Identifying as a Christian comes with a set of baggage all its own. As the loudest Christian voices spout rightwing ideology – including in opposition to same sex marriage, which the US supreme court legalized on Friday – the Catholic priest molestation scandals drag on and the Westboro Baptist Church continues to exist, Christianity’s numbers are sharply declining in the US. But last October, I – a 33-year-old, progressive, openly gay man who spent much of my twenties as a crusading atheist and curious agnostic – was baptized and confirmed in the church. I’m unafraid to proclaim myself a disciple of Jesus Christ.
My conversion has made me the token “church guy” in my friend group. I can’t tell you the number of awkward conversations I’ve had over the last several weeks about Charleston, the Duggars and the scariness of the uber-awful Quiverfull cult. Whenever something even vaguely religious enters the news cycle, my friends inevitably find ways to lean on me as the church expert, from the sudden disappearance of 7th Heaven in the wake of Stephen Collins’s sexual misconduct, to the Religious Freedom Restoration Act and whether anyone would want pizza at a gay wedding anyway.
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