“Freedom from homosexuality through the powers of Jesus Christ.”

He sits on a comfortable, brown leather couch not three feet from me; well-attired and impeccably groomed. While approaching the last chapters of middle age, he still exudes an air of professionalism and underlying compassion. Thinning salt-and-pepper hair matches the trimmed goatee and expensive glasses that frame an unblinking, studious gaze. The room is large enough for the five people seated within, but is still no bigger then a therapist’s office, under-lit and warm. This is John Parish, a local administrator for Exodus International, who with a soft and not unkindly voice tells me that homosexuality can be cured.

My investigation of the ex-gay movement started in the most unlikely of ways; a preposterous and frightening trail through the world of obsolete and wildly terrifying psychology, and the falsely compelling embrace of religious fellowship. What started as a small sidebar of a story blossomed into a full-fledged inquisition, during which I interviewed numerous survivors, went undercover to join “support” groups, and spoke with universities and foundations who even today engage in the now-debunked psychology that encourages people to believe that change is possible. It was during this strange and uniquely American affair that I committed myself to Exodus, and the educated hands of John Parish.

The most obvious question remains unanswered: Can a person change from homosexual to heterosexual? For the most part, the answer is a political one, depending on religious and social points of view. Even from a psychological perspective, the waters are murky. With the use of more extreme measures, sexuality in general can be curtailed with varying degrees of success; yet such success is almost always superfluous and the patient often regresses to previous behavior patterns. For one doctor the answer is an emphatic “no.”

Licensed in 1978, David Britton practices psychology in Hermosa Beach. He works almost exclusively with adolescents and their families, adults suffering from a wide range of personal problems and couples with relationship problems.

“All the research I’ve seen, and everything I’ve ever read about it [the ex-gay movement] says the rate of success is very low,” the doctor explained, using layman’s terms to make the otherwise ungainly subject easier to grasp. “Sexuality isn’t learned, it’s inbred. That, at best, is something hard to change.”

Britton’s associate, Dr. Marc Borkheim of Boston, has a similar point of view that. “It might be interesting to look at the psychology of the so called ‘treaters,’ those who are doing the ‘curing.’ I’d suspect they have latent repressed feelings.”

Dr. Borkheim paused another moment before continuing. “It’s possible they have … similar symptoms as their victims, although much more subdued. … What they seek to suppress in themselves they feel compelled to suppress in others.”

And when it comes to the possibility of a person actually changing their nature? “I don’t think it [aversion therapy] would be healthy, but, sure, it would be possible. You can condition a person to do or believe just about anything.”

Dr. Borkheim stops a moment, letting the information register before dropping a bombshell: “The thing is, you could probably get the same outcome from a heterosexual. It’s a biological response.”

What makes this particular practice so unhealthy are the inevitable side effects that often plague the patient for years or even decades after the actual treatment took place. Put in the most basic and understandable of terms, aversion therapy is the use of pain to change a patient’s response to external stimuli. For decades this treatment was used to treat everything from pedophilia to alcoholism and drug addiction.

In 1935 doctors began to use it in a Mengele-esque effort to completely eliminate homosexuality. Methodology included the use of vomit-inducing and paralysis-inducing substances, electric shock and substances producing noxious odors, such as ammonia – practices still used today. (One treatment specialist has recommended the use of purifying tissue, such as human placenta inoculated with bacteria, “doped” with meat, fish, urine or feces.) Most medical professionals now consider these practices disturbingly unethical.

The majority of “ex-gay” organizations have publicly denied the use of aversion therapy, and instead privately practice a treatment called covert sensitization. While physically safer, covert sensitization often involves deeply religious overtones, and the long-term effects can mirror the damage caused by its more notorious cousin.

While rare, it’s not unheard of for private institutions to continue the various methods of both aversion therapy and covert sensitization. I recently interviewed two survivors who explained to me how the Mormon-based Brigham Young University helped fund their abuse.

“Evergreen International, Inc. is not directed by any public or private mental health care agency or individual, nor does it claim to have any professional training or licensing.”

I met Geoff in the infancy of this story, before it was anything more than a series of unconnected ideas jotted down on scraps of paper and bar napkins. Geoff, who asked that his name be changed to protect his privacy, is a volunteer at a San Diego-based GLBT outreach center, and an unapologetic homosexual recidivist. Painfully thin, with a shock of brown hair, he looked younger then his actual age.

In 1990 he was a young Mormon student attending Brigham Young University. “I always knew I was gay,” he confided, “but it was never a big deal. I was probably naïve about the whole thing, but it was never really a question for me.”

He went on to tell me of his visits to one of the local gay bars, something of a rarity in the sun-bleached, urban interior of Salt Lake City. “What I didn’t know was that the school always planted security at the bars, watching who came and who went … and if a student was caught there, they’d be called into the ‘standards’ office,” he said. “Kids were kicked out just for socializing with gays back then. Still happens today.”

Our conversation was conducted at his workplace, punctuated by the stream of gay and lesbian activists and volunteers walking through the door. In a way, his volunteer work seemed a clever, if hardly subtle, irony resulting from the failure of his treatments. “When I went before the standards board, the first thing they asked for was names: ‘Did I know any homosexuals?’ ‘Would I be willing to out anyone?” … It was a sexual McCarthyism,” he said.

After refusing a deal of amnesty in exchange for naming other gay students, the school made Geoff a seemingly attractive offer.

“The school didn’t like kicking people out for being gay,” he said. “It wasn’t that they felt sympathy for the students … it just reflected poorly on them as a religious institution. So they gave me a chance to redeem myself … I was told that I could attend Evergreen and be placed on verbal probation, or face expulsion.”

For Geoff, it was a classic case of good cop, bad cop. The school, playing the part of the bad cop, exerted all kinds of pressure, telling him that everyone in the school would know, that they’d tell his family and friends. On the other hand, Evergreen played the part of the good cop; welcoming Geoff as a friend rather than as a patient.

“It was an odd experience, sure,” Geoff continued. “They welcomed you into the group, told you that you deserve a long and righteous life. They tried to separate the sin from the sinner. They even called me ‘brave’ for attending … they definitely tried to create an attitude of fellowship.”

Much of his treatment included “re-masculinization,” such as group sports and forming “healthy,” non-sexual relationships with other males. “They thought that men were gay because they were denied a good male role model growing up,” Geoff said. “Maybe it was because I wasn’t caught doing anything more serious then visiting a bar, but I think I had it light. There were plenty of rumors about other kinds of therapy….”

Evergreen was a notorious name on campus in those days. Students heard bizarre, third-party stories of electroshock therapy used by psychologists subcontracted out by the school. Geoff, thankfully, never took part in such a program. The same couldn’t be said of Jayce Cox.

“I wish I could say that I never again struggled or felt same-sex attraction, but that would not be true.”

In 1995 Jayce Cox also attended a Mormon-based school, Weber University. During his time there, he developed a romantic, non-sexual relationship with his dormitory R.A.

In a previous interview, he talked about the events that eventually led to his attending Evergreen. “One of the other guys who was an R.A. and I would kind of… there were sparks. He was openly gay, and that really intrigued me. He would give me gifts and talk to me. Then one night, late at night, we had this kiss, and I just freaked out.”

I spoke with Jayce several times, and with each interview I became increasingly aware of the pain and trauma born from his experience. There was a cold, brittle anger in his voice; something modulated, but only barely kept from boiling to the surface.

“After I told my bishop about what happened, he referred me to the local Latter-Day Saints social services, which in turn sent me to the Evergreen program via BYU. They told me it’d be possible to ‘cure’ me … but it’d cost money. Something like $8,000, maybe $9,000. I spent every single dollar I’d saved for school trying to fix this.”

Through Evergreen, Jayce was directed to meet one on one with what he assumed was a psychologist, an assumption made in absence of any hard facts. “They told us not to use our real names, so I never knew who anyone else was … the man I met called himself Michael Keats.”

Evergreen International has since denied conducting any form of reparative therapy with Jayce Cox. That denial, though, doesn’t do anything to hide the burn marks on Jayce’s hands, torso and penis; pencil eraser-sized scar tissue from electroshock “therapy.”

“Keats had me go to an adult book store and pick up, you know, whatever I found erotic,” Jayce recalled. “He’d have them turned into slides – that’s when he put the electrodes on me.”

From there he went on to detail the particulars of his treatment – a classic, by-the-book case of aversion therapy. One by one, the “doctor” would have him look at these slides. If he ever became aroused, a painful electric shock would be administered.

“This all took place in the basement of Smith Family Living Center on the BYU campus,” Jayce said.

After completing his treatment and school, Jayce went on to several months’ worth of missionary work. It was at this time that he began experiencing post-conversion symptoms.

“I started getting nauseous, had nightmares, couldn’t sleep properly,” he said. “The worst part of the experience was the shame. In the church, you’re taught that the most important thing is getting married and starting a family. I kept coming back to it – the therapy, the shock sessions … Even after all that, I was still struggling with my sexuality.”

He stops the interview for a long moment, a lingering heartbeat’s worth of time to collect himself. “There’s blood on their hands, you know? I heard that there’s a memorial somewhere for gay BYU students who killed themselves after being outed … And after all these years, I’m still terrified of visiting the campus. Those people are evil for what they’ve done.”

“Isolated, self-absorbed, and having a critical spirit … I’ve painted quite an unattractive picture of the person with same-sex attractions, haven’t I?”

I learned of and eventually contacted John Parish through the Exodus International homepage. Though the Web page has since been altered, it originally gave him the title of “administrator” for the River of Life Ministries and provided a local address. When I visited this address, I made an unexpected discovery.

Situated just off Interstate 15, between a Super Wal-Mart, a series of gas stations and mini-marts, was a church – but not the church listed. Finding my way to the administrative office, I asked a church employee, a blonde waif of a girl, if she’d ever heard of Parish or his ministries.

Her words were polite, while her reaction straddled the border between embarrassed and choleric; as if she’d suddenly and unexpectedly tasted something bitter. “Mr. Parish,” she replied, “runs his own ministry out of one of our offices, yes. But he’s not affiliated with the church.”

Nobody grows up wanting to be a bigot. When a child is 4 or 5, they don’t think about the people they can grind beneath their child-sized jackboots; they don’t imagine themselves as young Republicans, using red and black Crayola crayons to create anti-family legislation.

In your early days, your parents, if they were any good at being a parent, told you that you could be whatever you want. Your teachers, if they were any good at being a teacher, would tell you in no uncertain terms that they expected you to grow up to be president of the United States. This is the seed of ambition – these indelible, encouraging words that stay in a child’s memory well into adulthood; words that tell a child that they are expected to leave their mark on the world.

Looking over the coffee table at the other participants at the River of Life Ministries, I wonder what kind of childhoods they had. I can’t help but wonder what the exact point was in John Parish’s life when that ambition took over; where he crossed over from his promising youth to the man he is today.

I’m watching him now, as he prepares for today’s lessons, wondering this. But I can’t really hold him in contempt, nor can I hate him. I’m watching him flip through his notes – these cheap, printed lesson plans from another ministry that he’ll use to condemn us – and I can’t really bring myself to despise him.

He’s not evil, not by any stretch of the imagination. He’s not out to get you; he doesn’t proselytize; as near as I can tell, he’s a decent human being. My first day here I expected a fire and brimstone zealot, and instead I got a gentle, soft-spoken believer. I’m watching him as he starts the meeting, and the first thing out of his mouth turns most of those moderating thoughts to cinders.

John’s looking at all of us now, eyes dipping down every few moments as he reads from a prepared set of notes, explaining in that pleasantly toneless voice of his that “the homosexual men are ‘that way’ because they don’t think they can be masculine enough, and lesbians are lesbians because they think they’re too masculine to ever get a man.”

For a change, the room is packed. A normal encounter will consist of perhaps three or four people, but today there’s twice that number. Of course, that doesn’t mean much – the office itself is far from spacious, perhaps as large as an empty walk-in closet with enough room to hold the five members of the Exodus Ministry who’d arrived for tonight’s meeting.

With the deep teak paneling, subdued lighting, wall-to-wall book shelves and plush, brown leather couches, the room reminds me of a psychologist’s office. In fact the room belongs to somebody else, as John isn’t officially a part of the church he teaches in, but the books surrounding us could have come from James Dobson’s personal library.

One section has a lengthy list of titles on the Rapture, the coming Armageddon, and an entire series devoted to personal salvation. Idly, I wonder if you’d have to buy the entire series to land before the pearly gates, or if I could get by with the Cliffs Notes edition.

Before the meeting started, I’d flipped through the library, coming to one paperback that detailed the role of the Middle East in the end times. It read like an Army operations manual, with fold-out diagrams and illustrations displaying battalion-level combat maneuvers and platoon-level tactics, replacing the allied icons with shining crucifixes.

Some books dealt with the proper places of men and women in marriage, others concentrated on “healthy” forms of sexuality, while still others offered advice on the proper way to raise and (thoroughly) discipline children. The great majority of these books took their inspiration from particular, and in some cases questionable, interpretations of biblical scripture.

It would have been a comforting, perfectly disarming kind of room if you didn’t pay attention to those little details. The shelves are littered with family portraits, pictures of children in Little League uniforms and grandparents on vacation. On the coffee table there is a pair of oversized books on motorcycles, the history of San Diego and a bowl of chocolates. In a perfect world (and from a comfortable distance,) this would have been the kind of study your father might have worked from.

People arrive and leave almost at random here. There are few who show up on any regular basis, save for the administrators. There are five or six other people today, and of them all Jane’s story seems the most tragic. Jane (who, as with everyone else save John Parish, has had her name changed to protect her anonymity) came from a moderate, middle class, Democratic upbringing. Her childhood seemed like most others: She went to school, she dated, she attended church on a semi-regular basis and lived life as well as one could expect.

In college she became friends with another girl, and soon that friendship turned into something else. For 15 years the two were together, sharing everything that a “normal” couple would, and according to Jane, she felt she had truly found somebody she could love.

“It seemed like we were the perfect match,” she explains. “It just seemed so perfectly ordinary, so completely right to be with this woman. Eventually I learned the truth.”

A decade and a half into their pairing, things suddenly went sour, and in a heartbeat’s space of time, the relationship had violently imploded. When her partner left her for somebody else, Jane found herself alone, cut off from her family and many of her friends.

“I didn’t have anyone to go to … so I started going to church again,” she says. “I found people who accepted me, for all my sins, and wanted me to be happy.”

Jane’s rehabilitation took time, but in the end her church and friends helped her leave “the homosexual lifestyle.” And so complete was her transformation that she began hosting alongside John Parish, helping lesbian members feel welcome in a group overwhelmingly attended by men.

Then there are members like Dale. Dale was once a member of the clergy, a priest who ran a youth ministry for most of his adult life. During one meeting, he tells us all how these children were the one bright thing in his life.

He’d always questioned his sexuality, always wondered how the other half lived, but never really acted on it. Sure, he explains, he’d visited his share of adult Web sites, but until recently it had never been a problem. That is until a close friend found a list of the Web sites he’d visited.

Over night, Dale lost it all. His friends abandoned him, the church took his children away, and he was asked to resign his position. It was only after he promised to attend Exodus, a backhanded sort of “gay probation,” that these things in his life slowly returned.

His church calls every week, making sure he’s attending as promised. Dale’s normally a happy-go-lucky sort, the kind of guy who always has a smile on his face. But when he describes the pressure on his life now, his voice cracks – not by much, and if the room weren’t so quiet, I never would have caught it. But the smile’s gone and his breath momentarily catches in his throat when he tells us how he knows he’ll never be allowed to see his children again.

Other members of the group have their share of drama and low self-esteem. Jack, a cherubic, 28-year-old who could easily pass off as a high school junior, told the group how his family more or less abandoned him. This is his first time here, and still he feels free to open his heart.

I’ve been here nine times now and have told them almost nothing. I wonder what they make of that, whether or not they suspect me of being somebody they shouldn’t trust. Last week some young activists found out about the meetings and disrupted it. Still, they treat me like family week after week.

Adam’s another attendee, and somewhat out of place here. He’s 24 and has anorexically-thin features and cheekbones that could have been carved from oak. Though he’s never said it, I’m convinced he’s HIV-positive. He’s prone to infection, and mentions at one point the amount of money he puts into his medications, but nobody bothers to ask what for. Three large cysts or polyps have grown from his jugular since I started attending, and his eyes are consistently bloodshot.

Of everyone in the group, Adam is the least likable. When the conversation veers toward a Catholic ex-gay group, he loudly boasts of his hatred of Catholics. When Evergreen comes up, he sits up in his chair and tells the group how much Mormons make him sick. On several occasions he shares his disdain for “the homosexuals.” Everyone in the group looks uncomfortable when he says this, and John politely moves the conversation on.

John’s the most interesting, and at the same time, the most frightening. When it comes time to share, he tells us of his past, one of molestation and abuse followed by years caught up in, as he describes, “the homosexual lifestyle.”

John never really explains what changed him, and that alone makes his story somewhat suspect. But what makes him so terrifying is that he recently retired from being an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service. Even as I write this, I worry about financial retribution.

There’s no single “type” of person here. Like any other slice of society, you get your good and your bad; people like Jane and people like Adam. Priests, professionals, drug addicts, soldiers, marines and sailors, it’s like a roll call of normal people except everyone here thinks something’s wrong with them.

Parents figure heavily into the teachings of Exodus Ministries. In a previous encounter, John went into detail on the origins of homosexuality, or, more specifically, the influence (or lack of influence) of parents on a developing child’s life.

“If you look back at yourselves,” he explained to the group, pointing specifically to the men, “you probably have had minimal involvement with your fathers. Fathers provide a young man’s first impression of masculinity, and without one of them, a child’s own sexual identity can, and usually is, called into question.”

Each meeting John handed out a series of homework assignments: reading material that we were to memorize, which was then followed by written essay questions.

Last week’s assignment reflected the nature of today’s conversation: “If masculinity is viewed by the son as something negative, the model for identity falls to the next viable source – his mother,” the lesson read. “Like it or not, parents are the most direct source for identity a child has. If he does not connect with one, he will look to the other as an automatic reflex.”

In and of itself this is not an unreasonable argument, but the material soon grows surreal when it implies that this lack of paternal influence can lead to a life of detachment from our gender.

“The very nature of masculinity is to initiate or conquer. If the will has been weakened or removed from its normal context, it may take on distorted forms. The role of the ‘hunter’ may drive us to compete and find affirmation through sexual fulfillment. A false sense of identity may emerge, one that is based on sexual drive, that overshadows the number-one need we have – to be connected to our Maker … Some of us [during adolescence] have won the attention of older boys or young men. We thought they could provide that much needed strength and guidance, only to find there was a price to pay. In order to get ‘love,’ we compromised.”

As the conversation progressed, I found it increasingly difficult to keep a look of incredulity from creeping onto my face. The lesson directly implied that non-paternal affection from a person of the same sex was the same as sexual abuse. Would that mean, I asked, that lesbianism developed from a lack of a mother in a young girl’s life? John stopped the session and looked at me for a moment before answering.

“That’s a part of it,” he said. “Another might come from rejection, from either the mother or another maternal figure in her life. Maybe she was overly critical or felt her daughter couldn’t measure up. You see a lot of lesbians coming from families with working moms.”

The conversation then shifted toward homosexuality in women, which I found odd, as there was only one other woman in the audience (who, coincidentally, was one of the organizers and already considered herself reformed.)

In the reading material and the following conversations, the lesson described the differences between homosexuality in men and women. In men, it developed from a lack of a father, or paternal role model. For women, it seemed as if it developed from the indifference of a mother, or too much attention from the father.

“If a girl is not bonding with her mother and bonds much better with her father, it follows that she will begin to display more masculine qualities that may also affect her interests,” John read from the lesson. “All of these roots can be compounded when a girl is very good at ‘boy’ activities, such as sports, or has an aggressive temperament. An athletic girl is not necessarily a lesbian, but the parents’ reaction to the girl’s interests is the key. If the girl is not seen by the parents as a ‘real’ girl, this will no doubt contribute to her insecurities with her feminine identity. Some women are comfortable in their femininity and are athletes, engineers, etc. The problem arises when a woman is only comfortable and good with things associated with male-gender activities.”

According to John, a woman had to believe in all of the worst kinds of things about herself in order to become a lesbian. “If she saw herself as God really saw her,” he quoted from his notes, “then there would be no room for lesbian behavior.”

After we read the lessons, we were asked to write four or five sentences on topics such as, “Ask the Holy Spirit to reveal an area of your life where you are relying on yourself rather than on Him to provide for you. Be specific.”

Other exercises instructed, “The Father is longing for the opportunity to show you how much He loves you. Will you choose to entrust this area to Him? Tell Him your fears. Share your hopes and dreams with Him.”

A bonus exercise asked us, “For a devotional time, consider going through the Psalms. As you read, look for the attributes and characteristics of God that you can depend on and trust rather than depending on yourself to provide safety, protection, preservation, and value.”

I retained nothing from my two years of Catholic school education, but I kept that to myself. I told John that I was uncomfortable sharing my answers in an open group like this, and that served as my excuse for not completing any of the essay assignments. However, I couldn’t help but add that I had retained most of the guilt that was beaten into me at Catholic school.

I know I’m going to hurt people with this story, however unavoidable that might be. I know I’ve betrayed the trust of those who took me in, and for that I can only ask for their forgiveness.

For six months I’ve immersed myself in the shady world of the ex-gay movement, where psychology, science and religion are used in tandem, and the severity of the experience has left me shaken. From the casual, almost unnoticeable bigotry behind those smiling, impossibly polite faces at BYU to the gentle fanaticism of John Parish, I’ve been left utterly and completely drained. This exhaustion comes not from any physical exertion, but rather from the knowledge that I’m going to prove myself faithless to those who have shown me kindness, to those who have sat with me and prayed with me.

The rub of it all is that I know they’re wrong, that their advice could, in some circles, be considered abusive, and that the things they teach often lead to far more damage then the “sickness” they intended to cure. Taking all this in, the sick history of aversion therapy and the misleading practices of the ex-gay movement, I still cannot bring myself to hate them. Every time I want to get angry, every time I wish they would just shut down and go away, I think of the time Jane prayed for me; I think of the times members of the group asked God for me to live a full and righteous life. It tears me up in ways I’ll never be able to describe, knowing that I might hurt them.

That might be the key to it all, the way they lure the unsuspecting in. Kill them with kindness, isn’t that the old saying? Maybe it’s all some cynical ploy, some way to gain clout within the conservative mainstream that’s ignored them for so long. It’s possible their kindness might be insincere, but it’s hard not to get hooked on that kind of insincerity. It also helps that Exodus Ministries is unapologetically conservative.

Once I broached the subject of friendship: If a person disagrees with you, say they were unapologetically homosexual, can you keep them as a friend?

In one single moment, Parish summed up the Jim Jones, cult-like persona of the ex-gay movement: “We know we’re not trendy or hip,” John confides, “but we don’t try to be. We don’t go out, we don’t recruit… we just wait for people to come to us. But if they, or your friends, don’t want to cut [homosexuality] out of their lives, then you should cut them from yours. Don’t speak to them, don’t respond to them, don’t answer when they call.”

Statements as cold and cruel as that justify, or at least nullify, any lingering sense of betrayal I might feel toward John and his group. He may be kind, he may appear gentle, but when asked a direct question, he doesn’t sell his conservative soul for one of political moderation.

John, Exodus and the myriad ex-gay splinter groups all have one purpose in mind, no matter how delicately worded or politely spoken: They want to change you.

They find you repellent and villainous, and these people will go to great lengths to convince you that you’re in the wrong and they’re in the right – and in a heartbeat would cut you from their lives. The public voice and private kindness of the ex-gay movement may have blunted the edge of this particular brand of bigotry, but its cut is just as deep, if not deeper.