I’m standing outside the state Capitol, attempting to ascertain what’s on the minds of Franklin Graham’s disciples as we approach Election Day, when an old man wearing a cowboy hat lets me know who’s in charge. He calls me a “fucking sodomite” and tells me he hopes I “burn in the fires of hell.” But wait. I’m married, I tell him. To a woman. I have kids. “Well, then, you’re a sodomite lover,” he snarls.
