How God Met Me in a Room Full of Praying Men

I never imagined that one of the most meaningful moments of my Christian life would happen in a church classroom, surrounded by men I had quietly admired, compared myself to, and often felt lesser than. What happened that night became a Christian testimony I will carry for the rest of my life, not because it was dramatic, but because it was honest.

I had been part of Bible Study Fellowship for four years. Week after week, I sat in a room filled mostly with older, straight men. Many were corporate professionals. Good men. Faithful men. Men with lives that looked settled and full.

And I often felt anything but.

I carried a quiet sense of low confidence into that room every Monday night. I had a complicated past. I had battled alcoholism. I had lost years. And I carried a struggle that felt unspeakable in a space like that. So I listened. I nodded. I prayed silently. And when prayer requests were shared, I almost never shared my own.

Until I finally did.

Featured Snippet Takeaway
This Christian testimony reflects what can happen when a believer stops hiding and entrusts his deepest struggle to the body of Christ, discovering that prayer, brotherhood, and God’s presence are often waiting on the other side of courage.

The fear before I spoke

I was terrified that night. Not nervous, terrified.

Our small group leader, Ming, had told me ahead of time that he wanted me to share briefly at the end of the evening. Just a few minutes. Nothing elaborate. Still, my body reacted long before my mind caught up. My hands shook. My chest tightened. I knew what I was about to say would make me vulnerable in a room where I had already felt exposed just by being different.

Ming had handled everything with wisdom and care. He knew this was sensitive. He spoke with leadership. He prayed. He even sent a message ahead of time asking the men to pray because a brother would be sharing something vulnerable. That preparation mattered more than I realized at the time.

When Ming finally said he wanted to end a little early so one of our brothers could share something personal, I felt my heart pounding. There was no backing out. I stood up knowing I was about to tell the truth.

And then I broke.

I cried. I did not hold it together. I did not deliver a polished testimony. I simply spoke honestly about my same sex attraction and asked these men to pray for me.

Why this mattered so much

I have always believed in the power of prayer. I truly do. But until that night, I had never entrusted this particular struggle to a group of men like that.

For readers wrestling with the intersection of same-sex desire, identity, and faith, I’ve written about that journey more fully in The Same-Sex Struggle Few in the Church Understand.

I had talked about this one on one with a close friend named Julio, who also chose obedience and celibacy years ago. That friendship has been a gift from God, especially because Julio understands this struggle from the inside.

But Julio now lives in Guatemala doing mission work. And while I am grateful for him, I realized how alone I still felt carrying this burden largely by myself.

That night was different.

For the first time, I placed this struggle into the hands of a community. Not for advice. Not for fixing. Simply for prayer.

I shared something else with them too. Something that felt even harder to say out loud.

At my age, obedience can feel especially costly.

When I was younger, sin distracted me from that cost. There was partying. There was sex. There was noise. Conviction did not feel as sharp then. But now, with sobriety and clarity, the contrast is unavoidable. I look around and see friends with wives, children, shared history, and a kind of intimacy that is good and God given.

Choosing celibacy means choosing a different road. And sometimes that road feels very lonely.

So I asked them to pray for something specific. Not that my struggle would disappear. But that I would be content in obedience. That God Himself would be enough.

What the men did next

What happened after I spoke is something I will never forget.

They prayed. Not awkwardly. Not cautiously. They prayed earnestly. Many of them prayed out loud for me. They thanked God for my courage. They asked for strength, peace, and contentment. They did not treat me like a problem to solve.

One man sitting next to me noticed I was still crying while they prayed. He quietly placed his hand on my back. No words. No attention drawn. Just presence.

That simple act affected me more than I can easily explain.

It was not sexual. It was not confusing. It was safe, brotherly affection, something my body recognized as deeply good and deeply needed. I grew up without much of that kind of male tenderness. My grandfather was an alcoholic and verbally abusive. My father came from a generation that did not know how to express affection that way.

That hand on my back felt grounding. It felt healing. It felt like God saying, “You are not alone here.”

The church at its best

I walked into that room carrying shame and fear. I walked out having seen the face of God reflected through His people.

Several men told me afterward how much courage it took to share. Others simply thanked me for being honest. I did not feel diminished. I felt covered.

This is what the church is supposed to be.

Not a place where we perform holiness, but a place where we confess weakness and find grace. Not a place where we hide our battles, but a place where we bear one another’s burdens.

This experience did not solve everything in my life. It did not remove the struggle. But it changed something fundamental.

I no longer feel like I am fighting alone.

Why I am sharing this now

I am sharing this because I know there are other believers sitting silently in church, convinced they cannot speak. Convinced their struggle disqualifies them. Convinced they are the only one.

They are not.

If this story does anything, I hope it gives permission. Permission to be honest. Permission to ask for prayer. Permission to trust that God often meets us through the hands and voices of His people.

This night became a Christian testimony not because of what I said, but because of what God did when I stopped hiding.

He met me in a room full of praying men.

Arch Kennedy
Bold, Unfiltered, and Unafraid

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