I see all this trad stuff online. Like “why don’t women dress like this anymore” and it’s a picture of a peasant blouse and a maxi skirt and a long sleeve cardigan. And then the quote tweets and replies are like “I do!” and the bios are like “anglo-germanic // holistic health // mother of four //soli deo gloria” and it makes me feel like I’m going insane.
Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
I was born four generations deep into an underground Christian sect which I was only able to leave last year, the day after my 29th birthday, after news of decades-long systemic sexual abuse came to the surface. I don’t like to call it a cult because there was no central figure, and also because it is very hard to look in the mirror and tell yourself: “You grew up in a cult,” and: “You probably would never have had the courage to leave under normal circumstances.” But.
I really can’t get into it in full yet. The day the news broke was the single most destabilizing and traumatic day of my life, and if I think about it too much the tragedy overwhelms me, and I am less able to talk about it than I was at the start. Nearly a year later I find myself living in extreme daily discomfort, moving through the world with a void where my identity used to be, constantly bumping into assumptions I didn’t know I held.
The women in my church never wore jewelry, mostly wore long skirts, rarely cut their hair and - after a certain age - kept their hair up in a bun. Not everyone stuck to these rules perfectly. Some cut their hair to medium length, some wore makeup, some wore skirts shorter than decency might have prescribed. But no one ever, ever wore pants. After a little adolescent rebellion, I developed a particularly resistant strain of arrogance which rested mainly on a set of self-defined stereotypes of the women in my church, and how they responded to the pants question, and how I wasn’t like any of them.
Only rebellious girls really complained about the rules. Girls whose parents were either a little too strict or a little too uninvolved. They flirted with boys too much. They wanted to stand out too much. To provoke. They latched onto the pants thing because it was so obvious. They were the only ones who actually went ahead and wore pants to church if they could get away with it, typically at great cost to their social capital. They usually stopped going to church after high school. I wasn’t like them.
There were the girls who thought they were different. The segment of women in the church that were kind of “liberal,” but in an acceptable way. Usually they lived in the city, usually they were Democrats. Their husbands worked in tech, they wore funky glasses and cut their bangs and cared about social justice. They were loud. I thought they were so corny. They would pride themselves on their independence in comparison to the archetypal church lady, and they would say things like “it doesn’t matter what you wear to church,” but they never wore pants to church either. LARPing as free thinkers. I lived in the city. I had an education. I felt different too. But they were all different in the same way. I wasn’t like them.
In like manner also, that women adorn themselves in modest apparel, with shamefacedness and sobriety; not with broided hair, or gold, or pearls, or costly array; But (which becometh women professing godliness) with good works
I was frequently bothered by what I felt was a culture of frumpiness. We would hear it preached from the pulpit sometimes, at the tent meetings we went to in the summer. Sermons about the vanity of girls who dressed for attention, girls curling their hair for hours in the morning, painting their eyes with mascara, wearing form-fitting outfits with an eye towards temptation. We were taught in the same breath that we would be recognized not only by our good spirit, but by our dress. That worldly people would see the quiet modesty of our women and respond to the call of Jesus. Years of this kind of preaching led to a well-defined hierarchy of style, with some women learning to toe the line perfectly, radiating both cheery femininity and pious devotion in their outfits, and benefiting from it. There were things you could do. I remember J. Crew pencil skirts in bright colors, denim jackets with infinity scarves and long jersey maxi skirts with sandals. Slips with crocheted lace on the ends that you could wear under short skirts to lengthen them. Short dresses over long black pencil skirts. Nice watches and headbands in place of jewelry. When we went out in public like that people thought we were Mormon. I resented all of it. It felt like laundered style. A “this should be good enough for you” consolation prize in place of the joy of looking conventionally attractive or developing a sense of individuality.
Still, I felt this was more acceptable than the intentional sloppiness of the fourth type of woman who wore full-length denim skirts, greasy buns and blobby oversize hoodies to every event. These women refused to even try. I felt nothing but contempt for this type because they were prone to little comments about what it meant to be “real” and “authentic," which I took as veiled attempts to bring me down to their level of apathy. I am beginning to understand now (finally and so late) that their approach was the easiest way to opt out of a culture where women bore all responsibility for male desire. We were told often to fit in, to not try too hard and to question every thought or decision. Becoming invisible was another way to opt out of taking responsibility for any kind of desire, including our own.
Wherefore, if meat make my brother to offend, I will eat no flesh while the world standeth, lest I make my brother to offend.
I was so arrogant. When other girls complained to me about these things I would listen, but deep down I took it as a mark of their immaturity and a superficial fixation. I considered myself so spiritually evolved, so rational that I was able to accept all the little rules (no pants, no TV, no piercings, no cutting your hair) as a product of the time the church was growing the fastest: the early 20th century when there were a hundred-odd little evangelical tent revival sects with archaic rules about no dancing and no liquor and no jazz music. An artifact that old people and the weak-minded held onto and passed down as an outward symbol of piety. I was even able to swallow the hand-waving some people did about how wearing skirts helped to preserve dimorphism. Anyway, what harm did it do me to follow the rules? Why would I willfully cause offense just to give a little old lady a heart attack? I told myself these things were harmless, a small price to pay for fellowship and community. I knew the state of my soul depended on God alone. I wrote the rules off as an eccentricity and even convinced myself they made me more interesting as I moved through the “world.”
In the weeks and months following the news, I found myself surprised at how the little rules I had regarded with such magnanimity became so sharp and unbearable in my mind. The things I had long convinced myself didn’t matter became constant reminders of the things that mattered most of all. The way I had lulled myself into jumping through all these hoops called every single one of my other beliefs into question. It is a profound shock to see yourself in the light for the first time.
My sorrow is magnified now when I think of the older people in my church who have had even less of an opportunity to construct an identity outside of its conditioning. My sorrow becomes unbearable when I think of the generations of people who were abused and had no one to tell. When I think of the way we treated people who left. The way I thought of girls who hid their bodies in a way I didn’t find acceptable, the way I thought of women who did their best to hold two incompatible worlds together. The women preachers who suffered in ways I will never be able to understand. I could write a book about how strictly they censured each other over things like bright colors and three-quarter length sleeves. The anger I felt towards them as a girl should have been compassion.
Strength and honour are her clothing; and she shall rejoice in time to come.
My grandma, who didn’t grow up in the church but converted in adulthood, wore red lipstick and pearls on special occasions. She wore pants when she wanted to, and silk scarves and she smoked cigars with my dad sometimes and cheered at basketball games and made me watch Casablanca and was one of the first female pharmacists in the state of Oregon. She was never agreeable if she didn’t want to be. When I was twelve I asked her if she was a feminist and she was so forceful in her response I thought she was mad at me. “Of course I am!!!” she yelled. I never forgot it.
Seeing self-righteousness, judgement and hypocrisy is deeply upsetting when we know Jesus preached compassion, forgiveness and humility
You're not the only one who feels this way - sorry for the hurt you and others have experienced
I don't think there will ever be a perfect ministry or church - the 12 Apostles lacked faith, bragged, judged, blasphemed, betrayed and deserted him. And despite all their failures, Jesus still returned to them to continue his ministry while comforting them that he would be with them always, even to the end of the world
I try to remember it's love that covers a multitude of sins
Aw