In my previous article, Let’s Talk About Purity Culture, I reflected on how growing up in the evangelical church shaped my understanding of sexuality, marriage, and intimacy. As I worked through those experiences, I found myself untangling the places where Scripture had influenced me and the places where Christian culture had quietly filled in the gaps. It became a deeply personal process that forced me to ask difficult questions about my own beliefs, assumptions, and experiences.
In many ways, I thought writing that article would close a chapter. Instead, it opened another. As I untangled how purity culture had shaped my understanding of my own sexuality, I found myself asking a different question: If purity culture had shaped me so profoundly, what else had it shaped?
In that article, I shared how purity culture influenced my understanding of sexuality long after I left home. It wasn’t simply about waiting until marriage. It affected the way I viewed my body, intimacy, and even what I believed was permissible within marriage itself.
For years, I carried shame into marriage over things that Scripture never explicitly prohibited. Holding hands, kissing, or showing affection before marriage often felt dangerous because I had been taught they could lead to temptation. Then, after getting married, I found myself wrestling with a different kind of confusion. I assumed that because sex was finally permissible, there must still be “Christian” ways to be intimate and “worldly” ways to be intimate.
I believed that experimenting or simply “having fun” wasn’t something biblical couples would do. Even certain sexual positions felt wrong to me—not because I could point to a passage of Scripture, but because I had absorbed the idea that faithful Christian marriages were supposed to look a certain way. I found myself comparing my marriage to what I imagined other Christian couples were—or weren’t doing, carrying shame over beliefs I couldn’t actually support biblically. Even today, there are moments when I realize how sheltered I was. My husband will occasionally mention a term, cultural reference, or aspect of sexuality that seems like common knowledge to him, and I’ll stare back with a blank expression because I’ve genuinely never heard of it. He’ll smile, explain it, and remind me that it’s okay that my upbringing was different from his. He’s never laughed at me or made me feel ashamed for not knowing something. Instead, those moments have become opportunities for both of us to appreciate just how differently we were raised. Those moments don’t embarrass me the way they once did. Instead, they’ve become small reminders of just how deeply my understanding of sexuality was shaped—not only by Scripture, but by the culture surrounding it.
As I spent more time separating what Scripture actually taught from what I had simply absorbed through Christian culture, I realized something surprising. Purity culture hadn’t only shaped how I viewed my own sexuality; it had also shaped how I viewed other people. That realization has been one of the greatest gifts God has given me over the past decade. It hasn’t been certainty—it has been curiosity.
If you’ve read much of my writing, you know I grew up in a conservative evangelical home where many conversations were viewed through the lens of right and wrong. Black and white. My instinct was almost always to begin with one question: “What does the Bible say?” I still believe that’s an important question, and one that deserves to be taken seriously. But over the years, I’ve begun realizing it isn’t always the first question I should ask. Sometimes the better question is much simpler: “Can you help me understand your experience?”
For much of my life, I assumed that trying to understand someone meant I was somehow compromising my own beliefs. If I listened too long, asked too many questions, or genuinely tried to understand why someone saw the world differently than I did, it almost felt like I was giving legitimacy to conclusions I didn’t necessarily share. Over time, I’ve discovered those are two very different things. Understanding isn’t approval. Listening isn’t compromise. Compassion isn’t agreement.
That perspective didn’t develop overnight. If I’m honest, many of my impressions of the LGBTQ+ community were shaped more by conversations around me than by personal relationships. During the height of purity culture, sexuality was discussed often. We talked about abstinence, modesty, temptation, and God’s design for marriage. Conversations surrounding the LGBTQ+ community frequently became part of those same discussions, usually framed around whether something was sinful or aligned with Scripture.
Looking back, I don’t think those conversations were rooted in malice. Most of the people around me genuinely wanted to honor God and remain faithful to what they believed Scripture taught. What I do recognize now, however, is that many of those conversations happened about people rather than with them. Without realizing it, I had formed opinions about people I had never actually taken the time to know.
As I got older, those assumptions slowly began to change. One of the first things that challenged me wasn’t a theological debate or a Bible study—it was friendship. As I began building genuine relationships with people who identified as LGBTQ+, many of the assumptions I had quietly carried started to unravel. These weren’t abstract issues anymore. They were people with families, careers, dreams, disappointments, insecurities, and stories every bit as complicated as my own. I encountered kindness where I hadn’t expected it. I found generosity, compassion, humor, and people who extended grace to me even when they knew we didn’t see every issue the same way. Those friendships didn’t suddenly answer every theological question I had, but they reminded me that people are far more complex than the labels we assign to them. Once I knew people instead of categories, I found myself becoming more interested in understanding their stories than simply evaluating their conclusions.
Around the same time, I found myself comparing two very different families. After my second child was born, I watched my adoptive parents reject and eventually disown one of their biological children as they wrestled with questions surrounding their identity. Watching a family relationship fracture in that way left a lasting impression on me. It was one of the first moments that caused me to question whether the posture I had grown up seeing truly reflected the heart of Christ. Seeing parents reject their own biological child—their own flesh and blood—as they wrestled with questions surrounding their identity forced me to wrestle with difficult questions about love, grace, and what it truly means to follow Christ. I found myself wondering how Jesus would have responded if someone wrestling with their identity had walked into the room. Would He have led with rejection, or with relationship? That question has stayed with me ever since, and in many ways, it continues to shape how I approach these conversations today.
Conversely, I witnessed something very different within my husband’s family. When a sibling in their family transitioned, I watched them continue showing up, continue loving, and continue pursuing a relationship. They didn’t pretend difficult questions didn’t exist, but neither did they allow those questions to end the relationship. Watching my two families respond so differently didn’t answer every theological question I have, nor did it settle every biblical debate. It did, however, leave me wrestling with one question that refused to leave me: How do we love people while we wrestle with difficult questions?
The more I sat with that question, the more I realized it wasn’t really about the LGBTQ+ community. It was about the posture I brought into conversations with anyone whose life looked different from mine. Somewhere along the way, I had confused having the right answer with having the right posture. That realization stayed with me long after I finished writing about purity culture. It also led me to ask another question: If purity culture had shaped me so profoundly, had it shaped others the same way? That question eventually led to a conversation with someone who identifies as transgender.
That question eventually led to a conversation with someone who identifies as transgender. After spending so much time reflecting on how purity culture had shaped my own understanding of sexuality, I found myself wondering whether it had shaped the experiences of people I’d spent years hearing about in church. Because we shared similar backgrounds—we were both homeschooled, both raised in Christian environments, and both exposed to many of the same conversations surrounding faith and sexuality—I assumed our stories would overlap in ways I hadn’t considered.
As we talked, I asked whether growing up around purity culture had significantly shaped their experience. I expected our stories to be remarkably similar, but their response caught me off guard. They explained that purity culture hadn’t been a defining influence in their life. Instead, they described a deep discomfort with their body that existed independently of purity culture. While they didn’t believe society’s expectations and beauty standards for women had created that discomfort, they did believe those expectations made an already painful experience even more difficult.
What surprised me wasn’t simply their answer—it was the realization that I had quietly expected purity culture to explain their story because it had explained so much of mine. Without realizing it, I had assumed that because we shared similar backgrounds, we would naturally share similar experiences. Instead, our conversation reminded me that people can experience many of the same environments and yet be shaped by them in profoundly different ways. It also reminded me how easy it is to believe we already understand someone’s story simply because we recognize parts of their background. In reality, people often arrive at very different places for very different reasons, and those reasons deserve to be heard before they’re evaluated.
Our conversation also reminded me that culture isn’t something that exists only inside the Church. For years, I’ve reflected on how Christian culture shaped many of my beliefs surrounding sexuality, relationships, and identity. But broader culture is also constantly shaping people. It teaches us what beauty should look like, what masculinity and femininity should look like, where our worth comes from, and who we’re supposed to become. Whether those messages come from the Church, our families, social media, or society at large, every one of us is influenced by something.
What stayed with me wasn’t how different our conclusions were. It was the realization that both of us had been shaped by culture, although in very different ways. My assumptions had largely been shaped by Christian culture, while their experience had been shaped more by society’s expectations surrounding femininity and beauty. Although we arrived at different conclusions, we were both trying to make sense of the messages we had absorbed throughout our lives. That conversation challenged me to ask a question I hadn’t considered before: How often do I assume I already understand someone’s story simply because I recognize pieces of my own in it?
Looking back, I don’t think I was intentionally trying to be judgmental. I was doing and believing what I sincerely thought honored God and remained faithful to Scripture. But somewhere along the way, I confused having the right answer with having the right posture. I assumed that because I believed I understood what Scripture taught, I also understood the people sitting across from me. I’ve come to believe those are two very different things. Understanding Scripture doesn’t automatically mean I understand someone’s story. While Scripture calls us to discern truth, only God knows every experience, every wound, every fear, every circumstance, and every struggle that has shaped another person’s life. It’s easy to become judge and jury when someone’s life doesn’t fit our understanding of Scripture, but perhaps our first responsibility isn’t to pronounce a verdict. Perhaps it’s to love our neighbor well enough to first understand who they are.
Growing up, I wasn’t just taught certain things about sexuality. I was also taught to be careful about the people I surrounded myself with. We weren’t even allowed to be friends with kids who attended public school because of the influence they might have on us. Looking back, I can understand that my parents genuinely wanted to protect us, but I also carried that mindset into other areas of life. Without realizing it, I learned to view people primarily through the lens of whether they might influence my beliefs rather than through the lens of who they were as individuals. As I entered adulthood, however, my world became much bigger than the one I had grown up in. I began forming friendships with people whose lives, beliefs, and experiences were very different from my own, including people in the LGBTQ+ community. Those friendships didn’t erase my convictions, but they completely changed the way I approached people. Instead of seeing a category, I began seeing individuals. Instead of assuming I already knew their stories, I started listening to them. As I listened to their stories, I stopped seeing labels and started seeing people. I found friendships marked by kindness, generosity, compassion, and grace. They welcomed me into their lives, trusted me with their stories, and loved me even though they knew we didn’t see every issue the same way. Those relationships didn’t change every conviction I held, but they changed the posture with which I approached people. They reminded me that someone can disagree with me and still be deeply kind, just as I hope I can disagree with someone while still loving them well. Those friendships have reminded me that people are always more than the labels we assign to them. They have families, hopes, fears, disappointments, joys, and stories every bit as complex as my own.
Perhaps that’s why this journey has become so personal for me. I want people to understand the experiences that have shaped my life before drawing conclusions about me. I want my story to be heard before it’s filtered through someone else’s assumptions. Even today, I still have questions I’m wrestling with. I still carry experiences that continue shaping my faith, my understanding, and the way I see the world. Like everyone else, my story deserves to be heard before it’s answered. The more I’ve reflected on that, the more I’ve realized the people around me deserve the same grace. Whether we ultimately agree or disagree, every person has a story worth listening to. Every person has been shaped by experiences I may never fully understand. Every person deserves to be seen as more than a position to debate or an issue to solve. I think that’s one of the greatest lessons God has been teaching me over the past decade: the compassion I hope others will extend to my story is the same compassion I’m called to extend to theirs.
My convictions haven’t disappeared. I still believe Scripture is God’s Word, and I still trust God’s design for sexuality. At the same time, I’ve come to realize that my responsibility isn’t to determine another person’s standing before God. My responsibility is to love people well, listen with humility, and trust God with the things that belong to Him. Holding biblical convictions and extending Christlike compassion are not competing responsibilities. If anything, they should strengthen one another. I want my convictions to make me quicker to listen, quicker to love, and quicker to reflect the heart of Christ—not simply quicker to win an argument. I don’t know that I’ll ever have every answer to the difficult questions surrounding faith and sexuality, and I suspect I’ll continue learning for the rest of my life. But if there’s one thing this journey has taught me, it’s that my posture matters just as much as my convictions.
When I look back over the past ten years, I realize God has been doing far more than changing my opinions. He’s been changing my posture. Writing Let’s Talk About Purity Culture forced me to untangle what belonged to Scripture and what belonged to Christian culture in my own life. Writing this article has challenged me to ask another question: How has Christian culture shaped the way I see people whose stories are different from my own? Perhaps that’s what God has been teaching me all along. I have a story to tell. I have experiences that have shaped me, questions I’m still wrestling with, and moments in my life that deserve to be heard before they’re answered. I know what it feels like when people assume they already know my story before they’ve taken the time to ask. The more I’ve reflected on that, the more I’ve realized the people around me deserve that same grace.
Maybe that’s one of the greatest lessons this journey has taught me. My convictions didn’t need to disappear, but my posture needed to change. I still believe Scripture is true. I still believe God’s design is good. But I’ve also come to believe that following Christ means learning to love people whose lives, experiences, or conclusions are different from my own. Not because we’ve reached the same conclusions, but because Christ never withheld His love from people while He called them to Himself. Before any of us are a position to defend or a debate to win, we’re people created in the image of God, carrying stories that deserve to be heard.
As a mother, I think about the kind of home I want my children to grow up in. I want them to love Scripture deeply, but I also want them to love people deeply. I want them to hold their convictions with humility, ask questions before making assumptions, and never be afraid to listen to someone’s story. My hope isn’t that they’ll avoid people whose lives look different from theirs. My hope is that they’ll know how to love others the way Christ loved them—with both truth and compassion.
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