A Christian ‘Conversion Therapy Dropout’ on the Supreme Court’s Decision
On March 31, the Supreme Court sided with a Christian therapist in Colorado and tossed out the state’s ban on conversion therapy for minors. The therapist, Kaley Chiles, challenged the state’s ban on the grounds that it violated her First Amendment rights. The Court agreed with Chiles by an 8-to-1 vote.
Conversion therapy is a practice that generally involves treatment intended to “cure” same-sex attraction or gender dysphoria. Every major medical study has determined that conversion therapy does not work and often leads to serious mental health problems for patients who are subjected to it. Timothy Schraeder Rodriguez knows that from personal experience.
Rodriguez is the author of Conversion Therapy Dropout: A Queer Story of Faith and Belonging, which will be released on May 5. The memoir unpacks the eight years Rodriguez spent in conversion therapy, struggling to reconcile the tension between the version of Christianity he had been taught growing up and his sexual identity. For Rodriguez, the path to healing began when he accepted that there was no tension.
Rodriguez told Sojourners the Supreme Court’s decision is deeply personal and painful, and he hopes that his story will both help LGBTQ+ Christians feel a little less alone and help convince non-affirming Christians to rethink their convictions.
This conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
Tyler Huckabee, Sojourners: When critics talk about the harm that conversion therapy can cause, particularly for minors, what sort of harm are we talking about?
Timothy Schraeder Rodriguez: Where to begin? There’s documented research to show that anyone who experiences conversion therapy, especially as a minor, is subject to higher rates of depression and anxiety. The suicidal ideation rate nearly doubles for LGBTQ+ youth who have experienced conversion therapy, and then the long-term effect of it tends to show up in the inability to create lasting relationships, substance abuse, all those kinds of things. It’s a very devastating practice in the sense that it attacks body, mind, and spirit. When all three of those parts of yourself have been attacked, disengaging from the harm that that causes takes a lot of time and a lot of real therapy. But a lot of folks who have experienced conversion practices are untrusting of therapeutic spaces.
What arguments did conversion therapy advocates use that convinced the Supreme Court to side with them?
They were able to successfully reduce the idea of what the role of a therapist in a therapeutic setting is: that it’s just a space for conversation, that this is a free speech zone, that this is a space where we should all be allowed to say what we believe. Really, it shifted the definition of what happens in therapists’ office from approved therapeutic practices, to saying, “Well, actually, if a therapist has a different viewpoint, they should be allowed, with their First Amendment right and religious freedom, to be able to interject their own thoughts and go against what has been the conventional therapeutic practices.”
Tell me about your experience with this practice. You call yourself a conversion therapy dropout.
Yeah, I grew up in an evangelical Christian home in Illinois and was insulated in the evangelical Christian culture of the late 1990s and 2000s. Not much was said about homosexuality, but everything around me led me to believe that to be anything but straight was a problem.
So, when I was 19-years-old, I finally admitted for the first time that I was “struggling with same sex attraction,” as I called it back then. I was working at a church in Washington state and was dismissed on the spot for even admitting that it was a struggle that I had. I was told that I was broken and that there was no place for people like me in churches.
I was 19.
No one forced me in [to conversion therapy]. I opted myself in because I thought that was the only option someone like me had to maintain my relationship with God, my family, my community, the church.
I first was involved with the organization under the umbrella of Exodus International. It was an online forum that existed for folks who didn’t have access to a local ministry in their area. I was a part of that for about a year. I did talk therapy with a therapist for eight years, and then when I moved to Chicago and had access to in-person ministries, I started going to in-person support groups. And then all throughout that, I also attended an annual conference put on by Exodus that was their flagship event. It took a lot of different forms over eight years. It was a wild journey.
When somebody like me hears about conversion therapy, we assume a lot of Jigsaw-type Saw torture traps with gay people being violently forced to recant their sexuality. But in reading your book, you describe it as a process that can be deceptively gentle and cloaked in the language of love and acceptance. You even found some community there.
The experiences that people see portrayed in movies or documentaries—just the lore of conversion therapy—those do exist. But when I encountered conversion therapy, it was much more insidious. I was in talk therapy. I thought I was talking to someone who was trying to help me process my past, but all the information that I gave my therapist was weaponized against me and used as proof as to why I was struggling with what I was struggling with.
And so, from that side, you know, I was trained to moderate myself, to police my mannerisms, to change my behaviors, to change my interests, to try to be more like a man, all those kinds of things. And then there was a spiritual component to it: Pray, seek God, do what all good Christians are supposed to do.
And there was a community component to it. I think it was probably the thing that I’m most grateful for that I got out of it, but also the most dangerous. Most of us were on our own little islands and had no one around us who knew what we were going through. And when we’d go to these groups or go to these events, we’d be around hundreds or thousands of people who were facing the same struggle. There was a camaraderie in the community that formed. Most of us didn’t realize it then, but that was the first time we were ever really, truly experiencing queer community and what it was like to be around others who are like us. Even though we were trying to do all we could to not be ourselves, there was still that underlying connection that bonded us all together. As harmful as all of it was, some of the closest friends that I have in my life today are people that I met in conversion therapy. We were in the trenches together.
But there was an underlying sense throughout all of it that I didn’t measure up, that something was wrong with me because I wasn’t experiencing the change that other people experienced. They were really good in those settings at bringing people out to share their testimonies: “Hey, I went from darkness to light, and here’s my wife and kids! God really can work miracles!” There was this whole system of shame, self-hatred, and self-doubt. But on the surface, it was hard to see that at first.
What was your breaking point with this process?
After eight years, I had done everything. I followed the rule book, and I was also working in evangelical Christian megachurches. I was becoming a rising star in that space for helping churches understand digital marketing and communication. The whole time, I never questioned the program. I was always taught to question myself. If there was something that I wasn’t experiencing, it wasn’t because the program was wrong; it was that there was something in me that wasn’t adding up.
So that was just this constant state of depression and anxiety and fear and all those things raging. I started drinking a lot. I was just a shell of a person. I threw myself into my work, and thought maybe if I just work hard enough, God will finally do the work that I wanted God to do in me.
I was at a big Christian conference—Catalyst—and there was a pastor speaking there, talking about how we needed to fight against gay marriage, that we needed real men, no more sissies, that we needed to fight the gay agenda. And I watched this whole stadium of people erupt and stand on their feet and cheer, knowing that they were talking about me. That led me to have a nervous breakdown.
It just came to a point where I thought I would rather end my life than keep going. But thankfully, I chose to end the way I had been living my life and decided to figure out how I could integrate my faith and sexuality, quit conversion therapy, and figure out what it could look like to become a gay Christian.
There were—especially during the late 2010s—not a lot of openly gay Christian blueprints to follow. Today, many parts of the church obviously remain very hostile to the LGBTQ+ community, and that feeling is often understandably reciprocated. What’s it like having a foot in both worlds?
It’s the weird experience that we carry. I understand why queer people leave the church when they come out, because they’ve been told their whole lives by this particular religious community that they’re broken, that God doesn’t love them, that there’s not a place for them. Why would you want to stay there?
Thankfully, right after I dropped out of conversion therapy, I was connected with Q Christian Fellowship—it was called the Gay Christian Network back then—but it’s one of the leading organizations that’s working with queer Christians to help them reconcile their faith and sexuality.
I went to one of those conferences in 2010, and it was such a weird experience, because it felt just like Exodus or any of the other conferences I had gone to, except it was OK for me to have a crush on other attendees and admit it [laughs].
It just exposed me to a whole new way of reading the Bible, understanding what scripture says, and just seeing other folks who were still engaged with their faith. It gave me the hope and courage that I could find affirming spaces where I could be loved and accepted just as I was as a gay man.
So, given all of that, tell me about how it feels to see this ruling come from the Supreme Court, largely on the pretext of religious freedom. I imagine this feels like the war that you experienced within yourself for so long made manifest in the legal system.
It’s disheartening, but it’s not surprising. As long as the church continues to other people and to draw lines around who is accepted, this will, sadly, be a fight we’ll have. I am grateful, though, for the churches that have made room at the table for queer people and that have courageously gone against the conventional wisdom.
But the Christian nationalism that we’re experiencing today is emboldening people to do a lot of horrible things in God’s name. I think people like me are very frustrating to them, because it would be a lot easier for their narrative if I were a person who had been in the church and left it because now I’m gay and hate the church.
But there’s a growing number of us where that’s not the case. We still love God. My relationship with God is stronger today than it ever was when I was in conversion therapy. I’m being fully honest with who I am and who God created me to be.
I hate that my story and my book are very relevant right now, but I’m grateful too. I didn’t have those mentors or those people or that guidebook to follow when I was on this journey early on. I can hopefully help others like myself—that younger version of myself—to know that you know who they are, loved just as they are.
For any queer people reading this—maybe they’re out, maybe they’re not—who are scared or alone, what would your message be?
Take care of yourselves, keep your chosen family close. There are affirming church communities out there. Church Clarity is a great resource that can help you connect with those if you feel like you need that kind of support.
But church can be complicated. Tony Campolo said at that Q Christian conference I went to that the church may be a whore, but she’s your mother. And so remember that what the church did to you is not how God feels about you, and it’s not the truth. Remember that God is love, and God loves you just as you are.
And for folks who have experienced conversion therapy, this is a time for all of us to be emboldened to share our stories. Our lived experience is the thing that can counter all the narratives that are out there now. We can bring a human face and voice to what this decision means, and hopefully, our experience can help the next generation.
I get the sense that there are a lot of Christians who, inside, wish they could be affirming, but don’t feel like they can, maybe because of their jobs, or their community, or just because they feel that the Bible doesn’t allow them to be. That’s a place I know that you yourself were in for quite a while as well. What would you say to them?
Listen to our stories. Talk to queer Christians who have walked this path. Matthew Vines’ book God and the Gay Christian is an excellent starting point just to understand how you can start to look at scripture in a different way and examine all the things that were shoved down all our throats about how we were taught to believe.
Also, look at churches that are affirming and learn from them. See what they’re doing and how they’ve chosen to read scripture and care for and love people.
I didn’t know that affirming denominations existed. I mean, I knew that they did in the ether, but it was a foreign world to me. And I think one of the challenges, particularly for those churches now, is to really become bold in their stance and in how they are speaking about these issues. It is a life-or-death issue, and I think many mainline denominations that have historically been affirming can tend to rest on their laurels. You just start thinking: “Hey, we’ve got this. We’re good. Everyone’s welcome.” But someone like me, who’d never set foot in a church like that, doesn’t even know how to even begin to navigate that space. We see your rainbow flags. We see the “All Are Welcome” signs. But I think that we need some love and coaxing in, just because it feels like we’re crossing an enemy line going into those churches. It felt that way for me at first.
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