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Purity Culture isn’t just a Christian thing

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on October 26, 2015.

I spent my teenage years immersed in purity culture, in both evangelical and fundamentalist Christian circles.

If you were homeschooled, went to youth group, or wore a purity ring, you probably know what I’m talking about.

Purity culture was an ideology, a movement complete with books like Dannah Gresh’s Secret Keeper, promoted in concerts by Christian artists like Rebecca St. James and single women’s retreats, like the one I went to that was organized by Biblical Discipleship Ministries and hosted at Bill Gothard’s ALERT Academy in Big Sandy, Texas. (Note: Bill Gothard has been accused by at least 10 women of sexual abuse and the court case was featured in Amazon Prime’s docuseries Shiny Happy People in June 2023.)

A conservative Muslim man who added me on Facebook several months ago often posts religious memes or quotes from the Quran. This week, he shared a few memes that seemed oddly familiar, because they echoed many things that purity culture taught me.

Here they are, along with their Christian counterparts.

1. You will only find a partner as you grow closer to God.

Purity culture seemed to almost guarantee that we’d find The One (TM), if we obeyed all the rules. Following the formula would supposedly bring you closer to God and, by default, closer to that one person chosen to be your life partner from the beginning of time.

Eric and Leslie Ludy, authors of When God Writes your Love Story, said, “Girls, if you will learn to wait patiently and confidently for God to bring a Christlike man into your life, you will not be disappointed. And guys, learn to treat women like the Perfect Gentleman, Jesus Christ, If you do, you will not only be promoted out of ‘jerkhood,’ but you will then be worthy of a beautiful princess of purity who is saving herself just for you.”

Islamic teachings seem to be nearly identical, except you might be waiting for The One[s], depending on which sect you belong to.

2. Wives should obey and submit to their husbands.

This is basically complementarian theology, based on how evangelical and fundamentalist Christian churches interpret Ephesians 5:22-33.

According to this view, men and women are said to be equally valuable, but serve in different roles. Men are the leaders and women are their helpmeets. Those who believe in this claim that any attempt to live outside of these scripted gender roles will result in a failed marriage.

The most spiritual women, according to this teaching, submit to their husbands and obey them even when they disagree or even when their husbands are wrong or abusive.

3. Casual dating is bad because your goal should be to find someone to marry.

Purity culture teaches that kissing, holding hands, and sex outside of marriage is disrespectful to your future spouse and stealing intimacy from any potential relationships in the future.

A sexually active woman is used and no longer desirable, like damaged merchandise or a wilted rose.

Again, this idea isn’t unique to evangelical Christianity. It’s part of other high-control religions as well.

4. Specific instructions on what clothing is modest and pleasing / displeasing to God.

Basically the more covered your body is, the better, according to people who believe this.

Wear long sleeves and long skirts to demonstrate that we’re women, but you better not show your midriff or have a neckline. In fact, it’s better if you avoid any clothing even suggesting that you have curves. Shirts with V-necks are sketchy even if it doesn’t show cleavage, turtlenecks are your safest bet.

The goal is to become the least likely woman to “make your brother in Christ stumble,” which often ends up putting a lot of pressure on women in these religious communities, because it makes women responsible for men’s feelings and attraction to them.

Purity culture’s teachings have been used to blame women for their sexual assault or harassment when people ask “well, what were you wearing?”

These ideas aren’t unique or special.

Conservative Muslims say the exact same thing. Purity culture isn’t exclusive to Christianity. But in reality, we don’t have the inside track to something fabulous if we follow these teachings, and it’s not a magical life hack formula that will fix everything broken in our lives.

It’s more likely that we’re supporting an oppressive patriarchal system through these restrictive religious beliefs.

Most of this isn’t even in the Bible. Jesus doesn’t love you more if you wear the right clothing. I believe he lets you make your own adult choices.

Purity culture won’t make you a better person. It might just give you a superiority complex.

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Unfundamentalist Thoughts: What do Christians mean when they say ‘our joy is not based on this world’?

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on May 18, 2019.

It only takes a few words to send me back. Certain phrases just set me off.

It can be something simple, so common that most average Christians wouldn’t even notice it. But those words meant something else in the fundamentalist cult I grew up in.

I go to a not-crazy church now because it’s helped me heal and find peace. Last week, I slipped into the service on my lunch break. I work two jobs and Sunday mornings are a time I get to stop and breathe.

The worship pastor was talking between the songs and he said something like “our joy is not based on the things of this world.”

My stomach dropped.

This is probably not what he meant, but this is what I felt. You’re not allowed to enjoy your life. Don’t be happy with the work you’re doing. You shouldn’t be proud of the awards you’ve won for journalism. The only thing that matters is heaven.

He didn’t say any of those things. If I asked him if he meant that, he probably would have looked at me bewildered.

This is all about context.

A catchphrase that means one thing in fundamentalist and even most evangelical churches doesn’t mean the same thing to mainstream, non-extremist Christian denominations.

Those who have been through spiritual abuse, especially growing up, are not going to hear what you are actually trying to say. I’ve had many conversations with my pastors about this, and they’ve been very understanding about translating for me. I’ll ask them, so this thing you said, did you mean this or something else? If you didn’t mean the legalistic interpretation I’m used to, what did you mean?

Some Bible verses were weaponized and used against me for my whole life. I have to work to reorient myself to their actual meaning. It’s a process of rewiring the connections in my brain, trying to find new associations.

I thought about that phrase again.

I’ve been going to yoga since not long after I was kicked out of my parents’ house. Yoga teachers usually ask you to take your mind off everything you feel like you have to do and just be, just for an hour. Just exist.

They tell you that your worth is not based on what you do, and it’s okay to just breathe. Their wording is different, so it doesn’t usually have a religious connotation for me.

I kept asking myself what a reasonable, healthy person would mean if they said our joy isn’t based on this world. They probably mean that your successes and failures at work or school don’t determine your worth as a person. That you’re more than your productivity. That life is made up of both tragedy and triumph and while it’s okay and necessary to grieve and feel all those emotions, you can reach out to hope beyond the exhaustion.

It would mean encouraging mindfulness, trying to lower stress.

Basically, the idea is don’t let temporary circumstances hinder you or define you. But that’s not what I first thought.

I still don’t like the phrase.

By definition, it plays into the evangelical “not being of this world but of another world” dynamic which brings up a host of other issues because of how it’s often interpreted, but it doesn’t have to mean what I was told as a child—that you couldn’t be an active part of your own life, that you couldn’t be present, you had to dissociate from your thoughts and feelings in your own mind because you were evil from birth, that enjoying ordinary experiences was a sin.

It’s been absolutely essential for me to parse out phrases like this to break free of the chains in my mind and find a deeper healing.

Maybe it will help someone else who is raw and healing too.

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The journey continues: How I’m healing from spiritual abuse

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on April 20, 2018.

So for those of you who’ve been around me a while know that I came out of a fundamentalist Christian background, and I’ve been working on weeding those things out of my life for several years.

Those old thought patterns were rooted in some people’s unhealthy desires to control other humans, planting fear where freedom belongs.

You also probably know that my journey back into doing church in a healthy way has been sort of like a long backpacking trip—sometimes the terrain was rough and there was a lot of asking myself things like, what do I think is a healthy way to be a person of faith, can I even do church ever again or is this just too painful, and can I trust anyone who identifies as Christian to be who they say they are and to not use faith as a tool to hurt me.

My friends remember me asking “is this normal?” often—sometimes I’m still asking.

I needed to talk to other people during this deconstruction process so that I could finally find the healing I’d been seeking all along.

Many of you were part of that journey.

The thing that drew me back to my childhood church was that they actually believe in community. Their home groups meet to discuss a few chapters of the Bible (not one of those rote, fill-in-the-blank studies that sometimes feel more like indoctrination than growth) and share a meal together, which felt more like what I’ve heard the early church must have been like than anything I’ve ever seen before.

I loved this church’s emphasis on discipleship, which to them means building genuine relationships where you can be authentic even when life is messy and where you don’t have to pretend or worry that you’re not saying the right thing to make sure everyone knows you’re one of the “real Christians.”

Open-ended questions are welcomed here, questions like “so what does this mean for us practically, if we’re actually living out what Jesus said” or just saying “sometimes I have trouble believing that God is good and trusting him since I’ve lived through so much betrayal.”

There are no bizarre, specific rules like how many inches below your collarbone is your neckline allowed to be if you happen to be female.

This is not what most evangelical churches are like, based on my limited but varied experience, living in four different places during my childhood and attending numerous churches of various denominations growing up and with college friends.

So last week, I was in a video that my church made about our discipleship group, and it actually turned out pretty well despite my awkwardness and I wanted to share this with my dear friends who have walked this path with me — some who don’t live here locally.

Maybe one of my biggest hopes (yes I’m aware that it’s overly idealistic) is that American Christianity will become more like this.

It’s been almost six years now since I moved out of my parents’ house, and almost three years since my cats and I moved cross country back to Texas.

I know this was a long post, but thank you for reading and sticking around while I live out my story.

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Still learning to love myself: Through eating disorder recovery

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on March 26, 2022.

Content note: discussion of eating disorders

One year ago, I’d just started a new job, and the first paycheck wouldn’t come for a whole month.

I experienced food insecurity and unstable housing both in college and afterwards. The fear of not making it was so loud in my mind, and a little thought said: “Just don’t eat until you get paid.”

In that moment, I thought it made sense. As if I only deserve food if I do enough—if I work hard enough, if I earn enough money to justify allowing myself to eat.

I now realize this isn’t normal.

Last year, I was diagnosed with atypical anorexia or OSFED, which is just as serious as regular anorexia, but describes an eating disorder that is difficult to categorize according to diagnostic criteria.

Because I’m autistic, it’s hard to remember that I have a body that has needs, so I get busy with work or school and sometimes I honestly forget to eat. But other times it’s been intentional.

I hadn’t been eating enough food on a regular basis for nearly a decade. After a few weeks of trying to live on coffee and little else, I could barely climb stairs. Nerve pain shot down my neck into my arms while driving to work.

I realized if I didn’t stop, if I didn’t get help, it would eventually kill me.

Some of you have known me back when I was stuck in other self-sabotaging patterns like self-harm and unhealthy relationships. Eating disorders are quieter, harder to notice.

Almost nobody sees if you miss a meal.

Learning how to eat again wasn’t easy. It’s hard to find words for how difficult the first few months were—the stomach pain, bloating and falling asleep from exhaustion after meals because my body was struggling to process food.

My nutritionist, therapists and care team keep telling me that I deserve food even if nothing else is going right—even if I make mistakes. They tell me that my body still needs fuel consistently to do what I need.

Most of my friends know that I grew up in high-control communities (read: fundamentalist, Quiverfull, isolationist homeschooling) which left me feeling that I had no choice about what happened in my life and pushed me to wholly identify with a specific religious ideal—to be a living martyr.

And you had to hate your body. The more you hated yourself, your own flesh, the more spiritual you were.

Those born female were under intense pressure to be hypermodest, but also don’t commit the sin of gluttony. Enjoying anything too much—even food—was idolatry because what if you started to like it more than God. Dress like a 90s denim toned-down version of your pioneer farmer great-grandmother. Be just attractive enough to court and marry to repopulate the earth by birthing good little mini-Christians, but don’t be too pretty or someone else might sin just by noticing you.

I was told my flesh was a sin. They told me to “buffet my body” like the Apostle Paul. If only I could suffer enough, hurt enough, finally punish myself enough, maybe I’d become more perfect.

This was the sanctification I was taught. Starving myself seemed holy.

Now I know this is a deeply unhealthy form of Christianity, but this is what I experienced. All these years later, I’m still learning what Love should be.

I’m still learning that I don’t have to seek out painful experiences to become more perfect. I’m unlearning all the ways that I made myself feel less worthy.

And here, I have to give credit to several supportive friends and mentors who always gently remind me of my value. If not for all of you, I would not have survived.

Yes, my recovery comes from the determination I am finding to wake up every day and choose to eat… and live. But I am so grateful for those who remind me when I forget.

“Coming apart at the seams
And no one around me knows
Who I am, what I’m on
Who I’ve hurt and where they’ve gone
I know that I’ve done some wrong
But I’m trying to make it right…
I know that I love you
but I’m still learning to love myself.”

– “Still Learning,” Halsey

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‘But for us, God is not that tiny’: Why I’m #withMalala

Editorial Note: The following is reprinted with permission from Eleanor Skelton’s blog. It was originally published on March 8, 2016.

Usually the documentaries I enjoy are about religious fundamentalism and cults or evangelical culture. I watch to learn and for research.

The other night I rented two movies from Redbox: the new live action Cinderella and He Named Me Malala.

I thought I’d learn something from Malala. More about the culture of Pakistan and the war on terror, more about equality for women in other parts of the world. I thought I would learn about someone vastly different than me.

Instead, I realized that Malala and I have more in common than I’d guessed.

1.) Isolation in a high control group and disagreeing with the conservative factions of your religion.

Malala’s father explains that when the Taliban first came to the Swat Valley, “We thought they were good people. They promised to follow the Quran.”

The Taliban took over media and had book burnings in the streets. The only information the villager could access was the radio broadcast every night, blaring throughout the whole village. People listened every night to hear their neighbors’ sins. Then the Taliban started killing the people named. They shot and slaughtered people in the square, saying that this could be you tomorrow.

They were anti-government, saying that any police or soldiers who attacked Muslims were infidels.

They said girls could not attend school. Three schools were bombed in one night. The Taliban singled out the women, telling them what they ought to do and be. “The women only have one window open and only one man is speaking.”

“if you don’t follow the real Islam that we are showing you, then you can be the next person like this man.”

And the destructive mentality of the Taliban leaders just fed the cycle. Malala’s father said, “When I am willing to kill myself, others are nothing to me.”

The Taliban is more like the subculture I grew up in than most are comfortable admitting. I’m not the first to notice this.

There’s some odd similarities.

Limiting educational access for women, telling them their place is only in the home and using religion to justify this.
Controlling information about the outside world. The Taliban radio broadcasts sounded eerily similar to tapes of Prophet Warren Jeff’s sermons that the FLDS people listened to regularly.
The government is wrong, not the group. Backlash is dismissed as persecution.

2.) Ideologies are more dangerous than individual people.

Malala’s father named her after a folktale about a woman killed in battle in the Swat Valley. The invading enemy seemed too great, but according to the story, the women told her people, “Live like a lion for one day or be a slave for a hundred years.”

She led them into battle. They were victorious, but she was fatally wounded.

Malala’s family watched the changes taking place in their village.

“I was feeling if I don’t speak, then I would be the most sinful and most guilty person in this world,” her father explained. “If you keep silent, you lose the right to exist, to live.”

Her father started calling out the Taliban publicly: “They have tarnished the beautiful face of Islam.”

Malala corresponded with a journalist on the outside and kept attending school.

“He didn’t push me. He let me do what I wanted.”

Malala’s mother doesn’t approve of all of her daughter’s boldness and activism. She is still too afraid that it’s not something a woman does.

“My father only gave me the name Malala. He didn’t make me Malala. I chose this life.”

Pakistanis and Taliban leaders try to discount her because they think that her father is behind this, that “Malala is just a character.” They can’t believe that a woman could actually do this.

“There is a moment when you have to choose whether to be silent or to stand up,” Malala said. “I’m not a lone voice, I am many. And our voices have grown louder and louder.”

Then Malala and two other girls were shot by the Taliban one afternoon on a school bus.

Her father feared that even if she survived her head injury, she would blame him: “I was a child, you should have stopped me, what has happened to me was because of you.”

But Malala says she would still make the same choice. “It does not matter that the left side of my face does not work.”

When the documentary makers asked her about the shooter, Malala said:

“It was not a person. It was an ideology.”

“The Taliban is a small group of people. They think that God is a small conservative being. But for us, God is not that tiny. We think that God has sent us to this world to see if we choose a good way or a bad way.”

This is why I stand #withMalala, why I can empathize with her story.

I also believe that it was fundamentalism that harmed me. My parents and conservative colleges like Bob Jones operate under a similar abusive system.

Often individual people have empathy, but they believe they must do destructive, terrible things to obey God. This is how they silence their own conscience.

They miss their country. Malala wants to go back and see their old house just once.

Sometimes, I miss my country, too. Some days I feel like I have no roots.

Malala is not that different than me. We actually have a lot in common.

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