Why I wrote about "gay" and "queer" for The New York Times

Some reflections on my essay from June 30th

Photograph by Matthew Leifheit, published alongside my New York Times guest essay

In April, I submitted a guest essay to The New York Times about the difference between the words “gay” and “queer,” and after a fairly extensive editing process, they published it at the end of June. Since then, I’ve had constructive conversations with a wide range of readers—including those who liked it, those who didn’t, and those who were somewhere in the middle. (Two responses across that spectrum that I particularly appreciated were Georgia Coley’s critical essay in Sojourners and Dennis Sanders’ sympathetic reflections on his Substack.)

In light of those conversations, I’d like to share a bit more about my thinking and what motivated me to write the essay. In short, while much of the disagreement I’ve encountered reflects significant philosophical differences within the broader LGBTQ community, I’ve also found meaningful common ground with many who—while they may analyze aspects of the current anti-LGBTQ backlash differently than I do—still share my fundamental goals and values when it comes to advancing equality and acceptance for LGBTQ people, regardless of our preferred identity terms.

The three main meanings of “queer”

Part of what makes this conversation particularly challenging—especially when you are addressing dozens of different audiences simultaneously, as is inevitable in a forum as large as the Times—is that the word “queer” carries profoundly different meanings for different people. It has three primary meanings today:

1. A slur: The word’s main historical meaning, of course, was as a slur, and it is still sometimes used that way. For that reason, many gay, bisexual, and transgender people do not want to reclaim it nor do they want others to call them “queer.” This perspective is most common among those over 50 or so, but plenty of younger people share it as well.

2. A reclaimed term of empowerment: In more recent years, and especially since the mid-2010s, many younger LGBTQ people have embraced the word “queer” as a broad synonym for “non-heterosexual.” The term’s more open nature can feel liberating for those who know they aren’t straight but don’t want to feel locked into a specific identity category, and it has a particular appeal for many transgender people because it is more readily compatible with non-binary understandings of gender than words like “gay” and “lesbian.” (To be clear, I have no issue with this use of the term on an individual basis, and I’m happy to support those who use it for themselves.)

3. A word meaning “against norms” more broadly: This “anti-normative” rather than “non-heterosexual” meaning of “queer” is rooted in queer theory, an academic field that took shape in the early 1990s and has in more recent years exercised significant cultural and popular influence. Many queer theorists do not simply critique norms that stigmatize being gay, bisexual, or transgender; they also challenge norms like marriage, monogamy, and the very goal of integrating into society itself. This is the basis on which some straight people have adopted a queer identity: either to communicate their embrace of practices like non-monogamy or to make a political statement about taking an oppositional posture toward society overall.

For several decades now, there has been a tension between the first and second meanings of “queer,” but as younger generations have increasingly embraced the word in its second sense, many have assumed that the divide was mostly a generational one that would fade with time. “Queer,” as many saw it, was on its way to becoming an uncontroversial umbrella label for all gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people.

If you had asked me in the mid-to-late 2010s, I likely would’ve said that “queer” had a decent chance at eventually achieving that uncontroversial status. And even though I still wasn’t comfortable with it for myself (in part because it seemed overly nebulous and ripe for appropriation), I tried to make my peace with it because I recognized that it had the potential to serve a unifying purpose.

Photograph by Sharon McCutcheon

After all, a single word is much easier to say than many of the increasingly long acronyms on offer, and to this day, no one can seem to agree on which version of the acronym everyone should be using anyway. (Should it include a “+,” an “IA+,” a “2S” at the beginning, two “P”s, two “Q”s, etc.? What is the right balance between making more people feel represented and making it something that ordinary people can remember and say without stumbling over the letters?)

Perhaps, I thought circa 2017-18, my unease with the term being applied to me didn’t have a strong enough rational basis. Maybe if I just worked harder at not flinching when I was called a “queer person,” I would get more comfortable with it over time.

How the anti-normative meaning of “queer” increases pressures to conform

But almost as soon as I tried to accept it, the third meaning of the term—the one rooted in queer theory and anti-normativity—was used against me in ways that I found jarring. You are queer, I was increasingly told (despite still not identifying that way), and therefore, you need to agree with polyamory and consensual non-monogamy. After all, they too, are “queer” in the sense of “not the norm.”

If you are familiar with my story or my work, then you likely know that the basis of my support for same-sex relationships is that I believe they can be compatible with a Christian vision for marriage—and that vision is one of exclusive self-giving between two, and only two, partners. I have no ill will toward anyone who disagrees with me about monogamy, and I believe everyone should be treated with dignity and respect no matter their beliefs or relationship structure.

But my Christian faith is what determines my beliefs about sexuality, and although I have read many books and considered many arguments in support of non-monogamy (even some from theological perspectives), I have not been persuaded by them. In fact, my convictions in support of monogamy have only deepened as I have witnessed what I regard as the harmful consequences of the growing cultural normalization of non-monogamy. (If you’re interested, I gave a comprehensive talk on this topic at The Reformation Project’s 2025 conference called “Why Monogamy Matters,” and it is a subject I will return to in the future.)

This, then, is the irony of the word “queer.” For some, the word’s second meaning is genuinely freeing, allowing them to feel less boxed in and less pressured to conform to things they don’t believe in. I respect that, and I have no desire to take the term away from anyone who finds it helpful or empowering. But what’s often missed is that the word’s third meaning has the exact opposite effect on people like me: it makes us feel much more boxed in and pressured to conform to things we don’t believe in.

Photograph by Ante Hamersmit, via Unsplash

And it isn’t just monogamy. Increasingly, I was told that being gay meant I had to adopt a “queer” politics, a queer worldview, and a radical suspicion toward social norms in general.¹ I needed to embrace queer theory and let it reshape my beliefs and values across the board. Being gay in orientation was no longer enough; I needed to become ideologically queer to remain respectable among a vocal minority of LGBTQ people and activists. (Ironically, this is the same cohort that is most outspoken about resisting pressures to conform or to be seen as respectable—but they seem unaware of how they are themselves creating and enforcing such pressures in their own way.)

While I am happy to consider different viewpoints and have my own beliefs challenged, I am not willing to sacrifice my freedom to think for myself and come to my own conclusions. To be clear, I don’t disagree with everything that is sometimes put under the banner of queer politics, and because I agree that some social norms are harmful, my conclusions on specific issues will sometimes converge with those of queer theorists. But to the extent I can find agreement with queer theorists on discrete topics, I can arrive at those same positions from a Christian ethical framework alone—without any need to begin with the assumption that all norms should be treated as suspect.

For instance, to the extent that queer politics merely involves having solidarity with the downtrodden or oppressed, I am on board. That is a basic Christian value. But when leading queer theorists argue that the concept of sexual morality itself is a fiction and that opposing promiscuity and public sex is ethically equivalent to racism (as the queer theorist Gayle Rubin did in her essay “Thinking Sex,” which became a foundational text in the field of queer theory), I must object.

“Queerness,” as understood through the categorically anti-normative prism of queer theory, is not a sound basis for developing one’s worldview and ethics.² That is not because norms should never be questioned, but because some norms are both good and necessary, and it is counterproductive to adopt a “hermeneutic of suspicion” that assumes that all norms were likely created for nefarious, oppressive purposes. After all, the category of social norms doesn’t merely encompass terrible things like slavery, racism, and sexism, though those have all indeed been powerful and destructive norms for most of human history. There are also many positive, progressive norms throughout much of our society today—such as freedom of speech, democratic elections, due process, and minority rights—and I do not think it is helpful to assume that those norms are oppressive simply because they are norms.

Norms can liberate as much as they can oppress, but the radically deconstructive methodology at the heart of queer theory fails to appreciate that reality. (If you’re interested in my more detailed critique of queer theory, I recommend watching this 2023 talk I gave at The Reformation Project’s conference about the distinction between affirming theology and queer theology.)

Was a public intervention really needed, especially given how sensitive this topic is?

Okay, some have said, queer theory is fairly far out there. But it’s a niche academic field, is it not? Most people who identify as queer are not queer theorists, after all, and many of them may not even be familiar with it. That is true. So am I perhaps worrying a bit too much about the problems with queer theory and making a mountain out of a molehill by publicly distinguishing myself from the “queer” umbrella because of my objections to one, academic meaning of the term?

That is a fair question, and it is one where different contexts are likely to produce different answers. In my work with The Reformation Project, I spend a lot of time listening to the perspectives and concerns of conservative Christians (whether theologically conservative, politically conservative, or both). If you have paid close attention to the conservative media ecosystem since late 2021/early 2022, then you have watched the anti-LGBTQ backlash develop from its embryonic form into the much larger and more potent force it has become today.

Photograph by Myung J. Chun for The Los Angeles Times

While the current backlash began with a focus on specific transgender-related topics, its architects have had their greatest impact by highlighting the most extreme ideas within queer theory and arguing that the field is joined at the hip with the entire LGBTQ movement. This strategy has been effective because queer theory is not a figment of conservatives’ imagination. It is an actual school of thought that does represent the beliefs of a small minority of LGBTQ people, and many of those beliefs are toxic to our public acceptance and support.

Most notable is the view—held, in classic horseshoe-theory fashion, by both queer theorists and conservative Christian activists—that LGBTQ people are not and can never be viewed as normal. Instead, we can only legitimately be seen as a threat to society, to marriage, and to the nuclear family. For queer theorists, this is a good thing: in their view, we should be a threat to society because society is so oppressive that it would be wrong not to challenge nearly all of its dominant norms.³ But for conservative Christians as well as a growing number of moderate and center-right Americans (both religious and not), this threat of societal subversion is far from benign. They see it as dangerous, particularly threatening when any of its precepts are taught in K-12 classrooms, and an ideology that must be actively resisted.

There are many structural forces now arrayed against us, from social media algorithms to broader societal polarization. Consequently, even though queer theory does not represent the beliefs of the great majority of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people, it is increasingly reshaping public attitudes about all of us in profoundly damaging ways. (See my essay “The Paradox of Pride” from last year for a more detailed analysis of this dynamic.)

We all live in the algorithm to some degree, and I can hardly fault many LGBTQ people and our allies for actively filtering out anti-LGBTQ rhetoric from their feeds. If it weren’t part of my job to stay abreast of these things, I likely would as well. But as a result of the social media silos which are almost impossible for us not to construct to some degree, my sense is that many LGBTQ-affirming people are not fully aware of the extent to which conservative activists have been successfully polarizing broad swaths of the public against us through fusing us with queer theory in much of the public consciousness.

Photograph via Unsplash

To be sure, there has been an alarming rise in Christian nationalism in recent years, and many conservative Christians have always been against us regardless of which terms we’ve used. I have no illusions that no longer using “queer” as an umbrella label for all LGBTQ people will somehow change that, nor is my intent to “appease” conservative Christians, as I’ve seen some suggest. (If it were, I would not have dedicated my entire adult life to challenging one of their most deeply-held beliefs. There are many better approaches if appeasement is one’s goal!)

Rather, precisely because many conservative Christians remain staunchly opposed to us, it is imperative that we deny them effective ammunition to turn the moderate middle of the country against us—as they are beginning to do with some success. Anti-gay marriage activists lost in the 2010s because the pro-marriage equality message won over moderates and even a decent number of conservatives. Now, the LGBTQ movement is losing ground and anti-LGBTQ activists are gaining steam.

Why? Well, there are no doubt multiple factors involved, but I’ve had frank conversations with a number of people who once strongly favored marriage equality but are now second-guessing that support. To a person, they’ve all said something similar: Although they were originally persuaded by the moderate message for same-sex marriage, they are increasingly alienated by contemporary queer (in the sense of anti-normative, not non-heterosexual) activism that seems to push every boundary and accept few, if any, limits. They now wonder if conservatives’ slippery slope fears were right, and if, in fact, LGBTQ people cannot be brought into society’s mainstream without opening up a Pandora’s box of radicalism and libertinism.

We can accuse these wavering supporters of never having been true allies at all, or of being naively manipulated by the far right’s propaganda machine (which, to be fair, is quite powerful), but that will accomplish little. Instead, there is a much more effective alternative available: we can clearly communicate that we disagree with queer theory and that the overwhelming majority of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people are not committed to subverting society.

If we do not do this and we instead concede to the narrative—now pushed by factions on both the far right and the far left—that we are an inherent threat to the heterosexual majority, then we are on a dangerous path indeed. The current backlash may seem mild in the face of what could be yet to come if we do not course-correct. I am not willing to accept that future, and that is why I believed a public intervention was indeed necessary—despite knowing some would inevitably misunderstand my intentions or assume the worst about me.⁴

Toward a more effective solidarity

Perhaps the most common negative interpretation of my essay was that it was a call to end solidarity among the different letters of the LGBTQ acronym. That is not, in fact, my view, but I can understand how the title—“I’m Gay, Not Queer. It Matters.”—can be read in two very different ways.

Although I didn’t write the title, I read it neutrally: “I identify with the term gay, not with the word queer, and that distinction is important to me.” I focused on “gay,” to be clear, because I was speaking about my own experience, not because I care only about gay people. (My editor, who was quite helpful, also encouraged me to be careful about seeming to speak on behalf of people whose identities and experiences are not my own.)⁵

That said, I’ve heard from some who interpreted the title more negatively, in the vein of “I’m gay, not queer, and therefore, I have no sense of solidarity with those whose identities are different than mine.” Or even: “I don’t want to be associated with those who are more visibly gender non-conforming than me.” Those latter interpretations are not at all how I feel, so I’d like to close with a few thoughts on solidarity—and what a more effective form of it might look like.

My sense of solidarity is quite broad, and it is rooted most significantly not in my gay identity, but in my Christian one. I feel solidarity with bisexual and transgender people primarily because I am a Christian, and Christians are called to support and defend anyone who is unjustly marginalized, as bi and trans people all too often are. Secondarily, I also feel solidarity with bi and trans people because I am gay, and although gender identity and sexual orientation are not the same, there are important points of connection between them.

Both gay and trans people differ in significant ways from dominant norms and expectations around gender: gay people in who we are attracted to, trans people in how they express and identify themselves. As such, our fates are in many ways bound together. A world that hates transgender people will not be one that loves and embraces gay people, so (the fortunately relatively few) gay people who condemn being transgender as morally unacceptable are making a serious mistake. I am not willing to be part of a coalition that does not defend the inherent dignity and value of transgender people.

Likewise, I feel a sense of solidarity with people who identify as queer in the sense of non-heterosexual. I know plenty of people who embrace the term in this way, and I support them. No matter which term someone prefers, anyone who isn’t straight is going to encounter some additional challenges and stigmas throughout their life—all the more so the more visible their identity—and I want to help change that for everyone, no matter their label of choice.

Where the shape of my solidarity looks different is in the two most substantive areas of disagreement I have with many of my critics: queer theory and monogamy. As a Christian, I believe there is a basic solidarity we should have with every human being simply because we are all made in the image of God, and that means we are called to love everyone, even our fiercest opponents. But that does not mean we are called to support every cause or embrace every idea, and as I’ve explained in more detail in the talks linked above, I have strong convictions about both queer theory and monogamy.

A movement committed to an ideological queerness will have no room for those convictions, and for that reason, I think “queerness” itself is the wrong vehicle to try to unite all gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people.

Some of us like the word and embrace it as a personal identity, and as an opt-in label for those who want it, it has its place. But when people apply the word to the rest of us without our consent and then use it as a tool of ideological enforcement—which happens quite frequently—it does not advance true solidarity. Instead, it fosters resentment among those of us who know we will be punished for deviating from the party line on almost any issue. While that approach allows for the appearance of unity in the short run, it is merely sowing the seeds for the painful fracture of a coalition once the stifling of dissent eventually fails.

To be clear, however, my dissent is not rooted in resentment. It comes instead from a place of concern that we are squandering our most important gains—not only for gay people, but for bi and trans people and those who identify as queer as well—by handing our most dedicated opponents stunningly effective ammunition to use against us.

Their message is that LGBTQ people must be forced back into the closet because we are an inherent threat to the rest of society, and they are using the anti-normative meaning of “queer” to persuade the public of this. That doesn’t mean that anyone needs to stop identifying as queer if that’s their preferred term, and it isn’t everyone’s individual responsibility to push back against harmful narratives about us. But I do believe it is part of my responsibility.

The message that LGBTQ people are a threat must be vocally rebutted, and that is why I wrote my essay for The New York Times: not to undermine our solidarity with one another, but to open the door to a more effective solidarity that can turn the tide and actually win again—for all of us.

1. A “queer” politics is not always clearly defined, but it tends to come with strong pressures to endorse the most radical views on the leftward end of the ideological spectrum. Simply being a mainstream Democrat who thinks highly of President Obama is liable to provoke condescension—and even occasional opprobrium—in these circles.

2. In my Times essay, I quoted part of queer theorist David Halperin’s famous definition of “queer” from his 1995 book Saint Foucault: “Queer is by definition whatever is at odds with the normal, the legitimate, the dominant. There is nothing in particular to which it necessarily refers. It is an identity without an essence. ‘Queer,’ then, demarcates not a positivity but a positionality vis-à-vis the normative—a positionality that is not restricted to lesbians and gay men but is in fact available to anyone who is or who feels marginalized because of her or his sexual practices…” (p. 62).

In her 1996 book Queer Theory: An Introduction, queer theorist Annamarie Jagose wrote of “queer” that “its definitional indeterminacy, its elasticity, is one of its constituent characteristics” (p. 1). And in a famous 1994 essay called “Against Proper Objects,” queer theorist Judith Butler memorably remarked that “[n]ormalizing the queer would be, after all, its sad finish” (p. 21).

3. See this statement from a prominent drag queen in response to my article: “There is no such thing as a normal gay person, Matthew.” The same words could’ve been written, and likely have been, by my most impassioned conservative opponents.

4. I have heard from some who faulted the timing of the essay, either because it was published during Pride month or because it was published while we have an administration in power whose hostility to transgender people in particular has made many trans people understandably feel quite besieged. The specific timing of the essay’s publication was not my decision, but I am sensitive to the many layers of our tense cultural and political moment. I, too, am deeply concerned about the anti-LGBTQ backlash, and that is why I wrote the essay: without a course correction, unfortunately, I don’t think things will be getting better anytime soon.

5. In an earlier draft of the essay, I had mentioned that many older gay people dislike the word “queer” because of their experience with it as a slur. While that is true, my editor reasonably pointed out that I am not an older person and that I would be on firmer footing by focusing on my own experience.