My mother went through a phase in her life where she... stopped

Host: The city was quiet, almost too quiet, as if the night had paused to listen. A soft rain fell, tapping against the windows of a small apartment in the old part of town. The walls were lined with books, paintings, and shadows. A candle flickered on the coffee table, casting gold on the faces of two people — Jack and Jeeny.

Host: The air was heavy, thick with the smell of wax and storm. Outside, the streetlights glowed through the mist, turning the rain into threads of silver. Inside, the world tightened into the space between two breaths.

Host: On the table lay a printout — a quote, highlighted, creased at the edges. It read:
"My mother went through a phase in her life where she... stopped being queer for religious reasons. I remember, my mother rebuking her sexuality... Queerness was not okay. She basically just said it wasn't okay for her... This is what, in my experience, religion can do to a queer person." — Bob the Drag Queen.

Jeeny: “It’s heartbreaking, isn’t it?” Her voice was quiet, but it carried a kind of tremor that came from the soul, not the throat. “To deny who you are because something you believe in tells you you’re wrong… That’s not faith. That’s fear.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s sacrifice.” He leans forward, his hands clasped, knuckles white in the candlelight. “You call it fear, Jeeny, but what if it’s devotion? People change for their faith all the time. They give things up — desires, habits, even love — because they believe it’s right. Maybe her mother thought she was choosing salvation.”

Jeeny: “Salvation that costs your soul isn’t salvation, Jack. It’s erasure.” Her eyes flashed, bright, wet, alive. “You can’t call it sacrifice when what’s being offered is yourself. Religion that forces someone to hate their own heart — that’s not holy. That’s cruelty dressed as virtue.”

Host: The rain deepened, drumming against the roof, as if the sky itself were weeping. Jack’s face stiffened, but there was a flicker in his eyes — not anger, but memory.

Jack: “You talk as if faith is the enemy, Jeeny. But for some people, it’s the only structure they’ve ever known. My mother too — she clung to her Bible after my father left. It gave her order, meaning, something to hold. Without it, she would’ve fallen apart.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it’s the same Bible that told her what parts of her heart she could and couldn’t love. Don’t you see the tragedy, Jack? Faith should be a home, not a cage.”

Jack: “Sometimes a cage is safer than the world outside.” His tone was sharp, but low, as if he were arguing with himself as much as with her. “The world is cruel to those who don’t fit. Maybe her mother thought it was better to conform than to suffer. You can’t blame her for wanting peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace at the price of truth is just silence, Jack. And silence has killed more souls than any sword ever could.”

Host: The candle flickered, a flame caught in its own breathing. Jeeny’s hands trembled, but she didn’t look away. The room felt like a confessional — not to God, but to each other.

Jeeny: “I’ve seen it, you know. A friend of mine — Daniel — grew up in a small church in the South. He was gentle, bright, loved to sing. When he came out, the pastor told him he’d invited the devil into his heart. His family prayed over him like he was dying. He stopped singing. And that’s what faith took from him — his voice.”

Jack: He exhaled, slowly, his eyes fixed on the flame. “That’s awful. But isn’t it people, not faith, that do that? Texts don’t hurt — interpretations do. Maybe the problem isn’t religion, but how we use it.”

Jeeny: “But religion gives the language for that violence. It gives it justification, ritual, even beauty. You can’t pretend that doctrine doesn’t shape the knife. It’s not a few bad believers, Jack — it’s an entire culture that decides whose love counts.”

Host: The thunder rolled far off, like an echo of some ancient argument. The flame bent, stretched, danced in their silence.

Jack: “And yet, people still find comfort in it. Still believe. Maybe it’s not about right or wrong, but about need. You need to believe in something, Jeeny. You believe in love, in art, in truth. Others believe in God. You’re both searching for the same light, just calling it by different names.”

Jeeny: “But what if one light demands you burn yourself to see it?”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s the price of faith.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s the abuse of it.”

Host: The words hit the air like thunderclaps — quiet, but shattering. For a moment, even the rain seemed to pause, as if the world were listening for what would follow.

Jeeny: “You know, Bob the Drag Queen wasn’t just talking about his mother. He was talking about a whole generation of people who were told to repent for loving. To pray their identity away. It’s like asking a flower to apologize for blooming.”

Jack: “You think religion can’t change? That it’s just damnation written in ink?”

Jeeny: “I think religion has to listen. It’s deaf when it demands conformity. But when it hears the human cry, when it remembers that God was supposed to be love, then maybe it can heal. Until then, it will wound in His name.”

Host: The rain softened, falling now like a confession. Jack turned, his face tired, his eyes softer.

Jack: “My mother used to say that God made her stronger. But I think what really made her strong was forgiveness. Maybe that’s what faith is supposed to be — not denying yourself, but forgiving yourself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the holiest thing a queer person can do is to forgive the God who was used against them.”

Host: A silence settled, gentle, human. The candle burned low, its wax pooling like tears. Jeeny reached across the table, touched Jack’s hand. He didn’t pull away.

Jack: “Maybe the real sin isn’t love — it’s the fear of it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.” Her voice softened, breaking like a wave against the edge of her conviction. “And maybe salvation isn’t found in heaven, but in the moment we accept each other — exactly as we are.”

Host: The candle guttered, then died, leaving only the sound of the rain, steady, pure, forgiving. Outside, a neon cross flickered on the church across the street, its light reflecting faintly in the puddle below — bent, blurred, but still shining.

Host: And in that blurred reflection, the truth stood quietly — that love, in all its forms, will always be holier than the fear that tries to erase it.