Why did I come out?

I thought I’d be asked this question much more than I have since coming out in 2018. Perhaps it’s a combination of my unending desire to feel understood that makes me want to answer it and the slightly accusatory nature of the question that keeps people from broaching the topic.

While most religious individuals (who don’t support same-sex relationships) don’t ask this head-on, I do get a handful of questions that circumnavigate the topic. Questions like, “What do you believe about the Catholic Church or the Eucharist now?” still dip their toe in those waters. When I hear those questions, I hear the question behind them, “How could you leave a church (The Church) that you spent years defending, that holds the fullness of the faith, and where Jesus is truly present?” I think sometimes there’s even an implication, “How could you turn your back on God?”

While I’ve had my fair share of sleepless and fearful nights where I was sure that I was abandoning all my morals and would certainly end up a relativist, the ultimate pull to coming out wasn’t a desire for pleasure but a profound experience of peace where—for the first time in my life—I felt completely seen by another human in a way that I hadn’t experienced outside moments of profound prayer.

What broke me was a sunset drive out of the mountains with a guy I was hopelessly falling for. As I drove us down that winding road, watching the sky slowly turn to a starry night, I held his hand, and we sang songs and talked theology, joked, and just enjoyed each other’s company. I felt so at peace. And before you write this moment off as mere infatuation (which I won’t deny), I want to challenge you to understand something far more profound occurred on that little road trip.

I didn’t have to hide parts of my life when I was with him; everything had a place. The fact that I was attracted to men wasn’t going to make him uncomfortable because (if you couldn’t tell by the hand-holding) he was gay, too. We could share our faith cause we were both Catholic. I didn’t have to carefully choose my words for fear of being “found out” because my sexuality was finally seen as just one part of what made me me.

Since that one evening, I’ve come to have this experience time and time again with many good friendships. It has been an odd contradiction that by accepting my sexuality and not trying to get rid of it, it suddenly became much less important. Before coming out, in all my conversations about my spiritual life, it seemed like my attraction towards men was the root of all problems: it was why I didn’t get along with my family, why I struggled to feel like I had friends, why I didn’t trust myself, why I kept falling into sin—the list went on and on.

While it was still a slow process after that evening to finally decide to come out, the reality was I couldn’t shake the sense of peace I felt in that moment. A peace I knew couldn’t be explained by temptation or satan. A peace that could only come from God. A peace that felt like all the parts of my life had a place, even if they weren’t perfect. I could let down the façade I had built up over the years. A façade of the image of a “good Catholic man” I felt I had to live that was far less about understanding the gifts and talents God uniquely gave to me and far more about denying the wonderful creation that is me.

While we can disagree over whether homosexuality is a sin or not, I think most of us can relate to this experience. There are parts of our history or body or habits or personality quirks we wish we didn’t have that we could just get rid of, and try as we might, we can’t. Maybe it is precisely because God, in his permissive will, sees those as a far smaller problem than we do, maybe even a gift. Perhaps your tendency to want to have everything “figured out” makes you an amazing planner. Or your constant need to be around people makes you fantastic at connecting with others. Maybe your anger makes you an advocate.

When Jesus rose from the dead, he still had his scars, and, for me, this is the most important and consoling moment in the gospels. Jesus didn’t just come to whitewash our imperfections; through a eucatastrophic moment, he brought about good. I believe it is the same with us. Redemption in my life doesn’t look like me trying to be straight or deny reality. Redemption means accepting my present reality and learning to love in and through my gifting and limitations.

I came out because I was tired of lying, but I keep coming out because I believe I am called to love precisely as I am—a gay man.