(Originally published by Awaken Catholic)

When I was only a couple of weeks old, my parents baptized me, claiming Christ’s work on the cross for me. I grew up in a liturgical church and, during my elementary school years, confirmed on an Easter Sunday morning that my parents’ faith had indeed become my own. I dutifully attended Sunday school, Sunday night youth group, and Wednesday night student programming. Each summer I went to a Christian high-adventure camp where I spent time rock climbing and water tubing during the day and singing worship songs next to 200 other teens at night. I attended Fellowship of Christian Athletes meetings before school. I tried my best to read my Bible and pray each day.

I certainly looked like a teenager serious about his faith and eager to fall in love with Jesus. In many ways the book matched the cover. Church youth group and summer camp were punctuated by profound moments of connection with God and appreciation for His goodness. And at the same time, a meaningful part of me doubted whether God really loved me as I was.

Because I was gay. And still am.*

In large part, I fervently leaned into my sanctification because I felt ashamed and hoped my faithfulness would convince God to love me (just in case He didn’t).

Despite misunderstanding the faithfulness of God’s love, recognizing the brokenness of my sexuality prompted me to step forward in faith. For the first time in my life, the brokenness of myself and the entire world around me was undeniably clear. More than ever before, I understood why Christ’s death and resurrection were so necessary for me and the whole world.

Then I got to college, and my experience of God graduated to a completely new level. If high school summers at Christian camp were the era of my first religious revival, living and doing life with Christian peers in college was my second great awakening. Being surrounded by roommates and hallmates taking their spiritual disciplines seriously made it easier for me to consistently study my Bible, memorize Scripture, and pray for extended periods of time.

That consistency gave way to a more gratifying experience of intimacy with God than I had ever experienced. It was easy to believe the Holy Spirit was sitting right next to me as I studied and prayed. Singing and worshiping during church produced a sense of deeply delightful connection with God. Feeling like I loved Jesus came easily, and yearning for the feelings of loving God came even more easily.

Then suddenly, my intimacy with God dried up. Worship felt like I was just singing to the back wall of the church. Prayer felt like I was pleading into a void. Bible study seemed disconnected and increasingly pointless. Motivation to memorize Scripture fizzled out. God felt increasingly distant, giving way to a nine-year drought of intimacy with God that continues today.

God’s seeming absence and my simultaneous uncertainty about Biblical authority eventually led to deepening doubts about whether God existed at all. If I can’t experience God or know what His words mean, what’s the likelihood that He’s just made up?

If these doubts weren’t enough, I was increasingly disillusioned with “biblical Christians” who were more faithful to the American dream and romance idolatry than to the gospel. Offering our whole selves as living sacrifices had been replaced by seeking comfort through wealth, cultural power, and Disney dreams of romantic fulfillment.

Yet, by God’s grace, I stumbled upon a priest who helped me make sense of my confusion. I shared my doubts about the existence of God with the late Father Thomas McKenzie. He calmly listened, and then, with compassion, assured me that I didn’t have to believe in order to participate. In his words, “If this stuff is real, God will minister to you through the liturgy.”

So I showed up, crossed, knelt, bowed, sang, read, and passed the peace. Most importantly, I received the body and blood of Jesus. And I chose to believe that each of those elements was making a difference.

That same priest also gave me some homework: read Dark Night of the Soul by Saint John of the Cross and Interior Castle by Saint Teresa of Avila. I was relieved to discover that my desert experience wasn’t uncommon or shameful. Instead, I learned that throughout Christian history it has been painfully common for younger believers to accidentally learn to love God’s gifts more than the Giver Himself. 

St. John and St. Teresa taught me that God first makes it easy for newer Christians to experience intimacy with Him, but once we’re ready for something more meaningful, God often intentionally withdraws Himself. He allows Himself to become more difficult to hear, more difficult to find. God weans us off of the love of His gifts so that we can mature and learn to love the Giver for Himself. With distance from easy blessings, our heart can grow fonder for the source of those blessings.We learn to delight in whispers and bread crumbs, and in the process we discover a mature faith more beautiful than effortless emotional intimacy with God. I was comforted to learn that most Christians continue in this desert season for most, if not all, of the rest of their lives. Not as a punishment or because we’ve woefully fallen short of God’s expectations for us, but because—in God’s mysterious wisdom—the presence of His absence is best for us.

I’m still trying to understand what it means to have a relationship with God. I’m still asking what part God plays in the details of my life and in the world around me. But I’m confident God wants to love me through family in the body of Christ, and I’ve leaned into starting an ecumenical monastery where men called to vocational singleness for the Lord can offer each other that love and support. My doubt is just as great today as it was during the worst moments of my deconstruction, but I’ve made peace with living as though I believe until faith comes more naturally.

For those struggling with distance from God, doubt, or deconstruction, please know that you are not alone and your challenges are not uncommon. For many of you, your difficulties aren’t the consequence of grave disobedience but are instead the mysteriously merciful path our good Lord has chosen for you. I pray you’ll take comfort in the testimonies of others who have endured and grown in desert seasons, and I pray you’ll find fellowship among brothers and sisters in Christ who can be a tangible embodiment of the goodness of God, especially in times when He feels distant.

*I continue to experience same-sex attractions and I continue to be committed to a traditional sexual ethic—a belief that God’s best for every Christian is either a lifetime vocation of abstinent singleness for the sake of doing kingdom work with undivided attention or a lifetime vocation of opposite-sex Christian marriage with an openness to raising children for the sake of the kingdom. In particular, I’ve accepted a call to vocational singleness, doing the kingdom work of teaching and discipling around celibacy and LGBT+ topics according to a traditional sexual ethic, and building an intentional Christian community for men called to vocational singleness.