For three decades now, Chick-fil-A has been my only appointment fast-food stop. I go there when hungry, and even when not. Always cleaner than the inside of a Clorox bottle, the restaurants are run with warmth and efficiency, and are ruthlessly dedicated to customer satisfaction—the best quick-service franchise in America. (Faltering Mayor Gray might want to spend less time denouncing Chick-fil-A, more time taking managerial notes.) At most chains, you’re just happy if they keep the rodent parts out of the condiments. But Chick-fil-A has gone so far as to use chipper seniors as greeters. Sunny septuagenarians now inquire if you need a free refill, or offer to retrieve napkins. They’re so helpful that I’ve kidnapped a few, taking them home to do yard work and light grandparenting.
Personally, I would never gay marry—my wife would be incensed.But neither do I feel it is my duty, Christian or otherwise, to obstruct those who wish to. While I strongly object to court-ordering churches to marry anyone against their doctrine, and though I was raised Southern Baptist like Chick-fil-A’s Cathy, I hold a laissez-faire attitude about gay marriage generally, not unlike that of the Jewish philosopher Kinky Friedman, who can’t see why gays shouldn’t “have a right to be as miserable as the rest of us.”
Still, while we’re talking tolerance, the last time I checked the Bill of Rights (around 1987), free speech was afforded to everyone—even born-again fried-chicken magnates who publicly express unfashionable opinions. And besides, it’s a personal opinion. No on-the-ground discrimination is alleged. If Adam and Steve walk into Chick-fil-A in their wedding tuxes, they’re still getting served the same Chick-fil-A nuggets as Adam and Eve. (I recommend the 12-piece to either couple, as opposed to the less filling 8-piece. At Chick-fil-A, more is more.)