The shuttle broke down before the day even had a chance to find its rhythm.
People stood waiting in growing lines, checking their phones, watching the road, wondering what was happening, what was taking so long, and worrying they wouldn’t have time to enjoy the Pride Festival. Communications between event team members, locations and the shuttle vendor flew at a rapid pace. Everyone involved was desperately trying to piece together updates and brainstorm solutions on the fly. What began as a carefully coordinated system quickly unraveled into confusion. Delays stretched longer, uncertainty felt overwhelming, and some community members made the difficult decision not to wait at all.
This was our first year at this venue, and with that came a new challenge. Shuttles. We had anticipated the need but underestimated the reality. The demand surged faster than expected, and our system, three buses circulating between three pickup locations simply couldn’t keep up. When the shuttle broke down and the company confirmed they had no replacement available, the strain on an already stretched system made a challenging situation so much worse, with some folks waiting over an hour for their shuttle.
It was a hard moment. The kind that tests not just logistics, but trust.
And then, something shifted.
Pastor Bob Ierian, who had signed up to serve as a Peacekeeper for the day, was already present when the situation unfolded. He was on the frontline at a shuttle stop, providing a calm, caring, peaceful barrier against any protestors. Protestors who thankfully did not show up this year. Rather than saying to himself that it was our responsibility rather than his, he saw our community in need on a day of celebration that means so much to so many, and he took loving, compassionate action.
He reached out to his church’s council to ask for permission to use their bus. They said yes. And then he did something even more meaningful: he got behind the wheel himself.
For the rest of the day, Pastor Bob drove the church bus, becoming part of the shuttle system that kept people moving, connected, and able to access the event.
But the significance of this gesture goes far beyond transportation.
To fully understand why Pastor Bob stepping up with his church bus was so meaningful, we have to look at the history between us, not just the events on the day of Pride, but the rocky ground we had to cross in order to build the trust and relationship needed in order for Pastor Bob and his congregation to step up without hesitation or reservation.
Our relationship didn’t start on solid footing. Over the years, there have been times when we have struggled to connect in loving and compassionate ways. In one instance a few years ago, during an LGBTQ+ panel hosted by Redeemer Lutheran Church, a congregant asked a question that landed as deeply offensive to our team member on the panel who responded with anger and words that offered no grace, no compassion. The moment was charged with pain and frustration. An opportunity to respond gently and lead a congregation looking to be more affirming and accepting of LGBTQ+ and Trans people specifically to a place of compassionate understanding was endangered.
We learned after the fact that the person who posed the question lives with a cognitive disorder, which played a role in the way the question was posed. A piece of knowledge that made our role in the interaction all the more disappointing.
Our relationship could have ended there in that rocky moment. But it did not.
A little over a year ago, tensions flared again at a table meant for collaboration, where two members of our leadership sat alongside Pastor Bob. During a discussion about coordinating local LGBTQ+ organizations and faith communities in common cause, frustrations surfaced around how difficult it could be getting a hold of the local queer organizations, the Lancaster LGBTQ+ Coalition being the worst one. Some folks shared their experiences of difficulty getting timely responses not only from them but us as well.
As the tensions began to rise, one of our leaders stepped away to take space and reset. While they were gone, the conversation continued to escalate. In that heated exchange, voices rose and the antagonistic nature of our other leader’s words led to Pastor Bob choosing to walk away from the table to join another discussion for the remainder of the event.
It was a tense, uncomfortable moment. Both sides reacted defensively. Everyone left the room feeling frustrated, disappointed, and unsure if a path forward remained. We could all have chosen to walk away permanently; to label the relationship as “too complicated,” or to write each other off as unreliable allies.
But we didn’t. And neither did they.
Instead of letting those moments define us, both sides chose the harder path: staying at the table.
In the months that followed, we kept showing up. There were more conversations, more chances to listen, and more opportunities to practice accountability. We didn’t ignore the friction; we worked through it. Pastor Bob and several congregants began serving as Peacekeepers at our events over the last couple of years, slowly rebuilding trust brick by brick. They showed up not just as observers, but as active participants in our safety and celebration.
Redeemer Lutheran Church is a Reconciling in Christ congregation, a designation within the Lutheran tradition that signals a commitment to LGBTQ+ inclusion and justice. But as our journey has shown, that designation isn’t a static label. It’s an ongoing process of learning, growing, stumbling, and finding ways to actively live out that commitment even when it’s uncomfortable.
What happened at Lititz Pride, Pastor Bob calling his council, getting approval, and personally driving the church bus for hours, isn’t just a kind deed. It is the direct fruit of that intentional effort to build a relationship of care and compassion. It proves that when LGBTQ+ communities and faith communities choose to remain invested in each other despite the challenges, the hurt, or the missteps, something beautiful can roll forward.
In this moment, the allyship he offered went beyond just a statement or a banner. This was more than a performative act of allyship, but a meaningful action, offered from a place of love to a community that hears love preached in a way that often leaves them outside of its comforting embrace.
In a place like Lancaster County, where Christianity of all flavors, conservative and liberal, affirming and not, shapes daily life, moments like this mean a lot. For LGBTQ+ people, they signal something deeper than rainbow-washed acknowledgment. They suggest the possibility of belonging. Of safety. Of knowing who might show up when things don’t go according to plan.
This wasn’t about identity, or religion, or differences; it was about loving neighbors in an active way. A way that I think Christ intended. Unconditional, unflinching, and active.
Maybe our relationship didn’t start off easy, but it was nurtured with enough care and humility to grow into something real. Something dependable. Something that, when tested, responded with compassion and met the moment.
Sometimes, choosing love looks like making an effort to find common ground. Sometimes it looks like a pastor driving a bus full of people on their way to a Pride festival.
