This week, I sit down with Rev. Brandon J. Moore, founding pastor of Radiant Refuge Ministries, unapologetic Bible nerd, storyteller, and fellow theodivergent. In this vulnerable and unfiltered conversation, we talk about everything from leaving the Church of the Nazarene to imagining the next pope, from the ache of divorce and childlessness to the unexpected grace we find in failure.
I am very excited to introduce you to Brandon. He has a great heart and mind. He is the first guest to Theodivergent.
Brandon brings his full self—neurodivergent, passionate, prophetic, and pastoral—to reflect on what it means to love radically, lead authentically, and reimagine faith from the margins. He shares how grief nearly broke him, how he’s learning to be whole again, and why holy imagination matters more than ever.
💬 “I think the misunderstandings of the parables are how we got fundamentalism.”
If you’ve ever felt like your faith didn’t fit the mold, this one’s for you.
🎧 Listen to Episode 1 now here or your favorite pod-spots.
📲 Follow Brandon’s ministry on Facebook & YouTube @RadiantRefugeMinistries
🕊️ And, while it might not be ready for quite some time, I’m already pretty excited about his book topic, so stay tuned for his upcoming book: Holy. Freaking. Skubala.
See below for an (re)introduction to Theodivergent.
Welcome to Theodivergent: Where It Takes a Village to Raise an Idiot
Some people think there are rules to doing theology: hierarchies, peer-reviewed journals, and proper ways to debate the mysteries of God. I love theology. I take it seriously. But hopefully you’re not expecting polite solemnities and agreeable nodding… you’ve definitely wandered into the wrong pub.
Picture this: you’re walking through town, passing tidy cafés and respectable churches where everyone talks quietly and politely and keeps their shirts tucked in.
Theodivergent is the bar at the edge of town that respectable folks cross the street to avoid. This place is down a crooked alley, you spot a neon sign flickering over a run-down old pub. The music is too loud, the door’s always propped open, and you can hear bursts of laughter mixed with heated debates about God, politics, sex, and whether Jesus would eat pineapple on pizza. It’s the place the locals warn you about.
The regulars? Doubters, heretics, passionate theologians, wanderers, and weirdos. We’re all crammed in here, arguing, laughing, crying, dancing (probably badly), and trying to make sense of this wild world through the lens of God’s uncontrolling love.
The barkeep swears too much and drinks with the customers. Some of us still pray; some of us are too pissed off to bother right now. Most of us are just trying to figure it out; how to live with love and truth when the world (and the church) feels like it’s coming apart at the seams.
I’m that loudmouth behind the bar—mixing metaphors like “It takes a village to raise an idiot”, waving my angry-finger like a Lewis Black wannabe, and trying not to spill the drinks. I’m the Open and Relational Theologian nobody asked for, with a performative anger problem and a messy sense of humor. I’m not mocking theology. I’m here to do it faithfully, seriously, and with my whole chest (and sometimes with my whole foot in my mouth).
The respectable folks keep shaking their heads, wondering when this place will finally shut down. They don’t feel invited because he keeps cussing out the pastors and conservatives. His love is angry.
They want him to close the doors for good—At least turn of the lights…And stop calling it a Christian pub.
But… When I show up at your place—a church, a classroom, a conference—I’ll behave. I’ll put on the jacket and stick to the script. But in my space? I’m kicking off my shoes, cranking the music, and letting the conversation sprawl into every messy, beautiful corner of life.
This should be the picture of heaven. I want to be very careful to not glorify some old image of “hell” with its so-called sinners and scandalous dancers, but because heaven was always meant to look like this: every tribe, every tongue, every people, every body moving together in love and freedom.
For too long, preachers told us that drums were the devil’s tool, that dancing was temptation, that joy and freedom were dangerous. They painted their hell as a wild mess of music, culture, and movement. But Scripture tells a different story: of a God who inhabits the praises of the people (Psalm 22:3), of a Savior who turned water into wine to keep the party going (John 2), and of a Spirit who blows where it wills (John 3:8)—wild, free, uncontainable.
I’m not trying to baptize old pictures of hell and call them heaven. I’m reclaiming what was always God’s: joy, embodiment, justice, and radical welcome. This isn’t about rebellion for rebellion’s sake; it’s about orthocardia—right-heartedness—a theology that keeps its eyes on love, flourishing, and true community.
So if you’re hungry for something real—something sound, joyful, and alive—pull up a chair. We’ve been saving you a seat at the rowdiest, most Spirit-filled table in town.
Welcome to Theodivergent.
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If you want theology that tells the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable...
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I write for the ones who don’t fit and for teachers, poets, wanderers, and sacred misfits trying to live with integrity in a world that prefers easy answers.
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Theodivergent is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.
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