Being Gay and Christian: The Struggle, the Shame, and the Grace

A Truth I Can’t Undo

I am a Christian. And I am gay. Those two things—simple to say on their own—become a battleground when held together. For many, these identities cancel each other out. But for people like me, they coexist in a constant tension we’re told shouldn’t be possible.

I know the Scripture. I know what it says. I will never be able to change it. And I won’t pretend I can. But I also know what it feels like to grow up loving God with all my heart and simultaneously carrying a weight I never asked for. I tried to change. God knows I did. I begged, fasted, prayed, and asked Him to make me straight. To realign me. To fix me. Instead, I broke myself trying.

There were years when I believed I could become someone else. That if I just had more faith, more obedience, more strength, I would wake up new. Instead, I developed anxiety disorder and agoraphobia. I took medicine every night to sleep and get calm. And in my worst moments, I cried out: Please, God, take this away from me. And even think of ending my life.

Grace in the Wilderness

But there was a moment. A quiet one. Just before a church service, I felt a still, small voice speak to me: “Prepare your heart. Know that I love you no matter what.” I didn’t understand it at first. I looked around and was confused. That was the first time I heard God’s voice in my head.

Moments later, the pastor introduced a guest speaker who shared his story—how he had been gay and was now “delivered” and straight. I sat there confused, stunned. So this was what it meant to prepare my heart. My close friends in the church know that I am gay, for sure it would have been very uncomfortable. But I was prepared for some reason. Maybe that was his path. But I knew, in my bones, that wasn’t mine. I believe it’s utterly unfair to impose your belief just because you did it (which I doubt). That day, I learned something else: God’s grace speaks to you in the wilderness, even when the message around you says you don’t belong.

When I Asked for Help

There was a time in my life when I was drowning in fear—crippled by my mental health problems, too afraid to even leave the house. I remember praying one night with all that was left in me: “Please, God. I am so alone. I need help. Be it a boy or a girl—just someone, please. I can’t do this anymore.” A few months later, I met a man. I didn’t expect to fall in love, but I did. And through that love, I began to heal.

Slowly, I learned to live again. That’s when I knew—despite everything, God still loves me. He could have sent me a woman to fix me, but he did not. I prayed before going into a relationship, and as of this writing, our relationship is still strong after years.

Why I Stopped Going to Church

Not because they hated me. No one threw stones. But every time I stepped into that place, I felt sinful. Not just the normal conviction we all feel, but like I was fundamentally wrong. That by simply being who I was, I stood in defiance of the God I loved.

People looked up to me—I was the meek boy, the worship drummer, the servant. I even had younger disciples, kids who saw me as an example. But the fear that someday I would be their stumbling block crushed me. So I stepped away. Not out of rebellion. But out of mercy. I could not bear to hurt others with my existence.

So I started going to Catholic mass instead. A place where no one knows me. Where I don’t have to serve or step onto the altar. Just me and God. I sit quietly, hidden in the pews. And somehow, there’s peace in that silence.

I Would Not Wish This Struggle on Anyone

I hope and pray fewer people become part of the LGBTQ community—not because I’m ashamed, but because I know the suffering. The silence. The hiding. Living under the dark, shrinking yourself to fit into rooms that would spit you out if they knew the truth. Smiling while choking down who you are. Crying alone to a God you still love, begging Him to love you back as you are. You learn how to lie with grace. How to nod when people speak of marriage, family, futures you’re not allowed to have. You learn to love with caution, with fear, with one foot always out the door—because it never feels safe to love fully. And people call it a lonely life, like we chose it. I wouldn’t wish that life on anyone. Not even the ones who made it feel like my only option.

If there’s another universe where I’m straight—where the ones who throw verses at me had to live this way, had to carry this ache, had to wake up every day feeling like their existence needed defending—maybe then they’d understand. But that’s not this world. This world tells me I’m too much or not enough. So I live anyway. I walk anyway. I keep praying, even if it’s through gritted teeth. Because somehow, despite it all, I still believe there’s something sacred about surviving. And maybe that’s holy too.

What I Believe Now

I don’t claim to have all the answers. But I know that Jesus found people in their brokenness. He didn’t wait for them to clean themselves up. And somehow, in my brokenness, He keeps finding me. My faith may look different now. I no longer walk into a church. But I still pray. Still believe. Still talk to God. This is not the ideal one, but this worked for me.

To others like me—struggling, questioning, breaking, and rebuilding—I see you. You’re not alone. Keep praying no matter what. This isn’t the end of your faith. Maybe it’s the beginning of a different kind of grace.

Grace in the wilderness. It still exists.

A closing prayer:
Lord, you know my heart. You know the battles I’ve fought—seen and unseen. Let your grace cover every wound, every fear, every doubt. Thank you for never letting go. Even when I couldn’t love myself, You did. And still do. Amen.