Changing the Message Cruelty to persons who are gay is incompatible with Christian teaching.

From the book:

The day was ordinary. Even though evening was approaching, the sun shone brightly. Bill was mowing the grass in the front yard and was just past a group of three small trees in front of our bay window. The girls and I were doing normal summer evening things. I don't remember exactly, but I may have been preparing dinner. Ben was not with us. He had gone to the church for an extra youth meeting to complete the final planning for a mission trip. It would be only a few days until the youth group would load the church bus and head to the mission site.
Although the group had increasingly become a nest of conflict, confusion and stress, Ben really wanted to see this trip through. He loved helping paint, build porches or whatever else would benefit someone in need. "This is what the church is all about," he told me. He also loved the camaraderie, teamwork and fun. He had committed to the mission trip.
The teachings of the new leader were upsetting and contradictory to anything that Ben had been taught. Our meetings with church leadership had been supportive and understanding, yet we could not see any improvement in the behavior of this charismatic youth leader. We agreed that after the trip, a decision would be made. Should we leave a group that has been so dear or tough it out and try to help open eyes? Ben, Bill and I had each commented, "If we run away and leave, it will not change." Later, I wondered why we thought it was appropriate to step in as the sacrificial lambs. If only we had recognized the need to protect ourselves, our family and especially our dear, brilliant, sensitive, social justice-seeking son.

***
As I walked into the family room about ninety minutes after Ben had left, Ben's car caught my eye through the bay window. It was fast and abrupt as it whipped into our driveway. Something is wrong! He is home early. I quickly walked to the front door. As I opened the door, Ben ran up the steps to our front porch. The intensity was palpable. The beautiful green eyes of my 16-year-old child locked directly into mine. Tears filled his lids in a pool that was just about to spill over. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing rapid and his lips . . . oh his lips quivered as he formed words with great effort and despite the contortion of his face on the verge of crying.
"He has yelled at me for an hour!" Ben said. "He made my friends say they were not comfortable with me and that I was going to hell. 'I'm sorry for anything I have done, ' I told him. He said that he did not believe me."

***

One of the officers said, "Ma'am, can you show me some identification, please?"
I picked back up my pocketbook, dug through for my wallet, and as my fingers filed through my cards, I noticed that my hands were quivering. I wonder if my body knew before my mind did. I found my license.
The officer had a small notebook and began recording my information as I waited. When he finished, he took a deep breath as the other officer stood solemnly but kindly by. "Do you have a son in Asheville?" he asked.
I nodded. "Yes."
"Ma'am. He is no longer with us."