I was a Catholic, then a Protestant … also a pastor, a missionary … and a sexaholic. That was me in a not-so-neat nutshell. God was always a significant part of my life. I fully embraced my mother’s devout religious practice and fully engaged in the church. I loved the fact that people accepted and admired me. Being “a good guy” fit my need for recognition perfectly. The more good you did, the more respect you earned. I embraced that culture wholeheartedly.

I became deeply involved, even to the point of engaging in some serious proselytizing. But with that came judgment—judgment of others who, in my eyes, couldn’t see the light. I figured that people who truly embraced and loved God were transformed, full of grace and mercy. Yet, deep down, I also believed there was one area where God couldn’t change me. In fact, I felt justified because I told myself God had given me this obsession to sexually objectify nearly every woman who came into my field of awareness.

I experienced moments where I truly felt the presence of God, where I witnessed miracles in my life and in the lives of others. But I was painfully aware that God, who could do anything, seemed unwilling to take away this one thing, this overactive attraction to women. I prayed fervently, attended classes, read books about being a godly man—but I never achieved lasting relief from this compulsion. While God felt real to me, I also saw limitations to His power. And I couldn’t bring this struggle to church because if I were truly following God (as I let everyone think), I wouldn’t have such a strong sexual temptation. “Just pray about it,” they’d say. “Stop doing it.” Fearing too much judgment, I eventually stopped admitting I was “having trouble with my thought life” (as if that was even any kind of admission at all).

Fast forward to 2016. My wife and I had taken in a young woman who was struggling in her situation at home. When she discovered I had set up a camera to voyeur her—something I had done to countless women—she blew the whistle. 

My life flashed before my eyes. 

We were living in another country, fully immersed in the culture, in their church, and I was their pastor (a career I loved). I knew I’d have to admit everything to my wife, to my kids, and even to my congregation. The church ended up publishing the incident to several thousand people locally.

I was devastated. “Where are you, God?” I confronted Him, “You wouldn’t take this thing away from me, and now I’m being punished for it?? Do I really have to lose everything?” 

Amid all the fear, shame, and resentment, there was also an unexpected sense of relief. I had carried this burden for over 25 years, constantly fearing that someone would discover the real me. Now it was all out in the open. As terrifying as it was, I was finally able to face it and talk about it. I had to! But what relief. I was no longer hiding. Through therapy and other resources, I was introduced to Sexaholics Anonymous and began working the Steps.

Step One truly overwhelmed me. I realized the reason God didn’t take away my sexual addiction wasn’t because He lacked power—it was because I kept trying to control it all myself. I held onto it, isolating myself, hiding the truth, and refusing to let anyone in. The very way I thought I was protecting myself was, in fact, destroying me.

I had no real friends who understood what I was going through. I felt completely alone. “Where are you, God?” I asked again and again. But it wasn’t until I let others in, surrendered, and acknowledged my powerlessness that my understanding of God began to change.

I often heard people say that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. But I’ve come to believe that to be nonsense. What I now believe is that God did give me more than I could handle—so that I’d learn to depend on Him instead of on myself.

Shame had held me back for so long. Letting go and surrendering changed everything. It freed me to be my authentic self. I lost my pastorship over eight years ago, and I like to say now that I’m a “cussing pastor”—someone who’s raw, authentic, and unapologetically human. As never before, I now acknowledge my defects of character, I live as the person I believe God intended me to be, and I’m experiencing Him in ways I never thought possible.

The promises of recovery, faith, and healing are real. My life has radically changed. My marriage is stronger than ever. My relationship with my kids is thriving. I’m even embarking on a new career, and though we have little economic security, I feel more peace about money than I’ve ever had before.

My relationship with God has shifted, too. It’s no longer about mere belief—I’ve always believed in Him. It’s now about life-changing faith.