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Know God, no sex

Trigger warning/content warning: rape, adultery, suicide
My relationship with Christ was based on not having sex.
Yet, it did not start that way. I received a salvation altar call at age 11 because I did not want to burn in hell. You know, fire insurance. The children’s pastors told a story about how a demon had manifested in their home, and they cast it out. They said, unless we were born again, we would not be able to cast out demons. Well, then. What child wouldn’t say yes to Jesus after a story like that? Our whole class got born again that morning. I spent the rest of the week praying that demons wouldn’t show up in my house.
From that point, most of my connection was about rebuking the devil and filling myself up with the word of God to leave no room for demonic spirits. At age 17, I chose to have sex—what most people call ‘losing virginity’—and according to the clergy I knew at the time, I was struggling with the spirit of fornication (choosing to have non-marital sex).
Eventually, in my last two years of undergrad, I went through a recommitment to Jesus. After a handful of sexual partners, it was explained to me that I was a backslider who needed to repent and turn away from the spirit of fornication. So, at a collegiate Christian conference, I responded to an altar call to reinstate my fire insurance. Then, the woman volunteer led me through a rededication prayer and told me that I am forgiven, but sin has consequences. The devil is going to test your faith and your commitment when you get back to your campus, she said. So you need to make sure you stay praying and reading your Bible to not let him get a foothold. Great. More demons.

No sex, no peace

When we returned to school, I joined a campus Bible study group, a campus choir, and began attending church religiously. If it meant I would keep my panties on and my legs closed, I did it. Before long, I was back to rebuking any dot that looked like the devil. I remember going days without sleep because I would be up all night praying against the evil of fornication. Praying it would not be a part of me anymore. It was exhausting. But I was told God would give me grace and reward me.
During a women’s Bible study, I heard that we should throw away anything that was from our “old life.” So, I threw away undergarments that were too sexy, music that was not Christian, and bed sheets I had sex in. I took a pledge of sexual purity—to abstain until my wedding night. I stopped wearing clothes that seemed too flattering for my figure and put on loose-fitting, excessively baggy apparel that would hide my curvy body. My hair stayed pulled back in a ponytail or bun. I cut off all interactions with men, including my closest platonic friendship. The barriers had to be hard and high. Sex was wrong, and I needed to protect my purity for my husband.
The pressure became too much. And I cracked. I was furious with God. “If God had not made sex, I would not even be going through this,” I wailed in the passenger side of my friend’s car. She tried to convince me that sex was not bad and it was good if we did it God’s way. I stopped sobbing, but her statement did not help. All I knew was that I needed to stay from the appearance of evil. Stay out of the bars and clubs, not drink alcohol, and not be alone with any man, anywhere, ever.
God’s way was this method that seemed to change depending on who was preaching or whose book I was reading. It always involved more actions I needed to take to not cause my brother in Christ to stumble sexually.
I did not know Christ and the Almighty God. I only knew don’t have sex and you’ll be ok. Yet, I was not ok.

Know sex, know shame

I was not ok. With that list, why bother? I cannot give my husband the gift of my sexual purity. Why keep trying? I am used, damaged. I hated myself for the sexual decisions I had made. Geez, I already messed it up, and I was tired of trying to understand and follow all the rules. When I graduated college, I walked across that stage away from church folk and ghosted God. Aside from shame, I was numb. Recklessly, I acted out my shame.

Depression and suicide ideation became a fog around me. I could not outrun it or move away from it—though I tried. I ran away from Ohio to Arizona. Then, during a monsoon like thunderstorm in the middle of night, God showed up while I cried uncontrollably on the floor in my bedroom. Though I could not hear it audibly, “I love you” echoed within me repeatedly. In the first few minutes of it, I shook my head vigorously in denial. Aloud I said, “No, no You don’t!” Mentally, I rebutted by going through all my sexual wrongs. The words did not stop, and neither did my tears. I cried myself to sleep that night.

When I woke up, I told God that I did not love myself or like myself, but if He did, then I would start there. That Sunday I went to church. In a silent prayer as I sat down, I made an agreement with myself that I would not walk away from God because of people.

Through the years, my agreement has been tested often, yet the Most High God continued to affirm their love for me by opening my eyes to more and more truth. In every season, those religious, fundamentalist “sacred cows” have been slaughtered. I stopped focusing on not having sex and started paying attention to my Creator. Their nature. Their character. Their works. Their ways. This was communion and intimacy. I had not known this, and I would not give it up.

Layers of shame and scales of fear have shed from my being. My beauty is not a curse. My body is not a stumbling block. Sex is a divine gift and so am I.