'Jesus loves gays' ... but they need to change.

[Times photos: Jamie Francis] Fran Badger walks with a man on his way to the Garage nightclub. Badger patiently waits outside the nightclub, handing out religious literature.

Praying for change

© St. Petersburg Times,
published July 24, 2001

That's the message two Tampa women have been bringing to patrons of gay nightclubs for 16 years - though not everyone wants to hear it.

Fran Badger and Marguerite Boudreaux already have gathered their bottled water, their pamphlets and hand-sized tracts of the Gospel of John.

One more thing before they leave Badger's home in Palma Ceia for a gritty downtown street corner 10 minutes away: "We wouldn't dare go out there without prayer," Boudreaux says.

They close their eyes and talk to God.

"We thank you, Father, that we stand before you now, cleansed and whole," Badger says. "Right now, we take these weapons and we pull down every demon spirit in that bar right now. That spirit of lust . . . that spirit of perversion. That spirit of homosexuality."

This has been their routine for 16 years. On Friday night, they meet for prayer, then drive to Tampa's gay hot spot of the moment. They stand outside, quoting Bible passages and inviting people heading into the bar to come to church instead. They try to convince them that God did not make them gay.

About five years ago, Badger and Boudreaux chose the Garage for their weekly visits. The way the club sits just off E Whiting Street makes it easy for them to stand on a public sidewalk away from the entrance, but in the path of customers.

To Badger and Boudreaux, homosexuality is a sin. But preachers slinging gay insults from pulpits have done no good in changing the gay community, they say.

"There's too much homophobia around," Boudreaux says. "There's too much condemnation from Christians."

For Boudreaux, this is a personal mission. Nearly 25 years ago, her son told her he was gay. "I saw the pain he suffered," she said. "I went out there to help others not experience the pain."

So, she and Badger say they can't condemn gays and lesbians. The pins on their chests tell their approach: "Jesus loves gays."

Fran Badger, front, and Marguerite Boudreaux have worked the streets of Tampa for 16 years, waiting outside nightclubs trying to encourage homosexuals to come to church.

People saunter past Badger and Boudreaux from on-street parking spaces and nearby barren lots. Music thumps in the night air, readying people for the dance floor. The only ones not looking for the rhythm are the vendor across the street, hoping to sell hot dogs, and Boudreaux and Badger, hoping to tell partygoers of the Gospel.

"Jesus loves you!" Boudreaux says to a pair of hand-holding men, extending a tract. The men politely take it but continue toward the club, where the line is half a block long and three bodies thick.

The women have never gone inside the Garage. Badger says that's because God never told them to.

Inside is club general manager Gary Alan. "I think it's disgusting what they do," he says. "Like they're going to save the gay community. Like, who are they?"

Badger, a petite woman with short red hair, is comfortable in a soft cotton shirt, black pants and black shoes. Boudreaux, blond and the quieter of the two, is wearing white slacks, a blazer and high-heeled sandals. Both have children older than many of the men and women at the Garage tonight. Badger has two grandchildren, and Boudreaux has 13.

"How are you tonight?" Boudreaux says to a couple skirting around her on the sidewalk.

Badger is singing softly, just loud enough for passersby to hear: Jesus loves you, this I know. For the Bible tells me so. . . .

Ashley Leigh, a 29-year-old transsexual born a man, lingers a moment. She is decked out in black leather pants, beaded halter, high-heeled boots and glossy lipstick.

"I'm a devout Catholic," Leigh says. "I went through 12 years of Catholic prep school." Leigh, former columnist for a gay magazine in Fort Lauderdale, says she knows all about the Holy Spirit.

Badger seems unconvinced.

A few feet away, a bare-chested man in jeans has become irritated with Boudreaux because she tried to hand him a tract. He puts his hands on her shoulders, like a father gently scolding a child.

She should "find a better way to use her time and talents," the man says before turning and stomping off.

They've been told to "get a life" and get a psychologist, but they have never been physically harmed. The worst thing happened more than a decade ago, when Boudreaux's husband, who frequently comes along, was hit with raw eggs from a passing car. The people who threw the eggs also screamed obscenities about gays, apparently mistaking Boudreaux's husband for someone waiting to get inside the club.

By now Badger and Leigh have come to a friendly impasse. Badger asks Leigh if it's okay to give her a hug. Leigh agrees and both women squeeze her tight. As a parting farewell, Badger hands Leigh a pamphlet, "The Man in the Mirror," about a man who struggled with having a sex change before becoming a devoted Christian.

Smiles affixed, Badger and Boudreaux continue handing out tracts and "Jesus loves you's," until Badger makes eye contact with Greg Pringle.

Pringle, 35, works in customer service for an airline. He was raised Southern Baptist, and he talks to the women about salvation.

Everyone is cordial.

"All I have to do to be saved is accept Jesus as my savior," Pringle says. "(Jesus) died on the cross to forgive my sins."

Pringle says some people have added their own Catch 22s to the definition of Christianity. They tell him that if he was a Christian, he wouldn't want to live as a gay man anymore.

But Pringle says it's not true. He's Christian, and he's attracted to men.

He doesn't need healing, he says. "I'm very comfortable being gay at this point," he tells them. And why should he do the "1950s thing" by getting married to hide it?

"At least if I'm going to hell, I'm not going to mess up somebody else's life," he tells them.

Badger and Boudreaux listen and nod.

Badger invites him to her church, Riverhills Church of God in Tampa. He thinks about it. Sure, he might come sometime. He hugs Badger and walks toward the line into the club.

"Aren't they beautiful?" Badger says of people like Leigh and Pringle. "Aren't they totally beautiful?"

Boudreaux's eyes follow Pringle. The way he talked about his homosexuality, how he was so adamant about not being able to change, that's how her son used to be.

Fran Badger, left, and Margurite Boudreaux wait for a man headed for the Garage nightlub on the club’s gay night. He gave them a smile but didn’t stop to talk.

Boudreaux's son, Mark, was 13 or 14 when he told her he was gay.

A single mother at the time, Boudreaux, then a Roman Catholic, called her priest for advice. But as she remembers it, he didn't have much to say.

"I really didn't know what to think about it," said Boudreaux, a loan officer at a mortgage company. "It was a heartbreak."

She started praying more. As her relationship with God grew stronger, Boudreaux said, she began to understand her son better.

"I knew that he was in God's hands," she said. "I knew that he wasn't born gay."

Boudreaux thought that her son's homosexuality was the result of his father's suicide when Mark was 8. "He always felt his father left him," Boudreaux said.

Her son met gay friends in high school. They accepted him, told him "how handsome he was," she said.

When Mark was 18, though, he got "saved," saying he believed in Jesus Christ. He spent days in his room, reading the Bible.

He maintained contact with gay friends. Boudreaux says she told him he could change through the strength of Jesus Christ. His friends told him she was crazy, she said.

That made him depressed and confused at times, she said. But she does not believe he engaged in homosexual activity again.

When he was 20, Boudreaux says, Mark learned he had HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. He continued in his spiritual beliefs and was a member of Without Walls International Church. Boudreaux is also a member and part of its "liberty ministry"; the church regularly refers homosexuals to her for spiritual counseling, she says.

For a time, Mark worked as a financial aid counselor for a small college in Texas, but he was too sick to work in the latter years of his life, Boudreaux said. He died last year at 37 of an AIDS-related illness.

"He had a lot of heartaches in his life, a lot of tragedies," Boudreaux said. She laments that he never married or had children.

"To me, that wasn't part of the Lord," she said, "that he should have to miss out on all the marriage and all the gifts of the world."

She says she knows her son is in heaven. Some others who engaged in homosexual activity are up there, too, she says.

Once people get saved, Boudreaux said, they can die and go to heaven even if they lived as homosexuals.

"God doesn't like any of our sins," Boudreaux said. "But that doesn't mean he turns away from us. . . . Our goal is to reach these people and let them know God really loves them," she said.

Back outside the Garage, the women say they'll pray for the people they meet tonight. Badger writes down the names: Greg, Ryan (who agreed to go to church with Badger) and Ashley, too.

"Just a sweet, sweet, sweet girl. Most of the drag queens are -- just sweet," she says. "I think it's because they're hurting more than the others."

One man refuses to take the tract Badger tries to hand him.

"It's okay," Badger says to herself, "God tenderizes the heart."

Badger, who is retired, says she knows this from experience. In the past 16 years, Badger has taken about five gay men into her home. Some left their lovers and had no place else to go. She housed them, read the Bible with them. Some stopped being gay, she said. Some didn't.

One man named Will stayed with her for three months. He would go to church every week. Out on his own now, Will may again be part of the gay community, she said.

A young man with spiked hair and baggy jeans stops. He used to be an altar boy, he tells the women.

"You all rock!" he yells, quickly walking away. "Cool!"

Jesus loves you, this I know, Badger begins to sing again. For the Bible tells me so. . . .

"I'm going to hell, I'm sure!" one man says, mocking the women as he passes.

"What a horrible thought," Badger says, her smile gone. She considers going after him, but he melts into the line.

About 1 a.m., two men come out of the club together. One slips away toward the parking lot, but the other, Lance Gordon, stays and introduces himself. He gives Badger a hug.

"We've been abandoned by the church and by our families and stuff," says the 28-year-old Tampa man. "From a young age, I knew I was gay. For me, it's taken me a very long time to say, "Hey, I'm gay. I'm going to be who I am.' "

But some people here tonight aren't really gay, Gordon says, just confused. "That's what you guys are here for," he says.

Gordon tells Badger and Boudreaux he goes to a church in St. Petersburg.

"Hallelujah," Badger says. At least he believes in God, she says.

Gordon says he's going home to get some rest. His partner, the guy who ran away, is waiting for him at the car, he says.

Who was that anyway, Badger asks. Why did he run off so quickly?

Something clicks. He was someone she knew, wasn't he?

Was that Will? Badger asks.

Gordon confirms that it was Will. People in the club warned them that Badger and Boudreaux were outside.

Badger laments that Will didn't stop for a hug. Gordon leaves.

Scanning the empty sidewalk, Badger and Boudreaux decide to call it a night. They will be back next week, and the week after, with different tracts -- "You Are Not a Homosexual" -- so club regulars will get a variety of literature from week to week.

"We'll probably be here when Jesus comes back for his church," Badger says.

As for Will, "He'll be back," Badger says later. "God will deal with him," she says. "God loves him."

Missed part one?

If you missed part one of our two-day series, "Homosexuality and Religion: People Behind the Debate," which appeared Sunday, you may read the stories on our Web site at www.sptimes.com/gayreligion.

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