My mother was a teacher and my father was a preacher.
Our family lived in Florence, Alabama,
a sleepy little river town of Baptists and artists.
Mostly Baptists.
Florence is quintessentially southern,
and growing up there is Sunday lunches after church,
Little League baseball and high school homecoming parades.
I made good grades, followed all the rules and even played football.
This made me a good southern son.
From a young age, we're taught to tell the truth,
but no one teaches us to tell our truth,
maybe an eating disorder or some childhood trauma,
or something simple like a love for art in a world full of jocks.
Nope. Nobody teaches us to tell those truths.
I began to uncover my truth at an early age.
It's a truth discovered alone, grappled with alone, denied alone
and, when you are young, it feels like a ball of lead in the soul,
both heavy and toxic.
This football-playing preacher's kid was gay!
What do you think it would feel like being a gay preacher's kid
in the American south?
Well, this was my two-ton truth, but telling it was not an option.
The good-old-boy ghost of southern culture was clear:
"Zip it up, lock it down. We don't talk about that down here, preacher boy."
I love my southern roots and I love the people I went to church with,
some of the best people on the planet,
but, in 1988,
a resolution was passed at a meeting of our national church leaders,
declaring homosexuality was "a manifestation of a depraved nature,
a pervasion of divine standards and an abomination."
This very fierce language was mimicked by lots of other religious organizations
in the 80s and 90s,
and those strong words did not go unnoticed by little ears in the pews.
To be gay is to be a unique minority,
living with a physiology you did not choose, in a tribe not your own,
amongst families that struggle to understand you.
And to be a gay person of faith in the American south
is its own unique challenge.
Flannery O'Connor famously wrote,
"While the south is hardly Christ-centered it is most certainly Christ-haunted."
To be gay in a community steeped in religion
is to know that you are welcome only if you remain single and celibate.
It's to feel forced to choose between spiritual faith and earthly love.
It's to beg God to change you,
hoping for a golden ticket into straightness.
And so, I made my way through high school and college with no dating, just denial.
I was serious about my faith,
hoping to one day discover a tonic of spiritual disciplines
that would cure me.
And, in the meantime, I perfected the art of numbing the pain:
work, work, work, nights out, big vacations
and the continual incantation,
"I don't need love, I don't need love, I don't need love."
Forget coping mechanisms. I had built a coping machine.
And it worked!
Until it didn't.
Some time around 30,
I woke up and realized all of my friends had moved on with their lives,
matriculating into the world of wedding dresses and children's birthday parties.
My loneliness grew and, as the sleepless nights began to add up,
I eventually gave up: I decided to stop hiding.
And, through one painful conversation after the other,
I began to come out to friends and family, most of whom were very religious.
The conversations were tough at first.
Red wine was my courage, Pepto-Bismol was my peace.
(Laughter)
For years, I had imagined the worst reactions,
with people freaking out and casting judgment,
but, each time, every time, I was met with love, and a tear,
and one of those lingering hugs you give someone who's been fighting a hard battle.
And so, in my 30s,
I finally, clumsily, stumbled my way into the light of telling my truth,
something I wish I'd done so much sooner.
Many people seem to think
that the religious folk of the south are fueled by hate,
but I know that's not true because I know these people.
They are wildly generous and kind beyond belief.
For centuries, they have been the ones helping the poor in our neighborhoods
and providing relief after disasters.
We need our faith communities and outsiders typecasting them as bigots
are peddling the fallacy of composition.
Vocal zealots do not represent the benevolent majority.
I don't think our faith communities have a problem with hate.
I think we have a problem with love.
We just haven't loved our LGBT children well!
(Applause)
We've not loved our LGBT children well.
We haven't listened.
We've offered theology before empathy.
We've protected a tabu that quietly boils kids in their own shame.
We haven't given them the space and the grace that we give everyone else,
and we've defended disembodied spiritual doctrines
while missing the actual bodies in our pews.
Kids in our religious communities dare not speak their truth, out of fear!
Many of them are struggling alone and we need to ask ourselves the question:
why is the word H-E-L-P so hard for them?
Now, the good news is that I see faith leaders rising up,
changing the conversation.
I see our churches pivoting,
as they have so many times across the centuries, towards love.
I see the rhetoric being replaced with a lexicon of grace.
I see people of faith learning a sacred song that keeps rhythm with orthodoxy,
while shouting a chorus of love.
And I see believers united, reminding every child,
"You are loved and you are lovely, and your future is incredibly bright ."
Thank you.
(Cheers) (Applause)
Thanks. Thank you.
(Applause) (Cheers)