For years, I was caught in a strange paradox. I was drawn to gay men — compelled to be around them in clubs, bars, and cruising spots where I knew I’d find a connection, even if it was fleeting; yet I also harbored a deep dislike for the men I met and even the ones I saw on screen. I was, in a way, anti-gay — primarily from the way I was raised.

As I entered the labyrinth, I tried focusing only on my thoughts and walking; inevitably, however, I compared my walk with others, noting my slower, struggling pace. The way was narrow, and due to my cerebral palsy my gait is naturally broader than most people’s. I tried not to look “odd.”

The other day, while digging through some years-ago writings, I came across a letter I wrote in 2012. It was raw and honest, meant for a guy I’d had a crush on for two years. Reading it again, I felt nostalgia – not for him, but for the version of myself who poured his heart onto that page.

This missionary gentleman asked if I'd consider participating in a Bible study he'd be leading. After some thought and prayer, I agreed. The first step of joining this group required each participant to share his or her testimony. I knew this upon agreeing to attend, and I had time to prepare. Of course, part of my testimony is being a gay, celibate Christian. I knew I'd have to share this detail; why wouldn't I be completely transparent in my testimony?

I want to talk about rape – specifically, my childhood rape. I want to tell this difficult story for two reasons: healing for myself, and more importantly healing for anyone else reading. Please read at your own discretion.

My time leading up to this year's YOBBERS Retreat came with mixed emotions. I knew a few familiar YOBBERS wouldn't be returning, but I also knew I'd recognize many other guys attending. Anxiety lingered. Had I really built the kind of connections that would help me feel at home this year?

Together, we are still invited to the same calling in marriage: to bear the image of God and represent Christ and the Church in our love for one another. Why would I share this part of our married life, my sexuality, which some may see as so private so as only to be known to one's priest or pastor?

I understand some people have to portray themselves in certain ways for cultural reasons, or because they don't want to hurt their families. But how many more mornings are we willing to wear this mask around people just to cry into our pillows at night?

For this first entry on masculinity, I want to share my experiences with masculine leadership, including how the lack of positive, consistent examples of masculine leadership has affected how I interact with and think about the men who are supposed to lead me.

How did we go from Jonathan and David to heaven and hell? What exactly happened between us?  I've replayed every variable in my head over and over: I was too obsessive, I was too much, I was never enough, he was never enough, it's all his fault, it’s all my fault, he caught feelings.

To recognize Christ as fairer than the sons of men, maybe I must first recognize the fairness of men themselves. Not boil down and shy away from the patterns of fairness I behold in them, but simply say, "Hey, he is very beautiful."

I learned that it wasn't safe for me to talk about or process through any of this struggle. Not at this church. And that is just what I did for the rest of high school. I didn't talk about my sexuality with anyone at that church again.

It's no secret that the LGBT+ community has a complicated history with the Christian church. This culture war has bled into the church for decades, resulting in those who experience same-sex attraction in their congregations to feel uncared for, unloved, and at worst, excommunicated from the church community. These experiences create soul wounds.

Even if all the sexual stuff with men is wrong in God's eyes, I still just want to be with a man physically from time to time. Is that wrong too? Does God really care if I share my bed with another guy, as long as there's no sex?

From day one, I found my teacher attractive – not in a physical sense but in how he conducted himself. He told us, "I want you all to know that I love you. I don't care what you may think or what others tell you, but I love you."

Going into this retreat, your boy was stressed. Stressed just from day-to-day existing. Looking back and evaluating my spiritual condition at the time, I could not slow down long enough to have one simple conversation with God. Long enough for my brain and my heart to catch up to each other.

Despite all the incredible people in our online community, I've recognized my need for more men in my city on whom I can depend. This has been a sobering searching process because YOB has become such a pillar of my identity. If I'm no longer close or as intentional with a large lot of our YOB community, who even am I?

When I finally acknowledged my sexuality as something God could use for His glory and my good, it became something that endeared me to others rather than only alienate me from them. Sexuality was no longer just a source of shame; it became a catalyst for connection.

I found myself getting sucked into a world of fantasy. Porn was way better than watching some blockbuster: I could still be with guys without actually being with them. After all, I never cared about those guys anyway. It was all about me and getting off. The more I watched porn, the more I was hooked.

Perhaps it was the touch of melancholy in me that many other "Side B" Christians also feel, or simply being a disabled man, or maybe even a combination of the two – the fact that I have often felt both a physical and mental peace listening to classical music. Whatever it was, my soul felt ministered to in a previously unknown way.