[E]ach year when Christmas rolls around I want to climb up on a rooftop somewhere and shout “Jesus isn’t in the manger anymore!” When I was sitting on a pew in Talbot Park Baptist Church thirty-three years ago, yearning to be free from homosexuality, I didn’t need a baby in the manger; I didn’t need an empty cross or empty tomb. I needed a touch from the resurrected Jesus Christ.

[...]

I was fortunate that I had never been told the “gay gene lie,” so I did not entertain the thought I was born this way and stuck forever in homosexuality. I did know though that no matter how hard I tried not to be a lesbian I could not stop myself. I was so tired and wanted out of it.

So, what did I really believe about Jesus Christ? If I believed Jesus was the same as yesterday, all I needed to do was call upon Him. I had the pre-requisites: a broken heart, a contrite spirit, burdened and heavy laden. But did I have the faith the size of a mustard seed that He could free me from the chains of sexual sin?

I recalled all of the miracles Jesus had performed when He walked the earth: restoring sight to the blind, enabling the lame to wall, healing lepers and even raising the dead. If He were alive and not just a historical figure, He could certainly heal me of homosexuality.

I cried out to Him and He showed up. The encounter was quite supernatural. He touched my life the same way I had heard and read about in centuries past. He forgave me; He healed me; He restored me. He became an active part of my daily life and still is to this day.