I Lived as a Homosexual for 40 Years—Here’s Why I Chose Celibacy
Faith, identity, rejection, and the mercy of God
Welcome to our Testimony Series! Tuesdays. 8 PM. CST.
All the words below belong to a dear friend of mine. I didn’t write them. I just care enough to share them. Take a few minutes and read it all the way through. This is one of the most powerful stories I’ve had the privilege to share. It hit me personally considering I’m a former porn addict. My past struggle doesn’t place me above John, or below him. His former lifestyle and my former addiction both point to the same truth: we all needed rescue.
One thousand years may very well be as one day in God’s calendar, but based on how the last fifty-nine of mine played out (in years), I don’t have a moment to lose before I spend the remainder of my God-given days sharing His love in a deeply personal, and radically profound way. Impacting lives in a spiritual way often means walking alongside people whose stories and perspectives we may not fully understand or even agree with. It begins with an open heart, one that is willing enough to listen, learn, and to allow everyone involved to find meaning and value in one another’s journey. That’s why Thomas and I are here – to share the experiences of our broken and redemption-filled lives.
Despite the obvious truths of our coming from vastly different backgrounds, upbringings, lifestyles, and mindsets, our paths mysteriously converged into the arms of the same merciful and loving Father, just at different times and under different circumstances. With lives fueled from painful life lessons, I believe our results produced sage material for these very raw testimonies, with simply one goal - offering all the praise and glory to the Only One Who made it possible - Jesus Christ, The Risen Son of God. For now, I begin this personal journey down our contemplative collaboration the same way I intend to leave it – with the following words – God uses ALL His people—every size, every color, every shape, and every background—to further His glorious Kingdom. Though some may be quick to dismiss those they don’t understand, each person has a role to play. It is our duty to recognize that truth and make room for it to unfold.
Related Article
What Most People Get Wrong About the Homosexual Life
Before I go any further, let’s lay it all out on the table. I realize that for many people, their only knowledge of the gay lifestyle has been derived from the lenses of controversy, social media outcry, outlandish caricatures of city Pride celebrations, and the growing number of people engulfed in gender dysphoria. People rarely consider the presence of a silent minority who live in garage door communities; they save money for modest vacations, volunteer for worthy organizations, and tend their yards wearing atrociously boring attire - just like you do. As one who was deeply entranced in the gay community for almost four decades, I can wholly relate to opinions held by those outside the community, towards those within. I can also say firsthand, I remember yearning for the simpler days when one could easily identify themselves in any one of the four “LGBT” letters. Today, it’s abundantly clear that this ever-expanding acronym will not stop until it swallows the entire alphabet in its path, and no doubt, will advance its way towards adding special characters and “to the power of” mathematical exponentials to its moniker. I peacefully, and gratefully, leave that identity crisis to the ones best suited to do so. While anyone can extract the worst from the four above-mentioned lenses and bind that perception to the gay community as a whole, realize, they’re doing a tremendous disservice to an entire populus, many of whom are simply fighting with every fiber of their being to make it through a lifetime of mire you cannot possibly relate to, just like you have done, and just like I had painfully done.
I have very fond memories of the love, support, and encouragement provided by so many beautiful Christians who met me right where I was – confused, hurt, and seeking purpose. They were the ones I joyfully acknowledge had a pivotal role in bringing me to Jesus Christ, and ultimately, to where I am today.
Coming Out: The Cost of Being a Homosexual Son
I remember the day I came out to my mom. It was like yesterday. I told her to take all the time she needed to consume what I’d told her, and I would still be there. After all, it took me years to come to terms with this reality myself, so I certainly didn’t expect her to come to terms in just one shocking conversation. A week later, she called me and said two things I will never forget. “I appreciate how you allowed me the time to adjust to what you told me. It made all the difference. And you’re the same son I’ve always loved.” She also told me that she’d always known. So did my grandmother. My father was an entirely different story. I ended up having to re-live the delivery of that conversation after my mom prepped him beforehand. While the image of the “perfect son” still lived in my mom’s head, I was dead in my father’s. I moved frequently around the country for my job, and calling my parents was a weekly occurrence. Upon hearing my voice, my dad would skip the conversation entirely and say, “Lemme get your mom.” His and my relationship would never be the same.
The Christmas before I told them, I was home visiting my parents. Understand, I had been carrying an undisclosed secret from everyone in the world, including myself. It was affecting my entire life - my sleep, appetite, social life, work, motivation; it even magnified my fear of public speaking. Panic attacks were a normal occurrence. Midnight after I’d returned to my parents from visiting my college roommate, I looked into the bathroom mirror, and I told myself I had two choices. I would either: (1) kill myself after I flew back to Boston, or (2) I would dig further into this potential life I’d been avoiding and face the fact that I might be gay. At the time, suicide was a more viable option as the prospect of revealing to my parents that they’d never become grandparents was too great a burden for me to bear, not to mention the sheer embarrassment they’d feel amongst their tight circle of friends. I calculated that a dead “straight” son was much better than a living “gay” one. Ultimately both my sisters would take their lives for their own reasons, so the pressure to succeed had always been on me for years. Ensuring my parents’ life efforts with their children were not entirely in vain, I took it upon myself to overcompensate in every area of my life. The self-induced pressure was excruciating. I lived in that darkness for nearly four decades.
I want to take a moment to point out something that may not be as obvious to everyone else as it was to me. Before I “came out” to my family, the question I often asked myself was this-” Why in God’s green earth would ANYONE, WILLINGLY, HAPPILY accept, seek, or DESIRE a life of hiding, subjecting oneself to ridicule, alienation, embarrassment and REJECTION from those I rely upon for EMOTIONAL SUSTENANCE - all for the EFFIN sake of “choosing” the gay LIFESTYLE?” Rhetorical question. No one in their right and sane mind would consciously “choose” to live this way.
I’d known since I was five, but I buried those thoughts early, and I buried them deep. Or so I thought. There were constant reminders along the way. Speed Racer and Luke Skywalker didn’t exactly help me in keeping those thoughts at bay, but I was convinced for years it was a phase I’d eventually grow out of. For those who are wondering, I was not molested, and I was not sexually compromised as a child. I spent years wondering to myself what my close male childhood friends ever saw in the “Hustler” magazines they’d sneak into my basement and salivate over at my birthday parties when I was a kid. I’d always been the odd man out, but I never understood why until I turned 22.
The Real-World Consequences of Being Openly Homosexual
In the years to follow my coming out in 1992, I would begin to experience some of the things my parents were afraid I’d encounter:
I was thrown out of my Greenwich apartment in the middle of winter after the owner surmised I was gay. I only had three days to find a new place. It was freezing cold and pelting rain as my buddies and I drove pulled the rental truck from her driveway, “You’re from the devil! You’re from the devil!” she screamed as she shook one pointer finger.
After working a straight 72-hour shift, I returned to the parking lot to find the word “FAG” poorly spray-painted across my driver’s side door with a brake fluid-filled water pistol.
I was passed over promotions in positions I was long and well-qualified for, but ultimately didn’t fit in with the image of the good old boys.
Another amazing job offer was rescinded a few days after I’d received it; the company learned that I was mid-way into a divorce (with a man). They found another candidate that had more “closely matched their needs.”
After tithing a considerable amount of money to a church I was passionate about, I was encouraged by the Lead Pastor to find another church home following my own admission of my relationship with my then partner of two years.
After nearly a decade of donating blood, I was rejected for having crossed the wrong “X”. No, it wasn’t AIDS or HIV, I was just ‘gay’ and that was enough.
I share all that background because it provides valuable insight to the spiritual journey ahead, which, like my sexuality, would remain hidden another 15 years before I’d discover it.
When God Confronted My Homosexual Identity
In February 2000, I was in the process of selling my first home. A promotion had relocated me from sunny Phoenix to frigid downtown Chicago the weekend of Valentine’s Day. Yeah, great timing wasn’t always my strongest suit. I’d also been deeply rooted in my first significant same-sex relationship with a guy I met the previous October. We discussed at great length, the feasibility of him upending his job, family, and personal life to follow me. We also shared two enormous dogs. It was not a small undertaking. He agreed to make the sacrifice but stayed behind until he tied things down with his job. My life was about to dramatically change in ways my imagination could never have been conceived.
A few weeks into my new assignment, I remember kneeling on the floor next to my hotel bed with a Bible in my hand. It wasn’t even mine; I found it inside the nightstand drawer. I wasn’t sure why I was kneeling, but someone told me if you opened a Bible with your eyes closed and pointed to a random page, the scripture you pointed to would provide some instruction. This was just another one of my desperate attempts to seek relief from the anxiety I felt waiting for my house to sell. To this day, I’m not sure whether to curse that person or hug them for telling me about Bible roulette. I literally, just now, made that up - “Bible Roulette.” I’m sure it exists somewhere, but I would quickly learn, this “game” was just as dangerous to me as its shooting counterpart. My finger unmistakably landed directly on top of Leviticus 18:22 (“You shall not lie with a man as with a woman. It is an abomination”). And so began a tumultuous 25-year journey into questioning my entire life’s existence.
That day on the floor would be three years shy from my having any formal inkling to inviting Jesus Christ into my life. The next year’s 2001 attacks on our country would fill the Moody Church on La Salle Drive to the brim. I know it shook me enough to attend. That Sunday still stands out in my mind. I hadn’t been so moved to even enter a church since accompanying my grandmother from the age of nine to twelve, and that was sporadic at best. I invited “Lee”, one of the church ushers to join me for dinner one night after work. I had some questions for him. We met at a diner a few blocks away where Lee asked me over dinner if I was saved. I wasn’t sure how to answer his question. I’d traveled with so much baggage from my childhood and the years prior. I really had no way to answer his question with any level of intelligence.
I managed to ask Lee the question that had been plaguing me since that day of Bible roulette. I asked him what the church, and God, would think if I was gay. Without quoting damning scripture, he responded with, “Here, I’ve got something for you.” He handed me a brand-new Bible and a wallet card depicting Jesus Christ holding up an exhausted man gripping a mallet in his hand, trails of blood spilled like a river on the ground below them. I remember feeling horrified by the picture, until I understood its meaning. Jesus was holding ME right after I’d driven the nails into His body. That image stayed with me for a very long time. Looking back on that night, it’s easy for me to see that Lee held the future of my Christian faith in his hands. A single turn in one direction opened my heart to consider who God was; a turn in the other and it could have frightened me away indefinitely. My dinner with Lee also helped to serve up one of the most spiritually supernatural events I will probably ever have in my life.
It was Saturday, July 13, 2003, 10:45AM. I know this because you don’t forget where you were when an event like this happens. I was on board a packed Boeing 767 bound for my home in Louisville, KY from Austin, TX. following a business trip. With only one store open, I purchased Rick Warren’s “Purpose Driven Life” assuming it was a self-help book on life/career changes. If I had known about the actual subject matter, I wouldn’t have purchased it. As we reached a smooth 30,000 feet, I was already into Chapter 7 reciting the prayer of acceptance. I was finally making that familiar invitation for Jesus Christ to come into my life. It was as genuine of a prayer I had ever recited. I poured my heart out in that prayer. When I was done, I looked up to find nothing special happening. At the very least, I’d hoped for our hitting a semi-violent air pocket to confirm God’s existence. When that didn’t happen, I returned to reading.
About 30 seconds later, I stopped reading and slammed the book into my lap. It was at that very second my entire life would change forever. I followed up to my initial prayer of surrender with this newly inspired one- “God, if you are so % omnipotent, and you can be everywhere at any time, you need to come onto this airplane, no I DEMAND You COME INTO this airplane and tell me that what you heard from my lips was absolutely sincere – I KNOW it was sincere, but I need to know YOU know it was sincere, and that You heard it from my lips.” That was my exact prayer, verbatim, less the colorful profanity I wedged between the “so” and “omnipotent.” Before I ever had the chance to finish whispering those words from my mouth, I distinctly “heard” a voice in my head. It was clearly audible; it was unforgettable, and it was NOT the pilots’. The Voice gently, but firmly, commanded me, “Look to your right”. I swear this on the life of every single pet I have ever owned. I looked to my RIGHT and I saw a woman only two rows back reading the following book, as clear as day for me to see:
I was in shock. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, let alone “hearing” a Voice in my head. I started to laugh at the absurdity of it. The laughter quickly turned to what I could only define as instant reverence. I realized what had just happened. HE happened. I felt an intense wave of tears coming. I held them back as tightly as I could. My 6’6” frame was wedged like a sardine between two strangers. It was too much for me to control. I leaned over, covered my face, and cried. My shoulders were shaking; my nose was running like a toddler’s. I know my neighbors must have thought I was having an emotional breakdown. I was certain I was getting attention from other passengers nearby, but I didn’t care. I wept from the sheer shock and joy that Someone so majestic would take the time to create even a single, fleeting moment to reveal His presence, to ME. That’s the moment I understood how small I was in the world, and just how gigantic He was. I still have difficulty articulating the pure essence of that moment. I just knew I wasn’t worthy of what I dared ask Him that morning. I wasn’t.
I also don’t believe in coincidence. This flight was sold out with over 300 people aboard. Consider the infinitesimal probability that of the three-hundred passengers, it only took ONE who was (1) close enough to my seat for me to see them (2) sitting BEHIND ME, reading a book titled (3) “Answered Prayers” (4) which I only would have seen if some random “intuition” prompted me to turn my head in her direction. I knew immediately it was God on that airplane. There’s absolutely no question in that moment it was God. It only made the road ahead even more challenging for me.
I remember the next five months or so feeling like I was in the middle of a honeymoon. Nothing phased me. I had witnessed what no one I knew ever did. I wanted to go to church. I got baptized. I started to pray. And for the first time in my life, I started to read the Bible. That’s when the real work started. I had conveniently buried the memory of “Bible roulette” in my subconscious for four years, and it shot up like a cannon. It scared me. I then skipped over to Revelation 22:15 where I was lumped in with dogs, sorcerers, murderers, idolaters, and anyone who practiced lying. I didn’t perceive myself as any of those mentioned, so I thought I might be safe. I continued reading other books from the Bible, where I carefully sidestepped any uncomfortable scripture that might spoil my newfound experience with God.
A few years later, I would meet another person that would change my life forever. I met “Andrew” in 2005, the same week Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans. That should have been its own sign of providence for my life. It was love at first sight. We were together for 16 years. We got married after it was passed into law. The first nine years of that relationship happily obliterated every insignificant experience that followed my break-up in 2001. Every Christmas, Andrew and I would receive a card from his grandfather, a retired Southern Baptist preacher, along with a check for $15. His heart-warming card was filled with the standard wishes of strong health and good cheer, accompanied by every biblical scripture damning us both to eternal suffering. By our third Christmas, I had the lineup memorized: Leviticus 18:22, Leviticus 20:13, Romans 1:26-27, 1 Corinthians 6:9-10, 1 Timothy 1:1. And Genesis 19. That one always induced inspiring mental gymnastics as we debated the relationship between homosexuality vs. hospitality.
It was challenging to see the spiritual realities awaiting me from behind the veils of normalcy. Andrew and I both had successful careers. I served on the Staff Parish Committee at my church for two years. I was later hired as a department head for that same church for another two years. I led our weekly “Tuesday Night Dinner” in prayer with 300+ in attendance. I organized church fundraisers and volunteer events for packing school lunches and the annual 5K. I was a certified Stephens Minister at my church. I delivered my “Answered Prayers” testimony to over 1,000 people one Sunday at my church. I was shifting minds and opening doors for others in the gay community to find a safe and loving place to worship. Before my official starting date, I told my Pastor, my then boss, that he could still back out if he wanted to. I didn’t want him to take the heat to hire me. He said, “You’ve been made for this type of ministry. You let me fight the battles, and you just do what we hired you to do.” One member of the hiring committee pointed to the door I’d just left through after my interview - “THAT is exactly the type of leader and passion for Christ I want my kids to see here at this church.” After I was hired, twelve families left the church and their money along with it. I can recall feeling intense hurt, not just for the rejection, but the wounds my church would be assuming on my behalf.
May of 2014 arrived and the bottom of my world dropped like a rusted floor of a haunted amusement park ride. The last seven years of our relationship obliterated any identity of self that ever mattered to me. The fact I am even here to write about my life is a miracle in itself. It’s nothing short of God’s will and purpose I am here. If my number wasn’t organically called after my countless bouts of reckless behavior, I came infinitely close to meeting the same destiny as my siblings. My divorce was finalized December 2021. I would never “really” come around until the summer of 2025. The number “11” has always held profound meaning for me. It shows up. A lot. I’d never thought it would signify the number of years I would endure the most excruciating pain I would ever experience.
God forged me through the fires, and I faced a lot of them. Last year this time, I purchased black opaque blinds for all the windows of my home for the purpose of perpetually blocking the view (and the light) of my once beautiful yard that was instantly decimated by a category 4 hurricane and a tornado at 4am, only to be met with the evil fleecing of $18K in my savings by a contractor who made the storms look weak in comparison. That was the last car of a very “long black train” that lasted eleven horrendous years of my life. Last November 2025, I had a second meeting with God. He was the same One I’d met on that airplane from Austin. Only this time, we knew each other intimately. And we were about to become even closer.
That one Saturday morning last year in November I was at work when a supernatural series of events took place over a four-hour period that could only have been orchestrated by God Himself. He showed up in my office. I know now that I had been preparing for that day for a long time. I’d been doing the “wash on, wash off” moves from “Karate Kid” for decades, and I applied them to that day when everything finally came together for me:
I could no longer live a life filtering scripture by what I could live with and live without.
I couldn’t wait to read the Bible. It would finally have more fingerprints than dust.
I swore I would get to know all the ins and outs of Him.
I wanted nothing less than a personal relationship with Him, not just what I read about.
I accepted the Bible as inerrant, a word I had been running from for 22 years.
I made a life-long vow I intend to keep.
Celibacy was something I’d marinated on for years. Innately, I began that journey a year ago, February 21, 2025. I formally declared this vow to Jesus Christ this past November. I knew it was the right “decision” because it wasn’t a decision - it was a response to the Holy Spirit. I’d been searching for years how I could forge an intimately deeper relationship with Jesus Christ.
For me, it was a very clear element to my reaching that goal, even if only by a fraction. Not borne out of malice, spite, nor any sense of incel behavior, my vow was a truly narrowing down to the marrow of what a genuine commitment to Jesus Christ would mean for me. Initially, I’d approached it from the standpoint of “giving up something” which was such a core identify trait for me. By the time of its inception, it was nothing short of an enormous spiritual gain.
While I conscientiously strive not to attach any sense of self-identity to it, I remain continually aware of it. I often find myself contemplating it, not unlike a person’s frequent gaze upon an engagement ring, overjoyed in with Whom the bond exists. My celibacy is a continual and beautiful reminder of God’s unfailing love, grace, and mercy in my life. When I think about the tremendous sacrifice Jesus made on that cross on my behalf, on ALL our of behalf, bearing the small one I carry only pales in comparison. Matthew 16:24 often comes to mind for me:
“Then Jesus told his disciples, ‘If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.”
Jesus, I will follow you wherever You lead me.
Yes, “God uses ALL His people—every size, every color, every shape, and every background—to further His glorious Kingdom. Though some may be quick to dismiss those they don’t understand, each person has a role to play. It is our duty to recognize that truth and make room for it to unfold.”
And now, we are back to the beginning of the journey. There’s so much more to go.
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