The Feminine Worth Problem
Years ago, I watched someone with a public platform of identity in Christ chase privately after everything the secular world values in women.
*Decades younger.
*Athletic.
*Adventuresome.
*Blonde.
*Strategically-alluring social media posts.
*Smart enough to engage without being smart enough to truly challenge.
Of course, the standard spiritualized excuses emerged. “But I was hurt. But I finally feel alive. But we have a transcendent connection. This isn’t run-of-the-mill attraction. It’s one-in-a-million. Gift of God, even.”
I watched. Listened. Felt the Doppler waves of an alternate holiness sink into me.
We hear so many warnings about being “judgmental,” but sometimes judgment isn’t driving the heart of what another person’s choices do in us. Humans are empathetic creatures. We internalize what we observe. So, even if we have no desire to inflict our moral laws on someone else, simply processing another system of justification inevitably bleeds into how we feel about our own lives.
Our reaction isn’t “You should,” so much as “Because you have, I therefore feel...”
The impact this particular incident had on my own identity was devastating. I was at the vulnerable age of feeling older, less worthwhile, less able to evoke tenderness. I was also at the age of wondering if the sacrifices I’d made for the sake of others mattered.
Most men say they respect strength in women; however, fewer women see this respect play out in the real world. The twenty-something single girl with a vivacious, curious spirit is still standard old dude enchantment. Same song, second verse. It’s almost every story.
For a long time, I struggled to understand why this bothered me so much. I’m not looking for a new romance. Why should it matter what old men do? Then it hit me. Observing what is chased by an individual inevitably provides a diagnostic for what he values.
Men want to be linked with what they see as worthwhile. So when we watch men with power and spiritual authority value the same qualities the secular world values in women, we can’t help but read something of our own worth in those results.
No matter what is “taught” as official principle—the women who watch this dynamic play out repeatedly in real life are shown what matters. The longing and the pursuit are the sermons—regardless of official words spoken, written, or sung.
For just a moment, imagine a culture in which a different sort of woman is desired by men in power.
Imagine that she is older, that she’s lived sacrificially, satisfying her thirsts for travel and deep study in the margins of giving herself away somehow.
Imagine the wounds she’s gained while dying to self evoking the same natural tenderness as the wild curiosity of youth.
Imagine knowledge obtained through scrappy reaching igniting the same intrigue as privileged opportunities for formal focus.
You pick the dynamic, just imagine any world in which selflessness has somehow played out in feminine lives. (And hear me—I don’t mean culturally-oppressive, gender-specific, top-down selflessness—I mean the chosen dying to self Christ asks of all men and all women.)
And now, imagine responsive hearts vast and deep enough to feel affection for a woman whose desires have been placed on altars instead of being electrified by greedy, late-night whispers.
Imagine a world in which the seasoned are idealized by thousands just like 20-something, effortless beauty is idealized today.
It’s laughable, right? If not laughable, it’s burdensome. Like eating your greens, loving goodness is the right thing to do. This is the sort of woman we should value. We really should. No love is more obligatory than love for a martyr.
Yet honestly, the weight of a given life is too heavy to be enchanting. No irresistible tenderness emerges for those who stayed in the in the backgrounds (single or married) sustaining organizations, family members, husbands, or children. No softness quickens for women who read their husband’s grad school books at 4 AM while rocking babies.
The knee jerk for those females is almost always a challenge. “How dare you presume to think! You studied his language and philosophy texts alone in some kitchen while making dinner. You’re not official. You worn-out fool, running your miles around the same small town blocks over and over while pushing a stroller. Time has passed. Beauty has faded. The world has moved on without you.”
Meanwhile, the church teaches “identity in Christ” messages to thousands of women who have watched this exact same dynamic play out over and over, year after year.
We struggle to believe what we are told about the indwelt life, the value of our souls, the beauty of taking up our crosses—not because those concepts are revolutionary—but because we haven’t seen men in positions of spiritual power believe them.
We grasp at teachings taught to us by the same men we’ve watched grasping at the world’s ideals. We notice what’s actually powerful in the hearts of our teachers and compare what we observe to what we are told. We don’t do this because we are legalists who judge. We do this because we are humans looking for what resounds.
We try to go to the God who made Rachel beautiful and Leah plain and stretch to believe beyond what we have seen—imagining that perhaps He is more than just another man whose tenderness swells naturally around a cliche.
Edvard Munch, “Woman on the Verandah”