Body Image

Balance and the Struggle of Being Between

Balance, Body Image, Health, Life, Sexuality and Gender

Content note: This is about health issues and chronic illness. Not much detail, but I do talk about my journey toward finding answers for a mystery disorder, and there’s mention of medical error and fat-shaming.

It’s been a while since I’ve blogged, aside from the occasional featured book or snippet of what I’m supposed to be working on. So I figured it was time for an update for the six or seven people who might read this. It’ll save me from having to individually explain things, too. I can direct the curious folks to this post.

A favor, before I begin: I’m going to talk about the last year and my challenge in finding a decent doctor and getting a diagnosis for my Mystery Illness. I don’t want or need anyone to armchair diagnose me. So as tempting as it may be, please keep it to yourself. It won’t help me find answers, trust me.

Onward and upward.

One of the reasons I haven’t posted much in the last year is that I’ve a) had too little energy and b) had too many doctor appointments. This is quite a journey, so buckle up.

About six years ago now, I suddenly (or so it seemed) got sick. Really sick. Not the germ kind but the “what in holy hell is wrong with me” kind. I went from very fit and active to feeling all the time like I had the flu, minus the coughing. Body aches, chills, fatigue…constantly. I endured it for three months before I finally went to the doctor to find out if I had mono or something similar.

She barely looked at me, pronounced that I had fibromyalgia, and sent me for three blood tests, kind of the standard for the common autoimmune disorders. The general test came back positive (more or less), and the specific ones negative.

I thought the diagnosis didn’t fit at all. At the time, my symptoms didn’t match the way in which fibromyalgia was diagnosed. My doctor didn’t check beyond the two disorders, and I had the sense there might be others. So I saw a rheumatologist, who agreed with my primary care doctor. He told me to go home, take vitamin D, and do yoga. No lie.

Did it help? Sort of, for a while.

I tried to stay as active as I could, but I was exhausted all the time, and exercise didn’t help or even made me worse, depending. I stopped seeing the rheumatologist because I had the sense he didn’t particularly believe me. Neither did my primary care doctor, so I quit her too, and then she left the practice.

It may seem like the wrong thing to do, and perhaps it was, but I never signed on with a new primary care doctor. I didn’t have the motivation. We got a dog, and I had a brief, mild remission, so I started to get back in shape with my dog. It was nice.

And then I got sicker again over the winter.

Same symptoms, different day. I dealt with it, but it left me worse off even when the flare-up subsided.

What changed my mind on seeking answers was writing a novel.

I had a character in process of being given a complex diagnosis. While researching, I discovered there was a lot of overlap between his symptoms and mine, though I knew I didn’t have the same thing. Still, it motivated me to reconsider getting help.

It took me more than another year. In the meantime, I got tired of being less active than before, so I started a dance class…and promptly had a minor injury.

That caused me to seek medical attention. I took an appointment with the first doctor available, since no one would see me without a new patient visit. That was a mistake (though in the end, it all worked out better this way).

I’d accepted the fibromyalgia diagnosis, more or less, even though it still seemed like an ill-fitting shoe. The resident at the new doctor’s office was fantastic, and he was the first person to suggest I didn’t have fibromyalgia, or at least that we had to make sure.

Then I saw the attending physician. There’s a reason I’ve taken to calling him Dr. Jerkface (all my doctors have nicknames). He spent most of our time fat-shaming me, though to his credit, he was the only one who actually physically examined me at that point. And he did point out that my feet have collapsing arches and I needed better shoes. Otherwise, though, he was terrible.

He wouldn’t x-ray my injured ankle until I lost weight, and he told me my fibromyalgia would go away if I weren’t so fat.

I never returned there. I gave up for another six months.

Until I was so desperate and in so much pain (thanks, flare-up) that I had to find a new doctor.

I called my old practice, since I’d always loved that office. The hotline said they had a doctor accepting new patients. The woman who answered told me they had one doctor, a man. I hesitated. Did I want another male doctor who might be condescending or fat-shaming or both?

The woman said this doctor was new, and then she quickly corrected herself to say new to the practice, not new to medicine. Once again, I hesitated. I assumed she meant he was older, a transfer from another office in the system.

But I said yes.

I’m glad I did.

I had an appointment within two weeks of calling, the soonest I’d ever gotten. In that time, I prepared myself. I had my story ready, and I was going to halt any fat-shaming in its tracks. No one was going to treat me the way other doctors had, and if they did, I’d be demanding another doctor.

Whatever I was expecting when my new doctor walked into the room, he was most certainly not it. He was young. Really young. Like, closer-to-my-kids’-ages-than-mine young. The scheduler hadn’t been kidding about him being new, and yes, he was new to medicine (as in, this is his first solo job!).

He read all the notes, and then he started to comment on my weight. I put up a hand and stopped him right there. And then I gave him the saga of my previous five years (in a lot more detail than I’ve put here).

As I talked, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He’s got an incredibly expressive face (and manner generally), and he hides nothing. I registered surprise, sympathy, disgust (for how I’d been treated before), and determination.

It took us a few more visits and some blood tests, and he put me on meds that reduce my pain level and keep the fatigue and brain fog at bay. But then he said something: “I don’t think you have fibromyalgia.”

He sent me to a new rheumatologist.

And here’s where it gets tricky.

She ran a bunch of tests. Lots of them. Some came up inconclusive. Some were clearly negative. A couple were definitely, distinctly positive.

Two visits in, I had a new diagnosis and more meds. Except I thought she’d jumped the gun (again). I didn’t have symptoms that matched. A week after starting the meds, I had another flare-up, plus a reaction to the meds.

Everyone denied I was having a reaction.

So I stayed on them, despite intermittently losing feeling in my limbs. I barely survived a dance recital, exiting the stage limping and unable to feel my feet while my legs shook uncontrollably.

That got worse. Much worse.

By the time I stopped the meds, I couldn’t take the stairs or turn my head or raise my arms or lift the half-gallon pitcher of water we keep in our fridge. I couldn’t sing or chew or smile. I couldn’t stand unsupported, and walking was a challenge.

I couldn’t play my violin.

My primary care doctor sent me to a neurologist and for a series of MRIs. My rheumatologist didn’t believe me that it was the meds and told me to keep taking them…for another two months. She noted the weakness and said maybe I needed to add a stronger medication, an immunosuppressant.

A week after stopping the meds, my muscles were all completely fine. The numbness was mostly gone, aside from the little bit I’d already had. I was in more pain, but it was entirely worth it to be able to walk and climb stairs again.

This is already getting long, but to sum up, I still don’t have a correct diagnosis. I won’t be returning to the rheumatologist who ignored my medication reaction and refuses to acknowledge that she diagnosed me based on a single blood test and no symptoms. She kept saying (about both fibromyalgia and her updated diagnosis) that I just had an “atypical” version.

Well, I apparently could have an “atypical” version of several things.

And it turns out that’s a real thing.

I’m not wrong, and I’m not making it up. Somehow, I’ve managed to develop a disorder that sits between other ones, that likely won’t develop into anything that’s a clear, concrete match. It hides itself by borrowing bits and pieces of other things, mimicking them but rarely becoming any of them.

Somehow, for me, that seems fitting.

I’ve always said I’m not a “choose a side” kind of person. I won’t give up my Jewish identity, but I also won’t reject the Christian community that welcomed me in at my worst time. I refuse to become an invisible bisexual in my hetero-appearing relationship. My gender defies the binaries. In all these things, I’ve found peace and balance, a harmony between two worlds.

It makes sense that my body, even in illness, would reject a distinct label.

I’ll be seeing a new rheumatologist, a fresh start. This is a chance to find balance there too. I’ll have to learn how to manage my symptoms better and how to take care of my body while also juggling work, writing, and our family’s active, busy lifestyle.

But I can do this. I can find a new kind of harmony with my body instead of fighting it.

Hey, if you made it this far, kudos. Just to reiterate, I don’t yet have a diagnosis, but I’m ten steps closer. My amazing, wonderful primary care doctor (nicknamed Captain America ‘cause he’s a hero and not jaded enough to be any of the others) has given me a temporary medication to relieve the pain and inflammation. It does work (though not as well as steroids, sadly).

I’m on the right track, though, and I’m going to start off my year attempting both orchestra and dance (now that I’m not too weak!). I’m trying to get into shape for both with some strength training.

And of course, I’m grateful for those who have stuck by me and are still supporting me. It means everything.

I’ll update when there’s something new to know. Until then, I may fall silent again. But know that I’m around, in the background, doing my thing the best I can.

“Are you sure you should eat that?”

Body Image, Food, Health

I don’t often talk candidly about my personal life anymore aside from writing-related stuff, the occasional cool thing my kids did, or something about my part in the LGBTQIA+ community. I’m taking a moment to post about something else: body size, weight, and “health.” It’s long, but please read it.

A Thing happened the other day. My kid brought home an assignment from school for her Home and Careers class. (Note: this is what us folks over age 40 called Home Economics or what some folks in between called Family and Consumer Science [FACS].) No biggie, right? Yeah…

She was supposed to provide her weight and BMI, assess her activity level, keep a food diary for a day, and calculate how many calories per day she needs. She was also supposed to draw herself “according to what [she] ate yesterday” (i.e., tired, ugly, sad, and “unhealthy” for eating “bad” foods and alert, attractive, happy, and “healthy” for eating “good” foods).

No.

Just no.

Hell, no.

Some important points: My kid is 11. Unless a child that age is under the care of a doctor, nutritionist, or other health professional, and a problem has been directly identified, here are the things they should not be doing (and absolutely NOT EVER under the supervision of a school teacher):

Count calories
Use BMI as the measure of how they should be eating
Diet
Attempt to lose weight
Attempt to gain weight

These things are bad for growing minds and bodies. Doing them is linked to future actual obesity as well as all manner of disordered eating patterns and diagnosed eating disorders. Children should not be frightened or shamed into eating “correctly” or getting physical activity. They should be provided with information about what makes foods good for a body, such as nutrients. It’s helpful to know that some foods are very low in those nutrients rather than assessed to be “bad,” “unhealthy,” or “dangerous.” Giving them simple recipes they can make at home, teaching them how to select foods in the school cafeteria, helping them learn how to make less appealing but nutrient-dense foods more enjoyable, giving them opportunities to explore many kinds of physical activity—all those are good.

But food- and body-shaming tactics? Not. Ever.

Let me lay it out, since I hold not one but two degrees in health fields and have, in the last three days, had some lay people try to “educate” me on the use of BMI (specifically, my child’s teacher, who claimed that the lesson “could not be changed” as it was part of the curriculum, and a few concern trolls who thought I was inviting their private messages). The measure itself is nearly 200 years old. Until sometime in the 20th century, it was not used as a singular, individual measure to see if a person was “healthy.” It was a fad for a while, but health educators have been warning against this misuse at least since I was in graduate school 15 years ago. At the very least, it is not a tool for growing children, whose bodies change far too rapidly for it to be accurate, let alone useful. It is not a “baseline” for anything. It’s a measurement primarily used to collect aggregate data. For an individual, all other factors have to be assessed to determine optimal health.

Reinforcing: Children do not need to determine their “ideal weight” so they can attempt to change their bodies with diet and exercise. Do not project adult issues around weight and health onto pre-pubertal youth. BMI is not even how an adult should determine their next steps. That simply is not its purpose.

Here’s the thing. A lot of us know what it’s like to grow up having our bodies and our food monitored by other people “because they care” or simply because they think fat people are ugly and deserving of scorn. We know how it feels to be adults who continually get our hands slapped. (For another great post on this, and what it’s like, please go read my colleague and friend Deb’s post on it. But do not comment if you’re going over there to pass judgment or otherwise be a hateful butthead, okay?)

That kind of fear and shame keeps a lot of us locked into thought patterns which are even more unhealthy than our bodies. Here’s where I get real personal: I do not eat in front of people other than family if I can help it. Even then, there are some people who make me feel very uncomfortable. I worry about every little choice. It looks like this:

♦Sometimes they serve cake at church for special occasions. I usually don’t take any, but funnily enough, it’s actually not because of the food shame. I don’t really like it. Last time I had some, I scraped all the frosting off because I think it tastes bad. But you know what I was worried about? Having someone think I was scraping it off to try to make the cake “healthier.” That’s a thing I’ve been complimented for doing in the past because I’m assumed to be “counting my calories.”

♦If I choose to eat a salad or just some fruit for lunch, on a normal day, that’s no biggie; I’m home alone. But if I’m out with people, I always wonder if they’re secretly cheering me on for not eating the hamburger (which I probably didn’t want anyway—I do not eat restaurant hamburgers). If I ask for dressing on the side (because I want to actually taste my greens, so I put hardly any on) or refuse croutons (I’m allergic to garlic, so I can’t risk it), I get comments about how “healthy” or how “good” I’m being. On the flip side, I sometimes get comments on why I don’t just enjoy getting something “bad,” as though my choice to eat something I find tasty is really about dieting.

♦I like most foods. I’m not that picky, aside from disliking frosting and peas and my garlic allergy. Heck, I even like stuff many people hate, like Brussels sprouts. But there is no way I’ll ever tell most people that I think something is yummy. Everything from an apple to a French fry has moral value attached to it. There’s no way to win when it comes to picking things other people might use to evaluate me.

♦I have lost track of the number of friends who have sent me weight loss stuff or asked if I wanted to do a body challenge with them. (I don’t.) When someone who is far thinner than I am, and very attractive, talks about “feeling fat and ugly,” I don’t know what to think. I’ve been called both of those for most of my life, and that’s how I was bullied in school. It makes me wonder what they are thinking when they look at me, and then I can’t eat in front of them because I don’t know whether they’re adding up the calories in my food and calculating my portion size or what I should eat instead. I don’t know if they look at me and see a troll, or if their negative self-talk is truly not a reflection on me or people with my body type. If a naturally thin person who has never been considered overweight (by society or the medical community) believes themselves to be “too fat,” then how do they see me? How do they view someone much bigger than I am? I’m not in their head; I don’t have that data. And when they combine that with doing diet and exercise challenges (and inviting me), well, I can only guess what they think of what I’m doing.

♦Being out with friends can be stressful just by itself, even without food. In a group, there’s always at least one person who likes to lean over and whisper about someone else, “She’s really gotten fat, hasn’t she?” As though it’s my business (or theirs), as though I care, as though I want to discuss anyone else’s body.

♦There is no possible way I can relax and enjoy a treat. If a skinny person is consuming chips and beer, most folks probably assume they’re splurging or they’re going to go work out later. If I eat them, then I run the risk of having it assumed I eat like that every day. It doesn’t matter whether I do or not—the mere fact of my body shape and size leads to that conclusion.

I’m not exaggerating that last point, by the way, and it’s also different for boys vs. girls. My 13yo is 6 feet tall and so thin they don’t make men’s pants in his size (but he can’t wear boys’ pants because he’s too tall). He eats like a moose. Or rather, he eats like an athlete, which he is: he’s a dancer. People try all the time to give him extra portions, even of treats. No one blinks if he has a huge bowl of ice cream. They assume he’ll burn it off in the studio. They don’t even consider whether they could be overfeeding him when they offer extra food. Comments about how teenage boys eat abound. My daughter, on the other hand, is short and round, like me. She is also a dancer but takes fewer classes. She does not generally eat like food is going out of style; she’s appropriate for her age and activity level. But she’s already had other kids say things about her body or her food choices. No one ever offers her seconds or extra treats, and plenty of people like to talk about how great it is that I’m teaching her healthy habits now so she won’t have to worry about it later.

Every single one of us who doesn’t have a “beach body” (and heck, even most people who do) have had our food and our bodies monitored and evaluated. Fun fact: If you add disability into the mix, it invites even more harassment. I developed fibromyalgia a few years ago. Until then, I was active, happy, and healthy. It began subtly, but I thought I was just in need of more exercise. So I worked out more, but it only made me sicker. Instead of support, I got “advice.” Diet advice. Weight loss advice. Exercise advice. “If you just got rid of some of the excess, you’d feel better.” No, damn it. I would feel better if my body weren’t in pain all the time and I didn’t have to choose between working out and doing my paid job. I’d feel better if I didn’t wake up every morning wondering what degree of pain I’ll be in when I stand up because long hours of not moving (i.e., sleep) makes it all worse.

So now you know. This is why we cannot teach young children to view their bodies as the enemy.

My daughter’s response to the assignment was perfect. She drew a picture which she said is what would happen from this lesson—a child concluding they need to stop eating or go on a diet in order to be pretty and healthy. Her message at the end is a good one:

Love yourself the way you are. Don’t change anything about yourself. You’re BEAUTIFUL. Remember that.

Right on, kiddo. Someday, I’m going to write that story. I’m going to write a book about a beautiful fat person being awesome at life and not giving a crap anymore what other people think of their body. And they’ll be allowed to eat what they like, dance up a storm, and fall in love, and no one will tell them they need to be thin.

Flesh and Blood

Body Image, Life, Religion

The first time I remember hating my body, I was nine.

Oh, I don’t think I put it exactly in those terms. It was more the certainty that I didn’t look like other girls. I was short, for one thing, even at that age. I was rounder, too, than my classmates. I’ve seen pictures of myself in fourth grade, and I wasn’t even what adults would have semi-affectionately termed “chubby.” But I wasn’t skinny, and for whatever reason, my peers latched onto that insecurity and spent the next several years calling me fat. Taunting me about my hips and thighs. Pinching me to show where I could “lose a few pounds.”

People say that girls today learn those lessons earlier than in previous generations. No, they don’t.

When I reached high school and chose to reinvent myself through conservative evangelical religiosity, I thought I’d found a place where I wouldn’t be judged on my body. How very wrong I was.

Instead of using beauty as the standard by which I was judged, it became “godliness.” I lost track of the number of times some well-meaning person asked me if I “really needed to eat that.” It didn’t actually matter what I was eating; I could have eaten anything and I still would’ve been asked. No one said it to my skinny friends under any circumstances.

As shaming as that was, that wasn’t the worst of it. It was the way in which preaching spoke of “the flesh” as a dirty, evil thing that must be overcome. I learned that my body was bad—not bad merely for being the wrong shape but bad because it wanted things.

In that graceless spiritual bubble, the mind, the body, and the spirit were disconnected. The body had sinful desires to overcome. The mind had sinful thoughts to overcome. But the spirit was of God and trumped all of our sinful nature if we prayed and asked Jesus in to fix our broken humanity.

I’m sure some of my conservative evangelical peers must be saying, “It’s not like that!” Perhaps it isn’t, for them. Maybe they didn’t already go into faith believing they were broken simply by virtue of existence. Or maybe they just can’t see it even though it’s right there in front of them.

It never occurred to me to medicate my shame. Food, substance use, sex, even suicide—none of those were options because they were all “temptations” to be deal with through prayer and reading the Bible. I didn’t touch drugs or alcohol or cigarettes because that would have been fleshly sin. Eating the wrong things or in the wrong way was sin, too. I stayed away from boys just in case my body betrayed my spirit and wanted more than hand-holding and innocent pecks on the cheek.

None of that stopped my body from wanting things, of course. I used to hide my Easter chocolate in my room and make it last for six months by eating just a tiny bit at a time. I would nibble, and then I would feel guilty—both for hiding and for eating. Chocolate was sinful for bodies like mine. I wasn’t disciplined enough.

I made sure I was covered, not out of modesty, but out of hiding. It functioned both ways, though, and I was safe from the bodily sin of “causing my brother to stumble” in lust. Not that I believed for even a moment that any boys were looking at me that way; I knew they all liked pretty girls with skinny waists and big boobs. Privately, I could barely admit to myself that I wanted someone to look at me that way.

My language was clean, at least on the outside. I pretended to be outraged once on a trip with some other Christian teens. A boy from another city said “shit.” I joined the others in telling him that wasn’t God’s best. Secretly, it gave me a thrill to hear such a word on the lips of the faithful. I wished I were that brave, but I felt ashamed for it.

I monitored my thoughts to make sure I wasn’t harboring resentment, anger, or lust. There was a boy I liked. I imagined what it would feel like to kiss him, maybe to have his hands on me. But I remembered that I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about that. I never asked him out because I was afraid both my body and my mind would betray me.

Alone at night, sometimes, I touched myself, all the time trying not to think about anything so I wouldn’t be guilty of lusting. Except the very act of giving myself pleasure seemed to fall into that category—not to mention the impossibility of keeping my mind blank, separate from my body. Orgasm and guilt became inextricably linked.

Everything was about overcoming the “desires of the flesh,” emptying myself of me so that I could be filled with the Holy Spirit. The more Spirit-filled I was, the closer to God. If I just let Jesus in far enough, he could make all the things my body—and my mind—wanted go away, replaced only by the desire to love and serve God in near-perfect holiness.

It didn’t work.

Instead, it left a gaping, dripping wound, a hole in the place where I should have been. I tried harder and harder to not sin, convinced I was broken somehow for not having the faith in God to keep me from doing the things a Good Girl doesn’t do. So I prayed harder, confessed more, and begged God to make me just not feel.

That did work. In the wrong way.

A door closed, locked, bolted. But instead of keeping my spirit safe from my own mind and body, it kept me from feeling much of anything for anyone else. And it didn’t stop my body or my mind from their natural inclinations; it only served to prove they needed to be separated.

I want to open that door again, but I think I’m afraid that what I unleash will be very much like Elsa in Frozen, setting off an eternal winter. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but not much.

Slowly, slowly, I’m unfastening the chains. I let myself cry with someone from church who was feeling a deep, heavy hurt. I asked after several friends coping with fresh grief. It felt good to allow their pain in.

If only I could let mine out.

Shame, shame

Body Image, Health

There is so much shame out there for us to use against our fellow humans. It’s so easy to claim-and-club, to bludgeon each other in the name of making others into better people. And doesn’t it feel good, knowing that we’re doing the right thing, the moral thing, while others wallow in their guilt?

I read an article yesterday about how restaurant portion sizes can be an issue for people wanting to have healthier lifestyles. In the article, a study was cited in which people were given cookies labeled “medium” and “large,” but the cookies were in fact the same size. People who had the medium cookies ate more, and it was suggested that the labeling convinced them that the portion was smaller so they could indulge. The implication is that if restaurant portion sizes were standard (a medium soda is always the same number of ounces everywhere, for example) then it could be more effective than laws restricting the maximum size. The article went on to mention that clothing sizes have gone down in the last 50 years, meaning that larger people fit into smaller sizes because of resizing (called “vanity sizing”).

I have no problem with the research or even the thesis of the article. It was mostly factual, providing information. What did bother me was the comments on the article. It was a string of people claiming to be very thin and unable to find clothing that fits. (I find that hard to believe, as I have noticed neither an epidemic of nakedness nor large numbers of skinny people in baggy clothes.) In fact, the majority of the comments ran along the lines of, “Let’s not make excuses for the fat people sitting around on their lazy asses stuffing themselves with supersized fast food.”

In other words, fat shaming.

I will never understand why it’s so appealing to say hateful things on a public forum. I’m not even talking about the stupidity here, the conflating of fat and lazy or unhealthy. I’m talking about the name-calling, the character assassination of people we don’t even know. I don’t get the desire to verbally thrash complete strangers, as though we ourselves live flawless lives. Nor do I relate to the underlying fears that lead us to disproportionately shame fat people as though being overweight is among the worst things one can do.

I’ve never met anyone who had long-term success becoming a better person as the result of being shamed into “proper” behavior. I’ve met plenty of people who have become fearful and depressed and have hidden some of the best parts of themselves because they believed that they weren’t worthy of love. Not only that, I’ve seen perfectly healthy people become ashamed of their bodies because they are curvier, more muscular, large-boned (and I mean that literally), or even because they are pregnant. Is this what we’ve become as a society? People who are afraid of natural variation and even natural biological function?

The thing is, I’m not even laying this one on the church. While I think that in large part the church has a role to play (Christian “diet” programs, anyone?), that doesn’t explain why there are so many people who are not now or never have been Christians who believe the same things. In this case, it’s not necessarily the direct actions of the church but the passive failure to act that is the problem.

As Christians, we have a responsibility to end the cycle of shame. We need to stop buying into the lie that thinness is God’s plan for humanity or that there is any such thing as “righteous” health behavior. I don’t mean that it’s our job just to make people feel good about themselves. But we need to separate what society says from what God says, especially if we claim to be “Bible-believing.” (I’ve never seen a commandment in Scripture that says, “Thou shalt be thin.”)

I’m not really a “fat activist.” I was merely bothered by the rude and judgmental comments (along with the bragging about being too small for normal clothes; if that’s not fat shaming, I’ll eat my hat). But if you are interested in the subject, here’s a woman who does just that. Her blog is fantastic and she regularly gets all sorts of interesting feedback. Check it out (and especially check out her Hate Mail page if you want to read a cross between hysterically funny and rage-inducing).

All Dressed Up

Body Image, Sexuality and Gender, Women

Since I’ve already (twice now) addressed the problem of how men treat women, it’s only fair that I make a point about women. While I don’t believe it’s reasonable to blame women for male shortcomings, it’s equally unfair to blame men for the things women do.

I don’t get my panties in a bunch because a woman wore a low-cut blouse or showed a lot of leg. I think this is because I have a much more narrow definition of lust than most conservative people. Conservative Christians often define lust much too broadly, allowing it to encompass absolutely everything that even remotely seems “dirty.” That may be why we’re so anxious to absolve men of their “problem” by pointing fingers at women and what they are wearing. Let’s face it, this issue has been around since forever, and what women are wearing isn’t what drives it. If it were, then we should have no problem with cultures that expect women to be covered head-to-toe. I strongly suspect that it wouldn’t matter if some women wore sweat pants and didn’t wash their hair for a week. There are still men who would try to make a case that they’re using “pheromones” or something to attract men because they don’t cover up their natural scent.

That said, I do think modesty is important. But I don’t mean in the sense that girls and women should just “cover up.” (Because I think it’s perfectly acceptable to wear shorts to the gym or a bathing suit to the beach.) I mean in the sense of how she herself treats her body and how she treats men. Immodesty comes more from motivation than from the garment in question. I’ve seen women look immodest in t-shirts while others look appropriate in above-the-knee skirts and low necklines. But somehow, we’ve cultivated the bizarre idea that the percentage of flesh showing is directly proportional to the degree of sluttiness possessed by the woman.

This is the very same stupid logic that leads people to claim that public breastfeeding is improper. The idea that there is a nipple somewhere under that baby’s lips, and that a little flesh might show around the baby’s head, is just plain horrifying to some people. The irony isn’t lost on me that in cultures requiring head coverings, public breastfeeding is relatively common and no one blinks.

We’ve grown into a society that values women for their looks. From an early age, girls are coached on how to look good. Young girls are encouraged to look (and dress) like little adults, and adult women are encouraged to look like prepubescent girls. We’re all supposed to base our self-worth on how pretty our faces are and how thin our bodies are. Is it any wonder that so many women and girls dress themselves in ways supposedly designed to make men drool? We’re taught to believe that our value rests on whether or not we can successfully catch (and keep) a man.

Strangely, culture has become fixated on the most fleeting of female traits, her physical appearance, and has dictated which characteristics are the most attractive. What we are to find beautiful today will change tomorrow. And the other side effect of all this is to fail to give real men credit for being better than that. We tell them they “can’t help it” when confronted with “hot” women. But the fact that real men are marrying real women betrays the lie. Real men love their significant others for a lot more than what can be seen.

Instead of teaching our daughters that they ought to be careful how much cleavage, back, shoulder, or leg they show, we should be helping them love their bodies no matter what they wear. We’re aiming at the wrong thing. It’s not about trying to figure out where the modesty line is and how not to cross it. It’s about having a healthy concept of ourselves without needing external proof. It’s about dressing for ourselves instead of someone else.

We also need to encourage our daughters to treat their male friends with respect. I know a lovely (read: kind, sweet, charming, intelligent) young woman who has a lot of male friends. They all treat her with respect, even though she is pretty and dresses in ways that flatter her figure. Why? Because she knows the line and doesn’t cross it; because she treats them with respect; because she expects them to return that respect; and because she doesn’t place her worth on whether or not she is dating any of them.

It’s not an insurmountable problem. For every degrading beer commercial, there is a woman striving to help us become body-confident and see ourselves in a positive way regardless of our shape. If you’re a woman in the business of helping other women love and respect their bodies, I’d love to hear from you. Let’s raise a generation of young women who don’t buy into the commercialization and exploitation of their bodies.

Medical Judgmentalism

Body Image, Doctrine, Healing, Science

When we set ourselves in the place of God, judging the condition of other people’s hearts, we set ourselves up for God to knock us down.

There has always been a somewhat fringe health and wellness movement in the Church. Sometimes, that can be very good. There are excellent resources for people who want to lead healthier lives to do so within a Christian context. I do not want to blame the leaders of those excellent ministries for the shortcomings of the purveyors of snake oil that can be found in pockets of Christianity. As for the rest, their particular brand of “health and wealth” gospel takes many shapes, frequently masquerading as legitimate healing ministries.

One common thread that can be overlooked is the degree to which these so-called healing ministries attempt to blame the very people they claim to serve. Some examples, from (unfortunately) real ministries: Your weight problem stems from lack of organization in your home; your disease process has been caused by your marriage failing to live up to God’s standards for husbands and wives; your illness is the direct result of sin in your life; specific sins lead to specific health problems.

I suppose that there might be some truth in the idea that holding sin in your heart can lead to breakdown of bodily function. Certainly there is correlation (not causation) between a healthy spiritual life and positive outcomes following a hospital stay. But drawing parallels between particular sins and various diseases seems dubious at best, downright evil at worst.

There are three things wrong with this. I will cite the Biblical refutation for blaming sin for illness first. In John 9:1-3, Jesus speaks with his disciples regarding a blind man they have found:

As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. 2 His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.” (NIV)

In Jesus’ day, at least some people would have believed this very thing—that a person’s health was bound up in either his own or his ancestral sin. Jesus lays this one to rest by assuring them that this was not so. He also effectively demonstrates that his miracles have as much to do with instruction for us as with healing an individual. In ministries that blame the victim, both of those truths are lacking.

The second problem is judgmentalism. This morning, our church had a service along with four other local congregations. The pastors of all five (total) churches delivered a great message about judgment and freedom. Our pastor gave the definition of judgmentalism as assuming you know someone else’s motives. When someone tries to make claims of personal sin as the cause of illness, that is bald judgmentalism. If one believes we are all sinners, then how does one person’s “hidden” or “unforgiven” sin cause illness, while another’s does not? Or while another’s overt sin does not? We simply do not know what is in another person’s heart. We cannot know that fear or anger or lack of submission are causing disease, because we cannot know that those are the sins someone is enslaved to.

Third, the claim that specific sins equate specific diseases can be easily refuted by reality. A few small “studies” or annecdotal evidence are not enough to prove such a claim. This becomes even more pronounced when we add in things like healing. If the root cause of (I’m making this up) peanut allergy is really the sin of resentment, then why are people not cured when they repent? Are they not praying hard enough for forgiveness? Are they not really sorry? We are promised forgiveness whenever we confess. So if that is what is needed, then why does it appear to work for some people and not others? And why are there lots and lots of people who are resentful, but not suffering from any kind of allergy at all? It becomes clear that this is no more than an attempt to control others through pseudoscience.

We need to be wary of any ministry that claims we must clean ourselves up before approaching our Heavenly Father, even if that takes the form of purging our sins before asking for healing. We also need to be wary of anything that pretends that the Bible is a medial or a science text. It isn’t, and it was never meant to be taken that way. What a gross misuse of our holy Scripture.

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