Check out Darryn Greene’s testimony of wrestling with shame, finding hope, and learning to see God’s presence in the darkest places as a gay celibate Christian.
I’ve been in church for most of my life. I attended a Christian school until college. Before I knew what sexuality even was, I knew that boys were supposed to like girls and that boys who liked boys or girls who liked girls were disgusting, deplorable, and wicked (even though, in reality, experiencing same-sex attraction is not a sin). I was convinced (and still am) that I ought to steward my sexuality according to a biblical sexual ethic. Looking back, it was clearer than broad daylight that I was always interested in dudes, but I was so off-put by homosexuality that I didn’t realize that I might not be straight until I was in my late teens.
After this realization, I entered an extremely painful season of life. I tried to make sense of my sexuality while secretly and silently navigating what felt like a dark, dank, abandoned mine. Looking back on one of many nights spent in the solitudinous hellscape of “the closet,” I remember wrapping myself in my bed sheets and sandwiching my head between my pillows, trying to stifle my sniffling and hide my tears. A sliver of moonlight piercing through the cracks of the window shades was all that saved me from being swallowed up by the darkness in my room. The air was too still. I felt suffocated by grief and hopelessness. In between sniffles I quietly whispered to myself, “God, why did you allow me to be attracted to the same sex? Don’t You see and feel my pain? So why am I stuck here? How could this possibly be used in Your glorious plan?”
I spent many more nights weeping in my bed alone. Nights filled with shame for being here in the first place. Nights of praying to the silent heavens. Nights of questioning God. Nights of wondering if there were any other footprints to be found in my mine.
After spending so many nights alone in the dilapidated mine and accumulating countless deep and bloody wounds, I couldn’t take it anymore… at least, not alone. It was do or die, more or less literally.
So, I gradually came out to friends and family toward the end of my high school years.
While coming out allowed me to invite others into my dank, labyrinthine mine, I still hadn’t made sense of the entire situation, which led me to seek out advice from various Christian men I respected (almost all of them straight). After pouring out my heart to a mentor, he thanked me, hugged me, and left me with this groundbreaking advice: “Pray and leave it in God’s hands.” But I had already employed this strategy many times previously. That night I again returned to the mine empty-handed and alone.
Thanks to the internet, I eventually realized I wasn’t the only person to be cast into this torturous mine. I began to find the footprints of other gay Christians who had spent time in this place before me. Each time I discovered footprints and the trail of someone’s story, I felt as though I’d unearthed a diamond. These radiant, enduring, courageous, fellow gay souls filled me with comfort, hope, and another reason to keep digging.
One of those diamonds was discovering Pieter’s story and the work with Equip. One particular summer night (before I came out to friends and family), as I was buried under my bed sheets again, I was on my phone searching for testimonies gay Christians like me, and in that search, I came across a video of Pieter’s testimony. With bated breath and a hurting heart, I plugged in my earbuds and listened intently. Hearing his story and heartache left me quietly sniffling with tears streaming down my face and feeling as though I were picked up off the tearstained ground, dusted off, and intimately hugged by a long-lost brother. It was a comfort I thought could only be found in a fairy tale.
I also discovered that the work of Equip offered me bright, flaming torches to light the mine and give guidance and support to others, both straight and LGBTQ+. I found hope that I could build an environment where I could thrive. And hope that the Church could learn how to traverse this mine with those of us who reside here.
Nowadays, while I admittedly still feel some residual distance and pain between myself and the Church, I still believe in God and the values of the Bible. There’s no other way for me to make sense of the improbability of life itself! While clinging to faith, I still wrestle with why God allows certain struggles or pain, like why some of us experience the mines of same-sex attraction, but I strive to remain optimistic.
I’ve also found and experienced diamonds in the midst of this pit. If I’m already here, why not continue to search for more and help others find diamonds as well?!
Ultimately, I can only take things one step at a time, connect with one person at a time, and continue to build my own community where the church has failed me. It’s all a work in progress, but I’m forever thankful for the way I’ve experienced God’s love through family, close friends, and the aforementioned online resources while in some of my deepest valleys.
If you’re a straight Christian, you can be a meaningful part of others making their way through the mine and discovering diamonds worth living for. In particular, I’d encourage you to listen before fixing, separate attraction from behavior, and make room in your family rhythms for single friends. Plus, I think church-wide, open conversation with teens can help them feel safe enough to discuss tender topics like sexuality. You can normalize discernment between vocational singleness and marriage, and you can cultivate opportunities like shared meals to build friendship and community.
As I keep searching for diamonds, I trust that God is turning this mine into something beautiful. Let’s work together to serve as diamonds for the next ones who find themselves in this mine.
