Originally written when I was 16. Revisited, years and a lifetime later.
I went by “Emmie" back then. I was a newly baptized Christian girl terrified of her own thoughts. I had no framework, no language, and no safe place to talk about the reality I was facing. I was clinging to Jesus with all I had, but I was scared of being disqualified, judged, or shamed. I thought if anyone found out, they’d never look at me the same again. And I wasn’t ready for that.
I don't recall the exact timing, only that these events took place during my Sophomore year, somewhere between fall and winter. I later wrote and published to my former blog something that I described never in a million years guessing that I would write. It exposed one of my deepest secrets at the time, something I haven't shared much since.
It was something I was scared to say out loud, something I felt I’d be condemned for if I even dared expose it.
Perhaps some of you remember - 2019, early 2020, sometime in that period. I came out as bisexual and exposed my struggle with attraction to the same gender.
One afternoon while chilling in my dorm room after class, one of my best friends came bursting into my room, sat down beside me, and said she needed to talk. Her voice was different. Shaky. Honest. "I think it's time for you to know... I’m bisexual."
Shock flooded me. I froze. Not because of her, but because I saw myself.
We talked. She was vulnerable. I was silent, trying to understand, to show compassion and support. But there came a point where my heart was so exposed that I couldn’t take it anymore. I excused myself and ran to the prayer room downstairs. I locked the door, collapsed in a chair, and sobbed.
Not because she made me uncomfortable.
Because I was.
I wasn’t angry with her. I wasn’t judging her. I was just haunted by the truth I’d never spoken. Her confession unearthed mine. It pulled out the secret I had promised myself I’d never tell a soul.
I’d felt these things before. Quiet feelings I buried under spiritual busyness, moral guilt, and silence. The first time was three years earlier, when I realized I was attracted to a close friend. I panicked. I begged God to fix it. I told no one. I shoved it back down. It came again. And again. I prayed harder. I was definitely attracted to guys, and I ran with it. I distracted myself. I was even in my first serious relationship at the time this happened.
But I couldn’t outrun it.
That night, I went back to my friend, and I told her the truth. “I’m just like you.” I had no more energy for hiding.
Slowly, I started telling others, those I trusted the most. Eventually, I even opened up to my parents. It wasn’t easy, but it was the beginning of freedom.
Let me be clear: I steered clear of choices that would reflect that. I’ve never dated a woman, despite real temptations—especially in seasons of singleness and heartache before I met the man I’m now preparing to marry. I hold to what I believe is the Scriptural teaching: that God designed romantic and sexual intimacy for marriage between a man and a woman.
But I don’t believe that means those who identify as LGBTQ+ are unworthy, unloved, or beyond reach. Not even close.
Over five years after coming out, I’m not writing this from a place of “figured it all out.” I’m writing this as someone who still has to wrestle with thoughts, with flesh, with fears. I still carry this story. But I carry it differently now.
Because I’ve come to know a Savior who doesn’t flinch at my fears. A God who draws close, not away, when I whisper what I think disqualifies me. If you’re reading this and wondering if the same can be true for you, it can.
But I also need to confess something.
In the years that followed my first coming out, I’ve not always lived up to the grace I so desperately needed. There were moments I spoke out of fear and self-righteousness. Times I made comments—about people I didn’t know, about situations I didn’t understand—that came from insecurity and not love. I’ve said things that hurt, things I now regret. If you were ever on the other end of that, I am truly sorry.
Hypocrisy is easy when we’re scared. But Jesus isn’t afraid of our contradictions. He transforms them. And the more I let Him shape my heart, the more I ache not to demonize but to witness. To listen. To serve. To reflect Him.
To my LGBTQ+ friends: You are not what people have labeled you, and you are not invisible to God. I apologize on behalf of the church that has made you the centerpiece for their culture war and has used a politically charged religious bat to continually hit you over the head with.
To those like me who fight these battles while still deeply loving Jesus, forgive us for not giving you a space to share your voice and have conversations about what it means to be LGBTQ+ and still be the church. Please don't stop trying. Please don't give up on us.
You are sought. Valuable. Loved. I cannot apologize enough for those who may have told you different.
Even if you never change a thing. Even if you’re still figuring it all out. Even if all you have to offer is your honest ache and a whispered prayer.
And to those who, also like me, have been hypocritical or dismissive or quick to judge—there’s grace for you too. But may that grace lead us to repentance, to deeper love, and to being better mirrors of Christ’s compassion.
As I consider this topic in light of my blossoming career toward Bible teaching and chaplaincy, I find myself frozen in worry that the church once again will refuse to step up for its LGTBQ+ youth. I’ve witnessed firsthand first as a student myself and now as a teacher/minister in training how many students carry hidden wounds, silent fears, and questions they’ve never had permission to ask in church spaces. I understand - I have been one of them.
And I know this topic—same-gender attraction, identity, sexuality, faith—isn’t going away. We've kept those skeletons in our closet way too long. It’s not a "phase" our generation will outgrow, nor is it a cultural problem we can ignore into silence. These are real lives, real souls, real stories, sitting quietly in pews, attending youth groups, leading worship, and desperately wondering, Is there a place for me here?
I want to be a voice that says yes. Yes, there’s space. Yes, you’re seen. Yes, you matter. Not because I have all the answers, but because I believe in a God who does. I believe in a gospel big enough to hold our hardest questions. I believe in a God who meets us with both truth and tenderness.
And I believe the church has to learn how to do the same. Lord, have mercy. How long will we ignore this call?
I pray that the next generation doesn’t have to choose between being honest and being welcome.
We can have these conversations.
We must have these conversations.
Jesus isn’t afraid of them.
And quite frankly, we should not be, either.
No comments:
Post a Comment