One of the most popular songs in rock history is the Queen piece, “Somebody to Love.” The incomparable Freddie Mercury wrote and performed this gospel-rock prayer asking the question, “Can anybody find me somebody to love?”
The song by the gay/straight, secular/spiritual, Zoroastrian/Christian superstar stands in sharp contrast to the plea that runs all the way through American history, “Can anybody find us somebody to hate (or reject, or demonize, or marginalize)?”
The answer, the most valuable history books tell us, is Yes!
It started, of course, with our campaign against those who lived here before we white Europeans arrived. Indians, we mistakenly called them long before we mistakenly banished them from American identity. We never have repented appropriately or made restitution.
Then came the Blacks from Africa. For four hundred years we enslaved them, killed them, marginalized them, lynched them, segregated them, and blamed them. To study the long-lasting impact of this despicable history is sometimes called critical race theory; and that is now banned by the very people who led the way in racist ideology and practice.
While this sad tragedy played out, we found other people to hate: Jews when they came over escaping ghettos, gallows, and gas chambers; Polish and Italian immigrants in search of their own promised land; Hispanics crossing the river to escape drugs, danger, and death; and more recently, Muslims fleeing the chaos of their own world in favor of the freedoms we promise.
I’m not sure all of the combined vitriol directed to any of these populations compares to the anger, disgust, and self-righteousness dumped upon the one demographic too many love to hate: LGBTQ.
We in America are swamped by a tsunami of prejudice against these people who live around us and with us. Everyday, some governor or legislator prances around a public stage to spout their prejudice, sign some restriction, or signal in some other way their willingness to demonize somebody that never did them any harm.
It is a despicable display of the meanness that resides too often in the soul of our country, in the spirit of our people.
I don’t recall when exactly my attitude toward queer people began to change but I do recall one episode that pushed it way down the road. I took my bike and rode down Frederica Road on St. Simons Island (not to be confused with Frederica Street in that other place I have lived, Owensboro, Kentucky!). I peddled past the roundabout that splits the road going to the north end of the Island from that heading west, toward the Fort Frederica National Monument (the remains of the British encampment that dates to the first half of the 18th century).
I took Stevens Road off to the left and headed to the far end, to the drive of a beautiful house that overlooks the famous marsh stretching out to Dunbar Creek. I stopped at the gate and looked at the home of the late, great author Eugenia Price. It is known as The Dodge.
From West Virginia, Price made a name for herself as a writer in New York. But her religious conversion in 1949 launched the literary career that would span a half century. She first wrote for the long-running radio drama “Unshackled” out of the Pacific Garden Mission in Chicago.
I read the story of her spiritual journey in The Burden is Light when I was a young man. Still on my to-read list are the scores of historical novels telling the stories of the Golden Isles of Georgia.
But what I discovered about Eugenia Price is this: she lived for more than three decades with her “friend” Joyce Blackburn, and when Joyce died in 2009, she was buried next to her “friend” Eugenia Price at the nearby cemetery of Christ Episcopal Church on St. Simons Island.
The famous writer never came “out of the closet” as we say today, referring to those with the courage to counter the cultural and religious prejudice of our day. But somewhere along the way, one of my favorite Christian authors found somebody to love; and she lived with her in peace and prosperity not three miles across the marsh from my own home on St. Simons Island.
It would not surprise me one bit if Eugenia Price, like me, loved the song Freddie Mercury first sang while I was preparing to be a minister of the gospel and she was finding her voice as a first rate novelist.
I know this, throughout my life beginning as a child I have had many people to love me, many people I have loved. And late in life I am glad to report that the good Lord has brought into my life not just somebody to love but many people to love, including not a few that are queer.
And that is just fine with me.
(March 2022)
One of the most popular songs in rock history is the Queen piece, “Somebody to Love.” The incomparable Freddie Mercury wrote and performed this gospel-rock prayer asking the question, “Can anybody find me somebody to love?”
The song by the gay/straight, secular/spiritual, Zoroastrian/Christian superstar stands in sharp contrast to the plea that runs all the way through American history, “Can anybody find us somebody to hate (or reject, or demonize, or marginalize)?”
The answer, the most valuable history books tell us, is Yes!
It started, of course, with our campaign against those who lived here before we white Europeans arrived. Indians, we mistakenly called them long before we mistakenly banished them from American identity. We never have repented appropriately or made restitution.
Then came the Blacks from Africa. For four hundred years we enslaved them, killed them, marginalized them, lynched them, segregated them, and blamed them. To study the long-lasting impact of this despicable history is sometimes called critical race theory; and that is now banned by the very people who led the way in racist ideology and practice.
While this sad tragedy played out, we found other people to hate: Jews when they came over escaping ghettos, gallows, and gas chambers; Polish and Italian immigrants in search of their own promised land; Hispanics crossing the river to escape drugs, danger, and death; and more recently, Muslims fleeing the chaos of their own world in favor of the freedoms we promise.
I’m not sure all of the combined vitriol directed to any of these populations compares to the anger, disgust, and self-righteousness dumped upon the one demographic too many love to hate: LGBTQ.
We in America are swamped by a tsunami of prejudice against these people who live around us and with us. Everyday, some governor or legislator prances around a public stage to spout their prejudice, sign some restriction, or signal in some other way their willingness to demonize somebody that never did them any harm.
It is a despicable display of the meanness that resides too often in the soul of our country, in the spirit of our people.
I don’t recall when exactly my attitude toward queer people began to change but I do recall one episode that pushed it way down the road. I took my bike and rode down Frederica Road on St. Simons Island (not to be confused with Frederica Street in that other place I have lived, Owensboro, Kentucky!). I peddled past the roundabout that splits the road going to the north end of the Island from that heading west, toward the Fort Frederica National Monument (the remains of the British encampment that dates to the first half of the 18th century).
I took Stevens Road off to the left and headed to the far end, to the drive of a beautiful house that overlooks the famous marsh stretching out to Dunbar Creek. I stopped at the gate and looked at the home of the late, great author Eugenia Price. It is known as The Dodge.
From West Virginia, Price made a name for herself as a writer in New York. But her religious conversion in 1949 launched the literary career that would span a half century. She first wrote for the long-running radio drama “Unshackled” out of the Pacific Garden Mission in Chicago.
I read the story of her spiritual journey in The Burden is Light when I was a young man. Still on my to-read list are the scores of historical novels telling the stories of the Golden Isles of Georgia.
But what I discovered about Eugenia Price is this: she lived for more than three decades with her “friend” Joyce Blackburn, and when Joyce died in 2009, she was buried next to her “friend” Eugenia Price at the nearby cemetery of Christ Episcopal Church on St. Simons Island.
The famous writer never came “out of the closet” as we say today, referring to those with the courage to counter the cultural and religious prejudice of our day. But somewhere along the way, one of my favorite Christian authors found somebody to love; and she lived with her in peace and prosperity not three miles across the marsh from my own home on St. Simons Island.
It would not surprise me one bit if Eugenia Price, like me, loved the song Freddie Mercury first sang while I was preparing to be a minister of the gospel and she was finding her voice as a first rate novelist.
I know this, throughout my life beginning as a child I have had many people to love me, many people I have loved. And late in life I am glad to report that the good Lord has brought into my life not just somebody to love but many people to love, including not a few that are queer.
And that is just fine with me.
(March 2022)
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