Straight Talk on Fanatics, Fags,

and the God Who Loves Us All




Raised from the


What will you be wearing on

Judgment Day?

(Let’s hope it’s before Labor Day—or you won’t be wearing white!)

The thought of writing this book scared the hell out of me. I’ve

been a pretty bad Christian and a fairly decent homo for a very

long time. But the idea that these two wildly disparate worlds may

merge seemed about as likely as Grey Goose sponsoring the Southern

Baptist convention. It wasn’t possible. Or so I thought.

For the weeks, months and years that I wrestled with the idea of

putting these words to paper (eight long years, to be exact) I must

have asked God about 50 thousand times, “Is this book your idea

or am I living in Satan’s perfect will?” I even put this manuscript

down for over three years, because I was living in abject fear.

Then for a few weeks, I put my doubts on hold. I started writing

and the words exploded. But the giant question marks remained.

I remember sitting in LAX, waiting to board my flight to the East

Coast when in a moment of tangible desperation, I asked God to

give me a sign that would irrefutably prove to me that this was his

dream and not mine. I mean, really. Who wants to be a gay activist

for God? The artist formerly known for hating fags?

As I took my aisle seat, with my overpriced Starbucks sandwich in

hand, I remember feeling a bit of excitement as I watched a coollooking

rock star slip into the middle seat next to me. He smiled as

he pointed out our matching sandwiches. This flight looked promising.

But before I could introduce myself to the intriguing young musician,

a slightly annoyed accountant type interrupted our about-tostart

conversation to point out that I may be in the wrong seat. I

was supposed to be across the aisle. Damn bean counters, always

sticklers for detail. Why would it matter if he sat in this seat, or the

one across the aisle?

And then, it all became clear.

To my horror, I noticed that the middle seat across the way was

filled, and I mean filled, with a large older woman in a once

brightly-colored muu muu. This could be Maui’s own Delta Dawn.

A horrifying, dead lei drooped around her sagging neck and she

was mysteriously pulling French fries from deep inside her muu

muu somewhere between her legs. As I reluctantly took my new

seat, her gray, grinch-like gravity-defying hair invaded my Soviet

air space. I leaned as far to my right as I possibly could without

falling out of my seat. I longed to be back in my old seat next to

the rock star . . . sharing our matching sandwiches and swapping

witty repartee. Who knows what else we may have in common.

What if we both hated mayonnaise?

As I slumped back into my seat, closing my eyes for that magical

moment where the wheels lift from the earth, I distinctly heard

God’s distressing words.

“This is my special daughter. Honor her.”

Shit. Why are God’s special kids always dressed like homeless


I gave this odd woman a weak smile. “Pepsi?” I asked in my incredibly

lame attempt at honoring this disheveled woman who was

continually rummaging through a million crinkly shopping bags

arranged all about her feet. I so wished that Piggly Wiggly hadn’t

given her the option of paper or plastic.

“There,” I thought. “My work here is done. I offered her a drink. I

smiled. I was warm.”

Now back to me.

The flight was uneventful. I noticed the rock star had fallen asleep,

so with my iPod in place, I tried to do the same.

Hours later the captain announced that we would be landing soon.

Although I normally keep to myself for most of the flight, this is

usually my cue to politely converse because there is no way now to

be trapped in an endless exchange about grandchildren, Amway, or


Before I could come up with a good conversation starter, my

neighbor interrupted my thoughts. “So what do you do?” (It would

seem that she had the same system.)

I told her I write books. Suddenly we launched into a great little dialogue

and she asked if I had any copies so she could take a look. I

pulled out and and placed them in her hands. She

froze and stared at the books for what seemed like an eternity. After

several awkward minutes I got up and left her alone in her motionless

state. I was worried she might think I was giving her the

copies, but I couldn’t as they were destined for someone on the

other coast. And I didn’t have any more. So I schmoozed with

flight attendants and tried to kill some time. When I returned I noticed

she was still holding the books. Still staring directly at them.

It appeared as if she had slipped into a waking coma.

“Oh my God,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to have to hold those

this entire time.”

She finally looked up and locked eyes with me. “I don’t mind. I

have paged through and read bits here and there . . . ”

And then it happened. This strange woman began to morph before

my eyes and I sensed the presence of greatness as she became like

the oracle in the Matrix, speaking words of truth. The only thing

missing were the chocolate chip cookies.

“These are not your words, my son. These are God’s words. You

didn’t write these books, God did. Am I right?”

I was dumbstruck.

“I am so sorry. So sorry.” Her head dropped in shame. “I was supposed

to engage you hours ago . . . and I’m sorry for judg . . . ” She

stopped short. All the while I was thinking she was homeless, she

was undoubtedly thinking I was some dumb fag. I was wearing

low rider jeans, combat boots and a black sleeveless t-shirt. Because

I was so taken by her strange get-up I didn’t realize how

strange I must have looked to her.

The very real problem of Homelessexuality

She continued to shake her head. “I could have learned so much

from you. I wish I had been more aware. I’m sorry my son. I’m so

terribly sorry.”

I looked at her in total disbelief. “Actually, it’s me that owes you

an apology. I am guilty of the same. God told me that you are a

special daughter and I was supposed to honor you but my attempts

were extremely lame.”

She smiled. “It’s okay. We’re talking now. And I have something

important to say so hear me well. You have been called to reach a

group of people that no one else is reaching. These books were

only a start. But God is calling you to the edge, isn’t he?” She didn’t

wait for my response. She didn’t need to, she already knew.

“And you are afraid, aren’t you? You must do what God is calling

you to do. No one else is. You have been called for such a time as

this to reach some of God’s special kids. So much damage has been

done . . . so much damage. You are called, my son to reach this

group. You know the language and the terrain. Do not fear, be

strong and courageous . . . for this is God’s doing. Not yours.”

Tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t even speak. I nodded and looked

her deeply in the eyes.

She touched my shoulder and within a split second I could feel

God there all over me like a warm waterfall. This stranger in the

big tent dress had a direct line to God and I knew that the words

coming out of her mouth were not her own. They were his.

She spoke a brief blessing or prayer over me. I can’t remember a

thing she said, I can only remember tears pouring down my cheeks

and the feeling that I wish she would never stop. I wanted to spend

hours with this woman I had tried so hard to get away from, but we

had touched the ground and the double bells indicated it was time

to leave. It felt as though I had visited heaven, but now must come

back to earth.

The rock star left, but I didn’t notice.

“I am so sorry, but I don’t even know your name.” I reached out

my hand for hers.

“Twyla. So nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, I’m James.” God then told me a few things

about Twyla—and I shared them with her.

She smiled and tears now filled her eyes. I realized that this was

God’s special daughter, a princess, an angel, a treasure. He didn’t

see the muu muu. Only the tender heart.

When you think about it, fashions are fickle—they come, they go,

they fade, like the flowers around Twyla’s neck. Even our bodies

are just muu muus of flesh . . .

that will one day droop and die away.

But it’s the soul that remains.

“I am a switchboard operator at a maximum security prison. I try to

share love with the guards so they in turn can share love with their

wards. I’m seeing miracles take place every day! Before that, I

worked in an armory. God sure works in mysterious ways.”

She hugged me hard, taking me in to her heart—the dead lei

crushed against my cheek. I didn’t want that hug to ever end. And

although I suspected it before, I now knew for certain that God has

most unusual friends.

Angels do fly.

And some without wings. Instead of carrying golden harps they

may be carrying plastic things.

I hope I’m never again distracted by rock stars or am put off by

bad fashion. In this case the price would have been too high and I

would have missed God’s heart and fiery passion. And I would not

have known for certain just how much God must love fags. Or he

never would’ve spoken to me so clearly through a most unlikely

woman, his precious daughter in a muu muu—with a thousand

crinkly bags.


James Alexander Langteaux is a TV producer and host (700 Club, CRY TV, The Bombshelter) and author of Extreme Intimacy with an Interactive God and The Journey Beyond Belief (Multnomah/Random House). He has lived and traveled all over the world—from the sweeping lava flows of New Zealand to the slums of India—in search of people and their incredible stories. He is passionate about creating unique and innovative expressions of music, poetry, graphic novels, videos and television shows that have not only brought inspiration to audiences but have won awards internationally.

James has lived life on a dare to believe— that the God of the Universe does speak, if only we take the time to listen. But of all the incredible twists and turns in his journey, James finds the most fulfillment in connecting with God’s beautiful kids all over the world to let them know in some form or fashion— with conviction, fire and passion—that they have a purpose and a destiny and they are exquisitely loved.


GAY CONVERSATIONS WITH GOD is an unorthodox presentation of an outrageous love story written for God’s least likely tribe–His beautiful sons and daughters who have been told over and over that they are abominable and despised. But make no mistake Gay Conversations with God is no fairytale. It’s not only for gays and lesbians. It’s for anyone who is sickened by the hateful, money-grubbing ChristianTM brand, “as seen on TV.” It’s the authentic good news that so many are dying to read.

God is madly and passionately in love with ALL of His kids—gay, straight or somewhere in between. All He asks is that you are foolish enough to believe.

From the Author:

After working for many years on the 700 Club and several other Christian networks as a senior producer and host, I knew that coming out as a gay man would be suicide– financially and relationally. I begged God for more than eight years to find someone else to write this book. But after a lifetime of being tormented by my attraction to men, and my attraction to God, I finally had an epiphany.

If God hates fags, why is he so obviously in love with me?

Quite frankly, this is a crazy book. And so is God’s love. I think I have finally come to a place where I truly believe this raw, honest message of God’s incredible, undeniable, unconditional love for ALL of His kids. Gay Conversations with God is not shocking for sheer shock’s sake. It shocks because it is a story that has been denied for so long. And it is written in the language of those who have been beaten and bloodied beyond belief by God’s so-called right hand men.

Drastic times call for drastic measures. This book pulls no punches. Imagine Billy Graham meets Dr. Seuss along with just a dollop of porn and you pretty much have this book.

Oh, and it’s a little like insulin. If you are a diabetic it will save you. If you aren’t it will kill you. Take only as directed.


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