Today of all days, I experienced body shame in Christianity instead of the love Christianity preaches so much about. I pushed open the glass doors, my face red and puffy from hours of tears. I couldn’t think clearly, I couldn’t see clearly, nothing made any sense.
So, when I saw my pastor and he saw me, I threw my entire body, tits and all, into his open arms. He didn’t quite catch me, though. As I sobbed onto his shoulder, I felt the distance between our bodies. This distance I knew well.
You see, my pastor never actually hugged me.
He carefully maintained distance between my breasts and his chest. To me, this spoke volumes about the body shame I experience in Christianity.
Even through pervasive pain of that moment, I also felt disappointed. You see, I was going through the worst moments of my life so far. I needed to be hugged, hugged tightly, with love, grace, and compassion. Instead, I felt how he held me seemingly at arm’s length while loud tears spilled down my red cheeks.
I already felt so much pain, and his disdain for my body added to my pain.
He made me feel like something was wrong with me.
You know the saying, “Actions speak louder than words.” My pastor’s actions told me that my body was problematic. Therefore, I must be problematic. All because of his own discomfort with the female body.
Now, the Christians who stumble into my little space of the internet might feel totally defensive about how they also hug (or don’t hug) the women in their lives. They likely read my little story above and believe my pastor to be totally respectful and loving in a way to protect himself and me. But let’s be honest, folks, it’s really about self-preservation. Had my pastor thought with love first, the love of Jesus he preaches about, I would have felt love.
Instead, I felt the body shame in Christianity that I’ve known my entire life.
I resent how Christians view the female body. I’ve had more than one intense conversation with my pastor about modesty, women’s bodies, and what the Bible says about it. We never did come to a mutual understanding of each other on the topic. And that’s a real shame.
My pastor, his wife, Mr. Sexy, and I had started meeting together weekly to discuss a book about Jewish Jesus and understanding his life, his culture, and how it impacts us today. Our conversations never got heated, but friction existed within some of these tough topics like modesty.
My pastor challenged me, and I believe I also challenged him.
For instance, I made blanket statements like,
“I just don’t like Christians,” and
“As a group, Christians are so judgmental and actually behave the opposite of how they claim to behave.”
My pastor’s response basically said, “You are talking down to God’s people, his chosen people.”
That stuck with me for a long time. However, I didn’t stop making those blanket statements. I took time to marinate on our conversations, though. But the thing is, my beliefs didn’t change.
In fact, I became more resolute that modesty is more about body shame in Christianity than anything else.
As I stand here today writing this all out, I can feel grateful for those tough conversations as uncomfortable as they were. That friction put my baby beliefs into some perspective, allowing for growth and a firmer belief in what I already said.
I will always be grateful for the time my pastor invested in my family. He is the best pastor I have ever had, and I’ve never known one quite like him. His piercing blue eyes that are kind and not afraid to make eye contact during conversation. His tattoos all over his arms represented so many different things about him. And he spoke from the pulpit in ways I had never seen during my entire career as a Christian.
For one thing, he called a family meeting before going on sabbatical to share with the church how his marriage disintegrated into divorce. I didn’t know him well at the time and was still new to the church. But as I sat in the audience that evening, my adult beverage disguised in a coffee mug, I thought, “He’s the real deal.”
I had mad respect for his leadership, and then as I got to know him, for his visions for sharing the Gospel.
Yet, he is likely the last person I would be calling “Pastor.” The more I grow up, the more I recognize how much we all are just human. None of us have all the right answers, even the most devout and smart Christians. I no longer need to be spoon-fed by men who believe the patriarchy is God’s ideal way to live in today’s culture. Instead, I’m learning to think for myself.
