Purity Culture

If there’s one thing I’m terrible at – well, besides snowboarding, and whistling, and technology, and picking out non-burn-inducing mouthwash –

it’s romantic relationships.

You guys, for real.  I’m the worst.

It’s all fun and games while the mystery is still there.  You know, trying to figure out if they’re into you, the inconsistent and unpredictable texting, the semi-ambiguous hangouts, the game.  But once there’s, like, intentionality involved, as in words like, “I am interested in you, and I want to get to know you better,” my mind and body go into freak out mode.  Because, in my mind, as soon as someone gives up the ruse, throws in the towel on the game, that someone just gave me something, a piece of their heart or mind or something of themselves for which I am now responsible.  Responsible to accept and cherish or to give back with a little more wear and tear than before. 

I can’t handle it.

I was in a coffee shop with some good friends a few weeks ago.  One was in a struggling relationship, another was struggling to decide whether she wanted to pursue a relationship, and then there was me:  single and free. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” one of the struggling ones said through tears.  “I mean, I feel like I’ve been told my whole life to be so careful in dating, to guard myself against impurity and being with the wrong kind of guy, but it just produced this fear of screwing up to the point where I didn’t live.”

We all chimed in with similar feelings, recalling the weight of the church youth group purity culture in which we grew up, telling us not to give ourselves away or kiss boys in places we wouldn’t want to tell our grandmas about or maybe just not date at all because really, what’s the point, and who wants that emotional baggage?  Because if you hand a guy your emotional or physical rose, or Styrofoam cup, or wrapped up Jolly Rancher before you marry him, you’re damaged goods, and nobody wants you anymore.  It was a culture of performance and fear, one that got us hyped up about our husband lists and wedding days but never told us how to become marriable human beings because we were so set on avoiding the potentially wrong relationship. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m all for the heart behind the purity talks.  I’m all for pursuing the best thing, sex in the context of marriage, the way God designed it.  But when we start exalting the pursuit of an ideal over the pursuit of Jesus Himself, things always get a little screwy. 

And, honestly, I don’t know what to do about it. 

I’m certainly not the first one to bring this up.  It seems like I’ve recently seen more blogs floating around than usual on this topic. 

I’m also not trying to chalk up my inability to function well in relationships entirely to teaching I received throughout my youth.  I’m a big girl, and I need to be able to make big girl decisions.

But I do wonder. 

I wonder what it would have been like to go about those early dating years without so much fear of making the wrong decision, of tainting my purity ring, of feeling condemned to Hades every time I went too far.  I wonder what it would have been like to focus more on Jesus Himself, on the freedom and fullness of His love that is more satisfying than professions of longtime interest over MSN chat or a first “real kiss” under the stars, a love that actually fills you up so much that you don’t even want to tread the wide road because you’re already accepted but reminds you that – though feeling broken and worthless – you are still whole and still redeemed if you do. 

And maybe it’s okay for me to receive that piece of emotional something and treat it the best I can, knowing I may not be able to return it in its original state – trusting that the God who makes me whole can take care of other people, too.

When I Think of Freedom

I’ve had this girlish fantasy for a few years now.  It’s a little vain, maybe, but the desire remains.  You know those photos or commercials you see of women in flowing white dresses, running across green, flower-clad meadows?  I want a picture of myself being that woman.  I want to wear a long, wispy dress that fans out all around me as I twirl in circles with my eyes closed, arms outstretched, palms facing the sky, head upturned, with a smile welcoming the sunbeams that kiss my face in response.  I want to laugh in elation at the wonder and joy of life.  There are no bounds to my meadow.  Trees dot the landscape here and there, but there are no mountains or forests that enclose it, caging me in.

 




 

I want to feel free and confident – not the kind of confident that comes with lots of people telling you how awesome you are, or that you’re really funny, or that you should write a book or become a counselor.  Rather, the confidence that comes with a steadfast faith in the Giver of your identity.  And this confidence is hard to come by for me because I look for my identity in all the wrong things.  Like other people.  Because, at the end of the day, one of my greatest desires is for people to know me.  Really know me.  Know me and love me in such an impossible way that, after they’ve failed me a few/lot of times, I remember again that I really just want them to be Jesus.

 

I want Jesus in all the people from whom I seek attention and affirmation.  I want perfect pursuit.  Perfect, servant-hearted love.  The kind that makes me feel safe, like I’m not an annoying toddler who keeps spilling her milk or making a mess of the pretty table arrangement or being too loud when important things are happening.  I want Jesus in someone to look at me in my mess, pick me up, and wrap me up in their arms, laughing at how cute I am just because I’m alive.  And I want Jesus in someone to hold me close against their chest and hum soothing melodies and sing songs over me.  And I want, well, Him to speak life over my life and hold me in His arms and stroke my hair until I fall asleep.  Secure, blissful, peaceful rest.

 



 

I recently started working in a psychiatric hospital/residential treatment center.  I work in one of the children’s units, where kids enter in a state of crisis.  Most of them have some kind of abusive background, and many are self-harming and suicidal.  In order to protect the kids and/or ourselves from various forms of danger, we sometimes have to put them in therapeutic holds. One of my coworkers calls it “wrapping them up,” this action of restraining their arms behind their backs and seating them on the ground until they can calm down, process, and remember that there are coping skills that don’t involve stabbing their peers with pencils or punching door handles.  And once we feel certain that the child’s response to the situation will look different and better than before, we communicate that it’s time to slowly get up, verbally process through what happened, and return to the normal day’s activities.

 



 

When I think about the concept of freedom, all of these pictures feel vaguely familiar, like I’ve been in each of them at one point or another.  And it all makes me wonder if freedom comes in different forms.  It’s a woman dancing in a field without limits or a baby sleeping in a secure embrace or a kid who took freedom too far and needs to be redirected to a better expression of it – for her good.  And I wonder if freedom is sometimes accessing the liberty of saying yes but also embracing the maturity in saying no.

 

Rob Bell said something like that in Velvet Elvis, writing that “Freedom is not having everything we crave, it’s being able to go without the things we crave and being OK with it.”

 

That makes sense to me, because it tells me that when I’m free, I’m not a slave to anything.

 

I stumbled upon a verse awhile back that paints the perfect Scripture picture of my fantasy.  Psalm 119:45 in the ESV says, “and I shall walk in a wide place, for I have sought your precepts.”  In the NIV, it states, “I will walk about in freedom.”

 

I feel like I’ve been drifting around pretty aimlessly these past couple of months.  It makes me tired.  Tired of paving my own road to freedom and sucking at it.

 

It’s kind of ironic to me that pursuing holy boundaries – following the steps of the Maker – would lead to the real thing, the freedom that is pure and good and confident and safe.  Something about denying yourself and taking up your cross, right?  And even though I still mostly get it, the rebellious child in me wants to buck against authority and do what I want.

 

Or get picked up and rocked to sleep.

 

When I awake, I will see you face to face and be satisfied. Psalm 17:15