When Faith Hurts || Faith in Flux

Teenager 

In my mid-teens, as I was navigating the confusion of puberty, I was also dealing with the trauma of experiencing sexual assault. This drove me inward, making me deeply introspective and obsessed with the concept of sexual immorality. I believed I was the embodiment of sin. No amount of teen study Bibles or desperate internet searches could change the belief that I was inherently deviant. Add to that my growing feelings for my male peers, and you had a confused, scared, and isolated young Christian boy.

I thought studying and praying harder would erase my feelings and make me whole. It was during this time that I was introduced to the idea of “testimony.” I was told that personal tragedy could be repurposed to help others. With time and healing, this sentiment can have meaning—but when you’re in the depths of trauma, it’s frankly harmful. The idea that what happened to me was somehow for someone else’s benefit felt cruel. But I trusted the adults around me. I believed that being open about my struggles would lead to healing.

When my same-sex attraction became known, my world flipped upside down. I was placed in one-on-one “accountability group” meetings with my youth pastor. These meetings included another closeted boy, Phillip. When others discovered these private sessions, they insisted the group be expanded to include all the boys in the youth group. In these meetings, I was encouraged to be transparent about my “struggles,” as though confession could cure me. Coming out to the other boys resulted in instant ostracization.

This rejection only pushed me deeper into myself. I thought if I prayed harder, studied longer, and acted straight enough, I could become holy. I even went on a national Christian retreat where I would share my “testimony” with strangers in hopes of a miraculous transformation. I built a future centered on religious ministry: I knew where I wanted to attend college, planned to become a pastor, and even had a Christian public-speaking company interested in me as an ex-gay spokesperson.

One pastor even prayed to expel the “demon of homosexuality” from me. Yet none of this brought healing. My friends outside the church sensed my inner turmoil, but I couldn’t trust them—they weren’t “aligned with God” as I thought I was. Meanwhile, my church friends distanced themselves, thinking I was beyond redemption. I was stuck—until a scheduling mistake in my senior year of high school changed everything.

Through some twist of fate, I ended up in an advanced theater class I hadn’t signed up for. Unable to switch, I reluctantly stayed. The teacher, Mrs. Raven, was an eccentric, emotionally attuned woman who saw through me immediately. She ate lunch with me when no one else would. We talked about life, school—and most importantly, God.

She was shocked by how progressive and loving my view of Jesus was, yet equally surprised by my lack of compassion toward social justice issues. One day, she asked me directly, “Do you feel this way because you’re gay?” I broke down in tears. She gently told me, “Andrew, you know that God loves you, right? No matter what.” Her words changed my life.

If God could love me regardless of who I loved, what had I been fighting for this whole time? Why had I worked so hard to suppress myself? And if God was truly loving, was it possible there wasn’t a God at all?

Young Adult  

I started college early in the summer of 2012 as a student employee. My first Facebook post after moving in read: “For those who haven’t been paying attention, I’m gay and atheist. Let the Hunger Games begin.” I wanted to shock people, to present myself as exactly who I thought I was. The chaos that followed was exactly what I’d hoped for.

But let’s focus on what I thought “atheist” meant at the time. For me, atheism wasn’t just the absence of belief—it was belief in myself. It was a rejection of everything I’d been taught. If I’d snapped in high school, this was me rubber-banding back hard.

I picked fights online—sometimes warranted, sometimes just out of spite. I wrote angry, cynical college papers. When I dropped out after my first year, I channeled my intensity into reading popular atheist literature, particularly works by Richard Dawkins, embracing what I now see as “arrogant secularism.”

I was obsessed with being the opposite of everything I’d been taught. I took pride in being mean, manipulative, and cutting. I relished being the sharp-tongued, judgmental gay guy who struck first. I thought it made me powerful—but living a shallow life meant having little emotional reserve when I needed it most.

That emotional void made this one of the darkest periods of my life. I lost friends, family, and parts of myself. It took far too long to realize that belief—or lack thereof—shouldn’t dictate character.

Mid-Twenties  

When I returned to college to finish my degree, tragedy struck. My roommate died, and within six months, I lost my best friend, who told me bluntly, “You’re a manipulative asshole, and I can’t be around you anymore.” She was right.

I was floating through life like a balloon filled with hot air, untethered to anything real. I wanted to be a better person but didn’t know how without propping myself up on something I no longer believed in.

Isolation defined the next year or two. Therapy helped me unpack the baggage I’d carried for so long. Slowly, I settled into an uncertain identity. My morals and values—once so rigidly tied to religious belief—resurfaced, but in new forms. I grew comfortable with the small circle of friends I had and found purpose in my work. For the first time, not knowing all the answers felt okay.

I was finishing my degree while working as a teacher when I met my first Jewish family. Little did I know that my encounter with them would be the first step toward rediscovering who I truly was—and what I believed.