The year was 2008. California was deep in the throes of a heated same-sex marriage debate. It was a legal matter that would last years, cost millions of dollars, and take a Supreme Court decision to resolve.

Meanwhile, I was in college, figuring out what I believed, who I wanted to become, and how to get there.

Enter a college church group. A collection of about 20 young men and women led by an only slightly older group of men and women. I dated several of those young men. I befriended even more of those young women. And I was mentored by a handful of senior members of the group.

At least for a while.

I felt accepted until the day they told me something that I felt deep in my gut was sinful and wrong.

Like many things these days, it started on Facebook.

One night, I shared an article about how allowing same-sex marriage in California was long overdue and would not end the world, as some opponents were arguing.

Hitting publish on my commentary was not an accident, but it did become a problem for me.

Facebook is not the place for sensible debate. There are too many nuances, too many opportunities for misunderstanding. Instead of engaging privately with my peers, allowing the conversation to take place away from the watchful eyes of church leaders, it became very public.

What followed can only be described as a shit storm. Some commenters reaffirmed my understanding that gay people, like me, only wanted the basic right to love and marry whomever they wanted.

However, most comments were directed at trying to cure me of my sinful ways. I was sent Bible passages to read, and private messages with invitations to meet and "talk." I soon learned that was code for coffee and an attempt to convert me to less-perverted ways.

The worst message?

An email from the pastor asking me to step down from my position on the group's leadership team. It was a team of people I'd grown to love, and felt had accepted me and my liberal-leaning ways.

But now, I was no longer qualified to talk about God. At least not in a position of authority.

That night I waffled.

I had made a mistake. A mistake that was quickly becoming a nightmare, thanks to the tangled web of social media.

Still, I didn't take the post down.

Somewhere deep inside, I knew that while I may have made a mistake engaging in the debate online, I was not wrong in my beliefs.

Since then, that post has become the best mistake I've ever made. It showed me the dark side of the church I attended. I became privy to the judgment, the scorn, and the derision no pastor welcoming people to a church building on Sunday mornings would want you to know about.

I left that church, but I didn't leave my faith. I just became more selective in where and how I spent my Sundays.

Instead of sticking with the familiar, I sought out churches with same-sex pastors or diverse congregations with attendees worshipping alongside their same-sex partners.

Years later, I stood at a pride parade with tears in my eyes. Looking down at my daughter and her young friend decked out in rainbows and glitter, I realized she would never have to worry about not being able to marry someone she loved. And she'd never have to attend a wedding ceremony that was not actually legal in the eyes of the state.

I thought back to that fateful post and all I'd learned since then about gay rights and the narrow opinions some people blindly cling to.

It may have been a mistake initially, but posting the article was a good mistake in the end.

Because of that post, I figured out what I believed, who I wanted to be, and how I was going to get there.

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