THE DRIVE INTO TOWN wove through green rolling hills and along a beautiful, peaceful coast. Calm sapphire waters lapped the white seashores, while waves of green grass swayed in the breeze on the hills beyond the shore. The sun was out, and it felt like a summer day with the first hint of autumn.
As I breathed in the fresh sea air I felt closer to God. It seemed like all of my decisions, poor and otherwise, had led me to this little Irish town of Greystones nestled along the coast.
There were about twenty of us, and as we got off the bus we all wore the same dopey grin. We couldnāt believe we were there at last. After months of preparationāthe support letters, the fundraising events, the training camps, the selling of precious belongings, the goodbyesāwe were there. It was day one of the World Race, and we were about to spend the next eleven months traveling to eleven different countries in an attempt to serve others. I was not yet aware of the problematic elements that came with the way the evangelical church often did missions, but over time I would learn.
My possessions for the next year were packed in a bulging backpack that I struggled to carry as we made our way down the hill to the house we would call home.
We were prepared for thisāat least we thought we were. Several months earlier our squad of fifty-five had gathered in the Georgia woods for what was known as ātraining campā: seven days of intense team-building and attempting to hear Godās voice, sleeping under tarps, and eating unfamiliar food. This was designed to prepare us for sleeping on floors, teaching English, partnering with nongovernmental organizations, giving sermons, and a host of other tasks.
Before training camp we had undergone the interview process: talking to a complete stranger about our deepest wounds and how weād grown from them, praying that our past wouldnāt disqualify us from what could be our future.
I grew up in a conservative evangelical church. I was very young when I accepted Jesus into my heart and around nine when I chose to be baptized. Around the age of thirteen, at a conference, I had an experience with God that I can only describe as the baptism of the Holy Spirit, though I didnāt realize it until I was in my early twenties. I was dedicated and involved in my youth group throughout high school, going on mission trips to Mexico and Costa Rica.
In college I fell in love with a ministry called Annex at the University of Colorado Boulder, which profoundly shaped my faith. With them I went on a mission trip to Thailand, where I had another spiritual experience that brought me closer to God than I had ever been before. After that I decided to dedicate my life to serving God in any capacity.
I led mission trips on my summer breaks from college, and after I graduated from college a year early, I spent six months at a Youth With a Mission Bible school in Australia. I had been back for less than a year when I decided to go on the World Race.
I was perfectionistic and rigid because I found my sense of belonging and worthiness within the church.
My life had been infused with the church and missions and God ever since I could remember, and unlike many, I didnāt have a phase when I partied or rebelled. I was perfectionistic and rigid because I found my sense of belonging and worthiness within the church. I had witnessed how the evangelical church treated people who made mistakes, and I was terrified of making one. When I applied to go on the World Race, my faith and my church community were everything to me.
Before I left for the Race, my life had taken on a terrible monotony that I couldnāt stand. Every day felt the same: waking up early to go to a job where I counted other peopleās money as a bank teller.
āAnd how would you like your change?ā Iād ask, a big, fake smile plastered on my face.
āIn dollars.ā Cue laughter.
āHa-ha! Good one! But I mean in what bills would you like your change?ā
They would sober up and say, āTens and fives.ā
The joke wasnāt funny the first time I heard it, and it amazed me how many times it was told. How could such a bad joke gain such traction?
I was making the best money I ever had at the ripe age of twenty-three. But even with the opportunity to be promoted and earn more, I just couldnāt stand banking. What made it worse was the older married men who told me what they thought of my body or my looks. This is how one such interaction went:
āGood morning. How are you today?ā I said in the same chipper voice I used with every customer who approached my desk.
Before speaking he looked up and down my body as if I were wearing nothing, as if he could see through my usual outfit: a frumpy cardigan, business pants, and orthopedic shoes.
āWell, arenāt you the sexiest teller here?ā he said.
Waves of discomfort, fear, and anger rolled through me. I was pretty sure I was being sexually harassed. I knew the bank had a policy, and if I reported this guy, they would close his account. But I was afraid to say anything, thinking, That would just make a big deal out of nothing, right? Would he get angry and lash out? Would he follow me after work? Would he call me names? Iād had men do all of these things in the past when I resisted their advances.
I quickly made a mental calculation of my options and what I could do to keep peace. I decided to ignore the comment because that had always been the most effective option. I would not appease him and invite more unwelcome comments, but I also would not fight him, inciting his anger and making a ābig dealā out of the situation.
All of this calculating was done in a flash. I smiled and repeated the question: āHow may I help you, sir?ā
He eyed me as if offended that I hadnāt thanked him for his comment. Then he said, āWhoa, whoa, not so fast, Missy. Iām giving you a compliment.ā
But it wasnāt a compliment; it was objectification. He knew better, Iām sure, and he was showing me what he could get away with. He was showing me who had power, daring me to report him.
Whether it was the pastor who asked me to sit in his lap, the stranger who groped me in a pool, or this bank customer standing in front of me, all were sending me messages about who had power and who didnāt. Their actions were communicating ownership; they saw my body as an object to regulate, control, consume. In their view, the rights to my body were theirs, not my own.
But I couldnāt articulate any of this in the moment. I took a deep breath as I eyed the wedding ring on his finger, the wrinkles on his face, and his receding hairline. He had to have been at least thirty years older than me, and he probably had a long life of getting his way.
So I swallowed the feeling that told me to report him and smiled. āThank you. Now, how can I help you today?ā
When the transaction was over and he left, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I locked myself in a stall and tried to calm my jangled nerves. I wished there were men on the teller line because maybe their presence would protect me from these unwanted advances. For some reason, men donāt invade the space of other men. And I thought perhaps if I were within that space, I would be safe.
I suppose it was partly the monotony of my job and the exhaustion of dealing with these types of men that made me want to drop everything and leave for eleven months. But it was also more than that. It was the call of adventure, the idea that my life could be more than what society told me as a woman it could be. I thought that going on a grand journey would break me free of the expectations thrust on me as a woman. I didnāt realize that it would also wake me up to my enormous privilege.
I had the idea that my life could be more than what society told me as a woman it could be.
My decision to go on the World Race was also about proving something to myself: that I was goodānot just good on the surface but intrinsically good. The church had taught me that missions was the ultimate form of āgoodness,ā which explained all of the missions I had done in the past. I didnāt realize it at the time, but all my work in missions was an unconscious quest to see myself as worthy.
Somehow, I had picked up the idea that I was bad, despite my perfect grades and goody-two-shoes reputation. Despite the fact that I began every morning with prayer, Bible reading, and journaling. Yet no matter what I did, no matter the rules I upheld and followed, I was terrified that my soul was broken. Uniquely broken. Irredeemable. I constantly questioned my salvation.
Iād been led to believe that people were terrible and Jesus made us kind of okay. This theology of total depravity caused a lot of harm in my relationship with God, myself, and others. My worst fear was that nothing could help me, not even Jesus. Though I tried desperately, I couldnāt be like Jesus every moment of the day. People around me always prayed, āLess of me, more of God,ā but I couldnāt ever empty myself of me. I still had thoughts, opinions, desires, and gut reactions. No matter how hard I tried to squash them when they didnāt fit that narrative, they popped up again, like a beach ball held underwater. I feared this was simply evidence that I was irredeemable.
While growing up in the church in nineties America, I got mixed messages about womanhood. Magazines told me it only mattered what I looked like. I should get slim by dieting and I should stop eating for pleasure. Guys liked smooth-skinned, skinny girls with long hair, so thatās what I should be. Some magazines said all that mattered was pleasing men sexually.
Conversely, the church told me to cover up every part of my body that showed I was becoming a woman. I was supposed to protect men from my sexuality and not be a stumbling block because āmodest is hottest.ā Church lessons on modesty centered on comparing girls to objects. A girl was an unwrapped lollipop until she did something sexual; then she was a licked sucker that no one wanted. Women were objects to consume, and men didnāt want women who had been tasted.
Such messaging to girls from both the church and society boiled down to the same thing: his needs and his wantsānot yours. Your body is for him to consume, and if he takes without asking, itās probably your fault for not covering up. Women are responsible for menās sexual actions, so do what you can to make his life easier and more pleasurable.
In the church there were two types of women: Jezebels and submissive housewives. And as I understood it, submission meant deference to men in everything. Men knew better because they were the spiritual leaders. If you believed something that didnāt fit what the men had told you in your life, you were in sin or rebellious.
Being a naturally outspoken, inquisitive, and opinionated girl got me in troubleāa lot. I was told not to ask questions but to have faith that what Iād been taught was the absolute truth. I didnāt want to have a Jezebel spirit or go to hell, so I shrank back into myself and covered my body, hoping to be found good in othersā eyes.
āMeghan! Meghan! How do you not see that dog?ā
My teammates knew I loved dogs. But I was so lost in my thoughts I hadnāt noticed the spaniel running around with a ball in front of...
