Being raised in the rural south, not too far from a Southern Baptist
church and within five miles of a fundamentalist rattlesnake-grabbing
Holy Church of the Good and Sacred, my youth was spent perplexed by
the supposed relationship may parishioners had with their Lord and Savior.
It freaked me out, to be honest.
Maybe it was the struggles for power, the pettiness, the gossip and
the overall zealous cruelty and hatred that emanated from those Sunday
pulpits. Maybe I was naïve about how adults dealt with problems
and situations that were beyond the control. What I noticed was the
absurd social stratification that occurred at church. If Church was
supposed to be about praying, then why was it that all it seemed to
be about was who was out drinking on Friday night and whose daughter
was knocked up by some "Cath-o-lic?" Nothing is more terrifying
to a gay kid than growing up in a dry, Baptist-infested, just-this-side-of-Deliverance