Everyone walks in with some need: a new job, a new car, $50 to get through the week, relief from some incurable disease. We know we can get it here. The preacher is explaining how, so we listen and nod. When he asks if we believe, we say yes. When he tells us God is good, we shout “All the time!” And when there’s talk of miracles, making a way out of no way, and stomping on the Devil’s head, the drummer taps a beat, someone in the front row loses it, dancing out of her shoes, and the pandemonium begins. It’s a type of primal therapy. People run and jump and shout. Backs are arched. Hands are waved. Men and women alike sweat through carefully sculpted hairdos and colorful suits, rolling, screaming, and hollering, amazingly, all to the same rhythm. We call it being “touched by the Holy Ghost.” But if such language were allowed in the sanctuary, you could also refer to the flamboyance, the flair, the feeling of otherworldliness, and the hypersensitivity that descends en masse at this moment as “queer.” Stylistically speaking, for those 15 minutes or so, the black church might be one of the gayest places in America. But don’t tell that to your average black pastor in Maryland, because today, as much of the rest of the state celebrates the passage of last week’s same-sex marriage bill, many black Christians are doubling down on denial.