“NOW, that WAS A FEAST,” Matt said as we finished our two-man Thanksgiving dinner, a holiday plan we’d hatched upon discovering that both of us were estranged from our families. We were on our second helping of turkey and third bottle of wine. I felt blessed that God had brought Matt into my life. He was the closest thing I had to family, a brother not in blood but in spirit.
“Not to be too Thanksgiving-cheesy, but I’m so thankful for your friendship.”
“And I’m thankful for you,” Matt replied sweetly. “You know, I’ve been thinking a lot about you recently. Have you ever considered sharing your story with Pastor Dane?”
“Why?”
“I think he’d be deeply moved by your journey. And he might even be interested in having you share your testimony onstage at church.”
“Can . . . can I think about it?”
“Yes, of course,” Matt said, though I detected a slight disappointment in his tone. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”
A sense of failure crushed my spirit. I knew that sharing one’s testimony in front of the church was an incredible honor and that I should feel grateful that Matt, a member of the church’s leadership, thought my story was worthy of such a platform. Matt once joked that he was “jealous” of my testimony—there was an unspoken sense in my new, born-again community that the greater your suffering, the closer you were to Christ, who’d suffered for all of our sins. I wanted to be Matt’s perfect disciple, wanted to demonstrate my love for him, wanted to offer my suffering as proof.
But reliving the horrors of the compound with my small group had been difficult enough. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to do it in front of thousands of strangers.
“It’s . . . it’s just hard for me to talk about this stuff,” I stammered, eyes watering.
“I totally get it,” he said, moving in for a hug. We embraced for perhaps a moment longer than our mandated celibacy allowed, a moment in which I felt the ripple of muscles on his back and his breath on my neck and smelled the scent of butter on his skin. Blood rushed through my veins and stiffened my cock. I pulled him closer, the wine dulling my judgment, flushing my cheeks.
And that’s when I did it. Something awful. Unforgivable.
I kissed him.
He jerked back. Suddenly, I saw my new life collapse. Shame and terror stirred within me. “Should we clean up?” I leaped to my feet like there was a demon below the dining table.
“I think we should pray first,” Matt murmured, a dark expression contorting his features.
“Okay . . .” I sat back down and clasped my hands together. A horrible silence filled the room. I prayed I hadn’t ruined everything. I prayed I hadn’t destroyed my relationship with Matt.
We lifted our heads. I didn’t want to talk about the kiss. Talking about it made it real. Matt opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I said, “You know, after praying on it, I think we should share my story with Pastor Dane.”
An olive branch. Or was it a bribe?
“I’m happy to hear it, Jonah.”
“Lord, we pray that You offer Jonah guidance in this moment as he considers whether to share his testimony with our church. We look to You, Lord, in Your eternal wisdom, grace, and love. Amen.” Pastor Dane lifted his head and stared straight into my eyes. “How are you feeling, Jonah?”
Things had moved at a rapid pace. I couldn’t help but feel that this momentum was driven by a divine force, that Christ was compelling me to share my story with the world. Well, Christ and Matt. Matt had pushed my story on our pastor with surprising passion, offering my saved soul like a holy prize. Or a professional achievement. But I tried not to let cynical thoughts like that enter my mind. They were the work of Satan, who was trying to lure me from the righteous path that Matt had paved for me. I chose to view Matt’s enthusiasm as evidence of his love for me, despite the tension that had grown between us. Matt brought me to Pastor Dane, a man with a direct line to God, because he believed there was still hope for me. Even after Thanksgiving.
“I . . . I guess I’m a little nervous.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Matt said impatiently.
“Hold on, Matt.” Pastor Dane held up his hand. Matt’s face wilted at the rebuke. “I want to hear why, Jonah. You can talk to me.”
“I . . . I can’t believe you wanted to meet with me,” I stuttered.
“Jonah—I canceled a meeting with Justin Bieber for you.” Pastor Dane shot me an irresistible smirk. In another life, he could’ve starred in a Marvel movie, released a number-one album, or campaigned for president. “Trust me, I wanna be here.”
We all laughed. The energy in the room became more relaxed. I glanced around Pastor Dane’s NoHo office, with its lofted ceilings, white walls, and massive windows that overlooked the traffic jammed on Lafayette. There was something comforting about staring down at the bottlenecked cars but not hearing the commotion. We were safe from the city and its madness, secure in this idyllic office in the sky. We were closer to God.
“Because let me tell you something. I don’t care if you’re Justin Bieber or Justin Nobody. We’re all equal in the eyes of God. We all have a story to tell. And our stories matter. You matter, Jonah. You are loved by God . . . and by everyone in this room.” Pastor Dane looked to Matt, who nodded in agreement.
“Jonah has become an essential member of our small-group family,” Matt said. “I’ve seen him completely transform, seen him accept God’s pure design for our sexuality. I’ve witnessed his rebirth in Christ.”
“That’s an incredible thing, Jonah.”
“Your story would be an inspiration to so many,” Matt continued. I was honored to think that my testimony might have special significance, that it was not something to be ashamed of but rather a model for salvation.
“I . . . I feel like Christ has healed me,” I said, holding back tears. “I have never, in my life, known this kind of peace. It’s like everything weighing on my heart, all the trauma and pain, it’s like all that has been lifted. And all that’s left is Christ’s love. A love that gives me strength. A love that fills my life with purpose.”
“That’s beautiful,” Pastor Dane whispered.
I began to weep.
“And so the final question to ask yourself, to ask Christ, is this: Do you want to share your testimony with our church?”
I told my story again and again onstage at the Hammerstein Ballroom—at the ten a.m. service, the noon service, the two p.m. service, and the five p.m. service. Pastor Dane asked me if I truly had the strength to tell my story that many times, said he’d understand if it was too much, but I was buoyed by a manic sense of divine purpose. I delivered my testimony four times in one day as Matt led the rock band behind me. His music gave me strength; it swelled as my story reached its climax. And each time—as I delivered the Good News of how God saved me from suicidal despair—the crowd erupted into Super Bowl cheers. They stomped and howled and applauded, and the volume of their adulation echoed in my body, overwhelmed my senses, left me weeping and shuddering onstage, my palms turned up to heaven in gratitude.
I felt loved at last.
And you were right there in the audience, Mace.
For a moment, at least. Until your face vanished, replaced by an anonymous worshipper. As I wiped the tears from my eyes, as my vision cleared, I realized why I was there, on that stage, reliving the most horrific chapters of my life.
Even if I have God’s forgiveness, I still want yours.
“Congratulations, Jonah.”
A flash of you, crumpled on the basement floor.
“Your testimony was so powerful today.”
Richard on top of me, his hands constricting my throat.
“You must feel incredible.”
The witness stand. Your sobs. Your lawyer’s furious stare.
“We’re so blessed to have you in our lives.”
My friends’ voices became a distant chorus, background noise to the flashbacks flooding my mind. I closed my eyes, downed my wine. My fifth glass of the night.
“You okay, Jonah?”
I opened my eyes. Keke stood above me, concerned. The rest of my small group froze in place, waiting for my answer.
“I . . . I think I’m just tired.”
“It’s been a long day for you,” Chris whispered.
“Yeah, we should let you get some rest,” Julia suggested.
One by one, they drifted out of Matt’s apartment, hugging me as they departed. I kept drinking, desperate to dull my panic. A sixth glass, a seventh. With each goodbye I said, my terror grew—another person was abandoning me. They’d seen me for who I truly was, how defiled, how rotten, how broken. And they’d left. Matt was the only person who remained. He sat on the couch next to me, rubbed my back. My breath came in short hiccups. I felt dizzy, drunk.
“I’m a little worried about you. You’re looking—”
“I . . . can’t . . . be alone right now.” I gasped for breath.
“You’re not alone. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”
I broke down sobbing in his embrace, searching for comfort that the cheers of thousands of strangers could never supply. I felt the warmth of his hand on my back, felt the strength of his body as he pulled me close. Animal whimpers bubbled in my throat.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m right here,” he repeated, his voice a soothing whisper.
I felt sick. Too much wine. I dipped in and out of consciousness. I don’t know how long I stayed in his lap like that, but eventually I found myself in Matt’s bedroom, in his bed, with no memory of how I’d gotten there.
“I think you should sleep here tonight.” Matt crouched by the bed, whispering in my ear.
I let out a low moan of agreement.
“I’m just gonna be in the next room. Sleeping on the couch.”
“Okay . . .” My mouth was parched. The room spun. My gut churned.
“We’re gonna get through this. God will get us through this.”
I shuddered and sighed, drifting.
“I’m praying for you. For us.”
“Thank you,” I slurred.
“I’m here for you, Jonah. I love you.”
“I . . . I love you.”
Black.
I didn’t wake up until I felt an immense pressure on my wrists. I roused in confusion, drifting from my slumber to discover Matt on top of me, my underwear tangled around my ankles, my arms pinned to the mattress with painful force. My body understood what was happening before my mind did—adrenaline shot through me and my limbs tensed. By the time my brain caught up, Matt was inside me and there was nothing to do but let him finish. As he raped me, I imagined myself in heaven—as far as possible from my own reality, where it seems like every path leads to the same abuse, the same predetermined destruction. And there—on Matt’s bed but also far above it—I imagined myself in the paradise I know I don’t deserve and felt guilty for even dreaming about.
Back at my apartment now, I write to you for the last time, Mace.
I am cursed in life, damned in death. There is no way out. I want to give up, give in to the inevitable, feel the relief of the lost battle.
Let go of life.
There’s just one final thing I need to do.