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Former Exodus member Julie Rogers, who is featured in "Pray Away."
In the mid 1970s, five men in the United States started a Bible study group within their Evangelical church. They were gay but eager to move away from the “homosexual lifestyle.” So they prayed together with this goal—and began to hear from others across the country who wanted the same kind of help. From there grew Exodus International, formed in 1976; it would soon become the largest organization in the world dedicated to “conversion therapy.”
Kristine Stolakis’s debut documentary, Pray Away, which premiered at the Tribeca Film Festival in June and is now streaming on Netflix, examines this movement, primarily from the perspective of some of its former leaders.
“I think what hurt the most is realizing how much of the leadership in the ‘ex-gay’ community are actually queer people. It made me sad thinking about the youth who are spoon-fed this idea that who they are is fundamentally sinful.”
Two of the founding members of Exodus, Michael Bussee and Gary Cooper, left the group in 1979 and became a couple at that time. Cooper passed away a few years later, but Bussee has become an outspoken critic of all “ex-gay” groups and practices and is featured in Pray Away. Though Exodus came to an end in 2013, Bussee says in the film that “as long as homophobia exists, some form of Exodus will emerge.”
The film begins with a scene where a current movement leader, Jeffrey McCall, renounces his life as a trans woman and reaches out to recruit others to the movement through prayer.
Also featured is Yvette Cantu Schneider, a bisexual woman who identified herself within the movement as a “former lesbian” but left after experiencing panic attacks and other psychological symptoms. And a former chairman of Exodus International, John Paulk, who is gay, speaks on camera about his time as a prominent conversion therapy spokesperson; this came to a halt in 2000, when he was spotted and photographed in a gay bar in Washington, D.C. He left the ministry in 2003.
The release of Pray Away is inspiring widespread discussion and reflection, often within religious communities. Members of the Greenpoint Reformed Church in Brooklyn, New York, recently hosted a cyber-screening and discussed their past and present church experiences.
Congregant Meaghan Cloherty, who is bisexual, recalls a painful conversation.
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“When I was thirteen, my family started attending our local Catholic church. I remember one day, in the parking lot after mass, telling my mom how disgusted I was that the priest encouraged opposing whatever law or mandate was being considered to grant same-sex couples more rights,” she says. “This was long before queer marriages became legal, even long before popular culture started acknowledging nonbinary identities—so these unions were always referred to as ‘same sex.’ Without much conviction, my mom answered that being gay was a sin. You can imagine how my little mind exploded.”
In high school, Cloherty attended an Evangelical church with friends. “I can’t remember them specifically addressing queerness,” she says. “But I remember my best guy friend asking our youth pastor if he could wear girls’ skinny jeans, because with late-2000s style there was little difference between ‘men’s’ and ‘women’s’ pants. And after thinking on it, our youth pastor concluded that it was bad and that my friend should avoid it. I think that spoke enough about the church’s gender roles and expectations.”
Cloherty was determined to seek a faith community that was right for her. Greenpoint Reformed Church has two pastors—both women—who are married to each other.
“Just by their existence, it creates a pretty affirming atmosphere,” Cloherty says. “But in one of the prayers we read at the beginning of each service, we acknowledge different spectrums of the classifications we represent: ‘young and old,’ ‘happy and sad,’ ‘gay and straight and in between.’”
In that way, she says, every service at Greenpoint “starts with us acknowledging and claiming different spectrums of the human experience, without any sense of putting one person’s worth ahead of another’s. Plus, we started using name tags with a place to write out pronouns—so as soon as you walk into the building, you state how fellow congregants and visitors can respect you and your identity.”
Christina D’Onofrio, director of children’s ministries at Greenpoint, also attended the screening. “My church growing up felt kind of like a ‘Don’t ask, don’t tell’ situation,” she recalls. “They would never preach homophobia at the pulpit, but they also wouldn’t allow our church to be put on a list of ‘open and affirming churches’ at the time.”
However, “that church did give me my first beautiful example of a gay Christian,” she adds. “I had a youth-group leader who was as out as someone in seminary in the early 2000s could be, and that representation meant so much. Even before I was out, I knew I was welcome.”
At Greenpoint, D’Onofrio notes, “We are very clear on where we stand'' with the LGBTQ+ community. “We keep either a gay-pride flag or a trans-pride flag in front of our building. That’s important because we have to be abundantly clear that our faith community is safe for queer folks—not just to be tolerated but to be celebrated. Much of our staff is also part of the LGBTQ+ community.”
In the children’s program, she adds, “One small and simple way we’ve made it more open and affirming is by talking about and celebrating the gender fluidity of God. My goal is to foster a theology they won’t have to deconstruct when they are older in order just to love themselves.”
“I think what hurt the most” while watching Pray Away, D’Onofrio says, “is realizing how much of the leadership in the ‘ex-gay’ community are actually queer people. It made me sad thinking about the youth who are spoon-fed this idea that who they are is fundamentally sinful.”
Indeed, some of the film’s most poignant scenes feature Julie Rogers, who came out to her family as gay at age sixteen and was placed into a conversion therapy program. Even as Rogers became something of a poster child for the program, making frequent public appearances, she was practicing self-harm due to the stress of ongoing denial.
At the end of the film, Rogers is shown marrying her wife Amanda, in a church, wearing a beautiful white gown. That sleeveless gown shows the burn scars on her arms that she gave herself years ago.
Cloherty finds herself wondering whether Pray Away will have a strong enough impact.
“I worry that the people who fight against queer rights won’t be bothered by it,” she says. “I hope this introduces people to abusive practices and history they hadn’t been aware of. I hope it changes some hearts. But I fear that the cruelty and lies and wasted life we saw on screen won’t be enough to change people who have held out this long, refusing to acknowledge that ‘conversion’ therapies or ministries should be outlawed.”
Meanwhile, some for whom the film would have direct relevance have opted not to watch it. Matthew H., whose last name is being withheld to protect his privacy, is one. “I’m the gay son of a Baptist minister,” he says. “I was disowned when I came out.” While his mother stood by him, she also just recently “gave a lot of money to the anti-gay church my [now-deceased] father went to before becoming a preacher,” he recalls. Matthew and his two siblings are all atheists now.
Only twenty states and Washington, D.C., have banned conversion therapy. On a federal level, it remains legal. Though Exodus no longer exists, a number of similar organizations continue on.
D’Onofrio wants LGBTQ+ people to know that there are faith communities that will love and welcome them; and that her God “is a god of love.”
And she wants community members within the church to feel heard. “Above all,” she says, “I want people to know that they are loved. And sometimes, that starts with listening.”