The thing about faith coming alive is that it doesn’t just comfort you — it confronts you. And not long after, I found myself in the middle of a wrestle I never saw coming.
Compartmentalizing My Faith
I loved Jesus. I loved the feeling of being refreshed by Him. Yes, I prayed the salvation prayer. Yes, I was moved by the Holy Spirit. But I was still living however I wanted. My Sundays became a ritual: attend Favor Church online, attend Catholic Mass with my family, clean my room, do yoga, and then watch porn, convincing myself that “sexual care is self-care.” On top of that, I still gave talks during Pride Month, speaking about LGBTQ+ rights. And honestly, life was good. I didn’t think God had a problem with how I was living. I was a “good” person. I was engaged in purposeful work through my advocacy, helping LGBTQ+ individuals prioritize their mental health and advocating for an inclusive and equal society. In my mind, that was bringing glory to God. I was thriving at work and life, and I believed that these were indicators of God’s favor in my life, and if God were blessing me, then surely He’s not mad at my life.
As I shared in one of the previous chapters, I came to believe that since God is love, He must love me just as I am. Furthermore, I told myself sexual acts and pleasuring myself were good things too, because a God of love wouldn’t condemn them. And whenever I saw angry Catholics or Christians hurling hate at the LGBTQ+ community with Bible verses, it only reinforced my belief that Scripture was written in a different time and context, not meant to fully apply to us today.
At the back of my mind, I carried this mantra: I was born this way, and God makes no mistakes. It felt like the ultimate argument because my identity was God-given, and to question it was to question Him and His wisdom.
On top of that, I was exploring a lot of New Age practices. Astrology became one of my favorite tools for self-discovery, and reading my birth chart felt like unlocking hidden parts of myself. I even did tarot card readings and, for my birthday, went through an energy healing session. I honestly believed these things were helping me know God more deeply. I told myself I was “spiritual, not religious.” To me, that meant I could choose how I wanted to connect with God, because that’s what having a personal relationship with Him looked like — or so I thought.
And in my heart, I held onto a very specific image of Jesus. To me, Jesus was an activist — the kind of person who would always care for the marginalized, who would sit with the poor, the outcasts, and yes, even the LGBTQ+ community. I believed He would affirm our rights, especially on marriage, because that’s who Jesus was. Through that lens, I embraced progressive Christianity. It gave me the confidence to say, At the end of the day, what matters most is having a personal relationship with Jesus and following Him as our Moral Example. And I get to define what that looks like for me. Because this was my truth. And at the time, I believed that was what mattered most: that we live our truth and be a good person. I truly thought that’s what Jesus was calling me to do.
The Sermon That Changed Everything
It was called What Is Your Truth? with the subtitle Fake Will Eventually Break. Pastor James started by tackling moral relativism — the belief that there’s no absolute truth, that what’s true for you can be different from what’s true for me, and that both can coexist because “God is love.”
The moment I heard that, I had a feeling in my spirit where this was going. And sure enough, I was right.
He gave the example of how this plays out in the LGBTQ+ community, where the mantra “love is love” often comes with the reasoning, “God is love, so whatever my truth is, that’s valid.” The idea sounded compassionate, even noble. But then he asked: If truth is whatever we want it to be, who decides what’s right and wrong? Then came the words that pierced me: “Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life.’” (John 14:6)
In that moment, it clicked. Truth isn’t whatever I want it to be. It isn’t something I get to define for myself. Truth isn’t a what, but Truth is a who. Truth is Jesus. That’s where the collision happened. Because everything I believed up until then told me the opposite. The LGBTQ+ community said, “This is my truth. I have to live my truth.” And I believed that was what mattered most — that love meant affirmation, that God being love meant He blessed us just as we were.
But Jesus’ words cut through it all: “I am the Truth.” Not a metaphor. Not a figure of speech. A claim. Truth wasn’t my feelings. Truth wasn’t culture. Truth wasn’t even who I thought I was. Truth was Him.
Pastor James went on to say that as Christians, our convictions couldn’t just be based on what felt right or what culture celebrated. They had to be anchored in what God says through His Word. And the Word wasn’t just Scripture — the Word became flesh and lived among us (John 1:14). Following Scripture was inseparable from following Jesus Himself, because He is the Truth.
I had heard all the arguments Christians threw before “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve,” the warnings of Sodom and Gomorrah, the reminders that sin brings God’s wrath. None of that ever convinced me, and I always had a rebuttal ready. For example, I’d tell myself the Adam and Eve story was written in a cultural context thousands of years ago and couldn’t possibly define relationships today. To me, those arguments felt outdated. What mattered, I told myself, was people’s truth — their real experiences, their real love.
But that day, it wasn’t the arguments that struck me. It was the reminder of who Truth actually is. For the first time, I couldn’t argue my way out. If Jesus really was the Truth, then the foundation I had been standing on suddenly felt like sand.
Normally, I would have rolled my eyes, tuned out, maybe even lashed out. But this time, I couldn’t look away. I didn’t pause the live stream. I kept listening. I did feel offended, but not with the anger I was used to.
Instead, I felt something different, something deeper. Later, I’d learn the word for it: conviction.
Wrestling with Conviction
The rest of the sermon is a blur because I sat there wrestling with that one message, thinking, Oh my God, what if this is true? Suddenly, memories came flooding back, all the years I spent fighting for LGBTQ+ rights, lobbying in UST to support Pride Month initiatives, calling out silence and shame, even fighting for my acceptance in the family.
And yet here I was, beginning to understand the very convictions I once labeled as backward and harmful. As I sat with Pastor James’ sermon, I couldn’t shake a realization. So much of my advocacy for LGBTQ+ rights had been built on a “watered-down” version of Scripture. I leaned on Christian values like love and equality to find middle ground. I’d say things like, “God doesn’t make mistakes — He’s a perfect, all-knowing God, and He made us queer people too.”
I used the language of the Christian faith to argue that LGBTQ+ identities and relationships deserved to be fully affirmed. To me, inclusion was the loving thing to do. It gave our cause credibility because, after all, wasn’t God love? And wasn’t that the heart of Christianity? For a time, I believed that made my foundation unshakable.
But now, I had to face the hard truth: if the Bible really is God’s Word, and if Jesus really is the Truth, then maybe I had been shaping Scripture to fit my beliefs, not the other way around. That’s when it hit me: if I wanted to defend LGBTQ+ rights, I couldn’t do it from Scripture.
Because if Jesus is the Truth, and His Word doesn’t affirm what I was fighting for, then using the Bible to justify it would never hold, no matter how hard I tried. Part of me still wanted to believe I could hold on to both my advocacy and my faith, without having to choose.
But deep down, I knew the collision was coming. For the first time, I finally understood. But understanding didn’t mean I agreed (right away). I still held on to what I believed. Yet something in me had shifted.
I know I said this earlier, and I sound like a broken record, but this statement stayed with me because if Jesus really is the Truth, not just a truth, not just an idea, then the question wasn’t, “What is the truth?” The question was, “Who is the Truth?”
And again, I already knew the answer. Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” So the real wrestle began: Would I keep living my truth, or surrender to The Truth?
I shut the question down immediately and went into denial. The thought of surrendering to Jesus, especially if it meant letting go of what I held most tightly, felt impossible.
After that service, I told myself I wouldn’t come back. Why keep attending a church that didn’t affirm the LGBTQ+ community? It felt like betraying everything I had fought for and believed in.
I even considered attending an LGBTQ+ affirming church called Open Table. It seemed like the safer option, the place where my beliefs wouldn’t be challenged. But for some reason, I never followed through. It was as if something deep inside me whispered, Not there.
I thought I could just walk away. But God had other plans. Because somehow, I kept coming back to Favor. Not every week. Not consistently. But again and again. I couldn’t explain why. There was something about Favor Church— the people, the presence, the preaching. It felt like God Himself was pulling me in.
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