I grew up in a South Carolina town of fewer than 3,000 people. My mother had me at age 16, and my father, also 16, lived in the same town, but he was conspicuously absent from my life.
In a small town like mine, it only took one person knowing one thing about your life for everyone to know that thing. And the thing people knew about me was that I was fatherless, even though my dad lived right down the street.
Despite this—or perhaps in some way because of it—I was driven to achieve, to make something of myself. My work ethic turned me into a great student, a standout athlete, and eventually a well-trained actor and model. This pursuit of “enough” was relentless, and before long, it landed me in Hollywood to pursue acting and modeling full-time.
Early in my career, I had an agent and was working with some regularity. But no amount of success could satisfy. After a few years in Hollywood, some women recruiting for the porn industry asked if I would be interested in doing a film.
For context, I was exposed to pornography at age 13. Having grown up without any example of healthy relationships between men and women, I quickly fell into consuming pornography and living a promiscuous lifestyle. Nine years later, when I was invited to enter the world I first encountered in magazines as a teenager, I had no good reason to refuse.
Photography by JerSean Golat for Christianity TodayThat choice cost me more than I could have imagined. Soon after my first adult film, my mainstream agent stopped representing me. The sting of shattered dreams remained fresh when my mom learned about my first foray into pornography. I shudder to recall the humiliating conversation we had.
Despite my reservations about doing adult entertainment, I truly believed this was my only viable career path. Trapped in a downward spiral of shame, I allowed my initial bad choice to redefine my entire identity, convincing myself I was without options.
Six years later, I had starred in many award-winning films, and I’d even tried my hand at writing and directing porn. During that period, I pocketed millions of dollars. But no money, fame, or accolades could overcome the inferiority complex that stemmed from my father’s absence. If anything, my career success only amplified my anxiety and deepened my depression.
Early in 2013, I resolved to take my life. Before carrying it out, I wanted to hear someone confirm that I was as worthless and disgusting as I felt. So I walked into a bank to deposit a check from a porn film, hoping the teller would notice the memo on the check indicating where the money came from. On some level, I wanted the teller to gasp; it would give me permission to kill myself. It would seal my shame and self-loathing.
I also had not heard my real name uttered in over a year. In the porn industry, you typically choose a pseudonym to conceal your identity and suppress the shame associated with your line of work. So over the last six years, I’d deposited checks at ATMs or with mobile phone apps to avoid interacting with an actual person.
As I slid the check across the counter, I locked eyes with the teller and waited for a dismissive headshake, a judgmental under-the-breath muttering, or maybe, if I was lucky, an antagonistic remark made directly to my face. Instead, she said nothing until I was about to walk away. Then, as my eyes watered and I started shaking, she said, “Joshua, can I please help you? Joshua, are you okay?”
Her compassion pierced through my numbness, and my instinctive reaction was to run home, have a long cry, and call my mom. When my mom picked up the phone, she told me she loved me and I would always be her son. She begged me to leave the porn industry and come home. I moved back that very day.
Looking to make a fresh start, I got a job at a gym in Raleigh, North Carolina. For two years, I tried doing enough good to cover up my bad deeds to compensate for my feelings of worthlessness. I had great mentors and a community that cared about me as an individual. And even though my prior career in pornography surfaced before long—it was, after all, only an internet click away—I didn’t experience any rejection because of it.
One day, I met a beautiful, athletic, and incredibly smart but very reserved young lady whom I asked out on many dates. She turned me down at first but eventually agreed to go on a run with me. As I waited for her to arrive, I decided not to withhold my past from her. I told her that I was a former porn star and someone unwanted by his own father.
Her response changed my life. After pausing for what seemed like forever, she assured me that I was not defined by the worst thing I’d ever done—or by the greatest thing I would ever do. God, she told me, was the creator of heaven and earth and everyone on the earth—and he alone determines who you are.
She asked if I knew God. I told her I knew about God, but clearly I didn’t have the kind of personal relationship she enjoyed through Jesus. We walked and talked, and eventually she invited me to church.
I went along with her, believing I had no business there but also knowing I wanted to be wherever she was. On that day, I heard the gospel for the first time from an older Baptist pastor. Dressed in jeans and sporting tattoos on his arms, he shared his own imperfections, measuring them against the ultimate perfection of Jesus. He preached from 2 Samuel 9, where King David shows grace to a man named Mephibosheth, a grandson of Saul.
Mephibosheth, unable to walk after a childhood accident, wonders why the king would extend mercy to a “dead dog” like himself (v. 8). As I sat there, hearing about the grace of God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, I likewise wondered why God would show any favor to me, given all the wrongs I had done and how worthless I felt.
Then the pastor read Hebrews 12:2, which says how Jesus “endured the cross, scorning its shame” for the sake of “the joy set before him.” Right away, I understood why Jesus had given his life: because he loved sinners like me. In that moment, I surrendered my life to Christ, letting the blood he shed on the cross wash over my shame. I stood up weeping, knowing I was now a son of my Father in heaven.
My story gets better. That incredible woman, Hope, has been my wife for nearly a decade, and we have four incredible sons. What a joyous reversal from the day I thought would be my last, when I remember writing down the reasons I no longer wanted to live. I knew I wanted to become a father (to make up for my own father’s absence) and a husband (who could give someone the kind of love my father never gave my mother). And I thought my porn career had disqualified me from ever fulfilling these roles. Yet God stood ready to do abundantly more than I could have imagined.
And he continues to use me for his glory. After years of discipleship and a theological education from Liberty University, I have preached hundreds of sermons; given talks at events, universities, and conferences; and appeared on major podcasts. Currently, I serve as director of operations for a nonprofit called Momentum, which helps people find purpose and heal from sexual brokenness.
My story is an example of the grace of God that is available to all, no matter what you have done or what pain you have experienced. Because of what Jesus did on the cross, you can experience the healing, wholeness, and purpose he offers to anyone who will surrender their life to him.
Joshua Broome is the author of 7 Lies That Will Ruin Your Life: What My Journey from Porn Star to Preacher Taught Me About the Truth That Sets Us Free.
This article appeared in the November/December 2024 issue of Christianity Today as "Testimony".
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