When the Children’s YouTube Star Said “Love is Love”: Ms. Rachel and the Allyship That Broke the Internet
Ms. Rachel
The Unexpected Culture Warrior
Ms. Rachel doesn’t look like someone who’d spark a culture war. With her cheerful demeanor, educational songs, and toddler-friendly content, she’s built a YouTube empire helping little kids learn to talk. Parents put her videos on repeat. Children mimic her exaggerated pronunciations. She’s basically the digital Mr. Rogers for the iPad generation.
Then she posted about LGBTQ+ allyship, and suddenly half the internet was calling her a hero while the other half was threatening to cancel their subscriptions and burn their merch.
Welcome to 2024, where even discussing love and acceptance can turn a children’s entertainer into a lightning rod for America’s ongoing culture wars. Where saying “LGBTQ+ people deserve support” is either the most obvious statement imaginable or a dangerous betrayal of Christian values, depending on whose timeline you’re scrolling.
Ms. Rachel didn’t set out to become controversial. She just believed something radical: that her Christian faith called her to embrace everyone. Including—especially—people who’ve been historically excluded by churches.
The backlash was swift and brutal. The support was equally passionate. And the conversation she sparked revealed just how far the church still has to go in reconciling ancient faith with modern understanding of human identity.
What Allyship Actually Means (And Why It Scares People)
Let’s start with basics, because a lot of the rage surrounding Ms. Rachel’s statements stemmed from people not actually understanding what she was advocating.
Allyship isn’t about agreeing with every aspect of someone else’s life. It’s not about abandoning your beliefs or compromising your values. It’s not about celebrating things that make you uncomfortable or pretending theological differences don’t exist.
Allyship is simpler and harder than that: it’s about standing with marginalized people. Listening to their experiences. Advocating for their dignity and rights. Refusing to be complicit in their exclusion or harm.
For LGBTQ+ people, allyship means having straight and cisgender people say: “I see you. Your identity is valid. You deserve safety, respect, and full participation in community life. And when others try to exclude or harm you, I’ll speak up.”
That’s it. That’s the terrifying radical agenda.
But for many conservative Christians, even that feels like too much. Because acknowledging LGBTQ+ identities as valid challenges traditional interpretations of scripture. Supporting LGBTQ+ rights suggests that maybe—just maybe—the church got some things wrong. And for communities built on certainty about God’s will, that possibility feels like the foundation crumbling.
So when Ms. Rachel said Christians should be allies, she wasn’t making a minor theological point. She was challenging the entire framework that many churches use to maintain boundaries around sexuality and gender.
No wonder people freaked out.
When Jesus Sat With Outcasts (But We’d Rather Not)
Here’s the thing about Christian faith: at its core, it’s radically inclusive.
Jesus’ entire ministry was defined by boundary-crossing. He ate with tax collectors—collaborators with the Roman occupation, traitors to their own people. He spoke with Samaritan women—double outsiders based on ethnicity and gender. He touched lepers—people whose condition made them ritually unclean and socially untouchable. He defended an adulteress from execution. He praised the faith of a Roman centurion.
Over and over, Jesus deliberately associated with people respectable religious folks avoided. And over and over, the religious establishment condemned him for it. “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them,” they complained. They meant it as an accusation. Jesus treated it as his mission statement.
The early Christian message was scandalous precisely because it erased social boundaries. “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female,” Paul wrote, describing a community where traditional hierarchies dissolved. The church was supposed to be the place where outcasts found welcome, where the marginalized were centered, where society’s rejects discovered they were beloved.
Somewhere along the way, we forgot that.
Or rather, we remembered it selectively. We’re happy to welcome sinners—as long as they’re the right kind of sinners. The ones whose struggles we relate to. The ones who look like us, talk like us, sin like us.
But people whose identities challenge our theological frameworks? People whose existence forces us to reconsider long-held beliefs? Those people, many churches have decided, are different. Their exclusion isn’t prejudice—it’s faithfulness. Their rejection isn’t cruelty—it’s upholding biblical truth.
Ms. Rachel looked at this dynamic and said: No. This isn’t what Jesus taught. This isn’t what love looks like.
And for that, she got crucified. Metaphorically, anyway. The internet’s pretty good at that.
“We’re Called to Love Everyone—No Exceptions”
Ms. Rachel’s actual statement wasn’t particularly inflammatory. She basically said: Christians should love and support LGBTQ+ people. The church should be a place of refuge, not rejection. All people are valuable and deserve belonging.
Radical stuff, apparently.
“We are called to love one another, and that includes everyone—no exceptions,” she stated simply. She emphasized that Christian doctrine is fundamentally about love, and that love should extend without reservation to LGBTQ+ individuals.
She pointed out that many religious communities have historically marginalized LGBTQ+ people, causing profound harm. And she urged fellow believers to challenge the narratives that led to that exclusion.
None of this contradicts basic Christian teaching. Jesus literally commanded his followers to love their neighbors. He didn’t provide a list of exceptions or caveats. He didn’t say “love your neighbor unless they’re gay” or “love your neighbor except if they’re trans.”
But acknowledging that reality—that Jesus’ command to love is genuinely unconditional—forces uncomfortable questions. If we’re supposed to love LGBTQ+ people, how does that square with theologies that condemn their identities? If we’re called to welcome outcasts, why are churches still excluding people based on sexual orientation or gender identity?
Ms. Rachel wasn’t trying to resolve complex theological debates. She was simply insisting that whatever our beliefs about sexuality and gender, our response to LGBTQ+ people should be characterized by love, not rejection.
For many Christians, that felt like permission—even a mandate—to reconsider positions they’d held without question. For others, it felt like betrayal of biblical authority and capitulation to secular culture.
Both reactions revealed just how fraught these conversations have become within Christian communities.
When Your Audience Fractures
The response to Ms. Rachel’s advocacy split predictably along ideological lines—but also revealed some surprising complexity.
Supportive parents flooded her comments with gratitude. They thanked her for modeling inclusive values. They shared stories of having LGBTQ+ family members and feeling relieved that their kids’ favorite educator affirmed those relationships. They praised her courage in speaking up, knowing it would cost her followers and revenue.
Many spoke about how her content had already opened conversations in their homes. Her emphasis on kindness, empathy, and accepting differences had given them language to discuss diversity with their children. Her explicit support for LGBTQ+ people felt like a natural extension of values she’d been teaching all along.
But others were furious.
The criticism came fast and harsh. Conservative Christian parents accused her of betraying biblical teaching. They said she was indoctrinating children with “ideology.” They claimed she’d lost their trust and their viewership. Some suggested she’d been “captured by the woke mob” or pressured into making statements that contradicted her true beliefs.
The harshest critics framed her advocacy as dangerous—not just wrong, but actively harmful to children. They painted her as someone leading kids astray, teaching them to accept what God supposedly condemns.
Ms. Rachel faced doxxing, threats, and harassment serious enough that she had to increase security measures. Her family received disturbing messages. Other creators who supported her got similar treatment.
All for saying that Christians should love LGBTQ+ people.
The intensity of the backlash revealed something important: for many conservative Christians, LGBTQ+ inclusion isn’t a debatable issue—it’s a line in the sand. You’re either with biblical truth (as they define it) or against it. There’s no middle ground, no space for disagreement, no room for Christians who interpret scripture differently.
Ms. Rachel refused to back down. She kept posting. Kept advocating. Kept insisting that love meant inclusion, not just tolerating people from a distance.
The Impossible Position of LGBTQ+ Christians
Lost in much of this debate were the people most affected: LGBTQ+ Christians themselves.
Because they exist. In large numbers. People who love Jesus and also happen to be gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, queer. People who were raised in the church, who felt called to faith, who desperately want to reconcile their spiritual identity with their sexual or gender identity.
And the church keeps telling them they have to choose.
The message, explicit or implied, is clear: You can be Christian or you can be LGBTQ+, but not both. Your identity is incompatible with faith. You need to change, suppress, or hide who you are if you want to belong here.
The psychological damage is staggering. LGBTQ+ people raised in conservative Christian environments experience depression, anxiety, and suicidality at much higher rates than their peers. Many describe feeling fundamentally broken, believing God made a mistake in creating them, spending years trying to pray away or suppress aspects of themselves that won’t disappear.
Some leave the church entirely, deciding that a faith community that rejects their identity isn’t worth the pain. Others stay but remain closeted, living double lives, exhausted by the constant performance of hiding. Still others keep trying to find affirming Christian communities—congregations that believe you can be fully LGBTQ+ and fully Christian without conflict.
Those affirming communities exist, but they’re still minority voices in a Christian landscape dominated by traditional teachings about sexuality and gender. Finding them requires resources, courage, and often geographic mobility that many don’t have.
In the meantime, LGBTQ+ Christians live in this impossible liminal space. Too queer for many churches, too Christian for many LGBTQ+ spaces. Not fully welcomed anywhere.
Ms. Rachel’s advocacy mattered enormously to these folks. Here was a prominent Christian voice saying: You belong. Your identity isn’t a mistake. The church should welcome you, not wound you.
For people who’d spent years being told they were wrong, broken, or sinful simply for existing, that message was oxygen.
How to Actually Be an Ally (Instead of Just Performing One on Social Media)
Ms. Rachel’s statements sparked important conversations, but statements alone don’t create change. Actual allyship requires sustained, unglamorous work.
So what does it actually look like for Christians to be allies to LGBTQ+ people?
First: Education. You can’t support people you don’t understand. That means doing homework—reading books by LGBTQ+ authors, learning about different identities and experiences, understanding the history of discrimination and violence these communities have faced. It means recognizing that your assumptions might be wrong and being willing to learn.
Second: Listening. When LGBTQ+ people share their experiences—especially their experiences with churches—believe them. Don’t minimize their pain or make excuses for institutions that harmed them. Don’t center your discomfort over their trauma. Just listen with empathy and a willingness to sit with difficult truths.
Third: Speaking up. Allyship means using your voice when LGBTQ+ people aren’t in the room. It means pushing back against homophobic or transphobic comments in your small group, your Bible study, your family gatherings. It means making it clear that jokes at LGBTQ+ people’s expense aren’t funny and rhetoric that dehumanizes them isn’t acceptable.
Fourth: Showing up. Attend Pride events. Support LGBTQ+-affirming organizations. Be visibly present in spaces where LGBTQ+ people gather. Your physical presence sends a message: I’m here. I support you. You’re not alone.
Fifth: Self-examination. Everyone has internalized prejudices. Everyone has absorbed messages from culture and church that position LGBTQ+ people as “other.” Allyship requires honestly examining those beliefs, acknowledging where you’ve been complicit in harm, and committing to change.
Sixth: Risking something. Real allyship costs something. It might mean losing friends who disagree with your stance. It might mean facing criticism from your church or family. It might mean sacrificing comfort or status to stand with marginalized people. If your allyship is free, it’s probably not allyship—it’s performance.
Ms. Rachel risked her platform, her revenue, and her safety to advocate for LGBTQ+ inclusion. That’s what allyship looks like when it’s real.
When Allies Change the Conversation
Here’s why allyship matters: because marginalized people shouldn’t have to fight for their dignity alone.
When LGBTQ+ people advocate for their own rights and inclusion, they’re often dismissed as biased or self-interested. When allies—especially from privileged or majority groups—make the same arguments, people listen differently.
This isn’t fair. It shouldn’t be necessary. But it’s reality.
When straight Christians say LGBTQ+ people deserve full inclusion in the church, it carries different weight than when LGBTQ+ Christians say it. It signals to both communities that this isn’t just about self-interest—it’s about justice. It tells LGBTQ+ people they have support beyond their own community. It tells other Christians that faithful people can hold different views.
Allies also provide cover for institutions to change. When only LGBTQ+ people are pushing for inclusion, it’s easy for churches to dismiss it as pressure from outside agitators. When respected members of the community—parents, leaders, beloved figures like Ms. Rachel—advocate for change, it becomes harder to ignore.
This creates momentum. One person speaking up gives others courage to do the same. Visible allyship normalizes support, making it less risky for others to express similar views. Eventually, the conversation shifts from “should we include LGBTQ+ people?” to “how do we do it well?”
That shift is already happening in many Christian communities. Denominations are wrestling with policies. Churches are having painful but necessary conversations. Younger Christians overwhelmingly support LGBTQ+ inclusion, suggesting the future looks different than the past.
None of this happens without allies willing to risk something for people who aren’t like them.
The Faith That Makes Room
So where does this leave the church?
At a crossroads, honestly. One path leads toward continued exclusion—maintaining traditional boundaries, insisting on conformity, treating LGBTQ+ people as acceptable only if they deny or suppress their identities. This path feels safe because it’s familiar. It preserves existing power structures and theological certainty.
The other path leads toward radical inclusion—wrestling with difficult questions, reimagining old interpretations, creating space for people whose existence challenges neat categories. This path is scary because it requires change. It demands humility about the possibility that we’ve been wrong. It threatens to upend comfortable assumptions.
But it’s also the path that looks more like Jesus.
Because the gospel isn’t about maintaining boundaries—it’s about tearing them down. It’s not about excluding people who make us uncomfortable—it’s about welcoming them. It’s not about protecting institutions—it’s about loving people.
Ms. Rachel understood something crucial: that Christian faith at its best makes room. Room for questions, for difference, for people who don’t fit expected molds. Room for LGBTQ+ people to be fully themselves and fully part of the community.
That kind of faith requires courage. It requires risking the anger of people who think you’ve compromised. It requires sitting with uncertainty instead of clinging to certainty. It requires choosing love when love is complicated and costly.
But that’s what Jesus did. He loved people across boundaries. He chose compassion over condemnation. He built community with outcasts. He redefined who belonged in the kingdom of God—and the answer was: everyone.
Ms. Rachel is just trying to do the same. In her own small way, with her platform and her audience, she’s saying: the circle is bigger than we thought. There’s room for everyone. Love means love.
That shouldn’t be controversial. That it is reveals how far we still have to go.
But every ally who speaks up moves us closer to the church we’re supposed to be. The one where outcasts find welcome. Where love is unconditional. Where nobody has to choose between their identity and their faith.
That’s the future Ms. Rachel is advocating for. And it’s worth every bit of criticism she’s received to help build it.
