Disentangling My Self from Same-Sex Desires

It was an unusually cool June morning as sunlight dappled down through the canopy of branches overhead. The only sound came from rustling leaves, but it felt like a brick wall around my heart was getting demolished. His voice, though, came like a whisper: It’s time. I leaned forward in my canvas chair, and I silently prayed the words I had been holding back for so long. “I confess my same-sex desires, Lord. I can’t stop them, but I confess them. Forgive me.”

The pastor’s voice rang out, “Amen,” bringing the silent confession to a close. It was the first Sunday of in-person, outdoor worship after weeks of lockdown, and something had broken in my dry, thirsty heart.

This was the first time I had confessed my sexual desires for other men—not the lusts I’d indulged or the acts I’d committed, but the unbidden, unchosen desires themselves. I had always confessed those sins which felt willful and intentional; but for years, I held tightly to that part of me from which sprung the inclinations that oriented me toward men. This wasn’t about simply recognizing God’s beauty reflected in the form of another man, but rather, the part of me that, prior to my awareness or consent, received that man’s beauty as something to desire. I believed this part of me was my sexual orientation. I believed this made me gay, and for the previous five years, I had identified as such.

But something hadn’t been sitting right. The Lord was slowly and painfully working on my heart. I was starting to wonder if even my precognitive inclinations towards that which God had forbidden could be anything other than sinful. But if that was true, I thought, surely it could only lead me to shame, self-loathing, and obsessive introspection. I might as well throw myself into the sea. I couldn’t win.

But now, on this cool June morning, I heard the Spirit say, “You’re right, Stephen. You can’t win—not on your own. But I am with you.”

And so, I gave in. I released my grip and repented. And instead of shame, it was freedom that came flooding in. This release was only the beginning. In the following months, God started showing me the sinful patterns that had developed in my life when I bundled up my same-sex desires with what it meant to be “me.”

I Had Become Tribal

Rewind a little less than a year: I’m eating a burger in a gay bar. It wasn’t my choice, but another celibate gay friend had suggested our group get dinner there, assuring us it wasn’t a “hook-up bar,” and I didn’t argue. As we sat there, surrounded by other gay people just eating burgers, I felt a sense of “home.” Despite my radically different sexual ethics, I felt normal in this gay bar. I felt at ease . . . but I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

After years of feeling different and misunderstood, my close-knit community of other gay, celibate Christians also felt like home. It was more than just a common sin struggle that bound us together. We had a common faith and a lot of common interests. Unlike other Christian spaces we had occupied, we felt seen, understood, and normal in our little enclave. It was certainly more than our sin that bound us together . . . but it was not less. We were family because we were gay.

Indeed, I started to notice that most of my friends identified as gay, like me. I was investing the bulk of my relational energy into my gay family, not my church family. It was so much easier. The church had become my theological affinity group, but the celibate gay community had become “my tribe.”

I Had Traded One Set of Stereotypes for Another

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, tugging at my new floral-print shirt. I hated how it clung to my gut . . . and what was wrong with my hair? It was the first night of a gay Christian conference I helped organize, but I didn’t care about looking nice or professional—I wanted to look good. I wanted to look desirable. To be quite honest, I wanted to look gay.

I had been relieved to escape the cultural pressure of masculine stereotypes when I first started identifying myself as gay. But, as time passed, I found new sets of expectations for what gay men were supposed to look and act like, even celibate gay men. Some expectations, like enthusiasm for brunch and musical theater, came easy for me. Others, like being put-together and dressing with style, were less natural, though I gave it my best shot. Still others, like having a body that other guys envied, felt entirely out of my grasp.

As I stared at myself in the mirror, hoping I looked gay enough, I remembered how I used to look in the mirror hoping I looked straight enough. I’d simply traded one set of unbiblical male stereotypes for another. Rather than dressing for respect or modesty, I was dressing for provocation. I wanted the world—specifically, other gay men—to look at me and know the desires of my heart, even if I had no intention of acting on them.

I Had Made Peace with My Sin

“He’s here,” I texted my friends from the coffee shop. “The cute barista.”

They all knew who I was talking about. I had mentioned him . . . frequently. “LOL,” texted back one of my friends. “Are you sure this is helpful for you?” I rolled my eyes. Was he shaming me now for being honest? “Ha, maybe not,” I texted back, annoyed.

When I first started sharing my testimony about same-sex attraction, the honesty felt like a rush of adrenaline. I grew up lying (or telling creative half-truths) even to my closest friends about things like crushes, sin struggles, or why I broke up with my girlfriend. But now I could be honest about everything, letting light shine into the darkness. It was invigorating

But honesty for Christians is not an end in itself. There are a lot of radically honest accountability groups where everyone shares, and no one changes. As I got more comfortable sharing about my desires without challenge or repentance, those desires started to feel more normal. Saying “he’s adorable” felt no different than saying “it’s raining” or “I’m in the mood for pizza tonight.” Objectifying comments and lingering glances at men felt harmless. I was just looking, after all . . . not touching.

As I watched the barista pull a shot of espresso, it occurred to me that I didn’t even know his name.

I Had Walled Off Avenues of God’s Work

“Fine! I’m celibate for life. Done.”

Shortly before declaring to the world that I was gay, I had driven across multiple state lines to ask a good female friend if she wanted to date me. Her answer—for very good reasons—was no, thank you. I returned home devastated, and my very kind friends—most of whom had already declared their celibate intentions—took me out for drinks so I could vent. “Seriously, I’m done,” I said. “This was God’s sign that I shouldn’t get married.” I had pulled myself off the market. Obviously, marrying a woman would never work for me because I was too gay. I had just been running from the truth: God wanted me single.

God does call some of us to lifelong singleness. And, in retrospect, taking a step back was a good decision for me at the time. I was desperate to be fixed, to be normal, and what better ticket to normalcy for a Christian dude than a Christian wife?

But I wasn’t just hitting pause. I was putting my heart into a deep freeze. I wasn’t just surrendering my desire for marriage to God. I was killing that desire, so it couldn’t hurt me anymore, and signing God’s name on the execution order. I wasn’t opposed to getting married, in principle, but I had no idea what that would even look like. The unknown was too terrifying.

I told myself that I was just being honest and realistic about the exclusive nature of my same-sex desires. Could God change those desires? Could he lead me into a godly marriage? Sure, he could do anything. But would God do it? As I made those desires more central to my identity, that seemed less likely.

Repenting of Same-Sex Desires and Finding Freedom in Christ

In the months following that first confession of my same-sex desires, with help from Jesus, I began the slow and messy process of disentangling those desires from the man he created me to be. When I made my desires and my self a package deal, I couldn’t fight one without feeling like I was fighting the other. Repenting of my same-sex desires felt like I was repenting of being emotional, or creative, or tall. But as I’m learning how to distinguish my sin from my self, the freedom that I’m finding has been truly transformational.

I’m finding freedom to repent of my sin and be the unique man God created me to be, without pride or self-loathing.

I’m finding freedom to let my masculinity be shaped by Jesus, rather than Instagram or the manosphere.

I’m finding freedom to invest in my church family, including those with different experiences and struggles than my own, even when it’s difficult and messy.

Freedom to Love

Two years later, I was sitting in a local brewery with a group of young adults from my new church. I’d considered not going, dreading the awkwardness of small talk. What if they were all married? What if I was dressed differently than the other guys or we didn’t have any common interests? Did they know I struggled with same-sex desires? Should I tell them? What if I found myself attracted to one of the guys there?

Jesus wasn’t going to let me stay home, though. He had been reminding me constantly that he was the only one who got to define me, and, in union with him, I was most truly myself. Rooted in him, I had nothing to hide or prove. His Spirit had been fixing my desires increasingly on him, leading me to the grace of repentance when they strayed, and I’d been finding more in common with fellow believers who couldn’t be more different than me on the surface.

As I sat at the table with these men and women, my church family, I felt a new freedom to love and be loved as this new self—uniquely created, rooted in Christ, and disentangled from my sinful desires. And as I noticed the beautiful young woman sitting across the table from me, I felt freedom to wonder what new and unexpected desires God might stir up in my heart.