From Same-Sex Attraction to Salvation: An Honest Reflection on Faith and Transformation

Acknowledgment:

This brief essay captures a deeply personal conversation about sexuality and faith. It reflects the author’s experiences and journey both before and after encountering Christ.

Authors Essay Title: Reflecting on Identity, Community, and Truth: A Loving Christian Perspective for LGBTQIA+ Seekers of Christ

In today’s society, how we understand ourselves, our identities, desires, and beliefs, is often shaped by the communities we belong to and the messages we receive. For many in the lgbtqia+ community, affirmation from friends, family, and society can be a vital source of comfort and belonging. However, it’s worth pausing to consider the deeper influences that may shape our self-understanding, especially through the lens of faith and love. History and personal stories alike show that environments which affirm certain identities can sometimes unintentionally reinforce underlying issues, unresolved trauma, or subconscious influences. Just as an addict might find comfort among others who share their struggles; spaces where they feel understood but also enabled, so too can communities that affirm particular identities sometimes become echo chambers that obscure deeper self-awareness.

Life in the community

My own journey illustrates this truth. At one point, I believed I was a lesbian - then later a non-binary, and found affirmation from the community. My first love was a woman whom I was in a relationship with for 3 years. Several relationships followed in quick succession, and after years of dating other women, I envisioned my future with one particular woman; marriage, building a life together. My family suspected, but my Christian father was unequivocal; he would rather kill me than accept I was a lesbian. He said it in jest, but it was shocking to hear from an otherwise docile man. I came out to my brother when I was 18 and informally introduced my girlfriend at the time to my sister. My few close friends were devout Muslims, and I was terrified of confiding in them. Mostly, I came out to strangers on the internet through chat groups, knowing I would find acceptance. It was the early days of the internet in homes, and I soon found myself on yahoo and AOL chat sites, turning to the 'lgb' community online, as it was known then. There, I found sanctuary. Everyone was free to be who they believed themselves to be, whether taciturn or eccentric. The labels I had assigned to myself became all that mattered; I was fiercely defended and protected, often, in hindsight, at the expense of true self-reflection. 

I was never opposed to religion as such. Rather, I was preoccupied with the world immediately around me, giving little thought to anything beyond it. Growing up in a Christian family, I was conscious of God’s existence, but I never gave much thought to what relevance He might have to my life. For me, the community represented freedom. It felt like a place of love and acceptance. I attended my first Pride event as a teenager, having never met anyone from the community in person where I lived. Volunteering seemed the best way to make connections. I told no one where I was going as I boarded the coach to London. It was my first visit to the capital, and I remember being quietly afraid. Yet when I arrived, all I saw were people revelling in joy. The atmosphere was inclusive, affectionate, and welcoming, and for the first time I felt as though I belonged. There was a palpable sense of freedom. The streets were alive with colour, people dancing, dressed in dazzling costumes. It was exuberant, unrestrained - wonderful.

After Pride, I felt compelled to move deeper into the community. I began meeting people I had first encountered online, travelling to Birmingham and London to see them, and dating women in those cities. At times I found myself at house parties, sitting quietly in a corner, speaking to no one, yet still feeling seen. Simply being present felt enough; I was content to belong. Relationships with women seemed to unfold with ease. What I cherished most was their straightforwardness. With men, it often felt like a drawn-out game: months might pass before one became a girlfriend, the relationship advancing according to their timetable. With women, things moved differently: you might meet one day, be together the next, and soon find yourself in love, sketching out a shared future. It felt simpler, more deliberate, more intentional. And when one relationship ended, another was rarely far behind.

Exploring Faith

In my early twenties, I underwent surgery under general anaesthesia, and during the procedure, I stopped breathing. The time between being put under and waking up was nothing but blackness, like drifting into sleep and then waking up with pain and a faint sense of anxiety, but nothing more. For years after, this experience convinced me that when we die, we slip into that darkness and simply cease to exist. The path to salvation began with a simple question: what did I truly believe happened after death? Could this life really be all there was, and then nothing? I had been content with the conclusion that we simply faded into non-existence, but a persistent, nagging feeling occasionally arose - whispering that there might be more, and that I needed to put the matter to rest once and for all. For several years following that question, I embarked on an exploration of faith in all its diverse expressions. I delved into the teachings of the Nation of Islam, Sikhism, the Abrahamic faiths, and many spiritual paths in between, studying their core tenets with an open, inquisitive mind. If I am honest, I wasn’t always seeking the faith that truly resonated with me; rather, I was searching for one that wouldn’t require me to consider much of what the Bible described as sin. In my mind, Christianity demanded far too much introspection and sacrifice, stirring in me a strong sense of discomfort. It was easier, in many ways, to seek understanding without the obligation of change; to acknowledge truth without necessarily surrendering the parts of myself I was reluctant to relinquish. At the culmination of my quest, I reached a quiet, contemplative conclusion: if I were ever to embrace a faith, it would likely be Christianity. Despite the many qualities I admired in other religions, my heart persistently returned to Christianity. I did not want to believe Christianity simply because my family did. I wanted to believe on the basis of evidence: through honest, searching inquiry. Every faith I encountered was tested against the soundness of its doctrine, even if that meant months or years of study. Some traditions fell away quickly, unable to withstand scrutiny. I cannot fully explain the sense of knowing that took root in my heart. Yet as I explored and ruled out one faith after another, I found myself returning, almost inevitably, to Jesus. If there was to be a faith worth following, my heart seemed certain that He had to be at its centre.

After about four years of searching, I arrived at the conclusion that I was a Christian. Yet, in many ways, that marked the end of the journey rather than the beginning of one. I did not join a church. I did not take up regular Bible reading; I had tried, but found it dull. Nor did I begin to pray with greater frequency. It felt less like the awakening of faith than the completion of an assignment. I had done the research, reached my conclusion, and submitted the essay. Box ticked. There seemed nothing more to pursue.

The Invitation

How I came to embrace Christianity is a much longer story, perhaps for another time, but it began with a conversation. I was residing in a shared house with my best friend who was gay and a staunch atheist, some 140 miles from my parents’ home, when I awoke unexpectedly one Wednesday morning. I had initially made plans to take a mini break abroad, but an overwhelming sensation - an intense pull and an urgent need - compelled me to return to my parents home. My suitcase was already packed for my trip, and I doubt I even managed a shower that morning. Without hesitation, I headed straight to the bus station. As I sat on the coach, an unsettling premonition took hold; I sensed that something was terribly wrong, that someone had passed away. By the time I reached my parents’ front door, I knew before I even turned the handle: it was my grandmother. Walking into the house, I found my parents in a state of distress, wandering aimlessly around the living room, seemingly lost and unsure of what to do. Instinctively, I sprang into action, booking their flights, helping them to pack, and organising their travel arrangements. In the midst of all this, my mother received a phone call, during which she mentioned that my grandmother must have sent me and expressed her gratitude to God.

A few days later, upon returning to my own home, I was greeted by my best friend, to whom I recounted the entire ordeal. I recall feeling a sense of unease about sharing the details of the phone call. When I did, his reaction was immediate; a booming burst of laughter at the very idea of a living God orchestrating my arrival at the right moment, precisely when I needed to be there. I chuckled awkwardly, taken aback by his reaction, yet almost immediately, a wave of guilt washed over me. I had mocked God before; told jokes about Jesus, used both names as exclamations or swear words. Yet, in that moment, something felt different. Wrong even. The name suddenly carried gravitas; an air of authority that commanded reverence, and respect. My friend's laughter only intensified my unease; there was something insidious in it that made me pause. Have you ever heard someone laugh a little too hard at a racist joke? It felt akin to that. For reasons I couldn’t quite understand at the time, it just didn’t sit right. Later, I would understand that this was only the beginning of God inviting me into faith.

A few months after that conversation with my friend, I had an undeniable encounter with God. It came in the form of a vision, as vivid and tangible as anything I could have seen with my own eyes. It was like one of those movie scenes where the protagonist’s mind plays a reel of all the clues that led to solving a mystery. My mental reel displayed every way I had been earnestly seeking God over the years. This was followed by an overwhelming rush, a profound surge of intense and unconditional love that swept through me and settled for several days. In that moment, I knew it was the God of the bible. For the following days, I was overwhelmed with emotion and tears, weeping for finally receiving clarity on questions I had long struggled with. I wept because I had never encountered a love so all-encompassing, nor realised the depth of His love for me. It was an encounter with God that left my heart forever changed.

A new story

During my first year as a Christian, my lesbianism remained a part of me that I refused to permit God to confront or transform. I reasoned that as long as I was a good Christian, following all the rules and doing what was expected, this one area could not count against me. Later, when God called me to ministry, I decided that the ministry was to bring the lgbtqia+ community into the church, not to change them, but for them to live authentically as however they identified, and still be Christians. I had responded to His call with my own vision of building an inclusive church. I simply believed that I, as a lesbian, could be a Christian and so could other people. 

More fundamentally, and perhaps more honestly, I was also afraid of what my gay best friend and others in the community would think if I suddenly became a Christian and preached that homosexuality went against the Word of God.  My anxieties extended far beyond that, to the judgments of society, the potential loss of employment, and every other personal consequence that might arise if I did not preach an inclusive message. I was a new Christian, and I didn’t yet understand what it meant to take up my cross and follow Jesus. I had not yet heard of surrender; of choosing to yield my will and desires to God's guidance and control, trusting that His plan is ultimately good and beneficial, even when it’s not immediately clear or easy. In those early days, faith felt more like a set of rules to follow, rather than a journey of relationship.

The surprising news is that these were my concerns, not God's.  Whenever these thoughts overwhelmed me, I turned to Him in prayer, saying, "Your will be done." God did not offer an ultimatum: "be straight or else!". Instead, managing me like a toddler throwing a tantrum, He gently averted my attention to other things. He taught me how to forgive others, focused my efforts on serving faithfully in the church I had joined, challenged my character, taught me to love others. This safe space allowed me to see His heart. The more I saw of Him and fell in love with Him, the less I focused on romantic relationships and my identity.

Leaving the community

Conviction about my sexuality came later, not as a demand but as a whispered lie. I was standing in my room one afternoon, lost in a quiet moment. Without warning, a voice in my mind declared, "You are a lesbian." The voice was unfamiliar; neither a thought I had been contemplating nor a reflection I had consciously summoned. Seconds earlier, I had been simply folding clothes, mindlessly planning a trip to Ikea. Yet in that stillness, those words arrived with a clarity that startled me. I remember the sensations vividly; the moment my world seemed to shatter, a sudden dread washing over me like a tidal wave. With a half folded shirt still in my hand, I stood there, frozen in place, desperately trying to grasp where those words had come from and why they had come so abruptly. I stopped what I was doing, and in a calm, contemplative effort to make sense of what had just happened, I began pacing the room, my mind quietly working through this unanticipated revelation.

Then, I said something I never thought I'd say: "I am not a lesbian!". I said those words with conviction, wholeheartedly, and I meant it. It came out so naturally, so organically. Though I wrestled with that experience for a few more days just trying to understand what had happened, I had made my choice in that moment and it had been simple: would I choose my identity, or would I choose God? The answer was obvious, clear. By that point, I had come to know Him more, and also come to believe that the things written about Him in scripture were true. God had not demanded that I cease to be lesbian. Instead, a choice was laid before me, and I made my own. It was a moment of quiet decision; an acceptance of what I knew in my heart, rather than a command to change who I was.

A few weeks later, I attended a lesbian wedding. If I am honest, I felt deeply conflicted about attending at all. On one hand, I no longer saw myself as part of the community; on the other, I knew and loved the couple, and one of them was an extended family member. I wrestled with what it truly meant for me to go to the wedding, navigating these conflicting feelings as a new Christian. The internal tug-of-war was real; each thought pulling me in different directions, forcing me to confront my own understanding of scripture, faith, and loyalty. I did not enjoy the wedding. It felt incompatible with what I now believed and the truths revealed through Scripture. Yet, in going, I found that the community and their opinions suddenly seemed so small and inconsequential in comparison to the truth and the calling God had placed on my heart. It was as though a veil had been lifted, and I could see clearly for the first time; truths that had once been hidden now illuminated before me. This realisation didn’t mean I was immediately compelled to find and marry a man or start building an idyllic Christian life together. It was simply the understanding that I was no longer that person; my identity was shifting. I was embracing a new life in Christ. That wedding became like a hardcover closing the chapter of that previous life, marking the end of one story and the beginning of another.

Reexamination

What I came to realise in the years since was that in the grand scheme of things, romantic relationships are just one way of doing life - much like widowhood, childlessness, motherhood, having lots of friends, or having no close friends at all. Whether we have them or not is part chance and part choice, but our inherent worth and value do not change because of them. I had intertwined my sexual identity so deeply with my sense of self that it became everything I was. If I wasn't volunteering at pride events, advocating fiercely for gay rights, I was signing petitions, and loudly defending the right for people to love whom they chose. I believed that love was love, and that if someone was gay, God had to have made them that way. My identity and my convictions were all but inseparable, shaping how I saw myself and interacted with the world around me.

I began to recognise that some of my thoughts, particularly that day in my room, were not divine truth, but perhaps influenced by factors I had may not have fully explored. I thought back to those early online chatroom days and wondered what might have happened if I hadn’t found community. Objectively, without an affirming online community, it's possible that life experiences and further exploration might have led to a more balanced perspective and deeper introspection. Stepping away from external influences allows for clearer understanding and personal growth. Just as I had once asked "what if" when contemplating life after death, I became open to entertaining the "what ifs" of my sexual identity. Faith served as a catalyst for greater honesty with myself. It unveiled the intricacies of emotion; how, regardless of their authenticity, feelings are often influenced by unseen forces, whether social, psychological, or spiritual.

When the pandemic happened, isolation from the world and the community gave me the space to reflect and search my heart and mind. Being in the community was like navigating a bustling city for the first time, finding myself lost amidst the crowd. The crowd was lively and free, and I was happy to move with them, finding camaraderie and seeking the freedom to explore. But the problem arose when I realised I was lost. In the midst of the crowd, it was hard to see where I had come from or where I was headed. Isolation became like finding a high vantage point; a place above the chaos, offering a bird’s-eye view of the landscape. From there, I could see everything with more clarity and decide which way to go; even if that meant turning away from the crowd and walking alone once more.

For those wrestling

I share my experience, as an invitation to seek the truth earnestly, and to explore faith in God through an open heart and objective lens. Communities that affirm identities without exploring their roots risk reinforcing unexamined beliefs. Whenever members of the lgbtqia+ community today hear of individuals who have walked away for Christ, I often hear them dismiss these stories, claiming that the person was never truly part of the them because "you are born this way." They scrutinise our backstories, attempting to find holes or inconsistencies, and argue that those who leave are either harmful to the movement or brainwashed, incapable of knowing their own minds. It’s a peculiar argument for a movement predicated on self-awareness, authentic identity, and the courage to speak one's truth. This is by no means a judgement of them as that’s probably what I would have said too. I could probably think of a million reasons why a so-called lesbian would be saying these things; and none of them would reflect the real reason: a radical transformation.

What I wish for you to understand is this: your sexual orientation does not define you. If your heart is feeling pulled towards Jesus, then lean into that calling wholeheartedly. In the quiet shadows of questioning, many have grappled with fears that seem to loom large - uncertainties about how they will be received in the church, the trepidation of having to tell people they once proudly came out to that you are no longer that way inclined, or the vulnerability of turning to a God they once disavowed - to name a few. Thankfully, faith whispers a different truth; come as you are, listen with an open heart, learn steadily, and trust that He knows what He is doing in your life. God’s gaze is not fixated on your sexuality, but on the state of your heart. As He gently transforms you from within, everything else will align in due time. You need not have every detail perfected or fit into a prescribed mould - just invite Him in. And in that act of openness, He will carry the rest.

Too often, the narrative within some churches focuses solely on homosexuality as a sin (defined as 'an immoral transgression that goes against divine law'). This perspective misses the broader picture of human fallibility. Each of us, I believe, resembles a tree in our own right; rooted in our unique origins, with branches that stretch and diverge in myriad directions. Homosexuality, much like any other act of transgression, is simply a branch on that tree. Since there is no hierarchy among transgressions, no sin is inherently greater or lesser than another. Pride, hypocrisy, wrath; these are just a few of the many branches that extend from the same roots, each rooted in the complex and intertwined nature of our human condition. Just as a single tree can bear countless branches, so too do our faults and failings sprout from the fundamental core of our being. This may explain why some people say they have attempted to "pray away the gay," only to find that God did not alter their orientation. It underscores the distinction between superficial attempts at change and the deeper, more transformative work of the heart and soul; work that begins with genuine openness to God's challenge and renewal from within, rather than merely seeking to erase what is perceived as undesirable. What He requires is for us to present the entire tree - our whole selves - so that He can work at the very root, rather than merely trimming the branches. As Ezekiel 36:26-27 reminds us, true transformation begins when we allow God to establish a new heart and spirit within us, enabling His Spirit to renew us from the inside out. It is a profound and comprehensive renewal; one that begins with the simple act of inviting Him to challenge our deepest convictions and perceptions of certainty.

Life today

I feel a deep sense of gratitude for the lived experience I have. Today, It allows me to connect with others who are travelling their own paths of transformation from same sex attraction to life in Christ. I can walk alongside them with compassion and patience, letting them arrive at their own insights in their own time. As a pastor in training, my life today is wholly dedicated to spiritual growth. I am single, and I do not have a pressing desire for marriage. If I were to find a man whom I truly desired to marry, then I would. However, my focus is on walking faithfully in the path God has set before me, open to His guidance in whatever direction that may lead. My primary focus is on deepening my faith and preparing to faithfully teach the Word of God.

Do I now believe that one can be both Christian and gay? No. It is an uncomfortable but inalienable truth. The desire itself is a form of temptation, an inescapable facet of the Christian journey. We are constantly embroiled in a battle against numerous temptations; be it a single woman's infatuation with a married man, or the more relatable urge to vent anger at a driver who cuts us off on the road. These moments, though varied in nature, underscore the universal challenge of resisting actions, words, and thoughts that test our moral resilience and faith. It is God's expectation, not merely a suggestion, that we resist these temptations. (1 Corinthians 6:18, 1 Timothy 6:11, Proverbs 4:14-15). To seek out a church that affirms same-sex desires, or to persist in a life shaped by them, is to step away from repentance. Yet repentance is not the price of God’s grace but the doorway through which we experience its fullness. The bottom line is this: culture and society may shift with the changing of time, but Scripture and the doctrine of the Trinity remain unchanging constants. Each of us must choose where they stand in relation to these divine truths. Scripture reminds us that "many are called, but few are chosen." This signifies that while God's offer of salvation and a place in His kingdom is extended to all, only a select few will truly accept the invitation; embracing a life that reflects their faith and commitment. It is in this deliberate response that the distinction between mere calling and genuine election is made clear.