I hate talking about modesty. I hate standing in front of a group of girls, seeing their set faces, and knowing I’m running at brick walls—so many flawed preconceptions and emotional fences to push past.
I hate talking about modesty because I hate the surrounding territory—sex and shame, body image hangups, a desperate/indiscriminate yearning for belonging and connection. The geography of modesty in any given heart is likely littered with land mines.
I hate talking about modesty because it is intensely counter cultural, because we have been brainwashed in the ways that make communicating about it complicated and uncomfortable. The idea of being selfless, gentle and quiet makes little sense in our “Hey, look at me!” culture.
I hate talking about modesty because many of the people who love talking about it are judgmental and legalistic. They look in my eyes and shake my hand eagerly and say “thank you so much” but all the while they’re thinking about the other people who need to hear this message, almost never about themselves.
I hate talking about modesty.
But I do it. A lot.
I hate talking about modesty because I hate the surrounding territory—sex and shame, body image hangups, a desperate/indiscriminate yearning for belonging and connection. The geography of modesty in any given heart is likely littered with land mines.
I hate talking about modesty because it is intensely counter cultural, because we have been brainwashed in the ways that make communicating about it complicated and uncomfortable. The idea of being selfless, gentle and quiet makes little sense in our “Hey, look at me!” culture.
I hate talking about modesty because many of the people who love talking about it are judgmental and legalistic. They look in my eyes and shake my hand eagerly and say “thank you so much” but all the while they’re thinking about the other people who need to hear this message, almost never about themselves.
I hate talking about modesty.
But I do it. A lot.