Dianna Anderson - Damaged Goods: New Perspectives on Christian Purity

T he lights are down low, and the dance floor is lit and waiting. Soft music is playing over the speakers. A row of young women, dressed in their finest, fanciest clothing, are waiting on one side for their dates to come ask them to dance. Theres not much middle school fidgeting and nervousness about whos going to ask whomeach girl knows exactly whom shes going to dance with and shes known him her entire life. Shes made pledges and vows to this person already in the evening, and is now ready to spend time dancing and celebrating with him.

Their datestheir fathersand they are ready to celebrate the commitments each of them made tonight. Each father committed to being a good, godly, guiding force in his daughters life. And each daughter committed to keeping herself pure and unsullied until the day her father gives her away to her husband. This is a purity ball.

According to statistics, of the hundred young girls gathered tonight, eighty will not make it to their wedding night as a virgin. Sadly, some of them have already been violated sexually. Still more will be coerced into sexual encounters they dont want to have by a boyfriend, by an acquaintance at a party, by someone they trust. More will fall in love and say yes to someone who, for one reason or another, they will not marry. Many others will realize that they are not attracted to men or that they are unable to marry. Purity ballsa growing but still obscure phenomenonstarted in Colorado in the mid-1990s. But the zeitgeist that made them popular had been building for decades, snowballing in intensity in the United States for years.

I was brought up in the evangelical purity movement. At fourteen years old, standing in front of my entire church with my parents, I pledged to save myself for marriage. I delved into reading the guides, learning about purity and how to keep myself pure, for years. I held myself and others to the high standards of purity that the church set for us.

One of the most disappointing moments of my young life came when I was brave enough to say to one of my best friends, I think I like you as more than a friend.

We were at a small Christian college together. He had transferred there during my sophomore year. Wed met at a Christian summer camp a couple of years before. Id liked him for years. I had a habit of falling in love with the guys who were my best friends, leading to nights of crying myself to sleep in my dorm room. Influenced by the archaic gender roles taught within the purity movement, I was determined that the man should make the first movewere I to say anything, it would upset the balance and ultimately doom the relationship. So I pined, sometimes not so quietly, hoping that the men I was falling for would somehow read my mind.

By the time I was a junior in college, Id decided that being honest was a better policy than sobbing into my pillow. Telling a boy I liked him was scary, but it would spare me the pain that came with the friend zone. So one October Sunday, I decided enough was enough, and sent my friend Ethan an e-mail: Lets go on a walk. I have something to talk to you about.

Sure. Meet me after church.

I threw on my oversize college hoodie and ran a comb through my short hair. I was much more concerned with what I was about to say than with what I would look like while saying it. We met in the lobby of the dorm we both lived inhe on the first floor and I on the third. We headed down the sidewalk in silence. I was figuring out how to say things, and he was clearly waiting for me to speak.

The thing is, EthanI stumbled over my wordsI like you as more than a friend. I watched him carefully to see his reaction.

His shoulders slumped and he sighed. Thats what I thought you were going to say.

Here it was: my rejection. In my gut, I knew this would happen, but I wasnt prepared for why. Ethan had had a girlfriend previously and theyd broken up a few months before. He explained, I sort of thought this was coming. But I dont think you want to be in a relationship with me. I have too much baggage.

Baggage? What baggage? What are you talking about? I can handle anything.

We were stopped at a light, waiting for a walk signal to cross.

He looked straight at me. Im not a virgin, Dianna. My ex and I had sex, and thats not what you want.

I was speechless. And not because he assumed I wasnt prepared for a relationship with a guy who was experienced. But because he was rightI wasnt. I instantly reshuffled his position in my life from potential suitor to damaged goodsnot marriage material ever. The look on my face gave my thoughts away, and he turned back toward campus, explaining, I can tell by the look on your face that youre not ready for any of this. I need to deal with this sort of thing myself. I dont think Im prepared to get into a relationship with someone who doesnt know these experiences and thats really all I can say about it.

My thoughts ran rampant: Did I even know him? Why couldnt he have waited? What other sins were people hiding from me?

Our environment, permeated by purity culture, commanded that he be ashamed, a pariah, and that I judge him. Ethan was just one in a long string of friends I would judge for their sexual choices. And I felt justified in judging them because my theology and culture justified it. I had to shame my friends for their choices, I thought: it was the only way they would learn.