institution: “Is there going to come some point in the future where you’re going to, because of either your beliefs or the teachings of the church, pull the rug out from underneath us?”
Tidd paused. He envisioned Hal as an adult, falling in love, and asking Tidd to officiate his wedding. He realized that under the rules of the church at that time, he wouldn’t be able to do it.
“It was right there that it kind of felt like God gave me a little smack on the back of the head and said, ‘You just see how ludicrous this is, right? That you can’t, heartily, with enthusiasm, agree to do the wedding of somebody you’ve been with through most of their life? You have to say, ‘I want to, but can you guys both take your pants down so that I know if we have complimentary genitalia?’ And it’s like, really? That’s the final criteria?”
That realization was the “comically clear” turning point. Tidd began to look at the “clobber passages”—the handful of biblical verses often used to condemn LGBTQ+ individuals—and saw them as poorly translated tools of exclusion. He realized that his conscience no longer aligned with the institutional gatekeeping of his denomination.
“I knew that in time I would be excommunicated from my church because I would live out my values,” Tidd says. That prophecy eventually came to pass, leading to the birth of Highlands Church in 2016.
For Tidd, inclusivity wasn’t just about creating a “safe refuge” for the marginalized; it was a matter of spiritual survival for the church itself. He uses the metaphor of a box of crayons to describe the loss felt when people are excluded:
“The church will never be the fullness of what any church can be until all the LGBTQ+ members who want to be part of it are. It’s like, you know, you get a box of crayons, and you keep putting eight of them out. The church, to be a robust presence of the love of God in the world, needs to be present for anybody that’s being marginalized because they also make the church more of what reflects the character of God.”
Highlands Church launched with a vision that extended beyond sexuality. Tidd argues that once you step forward in advocacy for one marginalized community, you realize that the same patterns of “the majority castigating the minority” exist everywhere. This led the church into deep anti-racism work and advocacy for the unhoused and immigrants.
When asked if Highlands is similar to the Unitarian tradition—a “melting pot” of various faiths—Tidd is quick to clarify. While he holds deep respect for all traditions, Highlands remains firmly rooted in the life and teachings of Jesus. However, this is a Jesus who looks very different from the one often portrayed in modern political discourse.
“Most people, even people who have no faith, what they hear about Jesus, they go, ‘Well, he was a liberator. He was advocating for the women, for the lepers.’ And when he was forceful, it was against a religious community that was using authority to keep the people out that they didn’t want in. Right? That’s Jesus. But Christian nationalism is doing the exact opposite thing.”
Tidd describes the traditional rigid structure of church doctrine as an “exoskeleton”—like the shell of a lobster. It protects, but it also limits growth. To grow, the organism must shed the shell.
“An endoskeleton, like us humans, we can keep growing because the center—We grow from the center out, not by being contained, which is usually the fear that keeps a group in alignment.”
One of the most unique aspects of Highlands is its commitment to a “dialectical” community—specifically, the inclusion of both liberals and conservatives. Tidd acknowledges that this is the “most challenging of all the dichotomies,” especially when the very definition of “conservative” has been muddied by political extremism.
He recalls a meeting where the pastors sat down with congregants who identified as conservative. Interestingly, about half of them were LGBTQ+.
“There’s still this (attitude of) ‘I don’t quite get the trans thing,’ especially older generations. When some trans folks started coming, I watched some of our (gay) folks getting kind of uncomfortable. They were going, ‘Well, not to be party poopers, but it feels like we finally got a place where we can belong. And now, if they’re here, we’re afraid it’s going to diminish our chances.’ They finally were feeling normalized. And then when the church is normalizing and welcoming trans people, they were going, ‘Oh boy.’”
Highlands handles these tensions not by silencing them, but by insisting on a baseline of sacred dignity. Tidd is firm: “There is no discussion about whether each person possesses sacred dignity that makes them the image and reflection of God.”
This ethos means that while the church takes on social issues head-on, the pulpit isn’t used for partisan “bashing.” Tidd wants to help people stay centered and love beyond their limits, rather than simply feeding them more political outrage.
The mission of Highlands is deceptively simple, borrowed from the prophet Micah: Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God.
This mission manifests in practical ways, such as the church’s upcoming “Trans Awareness” weekend in October featuring theatrical performances and deep-dive discussions on upcoming legislation. It also lives in the church’s partnership with “Dry Bones,” a group that cares for youth living under bridges, and their work with the African Community Center.
For Tidd, the goal is always the “next loving thing.”
“Our faith is not just stuff we believe. If it stays here and it doesn’t turn into (action), then, well, it’s stuck in your head. Jesus didn’t come and just talk about stuff. He lived it out. So yeah, we want to follow that path.”
In a world increasingly defined by “circling the wagons” and governing by fear, Tidd’s Highlands Church stands as a radical experiment in what happens when you decide the table is always big enough for one more person.
Key Pillars of Highlands Church
| Pillar | Focus |
| Inclusivity | LGBTQ+ affirmation as a core requirement for a “full” church. |
| Justice | Anti-racism, immigrant support, and advocacy for the unhoused. |
| Theology | Following the “Radical Jesus” as a liberator of the marginalized. |
| Community | Maintaining space for both liberal and conservative voices through dialogue. |
