The fabric on the couch was crinkled when I first shared my dirty little secret. Shame had hidden it for me since I was six. I was shaking and nauseous and felt like there was a good chance the counselor would kick me out of his office to the angry tone of, “You’re a disgusting pervert!” Surely I was a sex addict, I thought, or something deeply removed from a normal human being.
Paneling on the walls was green and the air smelled of moth balls. We’d haphazardly found ourselves in a room we weren’t supposed to be in, the neighbor boy and me. We decided to stay and “play house,” kissing and touching each other in the room at the top of the carpet stairs. Fuzzy electricity ran through my body. I heard my pounding heart, loud, like when you go underwater. He lifted my t-shirt and touched my chest. It tickled; I wanted to stay and explore.
Later that summer, I wondered if we could explore again. I remember the bizarre feeling of power as a little girl, able to entice a little boy, to something beyond me, but also very much a part of me. That same reunion weekend, perched under a bed while playing hide-and-seek, my uncle came into the room to undress. Petrified of being caught, I stayed silent. All I saw were his bare calfs and khaki pants hitting the talkative hard-wood floor, but the experience paralyzed me. A word was never spoken about any of this, not to my neighbor, or parents, or trustworthy diary with a lock on it. The risk was too great.
Two decades later, the counselor listened to my truth & trepidation. He was tender, normalizing what I shared as a healthy part of maturation. It would be more bizarre, he explained, for a child not to have similar sorts of sexual memories, or fantasies, or curiosities. Nonetheless, they’re typically buried deep within us, for one reason or another.
What I’ve come to learn in the years since is that sexuality is a significant, God-given part of our human make-up. Explorations herein, of what it means to be male, and to be female, both made in the image of God, are a healthy part of growing-up, and growing into our complex bodily temples. (1 Corinthians 6:19-20) As is learning that we are sexual beings from the womb, not just when arousal awakens, or pimples and pubic hairs begin freakishly popping-out.
When pregnant for the first time, I remember reading updates on my nine-week-old fetus: “Your babies external sex organs have arrived”...then at thirteen: “If you're having a girl, she now has more than two million eggs in her ovaries.” People, are you reading what I’m reading? TWO MILLION! “What’s wrong with me to produce such a horny little newborn?” Essentially I was shocked to remember afresh that sexuality begins at the beginning, unbeknownst to us and thoughtfully known to God. Yet the shadow of shame rarely positions itself far behind.
1 In the beginning “the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed.” (Genesis 2.25) Seven sentences later, shame seduced the scene. “Then the eyes of both were opened, and they knew that they were naked. And they sewed fig leaves together and made themselves loincloths.” (Genesis 3.7)
shame : a feeling of guilt, regret, or sadness that you have because you know you have done something wrong; ability to feel guilt, regret, or embarrassment; dishonor or disgrace (Merriam-Webster)
Shame can wreak palpable havoc on every cell of our bodies. As Christians though, we are always invited to a gospel of better news - Good News. In Christ, there is always a story of hope & help threaded beneath and beyond our stories of shame. Jesus, the Savior we proclaim, was a human being, and thus a sexual being, stewarding a sexuality throughout his toddler, child, adolescent and adult years, just like us. One of his friends explained our invitation like this: “Little children, abide in him, so that when he appears we may have confidence and not shrink from him in shame at his coming.” (1 John 2:28)
Maybe a modern read of that would sound something like: “Now, children, stay with Christ. Live deeply in Christ. Then we’ll be ready for him when he appears, ready to receive him with open arms, with no cause for red-faced guilt or lame excuses when he arrives.” (1 John 2:28 from The Message Translation, E. Peterson)
Sometimes I practice letting God look at me. On days when I feel pretty and skinny and steady, this practice is like being a little girl, twirling around my living room to the sparkle of my daddies adoring gaze. But most days I don’t feel like that. Most days it’s hard to let God look into my eyes, or see the naked body I cursed while getting dressed that morning. Most days I’m afraid He might see my soul.
Shame tells me a lullaby of staying the less vulnerable way; he says showing my soul will only breed hurt. He says he’ll help me find places to hide, and even hide me when I’m too worn myself. I’ve tried endless routes on these paths though, and they don’t lead anywhere good. Instead, they’ve led me into hiding for days, and even decades.
They’ve choked me just enough to sustain life, but life as a lie, not life lived alive. Part of humility and a healthy understanding of our humanity is knowing we have weaknesses and we have strengths; we have bruised parts of our pasts and we have memorable ones. No part defines us though and all parts contribute to our whole. And in Christ, our whole is good and His and glorious. Your humanity, and in this conversation, your sexuality, are part of you and part of the story Christ is writing and revealing and redeeming over your days. Shame’s promise to keep you hidden will likely come true, but it will also rob the liberating freedom awaiting you with God. Your story will be different than mine. And mind you, what I’ve shared here is but one snippet of one memory of one Summer in my life. There have been many more, and I daresay will continue to be many more. Healing happens in steps, not in one massive marathon. Maybe your story will relate more to feeling obsessively sexual, or obsessively curious about sexual things. Or maybe you battle shame for not feeling sexual. Maybe you’re carrying a memory of sexual abuse, or pornography, or rape, or masturbation, or relations with your same gender. Regardless, you have permission to take it to God, and an invitation of His forgiveness therein.
Nothing can outdo or undue the Cross. Jesus’ brother encourages us to, “confess our sins to one another and pray for one another, that we may be healed.” (James 5:16) What feels dark to you is not dark to your Maker, and before a word is on your tongue, He knows it. (Paraphrase of Psalm 139:12, 4). So let this God who sees you (Genesis 16:7-16), and who knows you more than you know yourself, gaze with healing affection upon your wounds.
Abbie (Smith) Sprünger is the author of multiple books, including her latest (and debut) children’s title: What Is Beautiful? (Parent Cue, 2020). Abbie resides with her husband, kids, chickens and dog at Wesley Gardens Retreat in Savannah. See glimpses at @wesleygardenslife.
