It must be sin. For that is what you call it.

But it would seem to the casual observer at least, you simply protesteth too much.

As such, you have told us that you are not married. Never have married. You don't like women. You avoid them. Hate it when they talk in church. Hate their hair. And the horrors of actually touching one. But if you are so horny , and you simply can't help it . . . then marry one . . . but so much better if you stayed single like me.

But you also tell us that you are doing something . . . practicing something . . . you hate. What that something is, you are coy . . . give hints . . . but never say. To horrible to say. But it is a thorn. It is in your flesh. It is a messenger from Satan to buffet you . . . to keep you from exalting yourself.

You don't understand what or why you do it. You don't do what you would like to do, but do the very thing you hate. It is that Law thing. Confessing is good. So now, it is no longer you that is doing it, but the sin which dwells within you. You say, again, you practice the very evil that you do not wish to do.

You joyfully concur with the law of God in your inner man, but you see a different law in the members of your body. . . waging war against the law of your mind, making you a prisoner of the law of sin which is in your members.

You cry out "Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death?"

And in another time. Another era. Your cry is heard again.

It is heard in a context that only a few can understand. And even then, with a sense of angst.

The hammer of that Law. That same Law that condemned you to certain death. The very commandment that promised life to you proved to be the death of you as well. At least you said that. You said the devil made you do it. Those fears . . . those fears within your flesh . . . your members . . . your bodily appendages . . . and which of your appendages can contain sin? An appendage . . . under the influence of a gland that does not always obey the mind of the person . . .

You confess to us you have a hidden aspect to your life. You live in shame. You call yourself an imposter. One who yearns to be true. Through dying yearns to be alive.

But you are also a zealot. You proudly boasted of your allegiance and adherence to the Law. Enough so to try to violently destroy a threatening religion. Destroy something that threatened you . . . to your very core.

For that very damnation of a Law that condemns you to death . . . is the very crutch you use to absolve yourself. Take that law away . . . and you fear of your shame. And those Christians . . . those yammerers of grace . . . were a threat you could not bear.

Things changed.

No. You didn't get caught in the men's room at the Minneapolis airport.

But your testimony is like those who are. Repressed homosexuals. Railing against the evils, the despicability, the disgust of it.

The duplicitous life of deceit and hypocrisy.

And there are some of us, Teh Gayz that is, that would call you a sommamabeech of a bastard. And some of us, Teh Gayz that is, that would not.

But as wretched as you say you are . . . you too were given a gift.

And that gift inspired you to say things about love. That love is patient. That love is kind. That love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. That love does not insist on its own way. That love is not irritable or resentful. That love does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. That love bears all things. Believes all things. Hopes all things. Endures all things. That love never ends. And when it comes to faith and hope and love, the greatest of these is love.

Paul. Welcome.

To come out of the closet is to be free. A God-willed freedom from the bondage of hell.

And as a child of God . . . made in the way you are . . . you too are loved.

The Refectory Manager