Life, Faith, Church, and Being Gay
*Content Warning: Discussion of suicidal ideation
Life itself is a journey I never thought I would take.
I’ve filled my pockets with hopes and dreams and prayers, always trying to move closer to some vision of what my life was supposed to be. A life that God wanted for me, a life that the people around me could celebrate, and a life I could not only survive, but even enjoy sometimes.
At some point along the way, after years and years of waiting on God to answer my hopes and prayers in the ways that I expected, I began considering that God’s response to my seeking might not look like I always thought it would. After all, how long do you wait for God to answer your prayer in the way you expected before you make room in yourself to receive something different?
A month? A year? A decade? A lifetime?
In all our waiting for God to fit into the particular box we’ve created, we might just miss what God is actually doing with us, in us, and among us—here and now.
My life experience includes all this—the journeying, the waiting, the questions, the faith, the doubt—and more. I have found and experienced God in deeper and truer ways through my seeking—but not in the way I once longed for and expected. Ultimately, all these realities have brought me here, to where I am today. And to this, sharing a bit of my story.
I reflect back on the recent years of my life and I am astounded:
Astounded at the ways that life unfolds in forms and colors we could never expect, for better and for worse.
Astounded by the possibility-turned-reality of sharing life with people who both know me and love me, all at once.
Astounded by the grace far beyond my understanding that has carried me this far, through light and darkness, and all sorts of in-between.
I find these things particularly stunning because, for a lot of my life, I didn’t believe they could be true. I didn’t think that life could surprise me for the better, or that the people who really knew me could also love me, or that the God I know and seek would invite me to bring my whole self into the light. I so desperately wanted all these things to be true, but I could never believe them for myself.
In the words of Virginia Woolf, “You cannot find peace by avoiding life.”
So, this post is an effort to take a step out of avoidance and toward true wholeness. Out of some darkness and into some light. The last several years of my life have stripped me down to a bare foundation, and brought me to a place of choosing to do what I am able, as I am able; to stop living in a way dictated by avoiding life and pretending. Our lives are quite brief, and I don’t want to live what I’ve been given in a constant state of fear and hiding. Coming to this conclusion has been an awful, difficult, beautiful, uphill, gracious, long, needed, life-saving process.
I was raised in a loving family and a Christian community, being taught that the truth will set you free and that honesty is a liberating reality in which we can all live if we so choose. That the God of Life might lead you to unexpected places, but the invitation at every turn is to continue walking in the light. Every turn.
This was easy to do until I realized I was gay, which was an awareness that arrived pretty early in my life. That’s when I started hiding, and covering, and pretending, and getting lost in denial; watching the light of honesty’s glow fade out slow and cold. For many years, I believed there was no room for me to struggle honestly, to question, to grapple, to hurt, to be different, to exist.
Beliefs, Burdens, and Seeking God
These moves toward hiddenness were mainly rooted in two beliefs that saturated the air I breathed since I can remember:
First, I believed that gay people were evil and despised by God and others; fundamentally broken beyond love. LGBTQ+ folks were incapable of knowing and participating in real, loving relationships with God or other people.
I had heard this message in overt and (mostly) covert forms from those around me. I heard queer human beings described as “loners,” “tools of the devil,” “abominations,” and other things I won’t repeat. I saw leaders in the church withdraw from and condemn their LGBTQ+ family, friends, and community members upon learning of their reality, in the name of God. I witnessed the shame, mockery, and disgust that colored every mention of people like me.
Gay equaled evil. Gay equaled broken beyond love. Gay equaled incapable of real relationship. I understood it, and I internalized it as truth. So, to admit my sexuality would be to admit that I, myself, was evil, fundamentally broken beyond love, and incapable of real, mutual relationship with friends, family, God—anyone.
Instead, I hid.
Second, I believed that I would be rejected and dehumanized by those around me and by God if I acknowledged what was unfolding within me. I had seen those around me talk about LGBTQ+ people as though they were animals; treat them like flat, caricatured enemies stripped of the dignity of human complexity; cut them out of their lives altogether. I had no reason to believe I would be treated any differently if my own story came to light.
Instead, I hid.
The belief that my mere existence was predominantly evil brought me to a place of feeling as though ending my life would cause less pain to those around me (and be more pleasing to God, somehow?) than sharing the reality of my sexuality with others and accepting it for myself. When you have internalized the belief that your life inherently exists in opposition to all that is good, true, loving, and beautiful, it doesn’t take much to arrive at the conclusion that it would be better if you weren’t alive.
This came to a head my senior year of college, during a warm homecoming weekend in October. Something in all the celebration and congratulations unearthed a deep awareness that I was surrounded by many people who would likely reject me if they knew my secret. I had been named homecoming king earlier in the day, made complete by photos and applause, a black and silver crown, and a seat in a convertible for the parade that rolled down the center of campus. But by nightfall, I had stolen away to the University’s cross-country field, wanting nothing more than to be as alone as I felt within myself. I laid there in the tall grass, heaving breathless prayers on my back under an unresponsive, starry sky. I remember pleading with God for some kind of hope or assurance, even though I believed he probably despised me. My mind raced, stringing together scenarios and methods I could use to end my life without it being too much of a burden for the people I left behind. I could feel the deep fear in my body that there was no safe place for me in the world; the drop-in-my-gut sense that I would never find refuge from the pain of being a distorted version of a human being. Could I survive an entire life like that? No, nobody can. My teeth ground together in my mouth and my tears pooled between my lips; the only kind of prayer I could muster.
My belief at that time was this: If even God can’t find goodness in my life, there’s no hope to be found.
Within a belief system that reinforces people’s inherent bad-ness, and God’s condemnation, based upon unchanging qualities in their life, this is a reasonable conclusion. Hopelessness is the fruit that grows in that belief system. I’m not alone in these feelings of despair. Research shows that gay and lesbian individuals who consider religion to be very important to them have higher rates of suicidal ideation and lifetime suicide attempt compared with heterosexual individuals. For many years, suicide was a regular, real consideration for me.
I was also convinced that any disclosure would cause nothing but chasms of disappointment, rejection, and judgment from those around me, and I knew I couldn’t survive the added weight of those experiences. There were a lot of dark years treading turbulent waters, bringing hurt not only to myself but also to many around me. Believe me when I say that I almost went under many times. Never once in my early years did I imagine or believe that people in my life would respond to me sharing about my sexuality in a dignifying way. I quite literally could not fathom it in any corner of my imagination. I thought my life would always feel like a constant, secret struggle not to drown.
I don’t know if I was in that field for a couple hours, or most of the night. I don’t remember if I slept there, or how I got back to my dorm room. But it was an unexplainable grace, and a vivid sense that I was not alone after all, that carried me through that night to see the next morning’s sunrise. And the next. And the next.
I knew that Fall night, laying in the cross country field, that something had to change; that I literally could not survive continuing to live as if I was not carrying the things I was carrying. That I needed to say words, out loud, to another person, if I wanted to keep living. To start moving away from denial and isolation, however fearful I was to do so, and whether or not I survived what came about. My sexuality felt like an impossible burden. One I did not choose, one I could not “set down,” and one that was too heavy to keep carrying. I was desperate.
So, like many navigating a sexuality that seemed to oppose the Christian tradition, I tried everything to change my sexuality.
The Bible includes a divine promise from God to humankind: “When you search for me, you will find me; if you seek me with all your heart.” Since I had accepted the belief that being gay was inherently wrong (sub-human, even), I hoped and believed that if I sought God with everything in me, I would find God in the form of a changed (read: heterosexual) sexual identity. I had been told this by faith leaders, and cautioned that gay people needed fundamental healing from an embedded sin, a forgotten trauma, or a lie of the devil. Those I trusted assured me that God was in the business of making gay folks straight if they were surrendered, humble, and faithful enough.
So I sought.
For me, seeking God with my whole heart—with everything in me—has looked like: begging God for years on end in prayer and fasting; years of therapy and counseling (including conversion-aimed therapy); living in faith-based homes and communities; spending inordinate amounts of time in solitude and reflection wrestling with questions emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually; obsessively researching differing voices on the topic, looking for some “solution” or way forward I didn’t know about yet; earning a three-year Master of Divinity degree and grappling—thoroughly—with questions of God’s vision for humankind and Scripture’s message and meaning surrounding human sexuality and relationships; trying to date; conversations with friends, family, mentors, and pastors; going on a monthlong, 300-mile pilgrimage in the steps of many saints and sinners before me who were seeking something more than whatever they left behind.
I have looked for God with my whole heart, every way I’ve known how, for the last twenty years.
And here I am.
Being Known and Loved
At the core of our humanness, I believe we are all created to long for and need the same thing—to be known and loved. Tim Keller, a pastor and author, articulates this well:
“To be loved but not known is comforting but superficial. To be known and not loved is our greatest fear. But to be fully known and truly loved is, well, a lot like being loved by God. It liberates us from pretense, humbles us out of our self-righteousness, and fortifies us for any difficulty life can throw at us.”
- Tim Keller
The first time I heard these words, I could hear my heart split down the middle. I realized that I didn’t live in a world where I’d given anyone the chance to both love me and know the most vulnerable truths about me. You cannot be known and loved when you live a life dictated by hiddenness, dishonesty, and shame, like I did for a long time. For me, it was a hollow, isolating, and unsurvivable place.
So I decided to start sharing my life with others. To take the risk of letting a little light in after so long. And when I started talking about my lived experience with others, I was amazed at what unfolded.
Based on what I had been taught to believe, I thought admitting my reality would be the beginning of a rapid journey down a slippery slope of spiritual deterioration and social abandonment. Instead, parts of me began to heal that I didn’t even realize were wounded. Suicidal ideation faded, recurring nightmares I had endured for years stopped. I finally allowed those who loved me to see and know the vulnerable parts of me for the first time, ever.
And instead of being cast into an abyss of rejection, I heard things like “I love you,” “I’m so glad you’re still alive and sharing your journey with me,” “I respect the hell out of you,” “being your friend is a divine gift,” “I’m so glad you didn’t give up on God or your own life,” and “I love you just the same, and now I know you better.” Suddenly and surprisingly, I wasn’t further from God, others, or myself. I was closer, and I tasted deep peace, a fruit of the Spirit, in ways I never had before.
I am still gay. I am still a friend of Jesus following in his way the best I can. I still hold Scripture, wisdom, and the community of the Body of Christ as central in my discernment, conviction, and living. I am still, somehow, caught up in the gracious and mysterious reality of Divine Love.
I’ll ask you again: How long do you wait for God to answer your prayer in the way you expected before you make room in yourself to receive something different? A month? A year? A decade? A lifetime?
I can say this with absolute and honest conviction: I have experienced the reality of God in my life, and it has been connected to the dimension of my sexuality more than anything else. I guess that’s where love always meets us most deeply—in our vulnerable places. In my questions, in my wrestling, in my search, in my fear, in my hopes and desires, and even in my failures. In all of these, I have encountered God, others, and myself in deeper ways than I once believed was possible.
Complex Journeys
Human sexuality is a significant and central piece of the universal human experience—a reality which the Bible proclaims without hesitation (just visit Song of Songs, for a start). So as a major dimension of my personhood, much of the rest of my life is obscured by the absence of this truth about me, and illuminated by the revelation of it. While I am more than my sexual identity, and so are you with yours, my experience of being gay has shaped me in profound ways. And, being a gay follower of Christ while growing up in a conservative Christian context has, too. These are big pieces of my story. A lot of the other things I care about, am involved with, wounded by, find beauty in, and meet God through are all connected to my lived experience and the sexuality that shapes and colors much of it. So I am sharing my story in an effort to walk toward the wholeness that comes in letting yourself be both known and loved—by God, others, and even myself.
To those of you who have known me, loved me, and walked with me along this journey so far—my heart is filled with gratitude for your presence in my life.
To those who have been part of my life during years when I was unable to hold or share this truth: thank you. Whether you added weight to my burdens or helped to carry the load unknowingly, you shared in life bringing me to where I am today. And I am grateful to be here.
Because of the people and communities I’ve been connected to throughout my life, I know this may be confusing or difficult for some. For others, this whole thing may be seen as a non-issue; lots of blood, sweat, and tears over something normal and human. We’re all coming from different places, and I welcome further personal conversations as I am able to have them.
But I also know that my journey has included plenty of failure (all real journeys do), and while I will not apologize for being gay, or for the discomfort my existence causes others, some people have been hurt along my way. To these people, I owe an apology, and I have attempted to reach out personally wherever possible. To those of you I have wounded: I am sorry, and I ask your forgiveness. I am moving toward the healing of my own wounds, and doing my best to make amends for the wounds I have put upon others. I welcome further personal conversations here, too, as I am able to have them.
Sharing this part of my life in a public way is not an easy or impulsive act. I am not here to tell people they should agree with me; I can’t do that. That’s your own journey to take. I am only here to tell my story, and how I have encountered the God of Love walking with me all along the way, as well as many, many loving people.
Those encounters have made all the difference. And they are teaching me something old and true that many wise people of faith before me have known: that God is present and active in the world, and sometimes–more often than we might guess–its in the very spaces our norms, systems, ideologies, interpretations and beliefs have told us to stop looking.
My Decision to Share
I have wrestled with sharing my story. I have been feared the repercussions, the loss of friends, the judgment of churches, the implications for my family and friends. So why do I feel the desire to put all of this out into the world? Why not keep this part of myself private and guarded? Why put words to it, and be public about it? Why open myself up to the misunderstanding, judgment, and rejection that terrified me for so many years?
Three reasons:
First, because, friends, let me tell you, “you cannot find peace by avoiding life.” In other words, If we close ourselves off to the possibilities of misunderstanding, judgment, and rejection, we—at the same time— close ourselves off to the possibilities of understanding, grace, and loving acceptance. We don’t get to have one without risking the other. We just don’t. When we close ourselves off, we close ourselves off to it all. I’ve lived in a world where I’ve risked neither rejection nor acceptance, and it was a desperately isolating place. I am now living in a world where I am learning to risk both. With all that it brings, the world of risk is shockingly less isolating and infinitely more humanizing. It’s the only existence where we can live in true relationship with God, those around us, and ourselves. Honest vulnerability and the inherent risk that comes with opening ourselves to others—come what may—is the only path to being truly and deeply known and loved. I am learning this, and I am moving toward it.
Second, because having this conversation face-to-face with everyone in my life is impossible on many levels.
Third, because every human story matters, and we are all connected. All of us need to know we are not alone. For a long time I believed I was predominantly and irreparably bad, separated from the possibility of any love, and incapable of being known. Many queer people receive these same messages. Historically, this is particularly true for those who exist (or existed) within a faith community, but it comes from lots of places. For years and years, I never heard another human challenge these ideas.
I never heard someone in my community disagree out loud with the notion that something as vast and sacred as human sexuality was actually the poison of my whole being; the thing that made me broken beyond love’s reach in the eyes of God. It didn’t even matter how I lived-out a sexuality I did not choose. Or that there was a complexity and mystery involved that ought to challenge any oversimplified, all-or-nothing judgements. Or that God didn't seem interested in changing my attractions. It was as simple as reducing my sexuality down to a poison, a plague, a shame.
I never heard someone disagree out loud with the lie that God’s love was a little bit less available for people like me who experience their sexuality differently than others.
I never heard someone disagree out loud with the message that I should hate myself and hide away from the light of authentic relationships with those around me. In fact, the first person I ever told about my sexuality was a keynote speaker at a Christian youth conference with thousands of teenage attendees. The response I received then was, “You’ve got to hate it with everything inside of you.” All the voices around me seemed to confirm my deepest fears, and for the longest time, nobody ever dissented.
So, for those who also need to hear the truth that you are not fundamentally broken beyond love, this is me challenging those isolating and distorted messages. This is me disagreeing out loud.
Romans 8:35-39 reminds us how broad, intimate, and endless God’s love is:
Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? … No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.
The Truths I Needed to Hear
I wish someone had told me at the point when I was slogging forward alone in terror and self-hatred:
That being gay does not mean God despises you as a person.
That choosing between faith and sexuality is a false dichotomy; the invitation, instead, is to reconcile these two profound dimensions of ourselves as best as we are able with what we have been given, the community around us, and the God who dwells with us (this reconciliation between faith and sexuality is the task of all people of faith, not just sexual minorities).
That nothing can separate us from the Love of God, including matters of sexual and gender identity.
That there are communities who can know you and love you at the same time (not only this, but they can celebrate you, honor your complexity, learn from you, and take genuine joy in being part of your life).
That your journey through isolation and despair can lead to spaces of joy and belonging, and that the risks of vulnerability with trustworthy people along the way are courageous and worthwhile.
That your life carries inherent value and dignity, even if some people or ideologies say otherwise.
That you are not one-dimensional, and that while your sexuality is a complex gift, you are more than just your sexuality—much, much more.
That your life’s reality as it has been given to you is nothing to be ashamed of—you are a gift in this world, whether you can believe it yet or not.
That nothing you are, have done, or has been done to you can separate you from the enduring, unprejudiced, intimate, and unearned love of God.
That the heart of God is an infinite and mysterious reality, and it will meet you in the strangest, most needed places (sexuality included) and invite you into wholeness, challenge, wonder, surrender, forgiveness, connection, sacrificial love, and the fullness of life.
Grace be with you along the journey. There’s plenty.
Love,
Nate