Tagged: christian

I Here Surrender My Golden Calves

Or, “Why Intentionality Is Nobody’s Magic Word.”

“I wanted to see

if you’d go to dinner with me.

As a date.

Sorry for the bluntness. I just wanna be intentional with you.”

I sighed a little, because I knew he thought he was being my knight in shining armor.

I knew he thought he was being a man.

I knew he thought he was doing the “right thing”.

But from where I was sitting in that dimly-lit coffee shop, it signaled the end of something. The end of two people – two strangers – just learning how to BE together. Instead we were, in one fell sentence, learning how to be TOGETHER, regardless of who we actually were.

In an article entitled “We’re Just Talking”, The Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood attacked the idea of talking to the opposite sex, because supposedly, talking obstructs the ultimate goal of all male and female relationships, which of course is MARRIAGE. Using a bunch of extremely problematic words like “quasi-manhood” (WTF?! Is there one monolithic way to be a man that all men must, at all costs, mold themselves into?) Here’s how they get there:

This new phase of pre-dating called “talking” is like adolescence for relationships: an unnecessary stage in the relationship allowing young men to avoid taking responsibility and acting like men. It prevents the man from having to be clear about his intentions to pursue or end the relationship. If he wants to stop “talking,” he simply walks away, leaving behind a confused, and potentially wounded, young lady.

Oh no! The worst thing that could ever happen is a confused and wounded young lady! Let me clue you in, Councilperson Gunter- relationships – in case you are somehow irrevocably alone and unacquainted with how they work – relationships are a constant state of confusion and woundedness that you must continue to fight through at all costs, regardless of the effect it has one’s always-present, always-interfering FEELINGS.

That goes for friendships. That goes for family. That goes for romance. That is love.

Can we, for once, just stop trying to preserve everybody’s feelings? Dear lord! Feelings are there to be hurt. That’s the whole point of them. They are the current representation of our favorite possible reality. Feelings are “what could happen”. What has been. Rarely are they a reliable indicator of what should or what WILL be. Regardless of how much we protect them, they will get hurt, because change inevitably bruises them.

But, as one of my favorite slam poets would say, “Hearts don’t break ya’ll. They bruise and get better.

We were never tragedies. We were emergencies.”

And while I sat in this dimly-lit coffee shop reading the influx of text messages that communicated this man’s die-hard intentionality, I couldn’t help feeling like I’d missed out a little. Of course I was going to accept his dinner invitation. Of course I was going to allow him to move our relationship from friendship to romance. But at the same time, I felt that I had missed out on learning how to appreciate him as himself, apart from what he could do for me or his potential as a future spouse.

And I did. I had. Because I didn’t know him well enough to know if I wanted to be his wife, we stayed in a five-month holding pattern during which I broke up with him three times – pre-dating, mind you – because I couldn’t match his enormous, overwhelming intentions. When we finally did date, we lasted two weeks. Every time I walked out of a dimly lit coffee shop after breaking up with him yet again, I left kicking myself for not being good enough. For not being sure enough. For not overriding my intuition and letting him act on these most excellent intentions.

Reflecting on this situation, the question for me is, ‘What should our intentions be towards another strange, unique, image-bearing human being?’

And all I can come up with is love.

Our intention should always be love.

Love looks different for different people, because different people need different things.

The idea that “intentions” should always include marriage strikes me as overwhelmingly selfish. I don’t think anyone means it to be, because we’ve been groomed to believe that it’s the right and honorable way to treat the person we’re attracted to. We don’t want THEM. THEMSELVES. We want our emptiness to be filled. We want that relationship label that will lull us into a false sense of security & intimacy with someone we haven’t yet gone to the trouble of loving. We want whatever we assume will help us most, and overlook completely whether or not that thing – marriage, the supposed cure-all for all of our emotional problems – is actually what’s best for the other person.

I propose a new kind of intention. I propose selflessness and sacrifice and getting your feelings hurt on the regular. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve crossed paths with and for one holy, stand-still moment I had this one chance to see exactly THEM before all my enormous, blinding, overriding intentions got in the way.

I remember sitting with an old friend of mine in his living room, a year after I’d been using my interest in his art, fraught with ulterior motives, to get close to him. It was hard work, this charade I was playing in order to get him to see me as his closest friend, confidante, & of course, future love interest. As he sat in the armchair across from me, eyes filling with tears, I suddenly heard him say, for the first time, that he was so disillusioned with and disconnected from his writing that he was considering stopping altogether. Shocked I realized that this, in fact, was the moment I’d been brought into his life for – a crucial turning point in his life and art, and I had so nearly missed it.

I saw him – broken, lazy, disheartened, withering – and I was taken aback. He was not the image of him I’d so carefully forged and sculpted and daydreamed about! He was so much more human, so much more soul than I’d given him credit for. And silently I thanked God for lifting the veil before I missed out on the chance to love him like he needed to be loved.

What if we stop flirting and start listening? Stop daydreaming? Stop forging. Intentionality is no magic word, & people are so much more than the golden-calf images we like to turn them into. See them as you would want to be seen, & let love grow as it will or as it must.



or, “an un-serious treatise on the total appropriateness of 2013’s standard gender binary.” //

1. Well, first off, I think my face just says it all, don’t you?



2. I want to “fix things” all the time, which they tell me is a real manly trait.

3. I like wilderness and stars and fighting for things I love and have even been known to PURSUE THE OPPOSITE SEX (horror of all horrors), so John Eldredge has got me good and pegged, DOESN’T HE JUST.

4. I *like* being respected. Love is great & I like it, but I also like respect, so yep, DEF MALE.

5. Not to mention, my sex drive, which is approximately 3 TIMES the appropriate female sex drive (in that it exists & all), as every Christian book on male-female relationships has ever led me to believe. My only conclusion: I MUST, IN FACT, BE MALE.

6. I’ve been known to season my speech with all manner of colorful words & phrases, which, if I was female, would ensure me a long & lonely spinsterly existence, so, being that I have a lively, often even exciting dating life, I think we can safely assume that must mean I am IN FACT, MALE.

*6.5 SMALL TALK. WHAT EVEN IS THAT. DON’T WE ALL ALREADY KNOW WHAT THE WEATHER IS LIKE (WE LITERALLY JUST WALKED IN OUT OF IT) & IF I REALLY WANTED TO KNOW WHAT BRAND OF MASCARA YOU WERE WEARING – IF, GOD FORBID, I COULD DISTINGUISH THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN MASCARA BRANDS – DON’T YOU THINK I WOULD ASK YOU. Somehow though, as much as women can generally small-talk me under the table and I abhor it (I tend to take it as a sign that you don’t actually want to know me), I have to believe that a skill that inane must be a societal construct and hardly something I can blame on any particular gender. However! We are talking about why my interests mandate my being a man and so therefore: NO SMALL TALK = INHERENTLY MALE.

7. I am going to pick a movie with a proliferation of blood & guts in it, nine movie nights out of ten. Guy movies. I like guy movies. Gladiators and glory and Russell Crowe. ALL OF THE CROWE. Chick flicks (with the ironic exception of What a Girl Wants. Pre-wonkers Amanda Bynes traipsing around London in hippy bell-bottoms, giving stodgy Englishmen their well-deserved come-uppance?! the BEST!) are of little use to me. TOTALLY MALE.

8. I am only gentle and quiet some days. I’m hardly the new face of conservative complementarian womanhood. In the face of genuine sorrow and death and mourning and weeping girls, I can be gentle and quiet. I can mourn with those who mourn, okay. But a lot of days I am screaming lyrics off of my living room couch to anyone who will listen while intermittently yell-expounding on the profundities of existentialism and preschool. Tonight, as I’m writing this, I’m mostly just jumping off of furniture yelling “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiii… AM EVERYDAY PEOPLE” with Sly and the Family Stone in whatever non-descript rom-com is currently gracing my screen while yelling “THAT DECISION IS FRAUGHT WITH MORAL COMPLEXITY” at Emily Allison.

Actually I’m not quite sure what gender that makes me. Is there a third choice?

9. I am no use at hanging demurely on anybody’s arm. Unless you like girls who scream their faces off behind microphones on stages, you’ll probably have little use for me either. I am also not passively waiting for a spouse – nor do I think that any [accurately] translated version of the Bible expects me to. MALE.

Still, although my gender does appear to be currently in question, I keep trudging.

10. I could name a thousand other stereotypes. I could talk about how I like my coffee black or how anything frilly makes me vaguely nauseous or how the Sons of Anarchy and motorcycles and craft beer and theology are all topics that can make me get loud. I could, but rejecting the gender binary means that I don’t have to. I don’t have to adhere to any stereotypical gender norm because

– say it with me –


Whole people are not bound by the confines of societal constructs or culture, no matter how oppressive, and are therefore freed up to be themselves without pretense.

I can wear dresses with whimsical Peter Pan collars and still (in my dreams) ride motorcycles and get seminary degrees and pursue members of the opposite sex. (The only unreal thing about that sentence was the motorcycle part. But hey! A girl… ahem, a PERSON can dream, amirite?!)


Let’s talk, though, about “manhood” and “womanhood” and if those words mean anything anymore. I want to think they do. I’m not trying to erase gender, after all. Contrary to popular opinion, the Christian feminism of 2013 is hardly trying to make everyone believe that we all came out blank slates and the blind hands of “nurture” somehow roughly and abusively formed us into who we are today. That would be giving “nurture” – and culture – far more power & credit than it deserves.

So what have we constructed in the name of biblical gender and can therefore do away with? What must we irrevocably keep?

I’m all ears.

in which i forgive Christian men.

this post was originally called “confessions of a Christian slut”.

then i changed it to “the date rape nobody talks about”.

now it’s called what it is,

if that tells you anything about the emotional journey i took in writing it.


She told me to type & i did, scowling as the voices that haunted me appeared in black & white on my screen.

You hurt me.

You led me on.

You seduced me.

You hurt me.

You can’t be trusted.

You just like the attention.

You need to stay away from us men. 


Every epithet that any Christian boy had ever hurled at me – the roots of which poisonous weeds had sunk so deep that as I wrote, I could not distinguish lie from the truth. I had hurt them. I had wounded them. I had let them down. I had failed; failed to do the only thing they’d asked of me: to respond to their advances with open arms.
Of course, few of these slurs had been cast directly at me – out in the open where I could savor them, turn them over on my tongue and feel each one’s weight individually. They were whispered behind closed doors; they were passed from man to man till I could not tell – and no longer cared – where the lies had originated from.
They had no discernible source, and therefore must be true.
I used to stare up at that imposing, straight-up fifteen-story edifice they all lived in at Bible school and it felt as if I personally carried the weight of each weathered brick. I imagined their faces. I carefully picked up the hearts that I had thrown aside and gathered them, like children, on my bowing shoulders. They were my necessary burdens; my thorns in the flesh. They were my sins, and every day I repented of them anew – as if every day I committed each one again.
Our hearts seldom allow for the logical fallacies we so quickly point out in the arguments of others.
One January morning, after months of this torment, I trudged out into the bitter cold to meet a dear, sweet friend who had walked the streets of foreign marketplaces & eaten sheeps’ brains & run in the rain with me a thousand times. We were bosom friends. Kindred spirits. Anne & Diana. That sort of thing. All I could think of was the little flame of joy I’d leave with after seeing her, cupped & protected between my two shivering hands.
I had plopped under a big old oak tree on our shared lawn & almost immediately, saw her walking through the grass towards me. She was keeping her eyes on her feet & she greeted me with just a fraction of her usual effervescence.
“Hannah,” she said slowly, haltingly, “I have something I need to talk to you about.”
She proceeded to tell me about the rumor she’d heard from so-and-so who’d told it to that other guy who heard from it the best friend of the man whose heart I’d most recently broken. She said she knew that I didn’t used to be the flirtatious type, but that maybe I’d been caught up in the attention and the excitement of thirty eligible Jesus-loving bachelors at my disposal & forgotten how to properly behave.
She was just concerned, she said, and of course she wouldn’t be a good friend if she didn’t say something.
I turned my head towards the street to hide my suddenly impaired vision & the red lipstick I’d so joyfully applied that morning.
I somehow felt that this particular shade of red somehow proved my guilt – that I was the whore every self-respecting Bible school student would avoid if he just had the sense to.
By Valentine’s Day I’d dropped out of school & fled the country.
If I couldn’t stop hurting men & keeping my eyes and thoughts and smiles and damn red lipstick to myself, then I would simply remove myself from the equation and there’d be an end to it.
I typed and I typed and I felt each accusation, fresh and humiliating, just as I had heard them so clearly from the sheepish mouths of the men who’d been brave enough to tell me what they’d heard. Again I wondered, just as I had that frigid January morning, how anyone could ever actively choose to be in a relationship with someone of such ill-repute? Three years and a thousand miles later, I felt as though their faces hung on me like stains that every new love interest of mine would either have to forgive or ignore.
Then she asked me to say their names.
One of them had run off & started a new life serving the poorest poor in the far reaches of rural India. He’d sent me a friendly message a few months ago, a Facebook postcard of sorts, checking in on me & telling me about his adventures. Another had gotten married & graduated, in that order, and we perused the pictures of his new life & wife & city. He looked calm & peaceful, like a man finally come home after a long journey. Another had moved back to his family’s house in the misty mountains of Colorado and was now running the old youth ministry he’d grown up in.
They were all, to my utter disbelief, HAPPY. They were all overwhelmingly WHOLE. They had no need of my suffering.They had all decided to go on living without me.
My shoulders alone were sagging with undue weight.
My judgment alone was still blinded.
My heart alone was still paralyzed.
And so that night I forgave Christian men for the offense they took at my existence.
I forgave them for making me despise me and my personality and my occasionally devilish grin & most of all, my RED LIPSTICK.
I forgave myself for the feelings I’d bruised and the hearts I’d bent (but never quite broken) and I laid them all to rest in the graves they belonged in.
I don’t hate or fear my brothers anymore, so that’s a plus, I think. I don’t automatically assume that they’re going to abuse me or defame me or make me bear the weight of their embarrassment and sorrow. Some might still try – but what they don’t know is that I have since become a woman of valor, and I will gently, graciously reject all condemnation in the name of Jesus, for such words are not of Him who healed the lepers and chose the tax collectors and drove away the executioners of a woman accused & scorned by her community.
 This weekend I wore some red lipstick & I held hands with one of these men & I told him I’d like to see what happened if we tried to grow together. He held my hand right back & listened to all of my sob stories & then he smiled & said he’d like to try and redeem all that mess & he told me – oh praise Jesus – that IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.
That there was no one left to condemn me.
This is just another step in the long road towards taking back my personhood. But I like to think I’m making progress.