We're Queer. We're Spiritual. Get Used To It.

I'm one of those queers who goes to church.

I get looks. Of course I do. And I get questions, the main question being, Why?

My response is always, Why not? Why shouldn't I go to church? Am I not allowed? Don't I also have a soul, or is spirituality the exclusive realm of the heterosexual?

Some of my queer friends are so over church. Proudly, militantly atheist, they look down their noses at little church mice like me. From their superior, lofty perches, they can't fathom why any queer person would set foot inside a church. Bless their hearts.

It took me a rather long time to realize that just because a lot of God's fans hate me, God himself doesn't necessarily hate me. And just because the priest or pastor says bad things about my kind from the pulpit, it doesn't necessarily mean God is speaking through them.

In fact, it could be that God is saying something through me as I sit there in the pews -- something rather more powerful than another long-winded, torturous traipse through Leviticus. Perhaps God is bigger than we want to believe. Perhaps there is more to both heaven and earth than what we understand. Perhaps God made me just the way I am -- and likes me that way and would not have me any other way. Perhaps it's not my calling to hide my light under a basket, but to let it shine.

Don't let me be the one to spill the beans, but a lot of queer folks do church. Growing up Catholic, I can safely say that most every priest and religious brother I knew was gay although not one would admit it.

I became a religious brother myself, and the reason why I'm no longer a religious brother is because my superiors asked me one day if I was gay, and I was honest. The  next day I was asked to leave. The others lied and got to stay.

If telling a lie (and therefore sinning) was the price of being a religious brother, well, obviously it was not the life meant for me. And what does that say about the many priests and religious types who tell that lie every day because they're afraid of being kicked out? Some of those folks are very prominent people in Catholic circles. How do they live with themselves? Who are they fooling?

The condemnation of homosexuality goes way back. Fair enough -- but that doesn't make it legitimate. That doesn't mean our understanding can't evolve and grow into something more compassionate and honest.

We are often told morality cannot and does not change, but that's not quite true. Today, owning a slave would be abhorrently offensive. But not so long ago, owning another human being was the status quo. In fact, on this front, the Catholic Church didn't get around to condemning slavery until the 1800s. Are we to believe that slavery was morally acceptable for all those centuries before that, or did the Church finally realize that slavery was moral reprehensible and evil?

Divorce used to be absolutely forbidden. And in fairness, one must point out that while Jesus said nothing about homosexuality, and very little about human sexuality, he did go out of his way to say things about divorce -- and modern churches and the people in their pews seem to have no trouble whatsoever completely ignoring what he said on that score.

If our understanding of marriage can change (and it probably needed to), perhaps our understanding of homosexuality can also change.

It's not that morality "changes." We mature. We learn new information. We gain new insights. We get better.

So ... I go to church. Make of it what you will, but don't ask me to explain myself because I don't have to, no more than anyone else who goes to church. I go because I want to. 

I have my own "religious beliefs" when it comes to sexuality and relationships; they are vastly different than those of my fundamentalist neighbor, but that's the beauty of having freedom of religion. I'm allowed to come to my own conclusions. I am not required to follow his. I can decide for myself -- and I do.

I have the feeling that the "kingdom of heaven" is filled with tax collectors and whores and other disreputable sorts and misfits. The "least of these." And perhaps, indeed, the last shall be first.

Time will tell.

All I Want for Christmas Is Nothing

Once upon a time there was a little boy who watched Little House on the Prairie. Sometimes, when it was over, he hurried to his bedroom so he could cry and not be seen. He wondered why the mother and father on the TV show were so nice to each other and their kids. He wondered why the kids on the show always treated each other respectfully, even when they disagreed. He wondered why he didn't have a father like Charles Ingalls who respected him, who loved him, who sacrificed for him. He wondered why he didn't have a mother who was interested in her children, why she was sad, distant, far away, who seemed to think her children were a cross to bear, a nuisance to be endured, not little humans to be cherished and treasured but little monsters who ate too much, fought too much and caused her too much suffering. 

He had a sense, watching that show, that something in his family was not right, but he didn't know what and didn't have the vocabulary to put this feeling, this vague unease, into words. What he learned was that some families are nice to each other, and love each other, and care about each other. And some families don't. So sometimes, when there were touching scenes on the show, he could not help but hurry away to a place of privacy so he could cry. He didn't know why he was crying, only that some emotion had gripped him, some sadness, some grief he couldn't understand.

This little boy began searching for family. He found it with a Catholic family who lived on the other side of the woods. He played happily with their children. He felt included, respected, wanted, even though he overstayed his welcome a great deal-indeed, he often spent the night with this family as if he were one of their own.

But then something happened. The little boy grew into a young teenager who realized he was gay. And this religious family, this Catholic family that treated him so nicely, had a thing about homosexuality. They didn't like it. Soon, although he tried hard to gain their approval, he found himself not welcomed by this foster family, who eventually moved away. No matter what he did, he could not make them love him again.

He was not sure what his own family would say if he told them about being gay, so he said nothing, but the gayness, the homosexuality, was a deeply bruising, shameful thing he carried with him and could not escape no matter how he tried, how fervent his prayers, who desperate his desire to be normal.

This young teenager grew into a young man who proved himself to be a damaged, unstable individual with emotional problems. He'd always been a sensitive boy, and the terrors of his childhood haunted him-his violent, drunken father, the sexual abuse he experienced, the death of his friend Tommy when he was eight, the death of his father when he was ten, the religious violence he experienced as a convert to a crazy Catholic cult, the harsh feelings of self-loathing and hatred over his homosexuality-oh, it was a toxic brew.

He was quite alone with these terrors. No one in his family seemed to understand him, to understand what was happening, what was wrong. He knew he was an unwanted burden, and when he chanced upon a risky way to escape, he took it. This involved accepting a plane ticket from a gay man in Las Vegas. He'd corresponded with the man, having found his address in the back of a gay magazine. How he found that magazine, he does not remember now. What he remembers is writing to some of the addresses in the personals column, and receiving offers of plane tickets from older gay men who said they would be happy to "help" him. So he accepted the plane ticket and made his escape. He arrived at the airport in Las Vegas feeling very satisfied with himself, that he was now on his own, that he was an adult, was going to survive and not be a burden on anyone anymore.

The man who met him at the airport seemed nice enough, but when they arrived at the man's house and he began to unpack his small suitcase, the man came into his bedroom, forced him to disrobe and proceeded to rape him.

Not knowing what else to do, he wrote to some of the other men he had been corresponding with. Eventually he found himself moving to LA with one of those men, where the scenes repeated themselves. And then one day he found himself thrown out onto the street.

He thought of calling his family and asking for help, but he knew two things: They would not understand. And they would not help. And he knew it was pointless to ask. So he began to walk the streets, looking for someone to help him. Various tribulations awaited him that he does not care to discuss now.

Eventually he met a young traditional Catholic man who promised to help him. He went to live with this young man and his Italian family in Kansas City. They helped him get a job and make a start in life. They loved him like he was one of their own, but he knew he must not divulge his secret. Should they learn of his homosexuality, they would ask him to leave, so he remained silent.

The Italian family tried very hard to love this young man, but he was shy, awkward, terrified of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing. He wanted their love so much he could hardly breathe, and he lived in fear he would disappoint them or that they would discover his terrible secret and they would ask him to leave.

He especially loved his Italian mother. Yet he couldn't think what to say to her, what to talk about, how to express his feelings. And soon, because he was so awkward, so quiet, so nervous, so afraid, she concluded that he did not like her and she grew distant.

He then met another family who took him in. An Hispanic family. Because they were traditional Catholics, he tried very hard to be a traditional Catholic to please them even though he no longer believed in it. One day, when he could hold it in no longer, he told them he was gay. Very quickly their friendship ended and he found himself living alone.

In his quest for family, for people who would love him, he took in roommates. They were all young gay men like himself. They made a sort of family. They loved each other as best they could. But since they were all estranged from their own families and full of hurt and shame and confusion about themselves, they did not live happily ever after. They were all lost souls, wounded souls, hurting, prone to addictions and violence.

The years continued on and, in this quest for family, in his late twenties, he married a woman in the belief this would "cure" him of his shameful condition. It did not, and proved to be a terrible mistake. It was very unfair to the woman he married and the child they eventually had.

Knowing he had to divorce her, that she would better with her own family and people and country, he sold everything and moved to that country far, far away. He continued to live there until his child was eighteen.

A much older man now, he returned to his own country and settled down in a small town close to where one of his brothers lived. They were friendly. They did not argue. Yet there was distance between them. They were completely different now and seemed to no longer have any common ground.

His mother lived at some distance away and he finally decided to visit her. The years had cooled his anger, his disappointments, his hurts. He wanted her to know he was okay, he had survived, that he did not cling to the past. They made small talk over lunch. They did not speak about the past. They were basically strangers.

Having spent his life searching for a family of his own, for people who would love him, for people he could love in return, he finally understood this was not meant to be. It was not in the cards. Fate had decided otherwise. Or perhaps it had been homophobia and shame that had decided otherwise, that had kept him at a safe distance, excluded, apart from the normal course of affairs. Or perhaps the family he came from was broken, was composed of broken souls who could never be a proper family no matter how hard they tried. Perhaps they had never learned to love each other. Perhaps they had never learned to forgive, to talk, to work out problems. Perhaps no one had ever told them how important family was. Perhaps they were all disappointed in each other, for their own reasons, in their own ways, and wanted nothing more to do with it. Or perhaps he himself was to blame: perhaps he was still emotionally unstable, unwell, had unrealistic expectations. Perhaps he was not a very nice person. Perhaps he was an embarrassment who didn't know he was an embarrassment. Perhaps he was not the sort of person one enjoyed spending time with.

Recently, as the holidays once more approached, he began to wonder if he would receive an invitation from his brother to spend Thanksgiving dinner with him and his family. In the past, he had invited himself on such occasions, but felt uncomfortable doing this. One year he tried cooking Thanksgiving dinner himself. He invited his brother, but his brother did not come.

Christmas was likewise problematic. He did not want to invite himself to houses where, he suspected, he was not really wanted. Yet previous experience had shown him Christmas would come and go and no invitation would be forthcoming.

Pondering these things, he decided to do nothing. He had learned, the hard way, that you could not force people to love you. It would either happen or it wouldn't. No amount of wishing and hoping would change that fact of life.

He knew also that people who love each other found ways to show it. There were phone calls, visits, cards, letters, Christmas presents, text messages. He looked back on the few calls and letters he had received from his family and realized that perhaps they had other priorities, other interests, that he should not fault them for this, but rather ... do nothing.

So this boy, who once cried while watching sentimental TV shows about nice families, who tried to force other families to adopt him and love him and heal him and include him, who ran far, far away from home looking for love, looking for someone who cared, who could help him make sense of his life—this boy, this unhappy child, this confused adult, this man whose life was marred by devastating self-doubts and self-loathing, this man who tried many times to kill himself because he could not stand the pain of being who he was, the pain of being so alone in the world—this man finally decided to let it go. And to do … nothing.

But before embarking on that path, he wanted to find a way to let people know why he no longer called, no longer visited, no longer seemed to care. He wanted them to know it wasn't their fault, that he realized he was broken in ways no one could fix and that he no longer blamed them for that.

Most of all, he wanted them to know he kept his distance because it was too painful to do otherwise. This, too, he had learned the hard way. There were some people in the world who were toxic poison. No matter how much he loved and cared for them, it was best to stay away if only for his own peace of mind. He had spent far too much time dealing with such people to believe that anything good could come from it. Just the opposite had shown itself to be true. Let sleeping dogs lie. Let the dead bury the dead. He had learned those painful lessons very well.

With the holidays once again fast approaching, he resolved to address the matter once and for all. He sat down and wrote a short story. He addressed envelopes, mailed out copies. He hoped his story would be a way of saying what couldn't be said. He hoped the format of a story would convey more than ordinary words were capable of.

Mostly, he hoped the point of the story would be clear: There are things in the world that, once broken, can never be fixed. Things like children, men, women, yes, but also families and institutions and even foundational relationships like parent-child and brother-brother. Some things, once shattered, can never be put back together, can never again serve their original purpose. They can never again be what they were.

He hoped this understanding, this insight, would eventually comfort them as it had comforted him.

• Nick Wilgus is the bestselling author of MINDFULNESS AND MURDER and many other novels and screenplays. 

Letter to an unknown son or daughter

Hi there.

You don't know me yet, but someday you will (or so I hope). Right now you're "in care" - perhaps a foster home or a group home or some other setting which is temporary and not your final destination. Most likely your parents messed up. Drugs. Drinking. Crime. Some form of abuse took place. Or perhaps your parents died or were, for reasons perhaps unknown to you, unable to care for you. Somehow or other, you were let down, and you wound up "in care."

You're probably wondering what the future could possibly hold. Must be rather scary. And also lonely.

There's no getting around it: It hurts when your parents let you down. It's like sailing along in the sea of life and suddenly you find yourself thrust into a life raft and left to fend for yourself while the ship that was your family sails off into the sunset without you.

Sucks.

Then a giant cargo ship comes along, plucks you from the cold waters, installs you in some tiny room while folks fill out paperwork and try to figure out what to do with you. You become part of a giant machine, a cog among a gazillion cogs, shuffled here and there as the cold, impersonal machine makes decisions on your ultimate fate. The people tending the machine try to do the best they can, but they face budget shortages, staff shortages, lack resources, money, time, and so you find yourself shuffled about as folks scramble to come up with something more substantial. You may wind up in situations that are not ideal but are the best that can be achieved given the circumstances.

Not very fair, but there it is.

You probably lay in bed at night and stare up at the ceiling and wonder if someone is thinking about you, if somebody wants to be your mom or dad, whether you'll have new brothers and sisters or perhaps be an only child, whether you'll have a new family -- and whether you'll like that family.

Each time the door opens, you probably wonder who will be standing there - and what they want from you. Will it be a mom and a dad? Or maybe just a mom? Or just a dad? Or will it be a social worker saying it's time for you to move on to the next thing - the next foster family, the next group home, the next destination that the giant machine has decided for you.

Perhaps you think no one will ever come for you at all.

And then, one day, out of the blue, the door will open and I'll be standing there.

I should tell you up front that I know all about that giant machine taking care of you because I'm caught up in it too. See, the only way for someone like me to find someone like you is to crawl into the belly of that beast and do battle.

The very first thing the machine did to me was fingerprint me. Then they sent my fingerprints out to see what would happen. Would I show up on any criminal reports? Perhaps the sex offender database? Perhaps on some police report somewhere?

And on it went, one thing after the next. I can' t tell you how many forms I filled out, how many questions I answered, how many background checks I went through. Then I took a bunch of parenting classes and training sessions. Then the machine visited my home several times and had a good look around, wanting to be sure that it would be good enough for someone like you. Did I have running water? A nice bed and a nice room for you? Were the floors clean? Did the toilet flush properly? Did I have fire alarms and fire extinguishers in case there was a fire? Did I have an emergency plan in place in case there was a tornado or some other disaster? Did I understand that a child should never be spanked for any reason? Did I have friends willing to write letters of recommendation on my behalf, willing to verify that I would make a good parent?

They talked to everyone in my life. Even my boss was asked to weigh in.

All of this was done to make sure you would be placed in a safe, good home and that you'd have an adult in your life determined to make sure that nothing bad happened to you ever again. Because the machine knows - and I know, too -- that something bad has happened to you. Someone, somewhere, let you down. Life, circumstances, fate, karma -- somehow or other, you got the short end of the stick. It's the machine's job to pick you up, carry you a while, then drop you off at a place where you can live again, a place that you can call home, in the care of someone, or perhaps several someones, who want to be your family.

So ... on that day, when I'm standing there in your doorway -- when we're looking at each other and sizing each other up and wondering what it all means -- on that day both you and I will step off the machine. The social workers will still visit and there will still be forms to fill out, but when we disembark from the machine and go to the parking lot and get into my vehicle, an entirely new chapter in your life -- and my life -- will unfold.

If it all goes according to plan, it will be a very nice chapter.

I'm writing this letter because I know what it's like to lie in bad at night and wonder if someone is thinking about you. Fact is, when I was your age, someone let me down too, and I have a pretty good idea of how you must feel.

So I wanted you to know that yes, someone is indeed thinking about you, and planning for your future, and waiting for the day they can meet you and start being your mom, or your dad, or your family. Someone has spent a lot of time inside the belly of that beast doing battle, getting ready, buying furniture for your new room, getting everything ready. Someone's been thinking about you every single day.

Before I close this letter, I'll tell you a secret. You might be scared, but that someone thinking about you is probably scared too. Probably scared a lot. You might be wondering if they're going to like you. But they're going to be wondering whether you like them.

You see, they want the best for you. They know some bad things have happened to you, and they don't want you to be hurt anymore. They want you to have a good life, a safe life, a life filled with the love and care that you deserve. Of course, it's easy to talk about such things, but doing it is far more difficult. Takes work. A lot of work. You both have to work at it. You both have to be on board and ready to roll up your sleeves and make it work.

Me, my sleeves are rolled up and I'm ready to give it my all. And what I know is this: If you're willing to do the same, we're going to be a huge success.

Right now, as I write this, I don't know who you are. I don't know if you're a boy or a girl. I don't know your name. I don't know anything about you. Yet I'm thinking about you.

It makes me sad that there are so many kids like you. I wish I could help all of you. I can't. What I can do -- and what I will do, if the machine allows me -- is help one of you.

And I'll tell you another secret: There's a lot of people like me in the belly of that beast.

So ... chin up, okay? Someone's waiting for you. Someone's thinking about you. And, someday soon, someone will be standing there at your door. When that day comes, here's some advice: Give it your all. They say a fool will waste his tomorrows by looking back at yesterdays. Don't look back. Give it your all.

Nick Wilgus is the best-selling author of SHAKING THE SUGAR TREE and many other novels. 

My first suicide

Like too many other gay kids, I too once thought suicide was the only way out. 

I came of age during the late 1970s and early 1980s when we had a president (Reagan) who couldn't bring himself to say the word AIDS despite the alarming number of gay men dying from it. Jerry Falwell and the Moral Majority were gaining steam and a tiny group from the Westboro Baptist Church began to protest at funerals for victims of AIDS by carrying signs that read GOD HATES FAGS and FAGS DIE/GOD LAUGHS.

I had learned what every child learns: It's okay to be yourself just as long as you're like everybody else.

The child of a broken home, I faced the terrors of being gay alone with no support from family or church. It was a confusing, frightening time, and one evening, when I could stand it no longer, I decided it was time to end it.

I was a cutter. That was another word one didn't hear at the time. It was a strange, mysterious thing to cut yourself with razor blades, to watch yourself bleed. Surely no sane person would do such a thing and the idea that one engaged in cutting as a way to take control of one's own body was quite unheard of. 

I dabbled in suicide too. Half-hearted attempts. 

But that night ... 

I had purchased three boxes of sleeping pills. I popped them two and three at a time until I could swallow no more. I managed about 40 pills in all. Then I lay down on my back on the bed and waited. 

After ten or fifteen minutes, I realized that if I was going to save myself, I was going to have to get up, call someone, go the emergency room, do something.

But I did not. I had made my decision and was sticking with it. So I lay there, thinking I would simply fall asleep and that would be it. I was not afraid of going to hell. My life was already hell. What difference would it make?

Why did I want to die?

It wasn't just being gay, although that was part of it, especially the intense shaming I received at the hands of the Catholics. I felt ashamed of myself, humiliated and certainly not loved by God. I felt like a moral failure. 

But it wasn't just the whole problem of being gay. It was the broken home, being let down by parents, the childhood abuse, the violence, the neglect, the agony of trying to parent yourself and survive when you have no idea what's going on inside you and all around you.

But a funny thing happened on the way to my doom. I had apparently watched too many television movies. I didn't realize that over the counter sleeping pills could not kill you. You needed prescription-strength stuff for that. Barbiturates, they were called. 

Not only did I not fall asleep, I could not sleep at all. I was completely wide awake. I felt a weird sensation in my chest. Later, I would discover that by lying there for so long on my back, the pills had gotten stuck and burned a hole in my esophagus. I still have trouble eating spicy foods.

At some point, I got up and played records. The next morning I went to work and never told a soul about it. 

In fact, I've never told anyone about that little escapade ever. 

Until now.

I'm glad I failed at both that attempt and several subsequent attempts. My life would have much different if I hadn't. 

Which brings me to the point of this post, which is tell you a little bit about Bilal Abu, the young Muslim boy in BILAL'S BREAD. Bilal's story of intense homophobia at the hands of fundamentalist brother isn't my story. But then again, it is. Bilal is a cutter. The victim of sexual abuse, he somehow cottoned on to the fact that by punishing his body, he could exert control over it, control that was denied by his abuser. By hurting himself, he could make the decision about when the pain would end. 

Bilal also faces the problem of coming to terms with his sexuality. A quiet boy, he finds it hard to speak up for himself, to make himself heard. And how can he? The voices in his household are so loud and so strong, he is easily overpowered. (And what was a young gay man like myself to do when confronted with Rev. Fred Phelps and his protesters screaming that GOD HATES FAGS?  What do you do when your church thinks you're a pervert who's not much different from someone who likes to have sex with dead bodies? How do you make yourself heard when no one is listening?)

Eventually Bilal finds his voice. It happens when his school participates in a poetry hoe-down sponsored by the school district. He decides to get up and read a poem. 

I want to share that poem with you. It was written a long time ago, but it still rings true. 

If you've ever thought suicide was the way out, I want to assure you it's not. What needs to die is "homophobia" and bigotry and the lies we tell ourselves about who we are and what God thinks of us.

The truth will set you free, but sometimes you will pay dearly. But it's worth it. 

MY FIRST SUICIDE

my first suicide

was on an evening in July
and pills were the plan
they were sticky in my hand
as I, in twos and threes
gulped them down with Lipton tea
but death was not to be
not yet
not for me

then came razor blades
as further murder plans were made
to end my misery
to bleed my way to peace
and I, despite my best
created only one more mess
and death was not to be
not yet
not for me

these empty places, empty spaces
all these holes that must be filled
how much better, how much faster
if this body I had killed
instead it’s endless hours
endless days and endless haze
as bit by bit and piece by piece
I make my way to my release
and I, despite my best
long to die and take my rest
but death is not to be

not yet
no, not for me

you see:
you got the ball, I got the chain
you got the sun, I got the rain
you live in light, I live in pain
for me to die would be to gain
I know such words ought not be spoken
just as true things rarely are
and what’s the use of too much hoping
when each day brings yet more scars?
yet hope I do, I can’t resist
I long to know much more than this
I long to know some happiness

a chance is all I’m asking
a chance to do my best
a chance to love somebody
to put my heart to rest

you tell me I’m not normal
you tell me that I’m queer
you tell me that the folks like me
aren’t really wanted here
you tell me it’s a crime
if I should feel the way I feel
you say my love is shameful
there’s no way it could be real
but then, how would you know
when these shoes, you’ve never worn
but still that doesn’t stop you
oh how easy falls the scorn
the hatred and rejection
how they wound and how I bleed
cause love is not to be
it’s not allowed for folks like me

well, where then should I go
back to pills and razor blades?
and what then should I do
to take this pain away?

and would it make you happy
if you put me in the ground
if you silenced me forever
with that silence so profound?

Still I, despite despair
offer up this fervent prayer
that death is not to be
not yet
not for me
the kind that comes from trying
to be what I can’t be

you see:
my first suicide
was on an evening in July
and pills were the plan
they were sticky in my hand
and only now when I look back
do I understand
why life was meant to be
why the truth can set you free

so let truth be spoken here and now for all to hear
let the truth be said
I am queer
Yes, I am queer

And let this be a suicide
a death to lies and my deceit
a death to furtive hiding
a death to dishonesty
cause life is meant to be
both for you ...
but also for me

So you don't like gay marriage?

So you don't like gay marriage.You have religious objections. You think marriage should only be between a man and a woman. You're not alone. The Anglicans recently got mad at the Episcopalians over this.

My question to you is this: If not gay marriage, then what?

Please consider this question. Please go deeply into it. Consider the ramifications. Consider what it is you say you want. If it's important enough to you to disown a family member who might be gay, or to vote for legislation to take away rights from millions of people, then please spend a few minutes considering what it is you are asking for - what it means, how it will affect real lives, the impact it will have on the society you live in.

If gay people are not to get married, then what are they to do?

Older gays and lesbians can tell you exactly what they will do because we've already done it.

Most will escape to the "gay ghetto," which revolves around gay bars, drugs, alcohol, casual sex, bath houses, addictions, pornography, prostitution. They will run off to larger cities where these gay ghettos exist. They will abandon your churches and communities. They will become distant, withdrawn, isolated.

On the other hand, gay marriage provides an alternative. It allows a young man or a young woman to find a partner of their own choosing, with whom they can be happy. They can be open about their commitment to their partner. They can make their wedding promises in full view of family, friends, the community (who will then help them to keep those promises). They can buy a house, settle down, live normal lives.

If my child was gay, I know which option I would prefer. Religion doesn't enter it. Whether I agreed with his choice or not, I would want him close at hand. I would want to meet his partner. I would want to be involved in their lives. I would want them to feel welcomed in my church. I would want society to give them the same chances and opportunities that all couples enjoy.

I would not want my child running off to the big city, slinking around in the shadows in the dead of night, wasting his life on drugs and alcohol. I would not want him marginalized. I would not want him to have relationship troubles and not feel he could ask me for advice.

Opponents of gay marriage need to consider the realities on the ground and the effect their religious beliefs have on others. If gay marriage is not an option, they need to provide an alternative because, like it or not, gay people are going to get together and have relationships.

The tide is turning. Even the First Baptist Church in Memphis has gotten on board. Gay marriage has become the law of the land, religious objections notwithstanding, precisely because it allow gays and lesbians to come out of the shadows and live more normal, fuller lives. In the grand scheme of things, this can only lead to stronger families and communities. 

Sleeping with the enemy

Lately, I've been thinking about leaving the church I've belonged to since I was a teenager, the church where I became a religious brother (until I was asked to leave when I admitted to being gay), the church whose rituals, whose smells and bells, have been the one constant over the course of an often difficult life.

It's not that I want to. It just feels too much like sleeping with the enemy. Each time I drop a donation in the collection plate, I feel like I'm supporting an organization that treats me abusively, that does not value me the way it does its straight members.

Just today, I stumbled across a story from late 2014 about Cardinal Raymond Burke, who advised parents not to invite gay couples to family gatherings when children are around.

Burke said:

‘If homosexual relationships are intrinsically disordered, which indeed they are … then what would it mean to grandchildren to have present at a family gathering a family member who is living [in] a disordered relationship with another person?

‘If it were another kind of relationship – something that was profoundly disordered and harmful – we wouldn’t expose our children to that relationship, to the direct experience of it.

‘And neither should we do it in the context of a family member who not only suffers from same-sex attraction, but who has chosen to live out that attraction, to act upon it, committing acts which are always and everywhere wrong, evil.’

Burke has put his finger on the pulse of my problem: Many members of my church feel that "practicing homosexuals" are committing acts that are "always and everywhere wrong, evil." 

Yet he has nothing to say about young couples "living together in sin" (once upon a time this was known as fornication and is mentioned in the Bible rather frequently), or couples who have been divorced and remarried. He does not warn parents to keep their children away from masturbators and pursuers of pornogtraphy. No, his scorn, his contempt, is reserved only for homosexuals. 

He is careful to distinguish between "practicing homosexuals" and those not involved in sexual relationships, but few make this distinction. The effect of his words is to tar all gay folks with the same brush. So when Mom and Dad sit down to plan Christmas dinner, they are advised by the cardinal to make sure to exclude a son or daughter who might be homosexual because ... well, that is the question, isn't it?

Recently there was a story about a Catholic priest who was fired from his ministry at a college in New Jersey for supporting the No H8 Campaign. Is that the message my church wants to send, that a priest who stands shoulder to shoulder with the "least of these" will lose his job? 

These are not isolated events. Such stories appear every day.

While there are indeed many Catholics in the church who support its LGBT sons and daughters, sadly, there are many in the hierarchy who do not. 

Consequently, like many LGBT Catholics, I find myself thinking it's time to leave, that, for my own spiritual well being, I really ought to leave. 

I attend Sunday mass at a small church in a rural town. Never once have I been made to feel uncomfortable. No one has ever said a word about my sexuality. I am treated decently and compassionately.  

And yet, there is something wrong. 

Some folks go to church to have their "batteries" recharged; I come away feeling that mine have been drained. I do not feel lifted up, or spiritually refreshed. Rather, I am left with the curious feeling that the "good news" of the Gospel was meant for others - parents with their kids, older couples, grandfathers and grandmothers, not people like me. Not people who are "intrinsically disordered" as I am. Not people of questionable morals. 

Some folks enjoy the social aspect, the meet and greet; I avoid these occasions because I've learned the hard way that there is something about me that is deeply troubling, perhaps even distasteful to some people. So I keep to myself and always feel like I've crashed a party that I wasn't invited to. 

I am very much aware that the folks in the pews around me are there to further their own spiritual lives. But what about my spiritual life? Am I not entitled to one? Are the "same-sex attractions" I experience the only thing about me worth noting? Do I not have a soul too? Do I not deserve the spiritual encouragement and uplifting that is offered so freely to parents, to children, to the elderly? 

I often wonder what it would be like to have a church family that welcomed me, that was not afraid of me, not afraid to acknowledge me from the pulpit, not afraid to discuss the issues that have such a deep impact on my life. Seems to me it would be an amazing experience -- to go to church and be surrounded by supportive people, to worship together, to contribute my talents and gifts just like anyone else and not always be singled out as someone of questionable morals. 

How is it that I am now 51 years old, and have never experienced this? 

When St. Peter was given charge of the church, he was told -- three times -- by Jesus to "Feed my sheep." Why is it that I am always left with the feeling that I have not been fed, that the church has nothing to offer me except condemnation and perhaps pity, that it sees nothing about me except a "disordered" sexuality? 

An abusive relationship is one in which your needs are not being met, where you're not free to state your needs, where you're not free to speak for fear of the consequences, where you live in fear of what might happen, what might be done to you if you don't measure up, or keep quiet, or toe the party line. In an abusive relationship, one does not feel properly valued and acknowledged. There is no mutual exchange of respect, love and encouragement. One person always lives in fear of the other, lives in the fear of love being withdrawn, or the fear of being punished, the fear of saying the wrong thing or doing the wrong thing, and bringing down the wrath of the abuser on one's head.  

How can genuine spiritual work be done in such an atmosphere? 

How can the "love of God" be authentically experienced when it comes from the hands of people who are simultaneously abusing you?

A private spirituality is fine and dandy, but a genuine spirituality must be communal, must involve the give and take of others, of a community. Within the framework of community, one discovers who one really is. 

The church's LGBT sons and daughters are handicapped in this regard because they are not free to be themselves. To admit to being what they are is to admit to some moral, irresolvable failing. A cloud will always hang over their heads. How can they live authentic lives and experience an authentic spirituality when they are not allowed to be authentic? 

Hence, my dilemma.

I don't want to leave the church, but there are times when I think my spiritual sanity and well being depend on it. 

The church has been a wonderful place for so many groups of people. It could be a wonderful, uplifting place for gay people too -- but it does not want to be. 

How can I continue to support a church that does not support me, that does not feed me, that has no answers for people like me, that condemns me for a reality that I did not choose, that I find just as bewildering as it does?

Where is all this "good news" that the Gospel was supposed to bring -- and when will the church get around to sharing it with its LGBT sons and daughters? Or must we stand on the sidelines and forever remain second class citizens who need to be content with whatever crumbs from the table that might get thrown?

Are the media in Mississippi sitting out another civil rights battle?

As I paid for my newly-printed super-duper press kit announcing the release of my latest book, I knew I was wasting my money - and I was not wrong.

The press release was intended for publications and media outlets in the state of Mississippi where I live. I hoped to announce to my fellow citizens the release of SHAKING THE SUGAR TREE, a romantic-comedy novel about a gay single father whose deaf son helps him find a boyfriend.

Here's how it works: When a company or an individual wants or needs press attention, one writes a press release and attaches appropriate documents - an author's photo, a photo of the book cover, graphics, whatnot. As a former newspaper editor, I am quite familiar with the flow of press releases that come over the transom. Editors must pick and choose, of course, because there's simply not enough room to print all of them. Some press releases are more newsworthy than others. Some have clearly been put together by deranged lunatics. Others announce new services in the community of interest to readers, company expansions, new restaurants, art shows, the latest releases at the cinema.

I knew, going in, that the competition was fierce, but I had to ask myself: How many Mississippi authors have released a novel lately? Doesn't Mississippi pride itself on its authors? And wouldn't newspapers in my own backyard -- even the one in my home town -- want to share my happy news with their readers about a local who did good and got a book published?

A month has gone by, and thus far, the answer seems to be ... "apparently not."

Does it have anything to do with the main character being gay? Is the great state of Mississippi not ready to cope with the fact that gay people exist? Do these media outlets believe that ignoring the lives, struggles and achievements of gay people will make the whole "gay thing" go away?

I spent a year editing a small newspaper in Mississippi. I know the answers to my questions. Most newspapers and media outlets here are so dependent on advertisers to survive they are reluctant to run stories that might offend people, that might challenge the status quo, that might raise uncomfortable questions or issues. They are extremely cautious and not a little timid.

Perhaps their survival depends on it. I understand that. What bothers me is the perception created among readers when the news media shies away from controversy. If we don't talk about gay people, it's easy to pretend they don't exist, or they're not important, or that they have nothing to say. If we don't talk about gay people, how are we going to deal with bigotry and prejudice and move Mississippi into the 21st century?

More generally, if newspapers are not allowed to talk about the realities on the ground, how can their readers consider themselves informed? What's the point of buying a newspaper if all it does is confirm the status quo and refuses to educate readers about the issues of the day?  Are Mississippi media consumers content to be spoon-fed this daily diet of the status quo, or do they, perhaps, want something more?

Not all media outlets are so timid, of course. Mississippi Public Broadcasting (MPB) is a good source for news, and I'm quite fond of the Jackson Free Press and blogs like Deep South Progressive. We need more media outlets like these. A lot more.




I mailed out twenty press packets to media outlets near and far. I also emailed some personal contacts in the media business -- people I've met, people I've worked with, people I've encountered on Facebook.

Thus far, I have heard back from two people.

One fellow somewhat sheepishly told me that the owner of his publication was a fundamentalist Christian who wouldn't touch my press release with a 200-foot ice pick.

The other agreed to have a look at a review copy of my book, which I supplied at my own expense. If this person liked the book, I might hope for a review or perhaps a small mention.

And what of the folks at the newspaper where I worked for a year? They didn't respond at all.






So. 

Is my book, perhaps, so awful, so poorly written, so utterly lacking in any literary merit whatsoever that no decent person would dare mention it in polite company?

Apparently not. Not if the folks leaving reviews on Amazon.com and Goodreads.com are anything to go by. The vast majority of my reviews have been a solid five stars.

Here's what Susan65 on Amazon said:

"Nothing I can say will ever come close to adequately describing the brilliant awesomeness that is this book. I feel like I hit the reader’s jackpot and am a better person, a better reader, and a better reviewer for having the privilege of experiencing the life that is Wiley Cantrell, and by extension, Jackson Ledbetter and their son, Noah. It’s not very often a book gets a strangle hold on me but this one grabbed me from the get-go, and wow, what a strong grip that wouldn’t let go." 

Many readers have gone on in similar veins. Even Jonathan Odell, Mississippi author of The Healing, was enthusiastic:

"I LOVE Nick Wilgus’s touching, hilarious, heart-breaking, over-the-top but totally believable gem of a novel. These characters, and the perfectly lyrical language they speak, won’t quit you just because you finish the book. They’ll move into your heart and take up residence."

The kind souls at The Tipsy Bibliophile were very kind:

"Recommend it completely and it is solidly in my all time favorites list. Wiley, Noah and all their people are unforgettable." 




Since the media in Mississippi are holding their tongues, allow me to use this blog post to announce the release of my new novel, SHAKING THE SUGAR TREE, published by DreamSpinner Press. 

Here's a peek at the cover:

Here's the blurb:

Wise-cracking Wiley Cantrell is loud and roaringly outrageous—and he needs to be to keep his deeply religious neighbors and family in the Deep South at bay. A failed writer on food stamps, Wiley works a minimum wage job and barely manages to keep himself and his deaf son, Noah, more than a stone’s throw away from Dumpster-diving.

Noah was a meth baby and has the birth defects to prove it. He sees how lonely his father is and tries to help him find a boyfriend while Wiley struggles to help Noah have a relationship with his incarcerated mother, who believes the best way to feed a child is with a slingshot. No wonder Noah becomes Wiley’s biggest supporter when Boston nurse Jackson Ledbetter walks past Wiley’s cash register and sets his sugar tree on fire.

Jackson falls like a wet mule wearing concrete boots for Wiley’s sense of humor. And while Wiley represents much of the best of the South, Jackson is hiding a secret that could threaten this new family in the making.

When North meets South, the cultural misunderstandings are many, but so are the laughs, and the tears, but, as they say down in Dixie, it’s all good.

SHAKING THE SUGAR TREE is available in both print and ebook formats.

Order here.




Just because my book features a gay character doesn't make it a bad book. SHAKING THE SUGAR TREE is all about family, love, needing someone, meeting someone, struggling to survive, raising a special-needs child. It's funny. It's heart-breaking. It's universal.

I don't fool myself into thinking that the publication of one book in the state of Mississippi is an earth-shaking event that demands the attention of the media. It's not. Many books have been published over the years, and have no doubt received the same indifference.

My point is this: Mississippi has a choice. If it wants to know about gay people, it can do what it has always done and tune into Bryan Fischer and the American Family Association and be told how horrible and disgusting we are.

Or -- here's a thought -- it could let its gay residents speak for themselves.

It could pay attention to filmmaker Diana Salameh, who is working on a documentary about gay people in Mississippi called A RAINBOW OVER MISSISSIPPI.

It could write about Papa Peachez, a gay rapper and musician in Jackson who recently released an album called ALLONE.

It could spare a few column inches now and again for Mississippi writers like Kevin Sessums, who wrote MISSISSIPPI SISSY.

And, on the rare chance that a Mississippi writer bases a novel in Tupelo and writes about being a gay parent, it might consider setting aside one of the paragraphs in the news briefs column for a small bit of recognition. It might even want to do a book review.

After all, we're here and we're Mississippians, and our lives, struggles and accomplishments are just as important as our neighbors. And we're perfectly capable of speaking for ourselves.

To its shame, Mississippi sat on the back bench during the Civil Rights struggle in the 1960s.

Will it do so again as another battle rages? 

It's time to end the American Family Association's one-sided conversation on gay rights

As an openly gay man living in the reddest of the Red States, I can be forgiven for spending an unhealthy amount of time thinking about Bryan Fischer and the American Family Association. Headquartered not far from where I work in Tupelo, an omnipresent voice all over the radio, with a daily tsunami of Facebook posts and tweets, Bryan Fischer and the AFA, like magnolia trees and dry counties and Duck Dynasty, are inescapable facts of life in the state of Mississippi.

Bryan Fischer, host of FOCAL POINT

When I moved here three years ago, I could not fathom how it was legal for Bryan Fischer to go on public airwaves and say, on an almost daily basis, the most disparaging and woefully ignorant things about gay people. Comparing them to Nazis, suggesting they were responsible for the Holocaust, calling them a danger to public health, a threat to religious liberty, a threat to the economic well being of the United States, routinely classifying them with pedophiles, deeming homosexuality a “sexual sickness” and just as dangerous as addiction to hard drugs, talking about how we can either have religious liberty or homosexuality, but not both – day after day, the tide of myth,misinformation and just plain foolishness was hard to stomach.

But harder to stomach was the apathy of Mississippians who shrug and sigh and seem to believe there is nothing to be done even though Bryan Fischer and the AFA have earned themselves a hate group designation from the Southern Poverty Law Center.

Protected by the right to free speech and freedom of religion, wrapping their myth and misinformation in religious garb and calling American Family Radio programs like Bryan Fischer’s FOCAL POINT a “ministry,” they are a monolithic entity safely removed from the consequences of their actions.

I have watched in disbelief as most local media outlets, when they report on gay rights (rather rare, to be sure), go microphone in hand to the AFA for a comment—as if there were no other religious or spiritual leaders in north Mississippi they could talk to.  I find it incredibly offensive that anyone would care what a hate group would have to say about a complex issue like gay marriage. Even more offensive is the media’s failure to seek out other voices on such issues, as if the AFA alone had some sort of monopoly on the gay rights conversation. But then the AFA has been having a one-sided conversation on gay rights since it was founded back in 1977.

When I inquire as to why no one will speak out against the AFA, I am frequently told that one does not mess with them. It’s as if they were some sort of mafia organization, as if one might wake up one day with concrete boots while being tossed into a swamp for having the audacity to have one’s own point of view.

When I started a Facebook page (Stuff the American Family Association Says) designed to document the hate speech coming out of the AFA, I was warned to be careful.

Why, I wanted to know.

Just be careful, I was told.  

Really? Am I supposed to be afraid of an organization that calls itself Christian? Are they going to break the law, or do something unchristian to me?

How very odd.

Yet I’ve noticed how silent politicians and elected officials are with regard to the AFA. I’ve also noticed that local media outlets don’t mention the fact that the AFA was designated a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center, as if ignoring that fact of life might make it go away. Or are they afraid of offending and losing advertisers?

My Facebook page has not exactly been a rousing success. As of this writing, only about one hundred and fifty souls have been brave enough to click “like” on my page. Some people have sent private messages stating they cannot “like” my page for fear that people on their friends’ lists will find out. Are we back in grade school? Are we not allowed to have our own opinions?

Last year, a small group of hardy souls organized a protest march in front of the AFA headquarters in downtown Tupelo. We were about two dozen, in all. We were largely ignored by the media – as if a protest against the AFA right on their own front door was somehow not news, or not newsworthy.

While the AFA believes itself protected by free speech and freedom of religion, so are the rest of us. We have just as much of a right to engage in this conversation as they do. As a gay man, in fact, I would argue that I have more of a right to speak my mind than they do. This is an issue that affects me directly. This is an issue I have struggled with for decades.

I listen to American Family Radio frequently, but I have never once heard them talk to a gay man about the issue of homosexuality. What are they afraid of?

No doubt they have enjoyed their one-sided conversation on this issue. But isn’t it time to hear the other side? Isn’t it time for gay Mississippians – and there are many of them – to speak up, to speak out, to tell their stories, to tell the truth about what it means to be gay or lesbian or transgender? Might we not be allowed to hear from other spiritual and religious leaders? Is there no room in Mississippi for alternative points of view?

Bryan Fischer hides behind his microphone and religion. I wonder how comfortable he would feel if challenged to a public debate on the issue of homosexuality. Since the man talks about homosexuality almost every single day, surely he would relish the opportunity to demolish an articulate gay rights advocate like John Shore or Dan Savage.

No?

And that’s the point.

Fischer and the AFA are, in my opinion, cowardly bullies who hide behind religion and radio dials and Facebook posts and tweets. They are interested only in a one-sided conversation. They do not seem to realize they are talking about real people, a great many of whom live next door to them, in their own communities, people who attend their churches, who rub elbows with them at the grocery store. They seem oblivious to the harm caused by their hate speech and demonization of others.

I will continue my no doubt woefully inadequate efforts to document their hate speech and provide an alternative point of view and I will do so because it’s important for young members of the LGBT community to realize that Bryan Fischer does not speak for everyone in this state.

I am not afraid of the AFA; neither should you be. We have the right to decide our own religious beliefs. We have the right to free speech and we are entitled to our own opinions. We do not live under a fascist dictatorship where the AFA talks and the rest of us do nothing but listen.

We live in a free country.

Don’t we?

We’re Americans.

Aren’t we?

Our fathers and forefathers did not fight for our freedoms so that organizations like the American Family Association could run roughshod over the rights of fellow citizens. They fought, and many times died, to preserve our right to hold our own religious beliefs and to speak our minds on issues that matter to us.

I do not believe the AFA speaks for everyone in the state of Mississippi. They may be a powerful organization and there may be good reasons to fear their retaliation. And they may well run the table on the gay rights conversation in the magnolia state. But they are not the only ones with a point of view.

It is way past time for Mississippians to shake off the dust of apathy and indifference in the face of this massive and daily assault on the rights and dignity of fellow Mississippians.

Gay people are not child-molesting, goat-buggering, disease-ridden threats to religious life and limb. We are sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, created by the same God and entitled to the same rights and dignities as everyone else in this great country.

It’s high time we acted like it.

What the duck?

So, what's wrong with Duck Commander Phil Robertson going Biblical with his views on homosexuality?

Nothing. 

Not one single, solitary thing. 

His religious views are not substantially different from many Christians all over the world, including the pope in Rome. 

But it wasn't his religious views that caused the Quack Heard Across the Globe.

Here's what he actually said during the GQ interview:

“Start with homosexual behavior and just morph out from there. Bestiality, sleeping around with this woman and that woman and that woman and those men,” he says. Then he paraphrases Corinthians: “Don’t be deceived. Neither the adulterers, the idolaters, the male prostitutes, the homosexual offenders, the greedy, the drunkards, the slanderers, the swindlers—they won’t inherit the kingdom of God. Don’t deceive yourself. It’s not right.”

It takes just eleven words to find the problem. When the topic turns to homosexuality, he immediately throws out the word "bestiality," linking homosexual behavior and bestiality as if they were of a piece, as if the relationship between two gay men or two gay women, between two consenting adults who love and cherish each other, was no different than a redneck having sex with a donkey. 

That's the problem.

Members of the LGBT community are no strangers to this type of talk. We are routinely classified as sexual perverts, and homosexuality, we are told, is not substantially different than sexual perversions like pedophilia, bestiality and necrophilia. 

As a child growing up during the 1970s, I remember very well looking up the word "homosexuality" in the dictionary and finding it classified as a sexual perversion, "akin to pedophilia, bestiality and necrophilia, which see."

I flipped the pages to look up those other words and was horrified to learn that the crush I had on Shaun Cassidy was no different than my wanting to have sex with a little kid, or a cow, or a dead body. Pretty heady stuff for a teenager in the throes of puberty. And not only heady, but shaming. Intensely, relentlessly, mindbogglingly shaming. And embarrassing. And humiliating. And psychologically damaging. 

Does it need to be said that the love two gay men or two gay women feel for each other is substantially different than someone having sex with a corpse? Do we really need to explain how deeply misinformed, ignorant and offensive such thinking is? 

Apparently we do. 

Folks like Phil Robertson, pontificating on Bible verses and taking a stand for Jesus, routinely throw out comparisons to pedophilia and bestiality. Presidential candidate Rick Santorum is famed for talking about gay marriage as something that will lead to the "man on dog" thing. Evangelicals constantly warn that gay marriage will lead to people wanting to marry their pets, or their children, or their brothers or sisters or ... fill in the blank.

Well, you say, so what? What's the big deal?

I'll tell you what the big deal is.

Love.

Surprise, surprise, gay people want to be loved, too. They want to fall in love, experience intimacy and romance, have sex, commit themselves to each other, create families, live normal lives.

By constantly suggesting that gay love is a sexual perversion like bestiality, religious types are striking right at the heart (so to speak) of a person, hitting them right in the place where they feel, where they find meaning and hope and happiness. They are striking at the core of an individual and his or her ability to love, to receive love, to interact with the community, to be a human being. By dismissing as perversion their romantic feelings, their attractions to members of the same sex, they are killing the souls of such people. 

They are suggesting that these feelings of love and affection among gay people are disgusting and unworthy, perverted, sinful, so terrible that such feelings ought to be denied. They are doing this, not because there is any scientific or medical evidence to support it, but because they believe the Bible condemns homosexuality. They are teaching young gay men and women to hate themselves, to hate their feelings, to hate the truth about themselves, to shut themselves off from the love and affection of others like them. The psychological, spiritual and sociological consequences are predictable:  Alienation, suicidal ideation, low self-esteem, self-doubt, self-loathing, loneliness, and ultimately, despair. And as a final kick in the pants, young gay men and women are expected to believe that this is what the God of love wants for them: A life of loneliness and pain and rejection and humiliation and shame. 

Monstrous ignorance, from start to finish, as so many members of the gay community have painfully learned. 

Read those words again:

“Start with homosexual behavior and just morph out from there. Bestiality ..."
It takes but six little words for Robertson to jump from "homosexual behavior" to "bestiality." As if they were so intrinsically linked, he couldn't mention one without the other. 

This type of talk is so common among evangelicals as to be uninteresting. But that doesn't make it right. That doesn't redeem it from being what it is: Hate speech. 

Hate speech is the use of words to demonize groups of people. Suggesting that two men who love each other is not at all different than a horny farmer raping his goat is demonization. It's a display of shocking ignorance and stupidity which has nothing to do with supposed Biblical teachings on sexuality and everything to do with bigotry and prejudice.

It's wrong.

Many, many churches carry on a conversation about homosexuality without resorting to demonization and hate speech. It is possible to talk about religious beliefs on homosexuality without needlessly offending people. But the moment you stray from your beliefs and start talking about gay people as being no better than pedophiles or people who like to have sex with goats, you are no longer having a conversation on your religious beliefs: You are engaging in highly offensive exercise in ignorance and bigotry. And you can, and should, be made to face the consequences. 

No one argues with Robertson's right to free speech and no one is suggesting that he is not entitled to his own religious beliefs. But when free speech turns into hate speech, and religious belief turns into ignorant demonization of others, there is a problem.

Hate speech leads to hate crimes. Gay people can and do get fired from their jobs. Some have had their children taken away from them. Gay and lesbian teens are kicked out of their homes and left to fend for themselves on the streets.  Hate speech makes it easier for society to discriminate against gay people, take away their rights, violate their persons and property. Hardly what Jesus had in mind when he said we should do unto others what we would have done unto ourselves. This is not loving your neighbor as you love yourself. 

That this hate speech wraps itself in Christianity does not give it the protection of freedom of religion. Your religious beliefs are protected, but your belief that homosexuality is somehow the same as necrophilia is not supported by the Bible (or any authority, including science or common sense). When you talk about homosexuality being the same as bestiality, you are not having a conversation on religious belief. You are being an ignorant bigot, and we have the right to be offended.