Is Jesus Enough? Burning the Boats of Sexual Escape

Nick stood at the front of the church, straightening his tie, trying to steady his breathing. Beside him stood Dylan, his best friend and roommate since college. Their life (and their house) had always been full: game nights, watch parties, late conversations on the porch. Dylan and their friends all knew about Nick’s struggle with same-sex attraction, and they had surrounded him with love. Celibacy had felt possible-—almost easy—in the warmth of this community.

But the community wouldn’t last. One by one, their friends got married and had kids, and things just . . . changed. Now Dylan was pledging himself to someone else . . . and Nick was expected to celebrate.

Is Jesus Enough? The Ache We Carry

He gripped the ring box as Dylan vowed to Delaney: “Forsaking all others, I will be faithful to you, as long as we both shall live.” Everyone was smiling, but the words struck Nick like a dagger. Forsaking all others. That included him. He knew he wasn’t literally being forsaken—but tomorrow their apartment would sure feel empty.

At the reception, Nick cheered and clapped with everyone else. But as Dylan spun his bride on the dance floor, Nick scrolled his phone. His feed was filled with his coworkers—smiling, tanned, arms draped around boyfriends. Beach volleyball, brunch, rooftop drinks with “the boys.” A whole life that he knew could easily be his—if his conscience could just let him say yes to a lifestyle he knew was wrong. He looked up at the happy couple. Is this really all God has for me? Is Jesus enough? I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

◆◆◆

Claire shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She had known Delaney since she was born—she’d even babysat her, changed her diapers. Now Delaney was glowing in white, dancing with her new husband, beginning her new life. Claire, meanwhile, sat at a table of middle-aged couples discussing carpools and college visits. She remembered when she’d been seated at the “young adults” table—laughing, noticed, eligible. But somewhere along the way, she had been quietly reclassified.

At church, the questions about her dating life had stopped, and so had the matchmaking attempts. Now she was just “dependable,” the single woman who kept things running behind the scenes. Invisible. Benched before she’d ever been put in the game.

Her phone buzzed—a text from the guy she met at the gym last weekend. She didn’t think he was a Christian, but he was kind, funny, and, most importantly, interested.

Want to grab a beer later?

Claire looked around. No one here was looking at her. No one had in a long time. She stared at the text and prayed: Lord, you know how long I’ve been waiting. Why shouldn’t I say yes?

◆◆◆

Nick and Claire’s stories are different, but the ache is the same. Maybe you’ve felt it too. Deep down, both had made an unspoken bargain with Jesus: I’ll obey you; I’ll follow you out into the unknown, but you’ll need to give me _______. For Nick, it was the rich community of his twenties. For Claire, it was marriage. For others at that reception, it might have been a happy marriage or satisfying sex.

Our journey of obedience can feel doable when the things we long for seem close at hand. But when things start going wrong, when those hopes slip out of reach, questions can creep in: Is Jesus enough? If I keep going, will Jesus still be enough for me? Because he sure doesn’t feel like enough right now.

The Temptation to Turn Back

When the mountain gets steep and following Jesus starts to feel impossible, that’s when we’re most tempted to look back at our boat on the shoreline. We may not name it out loud, or even acknowledge it, but in the back of our minds, it sits ready—our escape if obedience becomes too costly.

• When singleness drags on… It’s not the end of the world if I marry an unbeliever.
  
  
• When marriage feels empty… Surely God would understand if I found someone else who makes me happy.
  
  
• When saying no to same-sex romance feels unbearable… There’s always that “affirming” church down the street.

These options promise safety if Jesus disappoints us—but they actually sabotage our relationship with him. They poison the very intimacy with Christ that we accuse him of withholding when the journey up the mountain gets tough. The longer we keep our boats in sight back on the shoreline, the harder it becomes to trust the One who calls us forward. We’re answering the question “Is Jesus enough?” with a wobbly “maybe.”

Like a husband keeping another woman “on hold,” just in case his wife disappoints him, no marriage can flourish when escape is an option on the table. True intimacy requires covenant commitment. It only grows when both partners are all in.

And our walk with Christ is the same. If we truly want to know Christ, to experience him as enough amidst our pain, we cannot keep looking back to our boats on the shore. The only way intimacy deepens is when the door is closed, the covenant sealed.

Forsaking All Others

This is why marriage vows matter. A husband and wife promise to “forsake all others” not because they expect marriage to be easy, but because intimacy requires that safety.

Jesus calls his disciples to this same kind of loyalty:

“If anyone comes to me and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple… Any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple.” (Luke 14:26–27, 33)

Forsaking all others in our union with Christ doesn’t mean keeping the boats in view just in case the expedition goes south. It doesn’t mean wondering everyday if now is the time to turn back. It means setting those boats on fire. Like explorers of old who wanted to rid their men of any ideas of retreat, Jesus calls us to burn our boats—no backup plan, no way back. The only way forward is with him.

Of course, such commitment feels terrifying. What if Jesus isn’t enough? What if obedience only leads to loneliness or disappointment? That fear is real—but so is his faithfulness. Unlike the explorers of old, Jesus has earned your trust. Like the great lion, Aslan, in The Chronicles of Narnia, Jesus is not safe…but he is good.

Rachel Gilson wrestled with this as a student at Yale, realizing that following Jesus meant giving up her lesbian relationships. She writes, “Could I trust God with such a vulnerable, important part of my life? In Jesus Christ I found my answer: Yes. I could trust God because in Christ he had proven himself trustworthy.”

Forsaking all others may leave us feeling empty-handed, but Jesus calls us to this costly loyalty so he can give us something better: himself.

Intimacy with the Bridegroom

Forsaking all others is never just about saying “no” to sin. It’s about saying “yes” to intimacy with a Bridegroom who sees us . . . and wants us.

We catch a glimpse of his heart in the Song of Songs: “Show me your face, let me hear your voice; for your voice is sweet, and your face is lovely” (Song 2:14b).

It’s easy to focus only on our side of the relationship—our doubts, our struggles, our feelings. But in this Song, which Christians through the ages have read as a picture of Christ’s love for his people, we see the other side. Jesus desires to see us and hear us. He isn’t reluctant or indifferent. He longs for intimacy with us. That can be hard to believe, especially when we feel lonely, ashamed, or unlovable. But intimacy grows as we dare to take him at his word.

Jesus Meets Us on the Shore

Do you know what your boat is? If so, start by naming it. Confess it to your Bridegroom, who has bought you with a price, and bring it into the light with a trusted friend. Secrets only keep their power in the dark, and we all need accountability. Burning the boats may involve something tangible—deleting, cutting off, walking away—or it may be a quiet but firm declaration of loyalties: Jesus, I am yours.

Burning the boats doesn’t guarantee the clouds will part immediately. Sometimes it even feels worse before it gets better. Our boats may have been numbing our wounds, distracting us from fears we’ve carried for years, or serving as the false hopes we clung to instead of Jesus. When they’re gone, the emptiness can feel unbearable.

But it’s here at the shoreline, next to the smoldering remains of what once felt safe, that we know Jesus is near. He is your true safety. He doesn’t shame you for trembling as you stare at the unreachable horizon. He meets you in the deleted phone number, the erased account, the new boundaries, the new self-description. He meets you with gentleness, but also certainty. He meets you by himself, but he calls you into his new community, the church. He takes you by the hand, turns your face from the sea, and beckons you-–along with your fellow travelers—to follow him. Further up and further in.

You have no idea where he’s taking you, or how you will get there . . . but you do know him. And when you are with Jesus, even in the ache, he is enough.