My Life in Christian Music (Or: How a Gay Kid Accidentally Toured the Country Singing About Jesus)

I was 14 years old when I first stepped onto a church platform with my family — The Uplifters. We were exactly what the name promised: earnest, enthusiastic, and held together by equal parts harmony and hope. Dad played guitar, Craig held down the bass, Mom sang alto like she was born doing it, and I was the kid at the piano trying to look confident while silently praying my fingers wouldn’t betray me. That little church was our world, and for a while, it felt like enough.

But then the road started calling.

At 15, I joined a local group called The Traveliers — spelled like that because Christians love a creative vowel. We mostly played within 150 miles of home, which meant I was still close enough for Mom to worry but far enough to feel like I was doing something big. I even recorded my first album with them: Sail On Christian Friend. I was a teenager with a vinyl record. You couldn’t tell me anything.

By 16, I’d leveled up to The Redeemer’s Quartet out of Jacksonville, NC. I came on as the pianist, but when their baritone quit, they looked at me like, “Well, he’s breathing — put him in.” Next thing I knew, I was singing on an album called Introducing the Redeemer’s. My first recorded vocal. Immortalized forever. God help us all.

We toured up and down the East Coast, and I learned two things:

1. Gospel music people are some of the wildest folks you’ll ever meet.
2. A 16-year-old with a suitcase and a two vinyl records under his belt is unstoppable.

At 17, I left the Redeemer’s to follow their tenor — also named Ray — to a group called The Singing Journeymen. (If you’re noticing a theme in these group names, yes: Southern Gospel is 50 percent harmony and 50 percent branding.) I recorded my third album with them, God’s Handiwork, while the group reorganized more times than a church potluck committee.

Then came 1979 — the year I won both the local and regional talent competitions in the Pentecostal Holiness Church. I walked into Nationals ready to conquer the world… and promptly choked. Third place. I was not playing my best that day, and honestly, I’m still a little salty about it.

I graduated high school that same year and briefly worked as a bank teller, which is hilarious because I should never be trusted with other people’s money. Thankfully, fate intervened: I got an audition with my all-time favorite group, The Rex Nelon Singers.

Rex Nelon was gospel royalty — years with The Lefevre’s, an iconic Gospel music family with a massive recording studio in Atlanta, a nationally syndicated TV show (Gospel Singing Caravan). I idolized him. So when I drove nine hours to audition at his house in January 1980, I was a wreck. And it showed. I bombed. Hard. Rex called a few days later to say he was “going in a different direction,” which is Christian for “Bless your heart, but no.”

I was devastated.

But the universe wasn’t done with me. A few weeks later, Rex and the group were singing at a church near my hometown. I went, marched up to him afterward, and begged for another chance — this time with the whole group. And honey, I delivered. I played every song they threw at me and left scorch marks on that piano. Rex offered me the job on the spot.

Two weeks later, March 1980, I moved to Atlanta — my first time living on my own. I was 18, terrified, thrilled, and absolutely certain I was exactly where I was meant to be.

And honestly? I had some incredible experiences with The Rex Nelon Singers (later just The Nelons). I played the Grand Ole Opry at 22. We were nominated for a Grammy in 1983. We won two Dove Awards. We toured the U.S., Canada, and parts of the Caribbean. From the outside, it looked like a dream. I did studio work, met some amazing musicians/performers like Ricky Skaggs, Larrie London, Crystal Gayle, Minnie Pearl, Dolly Parton...and so many others.

But inside… something else was happening.

I was becoming aware — painfully aware — that I was attracted to men. And in the world I came from, that wasn’t just inconvenient. It was a crisis. This was the height of the AIDS epidemic, when Christian media was full of fear, condemnation, and “turn or burn” sermons. I carried shame like a second skin.

Still, loneliness has a way of pushing you toward truth. I ventured out. I met drag queens. I met other gay men. I made friends — real friends — like Rodney, Kathleen, and Ron, who saw me without judgment, without fear, without the theological fine print.

And then, in 1986, Rex found out I’d been going to gay clubs.

Suddenly I had a choice: deny who I was or walk away from the only life I’d ever known.

I walked away.

Atlanta had become home over those six years, so I stayed. I worked whatever jobs I could find. And then the AIDS crisis hit my world like a tidal wave. Friends got sick. Friends died. Ron — sweet, gentle Ron — was one of them.

I watched the LGBTQ+ community show up for each other with a fierce, tender love I had never seen in the church that raised me. And I watched that same church — the one that preached love — turn its back.

That was the real education. The real gospel. The real awakening.

And it changed me forever.