Back to Where I Once Belonged

Reflections from my recent trip to a megachurch.

Last week, I found myself in a place I hadn't been to in quite some time: an Evangelical megachurch.

I spent more than a decade working for megachurches like the ones you see on late-night cable television, on the front pages of newspapers, or featured in explosive docuseries on Netflix or Hulu. It was an odd career choice, but I saw it as my calling to serve the Lord and be a part of something bigger than myself.

From my earliest days, the church was my safe space. Well, I thought it was, anyway. My family life was unstable. I was adopted and met my biological family for the first time when I was nine years old and began to have a relationship with them. I lived in the odd but wonderful place between two families, not feeling like I entirely belonged to either. So, strangely, I found refuge in my church youth group. Of course, being a queer kid who was too afraid to admit it, there were some challenges. My faith and sexuality were incompatible with each other, but at the time, I didn't think I had many options. My solution was to broker a deal with God. I committed to spending my life working in churches if God would change me. Thus began an eight-year journey in gay conversion therapy.

I spent most of my 20s trying to become an Evangelical Christian celebrity. Back then, it didn't take much to gain a following on social media. I quickly found myself traveling to speak at conferences, authoring blog posts and articles, publishing a book, and consulting with some of the world's leading megachurches, teaching them how to use digital marketing and social media to reach people with their message. Outwardly some may have thought I was a rising star, but inwardly, my world was falling apart. Conversion therapy wasn't working, and I was living in terror of acting on my desires, being outed, and losing everything.

One nervous breakdown later, I quit conversion therapy and thought my life and career in megachurches was over. But it wasn't. Most churches didn't mind the fact that I was gay as long as I didn't act on my urges. They realized people couldn't change, especially when the largest conversion therapy organization shut its doors. So long as I committed to maintaining my celibacy, which I lied about, I continued to do work that mattered to me and got a paycheck. It wasn't honest of me or good of the church leaders to ask me to do the impossible, but part of me hoped my presence in those churches as a mostly open gay man could help shift the perspectives of church leaders about the LGBTQ+ community. I hoped to be a force for good but, in the end, got burned and realized the most effective way I could make change was not from within churches but from the outside.

I left my last role in a megachurch in 2017, moved to New York City, and started a new life. I went from working for God to working in tech. Both are in "the cloud," and I had become an expert at "marketing the invisible," as a good friend once pointed out. I didn’t want to abandon my faith, though, and found a church in New York City that’s the polar opposite of the megachurches I used to work at. Around 100 people attend our Sunday services. There aren't any large screens or multimedia productions. The words to song lyrics and prayers they project on the chapel walls where we meet are usually slightly off and have typos. The only smoke we have is from candles or incense. We use real wine instead of grape juice for communion and have gluten-free bread for those who need it. But most importantly, I'm surrounded by other LGBTQ+ people, and we are affirmed, welcomed, and allowed to participate in the life of the church as our fabulously queer selves. Being a part of that community has helped heal years of pain and reconnected me to a relationship with God. I'm so grateful I found it.

Last weekend, I visited family in Dallas, home to over 200 megachurches. On Sunday morning, as is our custom, we found our way to a church service. The particular church we visited has more than 45,000 members and an annual operational budget of more than $70 million. The sprawling campus has a bookstore, cafe, gym, and recreation center and houses a K-12 school, where the annual tuition is more than $26,000 per student. While all of this felt "normal" to me years ago, I found myself in a bit of culture shock.

Walking through the church doors, I was keenly aware of how my appearance —multiple piercings, a nose ring, and oversized tortoiseshell glasses—starkly contrasted with the conservative attire of the other men there. I have done so much work to feel comfortable in my own skin and freely express myself by how I dress. I barely give it a second thought these days. But being there brought me back to the days when blending in was my way to protect myself from scrutiny and judgment. I remember the internal turmoil, the constant fear of being found out, and the effort it took to present a version of myself that aligned with what was deemed acceptable by others. It was a time when my true self was hidden beneath the armor of conformity.

The service itself was what I expected. The music and production were similar to a rock concert and were produced for their television broadcast which reaches millions of people in more than 100 countries. The music, once a part of my daily rhythm, now sounded distant, as if it belonged to another life—a melody remembered but no longer mine.

During the announcements, a pastor promoted the church's outreach team, mobilizing people to canvas neighborhoods for the 2024 election. While most churches I worked for weren't as politically active, much has changed since the 2016 election. The union between church and state seems only to be getting stronger, especially in Evangelical megachurches.

The pastor's message was based on the story of Joshua leading the Israelites into the Promised Land. He used it to illustrate our need to "take back our country for God and return to our Christian roots." The entire message was laden with a lot of "us vs. them" language. I was keenly aware I was the "them" they were walking about, being a liberal gay who lives in New York City. I didn't feel singled out per se, but I was aware I was the odd man out in that room of 7,000 people.

What was so jarring about the entire experience was how uncomfortable I felt in a space that years ago would have felt like home. I felt more like an observer than a participant, analyzing everything I witnessed through the lens of the world as I see it today. This visit was more than just a return to a familiar place; it was a confrontation with my past. It was a reminder of the struggles I had faced and the growth I've experienced. The discomfort I felt was not just about being in a place that no longer aligned with my values, but also about recognizing the parts of myself I had to leave behind to find true acceptance and peace.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I felt a mix of emotions—nostalgia for the community and purpose I once found in such places, sadness for what I had to endure, and gratitude for the journey that led me to a place of self-acceptance and genuine faith. And it reinforced my commitment to being a voice for those who, like my younger self, struggle to find their place in a world where they are often told they don't belong.

In the end, returning to where I once belonged, I realized home isn't a place, a family, or a religious community; it's the peace you find when you're true to yourself.