Undivided: Coming Out, Becoming Whole, and Living Free From Shame

We met at lunchtime and walked across the school field to the secluded area where tall trees lined the edges. It was June and unseasonably hot with scorching sunshine, so we tied our sweaters around our waists and kicked at the dry grass.

Leaning against a tree, she looked around nervously, scanning for teachers, and reached into her bag. Pulling out a cigarette, she lit it and inhaled the smoke to calm her nerves. Perhaps one reason I liked her so much was because she was my polar opposite. Known as a troublemaker, she always seemed so sure of herself and willing to challenge the status quo. There was something beautifully dangerous about her.

She cleared her throat, preparing to tell me her news. Ever the optimist, I wondered if she was going to tell me that she liked me—that she was gay. (Of course, she had no idea that I was or that I liked her in that way, as I put immense energy into hiding it.) That lunchtime, as she looked into my eyes, nothing could have been further from her mind.

“So,” she began, “I’ve decided … I mean, I think I’m ready to …” She paused to take another drag of her cigarette. “I’m ready to … have sex with him. I think I’m … in love with him,” she said, her face flushed.

Her boyfriend had been keen to sleep with her ever since she’d turned sixteen, and here she was, telling me she was going to do it. I coughed and looked away. She thought I had cigarette smoke in my eyes and apologized, exhaling slowly in the opposite direction.

“So what do you think?” she asked. “I mean, I know your faith wouldn’t condone it, but apart from that, what do you think, as my friend?”

“Friend” rang in my ears. That was all I would ever be to her. All I would ever be to any of these girls, now or ever. All I could mumble in response to her question was “Well, I guess only you can know when you’re ready …”

My heart broke into a hundred pieces as I processed the news she’d shared. It wasn’t that I wanted to sleep with her—my feelings were far more innocent than that, plus I believed that sex should only happen within marriage, as that’s what my church had raised me to think. I just wanted some sort of emotional exclusivity with her, where I was the one she ran to when she was frightened or happy. I wouldn’t have allowed myself the “sinful” behavior of kissing or dating her even if she had been interested, as my faith made that impossible for me. Liking her had felt much easier when she was single, but now that she was seriously dating a guy, it was a constant reminder to me that she was falling in love with him and not with me.

Anytime I found myself thinking of her in that way, I shut the feelings down at once, as guilt and shame rushed in. But as we stood there talking, I felt lost in her gaze. She seemed closer than ever, and yet now, based on this news, she’d never been further away.

“I guess we’d better go back for afternoon class,” she said, stubbing her cigarette out on the trunk of the tree. We started our walk back, and when we reached the school entrance, I told her I’d see her later.

I made my way to one of the bathrooms, locked the stall door behind me, and stood with my back against it. Silent tears fell down my cheeks, creating a mess of black mascara. I slid down the back of the door until I was sitting on the floor and, pulling my knees into my chest, I sobbed into the thick blue wool of my school sweater.

5 (#ulink_1f513423-a681-5d54-bae6-4ae9d205e7e1)

July arrived and the heatwave continued, but to me it felt cold and overcast as I processed the news the beautiful blue-eyed girl had shared with me. A few weeks later, I found out she had gone ahead and slept with her boyfriend. I managed to avoid hearing the finer details from her, but was told enough that my heart felt stabbed by a thousand knives.

I couldn’t wait for August and the long school vacation. The only glimmers of happiness on my horizon were the big Christian youth camps I attended every summer break, so I busied my mind by looking forward to those.

I’d had great experiences at those camps throughout my teens—several thousand young people all camping in tents, eating way too many hamburgers and donuts, gathering in a big venue to sing, and listening to energetic speakers firing us up about our faith. They were always a highlight for me, mostly because I was around other people like me: young, Christian, and passionate about God.

Those camps taught me a lot about developing into a well-rounded adult: about how to be a good leader, put others first, keep your word, dream big, and live a meaningful life. And they always had fantastic music with some of London’s finest session players. Watching them during the meetings and sneaking in to see their rehearsals if I could, I grew leaps and bounds in my own understanding of how to play in bands.

Nursing my broken heart, I was glad when August finally arrived and I could head to Soul Survivor, a camp held in the southwest of England. It was as great as ever, and I came away feeling inspired and encouraged. After a few days at home to get clean laundry and catch up on sleep, I headed to my second camp, one that would be held in a large showground in Warwickshire, and I couldn’t wait for it to start.

Initially, I was enthusiastic, joining in with the singing and praying, but somehow all my feelings of shame, heartache, and isolation caught up with me. The energy of the camp helped lift my spirits, but, underneath, my heart was still aching about the girl from school and my unrequited feelings for her.

One night this played on my mind so much that I couldn’t stay in the worship gathering, so I walked out into the evening air, gazing up at a sky full of stars. I was a tenacious young person, but my resilience was being tested to the hilt. I was breaking under the weight of shame and anxiety, believing I had to keep this secret forever.

As the chill of the night gave me goose bumps, and I shivered in my thin t-shirt, I prayed: “God, you have to do something this week. You have to heal me. I need to be straight; you have to set me free from these feelings. All I want is your will—to be who you want me to be. You’ve always been first in my life—and always will be. So do something at this camp. Change me. I’m desperate, and I need your help.”

Staring up at the starlit sky, I told myself that this time it would work. This time, God would answer and perform some kind of miracle. This week, I assured myself, would finally be the moment I got free from the orientation that was driving me to desperation.

I couldn’t face going back into the meeting, so I headed to my tent. The voices of thousands of young people singing their hearts out in the main venue carried on the breeze. I felt so far away from it all at that moment—an outsider, both literally and figuratively, living behind a wall of shame and fear. Exhausted, I climbed into my tent and fell into a fitful sleep.

Two nights later at the camp, it seemed as if my prayer might have been answered. The sermon was about God’s power, that Jesus could heal us and set us free from any form of addiction, sin, or shame. After the sermon, several young people my age were invited onto the stage to share their stories—or testimonies. One teenage boy said he had been “set free from alcoholism.” He’d started drinking at thirteen and developed a major addiction. After being prayed for last year at this same summer camp, he had never drunk alcohol again.

Another teenage guy stepped up to the microphone saying he’d been “set free from the sin of pornography.” After growing obsessed with porn magazines and videos (which the church saw as entirely inappropriate and sinful), he’d had prayer ministry last year and managed to break his habit entirely.

The last young person to speak was a girl with long curly red hair. She was, perhaps, a year or two older than me. Shyly, she said into the microphone that she’d been “set free from the sin of homosexuality.” My cheeks flushed, and I squirmed in my seat. I looked at my friends nervously, hoping they hadn’t noticed my face turn red.

The red-haired girl went on to say that, after being prayed for last year, all her feelings for girls had gone. She ended her testimony emphasizing how relieved she was “not to be gay anymore,” so that she could now live a life that pleased God at last.

I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach. Although I knew the Pentecostal and evangelical view on homosexuality, I’d never heard of anyone who’d been changed from gay to straight. The timing of it all felt so pertinent to the prayer I’d prayed two nights earlier.

The red-haired girl’s bravery seemed amazing to me. I sat in awe of her as she stood there, in front of thousands of other teenagers, telling her story so confidently. She stepped down from the stage, and the preacher motioned for the worship band to play some soft music. Then came the moment of invitation—the altar call or ministry time, as it’s known in charismatic circles.

The leader gave us an invitation: “Come up to the front of the auditorium if you want to get prayed for and be set free from whatever is holding you captive.” As the band began to play, he added, “God can break the chains of any addiction; just step out in faith. People will be standing up here—well-trained adults—ready to pray with you. Just come forward and take the step tonight.”

I knew I had to respond, but my face was crimson with embarrassment at the idea of walking to the front, with my friends and thousands of other young people watching. It seemed an impossible task.

The lights were dimmed a little, and everyone was encouraged to stand and sing. As people moved from sitting to standing, and under the cover of the dimmed lighting, I slipped out of my chair and began the long walk to the front of the auditorium.

Arriving at the front, I found a long line of ministry team members waiting, Christian adults who had been trained to pray with us. Other teens had arrived before me, and several were deep in prayer. Each had two adults, one on either side, speaking aloud as they asked God for healing and freedom.

I’d had great experiences with those ministry times before—the adults were always kind and sensitive, eager to help younger Christians grow in their faith. Unfortunately, that evening was different.

Two adults walked up to me and smiled. They put me at ease and said, “Well done for being brave enough to come all the way to the front.” We exchanged smiles, although mine was fleeting and nervous.

“So what can we pray about for you? What would you like God to set you free from tonight?” they asked.

I wished I could invent something inane, like being scared of the dark, stealing my sister’s pocket money out of her piggy bank, or being rude to my parents. But I had to deal with reality and face it head-on.

“Um … I think … I mean, I know … I’m … gay,” I said in a whisper only just loud enough for them to hear. My already beet-red face turned purple.

The couple exchanged worried looks. Their eyes communicated something like “the severity of this situation needs more backup.” With mild urgency, they waved other adults over to join us. This made me feel like a difficult case, as though I contained too much darkness for two people to tackle alone. At that moment, I wished I could run miles away, but it was too late. Shame swallowed me up like a rising tide.

“Let’s pray,” the adults said, as four or five of them surrounded me. As is our custom in charismatic churches, I closed my eyes and held out my hands with upturned palms. For us, this is a physical posture of surrender to God. The adults each placed a hand on one of my shoulders or on my back. This also is normal—it’s the way we show each other we’re standing together in supportive prayer. But as their prayers began, it felt anything but supportive.

One by one they started praying out loud. An impassioned man said, “These feelings are not from God—we stand against homosexuality tonight. Her heart is a battlefield, and the devil is not going to win.”

Several voices all chimed in with loud agreements. One said, “Yes, Lord, this is going to be a red-letter day for her: the end of these feelings at last.” Another said loudly, “We command the demons inside her to go. We bind the demons of homosexuality.” Another woman shouted, “Satan, get out of her. Let her go. Release your grip on her life.”

Other adults on the prayer team, having finished praying with other teens, joined our circle. They too raised their voices. People were shouting loudly now, and I was increasingly uncomfortable. “Release the demons!” they yelled, pressing on my back and shoulders. “We command these demonic feelings to leave. We tell every demon to go.”

“She belongs to you, Jesus—set her free. Give her back her purity. Give her back her life and her freedom to love the right way.” They continued to tell Satan and his demons to get out of my mind, heart, and body.

I stood frozen to the spot, my eyes clamped shut and my face flushed. Hearing their words was alarming to me. I knew being gay was sinful, but I’d never imagined that it was caused by demons or the devil. I felt more ashamed than ever, and now there was an added sense of fear as well. I was in the grip of a darkness I couldn’t control or beat; I was full of demons.

My stomach turned, and I felt sick. I began to sob, punctuated with retching. Thinking this was a sign of demonic expulsion (people often vomit during exorcisms, which is when the demons are thought to leave), the adults didn’t express concern, but shouted all the more loudly as they prayed.

By the time it was finally over, I was hunched on the floor, shaking and wishing the ground would swallow me up. As their impassioned prayers subsided, one of the team bent down and asked me, “Are you okay? Do you feel like God has set you free from homosexuality tonight? Do you feel different?”

I had no idea what to say, so in hopes that they’d stop and leave me alone I nodded and muttered a tearful “Maybe … I mean, yes.” But I knew nothing had changed.

One woman handed me a fistful of tissues and helped me to my feet. An enthusiastic man patted me on the back and said, “Well, tonight was a powerful night for you. I’m sure you’ll never forget the evening when you left those sinful feelings behind at the foot of our Savior’s cross.”

The woman with the box of tissues added, “You’re set free now, by the power of Jesus, so go and live your new life. I hope I’ll meet you someday in future with a husband and children of your own—you’ll be a testimony to God’s healing grace.”

I began walking away, but one man called out with a final thought: “You know, the Bible says some demons only come out ‘by prayer and fasting,’ so if those sinful feelings come back, try fasting, as that is a powerful way to be set free by the power of Jesus.”