My Redemption Story, Part 2
They say it’s a male struggle — from the pulpits, on the pages, in the accountability software —forcing women who struggle with pornography to conclude that we’re anomalies, cloaking us in silent shame. The first time I heard that women can *also* struggle with pornography I was a freshman in college. I struggled for six years, the bulk of my adolescence, before learning I wasn’t the only one. I went to Baylor University, a private Christian school, and being as such, freshmen and first-year students were required to attend Chapel. I happened to sit by myself that day. The speaker started by describing the hodgepodge congregation he cared for, with one of the specific common struggles being pornography addiction among both men…and women. My entire being halted, tears filled my eyes. I wasn’t alone. Maybe I was still lovable? But just as quickly as the rush of freedom started melting my body into my fold-down seat in Waco Hall, it was interrupted by a gut-punch of shame. The audience of hundreds of fellow students broke out into laughter.
I grew up in Evangelical Christianity (Southern Baptist, if you want to get technical), and my teenage years were in the late 90s and early 2000s; think- WWJD, I Kissed Dating Goodbye, the peak of the purity movement, and The Left Behind series. Can you spot the common theme amongst Christian culture? Fear: fear of God, fear of other, fear of the future, fear of sex. The majority of what I gleaned from youth gatherings and services revolved around fear-driven shame in an attempt to usher us into righteous behavior. There’s many flaws with this method of “discipleship,” but the most glaring is that Jesus came to set us free from our behavior, whether pride-fueled self-righteousness or poison-fueled addiction. Yet in my experience, youth groups thrived on the opposite- we were told we were exactly what we said, did, and thought.
I left Disciple Now events burdened with confusion and shame, questioning how I could ever ascribe to the promises in worship lyrics? Singing “In all I do, I honor you,” felt like the impossible task; raising my hands felt like blasphemy. I had the appearance of a Pharisee, yet I operated like the Prodigal. The fear I was taught, I imparted to others. I constantly compared, judged, and justified in a feeble attempt to soothe the unbearable shame and pain of my addictive behavior. I acted holier-than-thou, but felt more disappointing-than-thou. Who could I tell? Who would actually love me if they knew? Unsure and insecure, I cyclically tried, strived, confessed, repented, plead, white-knuckled, and failed.
I desperately craved the Savior I talked, sung, and witnessed about — the one I thought I knew. Yet, in supernatural irony, He was there all along: He saw, He knew, and He loved me still. Our acceptance doesn’t hinge on our behavior – much to Christianity’s chagrin – but our acceptance of His behavior and perfection. I wasn’t what I said, did, or thought. I was who He says I am, because of what He did, and His thoughts towards me are wilder than I can fathom — I’m still trying to comprehend them. He was singing His steady song of redemption and victory over me, even as I fluttered in and out of addiction, but my ears weren’t yet attune. Thankfully, to be continued (again). 🌼
Photo by Kaylynn Krieg Photography