Isn’t It Time We Talked About Sex?

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“Katy, we want you to sign this.”

I looked around at the handful of my girl friends who had called me into one of their dorm rooms. One of them held up a piece of white cardstock with something printed on it. A gold medallion sticker, like the ones on high school academic awards, gleamed in one corner.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A covenant. A commitment not to kiss any more guys until your wedding day,” the de facto leader replied.

I raised one eyebrow, “You want me to make a covenant . . . with you . . . not to kiss?”

“Not with us. With God,” Another chimed in. “We’re signing our own too. You’ve got to get this under control. We’ll keep you accountable.”

I scanned the faces of my friends, “Seriously?”

But I knew the answer before the word even left my lips. They were serious. Very serious.

I don’t exactly remember what happened next. I’m pretty sure there was lots of laughing on my end, and a “Who do you think you are?” had to have come up at least once. I really couldn’t believe they’d nailed me with a freakin’ intervention — Sure, I’d been on several dates and had even kissed a guy since I’d been at HSU. And, sure, those dates and kisses hadn’t (thankfully) panned out into relationships. Maybe they could argue I’d jumped the gun a little here and there, but not enough to need an intervention. Not enough to draw up any contracts. I wasn’t majoring in NCL. I wasn’t just making out with any guy who called. (At that point) I’d kissed one guy, with whom I’d gone on a handful of dates, twice. That’s it. I was getting railed for one guy? What kind of world had I moved to? I already had a purity ring; what more did these girls want?

Needless to say, I didn’t sign their contract.

(Did I end up kissing some guys I wish I hadn’t? You betcha. Do I want Caelyn to walk firmly in my footsteps? Please no. Did I regret not signing? No way. Would I take back all of my meaningful relationships before Chris? Not a chance. Would I undo all my premarital kissing? Not likely.)

That was early in my first semester at Hardin-Simmons. Later that year, the two main interveners and I all had serious boyfriends. The “leader” kept her contract. She and her fella didn’t even hold hands. They eventually got married, but it was too late. He was already deep into pornography. Today, they’re divorced and she’s given up belief in any god. On the first day back from Spring Break, the other girl and I made plans to drive to Dallas to go shopping first thing in the morning. We ran into each other in the hall at 8 a.m; we were both just getting home. And I gotta tell ya; her lips were lookin’ pretty raw. “Yeah, I tore the contract up,” she laughed, “He didn’t shave much over the Break.” (For the record, she and I are still very close friends. And don’t let the hour fool you. We’d just been kissing and talking and doing all the innocent things couples do when they’re in love and haven’t seen each other in a week.)

The truth is, that wasn’t my first run-in with those kinds of ideas. Oh, it was my first (and only) intervention, but that basic premise had been floating around my circles for years. I Kissed Dating Goodbye was at its height of popularity. (I did read it, but I can’t remember it well enough to make any sort of comment on it.) Kids were flooding the capital, declaring to the nation that “True Love Waits.” My university was even more full of 18-year-old girls, who were eager to wait, eager to please God. They weren’t going to risk screwing that up by jumping on the slippery slope of kissing.

But most of them did eventually. So they made up more rules. No french kissing. No kissing while sitting down. No kissing on the furniture. No kissing on the floor. No kissing while wearing a tank top. No kissing below the collar bone. No touching anywhere but on the lips while kissing. No kissing for more than 10 minutes. No kissing in the car. No kissing without someone else nearby.

You get my drift.

Now, I’m not saying any of those things is wrong. I’m not saying those methods don’t work for anyone. And I’m not saying that refraining from any premarital physical contact ruined the previously mentioned couple’s marriage. I know people who didn’t kiss until marriage who are perfectly satisfied with their relationships today and don’t regret their decision to wait at all. But I know a whole lot more people for whom the “system” just didn’t work. Rules only bred broken rules, which only produced more rules to prevent the re-breaking of the previous ones, which only left them with a pile of rules broken two-times over . . . and guilt, guilt that sometimes destroyed perfectly good relationships and almost always negatively impacted the members of those relationships in a personal way.

Don’t hear me wrong; I’m not promoting premarital sex. I’m not even promoting reckless kissing. And I’m certainly not promoting relationships with no set boundaries or precautions. I’m just not promoting the idea that every young, viable Christian should have a sexual rule book on his nightstand that he believes, if followed, will result in a healthy relationship with God and a healthy relationship with his girlfriend. It just doesn’t work very often. More than that, it legalizes purity and sex and even love. It shortchanges God on sincerity. And it leaves young Christians thinking that they’ve covered their bases. So long as they adhere to the rule book, they’re safe.

I’m at the end of Andrew Beaujon’s Body Piercing Saved My Life; these last couple chapters feature his experience, as a nonbeliever, in a worship setting. I don’t think I have to tell you that I’m not opposed to worship music. I married a worship pastor for crying out loud. But Beaujon hits on something I think is pretty interesting and, quite possibly, pretty accurate.

“This isn’t music to appreciate; it’s music to experience. People at a worship service close their eyes and, as ecstasy spreads across their faces, begin to rock rhythmically, arms out, mouthing the lyrics. It’s more than a little sexual and a tad uncomfortable if you’re sitting next to an attractive person who’s been overcome by the Spirit” (159).

Later, he shares a conversation with David Di Sabatino, former editor of Worship Leader Magazine and a historian who specializes in the Jesus Movement.

“‘Vineyard was a shift away from Scripture and song to more intimate, very passion-filled songs of praise to God, of personal intimacy,’ Di Sabatino told me. ‘It’s almost like, in a crude way, you could say, “Jesus is my girlfriend” songs.’ I told Di Sabatino I thought there was an unsettling, near-sexual character to one of the worship services I’d been to. ‘Nobody talks about it, but that’s pretty much what’s going on,’ he said. ‘They’re having this intense, experiential experience with God. Very intimate, very private, very all-encompassing’” (233).

I’m not opposed to “worshipping the way you feel the Spirit leading.” Even though I don’t do much hand-raising personally, I’m from a family of hand-raisers. And I’m definitely not opposed to having an intimate, meaningful relationship with God and expressing feelings of intimacy, praise, adoration, and awe to him. The nuances between corporate worship and private worship, the blending of the two, aren’t really what I’m talking about here. (But if you want to bring them up, that’s fine by me.) I’m talking about that sexuality that Beaujon picked up on. Well, sort of. I’m not really talking about the notion of dating Jesus, which generally makes me feel squeamish, although I can appreciate feeling the need to focus your attention solely on Jesus and your ministry. I’m talking about something more subtle. Something that on the surface looks good, and can even be good, but often times poisons new Christian relationships, particularly young ones.

For a time, the leaders of our small group meetings (Point Teams) at our church in Abilene (Crosspoint Fellowship) were supposed to engage us with questions connected to the previous Sunday’s sermon. We called this plan the “Points of Interest.” I’d be lying if I said we always stuck to the questions. There were even times when John forgot to write the Points of Interests or he had, but as our leader, he’d say, “This question sucks. I’m not even going to ask it.” But we must have been using the Points of Interest on the Thursday after the sermon about the Spiritual Living Room, because I don’t know how else it would’ve ever been brought up.

I’ll admit; I don’t know what the Spiritual Living Room is or even which sermon series it was a part of. Something about making people feel welcome. Something that involved free cheesecake and hotdogs at the pastor’s house. (Anybody else remember? Walt, you should’ve been leading the same discussion at your apartment.) But I do remember that when it came up at Point Team, I made a joke about how guys at HSU might as well use lines like, “Hey, Baby, you wanna see my spiritual bedroom?”

We all laughed and took that idea into places that we maybe even shouldn’t have, but the notion behind the joke was true, and it’s not really that funny.

I entered my first real, meaningful relationship during my Freshman year of college, and after that one ended, I generally stayed on the more serious side of dating, but even so, I knew plenty about the spiritual bedroom. Before my first semester at HSU had wrapped, I’d sat in a massive worship gathering (Grace) and overheard several girls saying they hoped some guy saw them dancing in the aisles that night. I’d seen couples build their relationships upon the rush from nights out with the Grace witnessing army (which itself is a whole other issue). I knew new couples whose relationships were fueled (almost solely) by their very intimate prayer times together, which they’d been having since their very first dates. I’d gone on a mission trip with mostly guys and spent the evenings talking about spiritual matters with them. Afterwards, one of them was so entranced by our “connection” that he was willing to move to Abilene to be with me. (I turned him firmly down.) I’d had a handful of guys spend entire nights talking to me about faith and God and spiritual stuff and the next day they wanted me to believe they were in love with me. We were “meant to be together.” “God” had “brought us together.”

I’ve no doubt that we use spirituality to manipulate. If you’re hoping to attract some boy by trying to manufacture a takeover by the Spirit, something has definitely gone awry. (I even think we sometimes try to manipulate God and feel better about our relationships with him by engaging in super-emotional super-spirituality that either disappears when the lights come up or disintegrates when questions and crises that demand solid faith push in.) But I don’t think those guys were trying to pull something. They really believed what they were saying. They’d felt a connection with me — a spiritual one — and mistaken it for lasting, romantic intimacy.

Which takes me back to the kissing contract.

I know that a lot of guys (and girls for that matter) are “only looking for one thing.” But Christian guys are another story. Sure, they’ve got plenty of natural desire for that “one thing” too. But a lot of them also deeply, earnestly want a spiritually intimate relationship with a girl just as much. And we all know women want intimacy. The trouble is, with all these precautions and sexual rule books, we can get so caught up with watching our stop watches to ensure we don’t pass the 10 minute make-out mark that we forget to look out for false intimacy. You know — the kind that develops in crisis situations . . . or long, spiritual nights of bearing your soul to a member of the opposite sex whom you barely know? In the end, it’s false intimacy (of this nature and others), I think, that so often leads Christian couples to inappropriate physical intimacy, and sadly, even to marriages that end in heartbreak.

—- For the record, I’m not decrying “chemistry” or the importance and reality of feeling a connection, even an instant one, with someone else. That doesn’t happen too often, and it’s usually worth pursuing. (Although I’d venture “The One” notion can lead to some trouble, but that’s another post.) And I’m not talking about not having serious spiritual conversations in serious relationships. (Although seeing a person suddenly become spiritual once they start dating someone does concern me; that’s not exactly the same as “iron sharpening iron” and bringing out the best in each other, which are both good things.) I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t be deeply and intimately honest with someone you love but are not yet married to. And, by all means, don’t marry someone if you haven’t talked about spiritual things or if you can’t connect in that way. But, even then, I think a little restraint is called for. After all, your virginity’s not the only thing you can’t ever get back. Words can be just as priceless. —-

I know I’m bringing up tons of controversial ideas, and to be honest, I’m not even sure how to wrap this all up or what kind of statement I want to make. Really, I don’t think Beaujon meant to hit on any of those issues or make any definitive statement either. I’d guess he’s mainly just making an observation, but that observation has the potential to say some very poignant things about Christian subculture, I think. And it gave me an opportunity to think about the Spiritual Bedroom again, a good thing for a parent to contemplate, if you ask me.

With a baby in the house and an active imagination, it’s hard not to think about the future and what issues she’ll face. I know sex will be one of them. (She’s going to be a knock-out, after all.) And I hope that when she’s old enough, we’ll be able to talk about this kind of stuff honestly, in a way that doesn’t make her feel like she needs to write up her own rule book or say no out of obligation or guilt. I realize that encouraging her to simply follow a set of precautionary rules seems easier and might even result in keeping her “safe” until marriage. But I don’t just want to keep her “safe.” I want her to be secure within herself, and eventually in her relationships, because of her identity in Christ. I want her to know freedom, not confinement, wisdom, not blind submission, in her faith. On the other side, I don’t want her to be afraid of intimacy or risks or being close to someone she may not marry either. I’m still not sure how to teach her those things. But I figure, if she can learn to guard her heart first; the rest will follow.

* All quotes from:

Beaujon, Andrew. 2006. Body Piercing Saved My Life: Inside the Phenomenon of Christian Rock. Cambridge, MA: Da Capo Press.

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