Meet the Fundies

Every soul who testified at the Texas Senate State Affairs Committee hearing on May 19 on the topic of a constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage and civil unions had more to say than they could cram into the three minutes made available to each speaker.

There were so many people who wanted to testify that the hearing was held in a packed Senate Chamber instead of a committee room. For upwards of 10 hours, they took their turns, the on-deck speaker sitting beside the one who was already testifying.

For those who supported gay marriage and gay rights in general, the proposed amendment was cast as a hideous step toward the Dark Ages, a crippling legal twist on the civil definition of marriage. What's worse, it codified discrimination in the state constitution, a document that should be used to guarantee civil rights. It would deny some human beings the freedom to be fully human.

But for the fundamentalist Christians who spoke and formed the activist core of support for the amendment, the debate was much bigger than even all of that: The argument was literally about heaven and hell.

We decided to give some of the more vociferous amendment proponents more time to voice their ideas by talking to them in person. Many declined the invitation. Paranoia was a constant with nearly everyone with whom we spoke. For some, it appears the media are to be counted among those who persecute Christians and weaken the institution of marriage. One chose not to go on the record, but still talked at length on the phone. In furtive, fevered tones, he described the argument between the two camps as a real war for the soul of our society, a hot conflict that was already dangerous and violent. Even though he was afraid of physical attacks on his family, he was still chomping at the bit to "pick up arms" to advance the cause.

Many of the people with whom we did speak used identical words to describe their position, and cited similar statistics indicating an anti-gay echo chamber. Mary Ann Markarian rattled off numbers that come from widely discredited reports by Paul Cameron. The chairman of a right-wing outfit called the Family Research Institute, Cameron was dropped from membership in the American Psychological Association in 1983 for lack of cooperation with the Committee on Scientific and Professional Ethics and Conduct. Several identified Kelly Shackleford as a leader. Shackleford, a former GOP delegate, is president of a radical right think-tank called the Free Market Foundation. He also works as a lawyer with the Liberty Legal Institute, where he helps to gin out prayer-in-school and anti-evolution lawsuits.

Those who graciously invited us into their homes, churches, and neighborhoods to make their case, spoke cautiously, and emphasized a distinction that some would dispute: While they hated the "sin of homosexuality" in all its forms, they also loved "the sinners."

As a kid, Monte Watkins chopped cotton and rode in the rodeo, but she evolved into a political player who carries herself with the grace of Kitty Wells. Mary Ann Markarian is a polished professional Christian performer and minister who has sung and preached in big arenas all over the world with Benny Hinn and other major televangelists. Alan Ward is a "P.K." -- a preacher's kid -- who has managed to avoid the not uncommon curse that almost guarantees that "preachers' kids" are liable to run with the rowdiest bunch at every local high school (at least in my part of West Texas). And Noe Reyes is a Christian lawyer and choir director who speaks precisely in the clean, polished prose that he was taught at Baylor Law.

These people are our neighbors. They represent millions of the people who live just up the street and around the block. And here's what they had to say.