My Journey to Freedom: Thou Shalt Not Wear Pants

(to read part one of my story, click here)

When I was fourteen years old, I managed to get a paper route to earn some extra money.  It was not uncommon for the neighbors to see my sister and I trudging through the snow each winter, clad in nice modest skirts (with pants underneath, of course) as we made our rounds.  At age sixteen, I secured a job at the local McDonald’s and was the only employee to wear a skirt for “religious reasons.”  I didn’t mind much.  I was used to it.  I knew the rhetoric – dresses and skirts were more modest, more feminine, and they clearly defined us as women, not men.  Still, when fellow employees or curious neighborhood kids asked, I usually answered that my parents made me wear them.  Grand theology there.

It did not change much when I attended college.  There, instead of “my parents make me wear them,” it became “the college makes me wear them.”  That wasn’t so difficult – I mean, all the girls were wearing skirts so I didn’t stand out or anything.  At the local Wal-Mart on any given Saturday, you could easily identify the college girls by the sea of khaki skirts roaming the store.  (Side note: To this day, I refuse to wear a khaki skirt).  I didn’t have a choice in this matter, unless I wanted to rack up some demerits quickly and get myself booted out of college.  The dress code rules were rigidly enforced, but I cannot recall one time when a dean or other authority ever sat us down and explained WHY we had to wear dresses or skirts to our knees all the time.  We did it because we didn’t want to get in trouble.

Not knowing why you do or don’t do something is not solid grounds for a good conviction.  As soon as I graduated college, I ditched the skirts and tried on jeans for the first time in my life.  After having had to wear skirts for so many years, it was strange indeed to put on these “man clothes” (so termed in many fundamentalist circles).  I quickly grew used to the comfort and functionality of pants.  Every so often, I would make the five-hour-drive to my parents’ house over the weekend, showing off my new-found independence in my wardrobe.  They were disappointed in me and made no secret of it.  It shook my confidence a little, but I continued to wear them.  Why?  Well, because I could, of course!

Then I fell in love with a man who could care less whether I wore pants or skirts and was rather confused as to why this would ever be an issue.  We married, and I continued to wear pants for most occasions.  When I got a job teaching at a Christian school, I found out that I would have to wear skirts and dresses for the job.  Not only that, but the school also expected its teachers to dress the same way when out and about so as to represent the school in the best possible manner.  This was no problem – I knew how to play this game.  I had done it my whole life.  I wore my modest knee-length skirts and dresses to school and to anywhere I thought I might run into someone from church.  I wore my pants everywhere else.  It was annoying to have to constantly think about it every day and plan my outfits accordingly.  One of my teaching responsibilities was to help out with “dress check” every day.  The high school girls had to pass by me, one by one, while I checked to be sure their outfits correctly matched the dress code laid out in the guide book. (remember that rule book?) I felt like such a hypocrite writing these girls up for extra ear piercings or skirts slightly too short or shirts slightly too tight.

I was blessed to find out I was pregnant after teaching there just a year.  Our first child surprised us by coming early and by being a girl!  We were flooded with beautiful dresses and adorable pants outfits for her, and I had a blast dressing her up every day.  Our second child arrived just fourteen months after his sister.  At that time, I had an opportunity to go visit my parents so that they would see their new grandchildren.  Chris couldn’t get out of work to go; so I went alone.  It was a great time of staying with my parents and making some memories.  My dad had left a book called Dressing for the Lord on my bed, to read “if I had some spare time.”  Honestly, I was very resentful at first, but curiosity got the better of me and I finished the book in one night.  I thought the Holy Spirit was convicting me through that book that I should once again abstain from wearing pants and instead embrace my femininity by wearing skirts and dresses only.  I tearfully called my husband and told him of my decision.  He was baffled by it but supported me if I felt that was what I really wanted to do.

And so the pendulum swung back.  I got rid of all my pants and filled my closet with long dresses and a collection of denim skirts.  I felt “right with God” after making this decision.  I started dressing my little eighteen-month-old daughter in skirts also and requested that family only buy her appropriate skirts and dresses.  My husband’s family didn’t understand, but I knew it was just because they hadn’t been convicted yet.  That was okay, I reassured myself, they would come to the light sooner or later.

Happily, I continued on in my skirts-wearing life.  If doubts ever whispered in my mind, I quickly pushed them away with the firm thought that this was a conviction from God.  When uncertainty presented itself in questions from new converts or neighbor friends, I rattled off the things I had learned in the book to reassure myself.

And I was happy.  I was happy because I thought I was better than a lot of other people.  It’s shocking even now for me to write that, but it was true.  I felt more spiritual and more pleasing to God in my skirts.  I turned my nose up at the ones who claimed to be Christians but still wore jeans.  I would never have admitted it then, but I rated people’s spirituality on how they dressed.  One day, while waiting to pick up my son from preschool, I chatted with another mom and told her about a fun event that was coming up at our church.  When I extended an invitation to her family to come, she fell silent.  “Oh, are you busy that day?” I asked her.  “No, it’s just that I feel so out of place there, you know, not dressed up or anything.”  I knew exactly what she meant.  She felt judged, looked-down-upon, because she chose to wear pants.  I hurried to tell her that that was not the case, that she could wear anything she wanted, but my words fell flat even on my own ears.  It suddenly hit me that I was one of the people she felt judged by!  And, later, when the day settled down and I finally had time to organize and examine my thoughts, I saw it to be true.  My wearing skirts and dresses was not an act of obedience to the Holy Spirit; it was just a way for me to express to the world just how spiritual I thought I was.

Rocked by this realization, I dropped to my knees and begged my heavenly Father’s forgiveness.  Then I faced my dilemma.  What was right?  I had vacillated from skirts to pants and back to skirts again, swayed by the people around me instead of rooted in His Word.  I returned to the Bible and studied what it said regarding how to dress.  I was surprised to see that it didn’t say much on the issue.  The more I studied, the more I realized that it wasn’t an issue at all.  It was not an issue of skirts-versus-pants: it was an issue of the heart.  If my heart was filled with self-righteousness and pride, it didn’t matter what I was wearing on the outside.

I stopped worrying so much about what I was wearing.  I stopped judging others on what they were wearing.  This gave me the freedom to realize that I could be perfectly modest and feminine in pants and in skirts.  When the focus was moved from my CLOTHING to my HEART, it changed everything.

Well, almost everything.  We still went to the church where the majority of women wore skirts and dresses constantly.  If you served in any kind of ministry at the church, you were required to wear them.  Every Sunday, I agonized over what to wear.  Sunday mornings became a unpleasant time of trying to be sure my daughters’ clothes and my clothes were acceptable.  Were they modest enough?  Were they the right style?  At church, it was said that they welcomed everyone, even if they dressed differently.  Of course, as soon as someone accepted Christ as her Savior, church folks worked very hard to show her that changing the way she dressed was an “act of obedience to God.”  Those that refused and continued to wear pants became outsiders, excluded from the inner circle at church.  It was exhausting to try to keep up with it all.

We left that church last year.  Since then, we have found a new church home where the focus is on Christ, not on what you wear.  It took quite a bit of time for me to break the habit of taking a lot of time in choosing my outfit and getting ready for church.  Now, I get to focus on the beautiful worship music and the amazing truths from God’s Word, and I don’t think twice about what I am wearing or what anyone else is wearing, for that matter.

Come to think of it, this was just one of those many rules that bound me to a Pharisaical life of trying to please God.  Once I broke free, I had to focus on my heart.  Following a man-made rule on how to dress was a lot easier than facing the pride and self-righteousness in my heart.  Thank God for grace and mercy and for complete freedom in Him!

My Journey to Freedom: Following the Rules

We sat in two uncomfortable folding chairs across from the pastor and the Christian school principal.  I glanced over at Chris, my hand gripping his nervously.  We had just been married a few weeks before, and I was there interviewing to be a teacher in the elementary school for the upcoming school year.   My anxiety stemmed from not knowing what to expect from these people I barely knew.  I was new to the state, new to the church, and new to my husband’s family.

I disliked not knowing what people expected of me.  I wanted it all laid out in black and white.  I wanted to know exactly what I could and could not do.  And here, waiting to hear their decision, I was not going to be comfortable until I was able to see the do’s and don’ts clearly.  The pastor cleared his throat.  “It certainly seems you are over-qualified for this job, but we would love to have you on staff this year.  We need a fifth-grade teacher, and you seem just the right match for the job.”  Chris high-fived me under the table to show me his excitement that I had finally found a teaching job.  I was excited, too, but I had so many questions.  Before I could find my voice to ask the first one, the principal slid a thick paper-back book across the table.  “Here’s the guide book for the staff,” he informed me.  “It’s got all the rules and regulations that teachers need to follow, at school and around town.  Remember that whatever you are doing or wearing in public reflects on the school now.”  I flinched a little at that but received the book gladly.  Aha!  Now I knew what was expected of me.  No more guessing, no more agonizing whether I was doing the “right thing” or not.  I just had to follow the book.

I was a rules girl through and through.  I believed in rules.  I liked the solid, steady boundaries that they set.  The rules helped me to be a better Christian.  I believed that with all my heart.  After all, didn’t God set down the most famous rules of all on Mount Sinai?  Surely, the Ten Commandments were enough evidence of the importance of rules and laws.

Not to mention, I was more than familiar with rules.  Lots of them.  I had attended a Christian school growing up where I had to dress a certain way, act a certain way, have friendships in a certain way, and basically live my life in that certain way, directed by my parents and the heavy-handed school.  I went from there to a fundamental Baptist college, where the rules just increased and became even more detailed.  Don’t go off campus with a member of the opposite sex.  Your skirts must come to the top of your knee, whether sitting, kneeling, or standing.  Don’t listen to music that isn’t approved by the institution.  Don’t talk or fellowship in church.  There were a whole lot of don’ts, but the do’s were just as prevalent.  Do Christian service every weekend – it makes you more spiritual.  Do read your Bible every morning – and make sure you’re sitting in a place where multiple people can see your act of holiness.  Do enforce the rules and turn in anyone who isn’t following the rules.  Do date – you want to marry a good Christian guy, after all!  Do attend every class, even if you’re sick.

At first, I handled the college thing like a pro.  I had done this rule thing my whole life – it was easy.  I just squelched the voice deep inside that was protesting the absurdity and legalism and followed that rule book to the letter.  Then, close to the end of my junior year, something happened that shook my sense of spiritual well-being and awakened feelings and thoughts that I had been pushing down all those years.  I got in trouble for possessing some illegal music (the soundtrack to Dirty Dancing).  The deans took action by kicking me out of my room and putting me in another room where some stellar, rule-abiding roommates could keep an eye on me for the last two weeks of the semester.  I was humiliated and angry – but not at the school.  No, I was angry with myself for slipping up, for not being committed to the rules one hundred percent.  My senior year consisted of me doggedly trying to obey the rules while completing an intense teaching internship and a heavy load of classes required before graduation.  I worried every day that I might mess up and ruin my chances of graduating.  College was no longer fun – I just wanted to get through that year in one piece.  The “real world” would be much easier and much better, I thought.

It wasn’t.  I secured a teaching job at a small Christian school on the East Coast.  I was in charge of an eighth grade class of fourteen boys and seven girls.  I felt liberated there because the women teachers could wear pants outside the classroom and because we sang some contemporary Christian music in church.  Those rules, though, reared their ugly head again and dominated my life.  I equated my spiritual life with how well I was following the rules.  There wasn’t any rule I could find about reading my Bible all the time; so that practice quickly fell by the wayside.  I told my students God loved them, and in the same breath, I chastised the ones who had failed to follow the many, many laws of the guide book.  I clearly remember one afternoon in junior high detention.  I was supervising four boys who were scrubbing the floors as penalty for a variety of offenses – not doing homework, talking back to the teacher, violating dress code, etc.  I overheard one of the boys mutter under his breath, “Where’s that grace you’re always talking about in Bible class?”  I quickly admonished him for speaking disrespectfully to a teacher, but inwardly my soul was cut to the core.  Where, indeed, was the grace?  It felt like we were setting ourselves up for dismal failure each time we increased the number and the intensity of the rules.

I was exhausted from trying to follow all the rules and from trying to keep up on the nuances of each of them.  I desperately longed for freedom from these rigid life guidelines, but I was afraid to leave their familiar, solid comfort.  That is why I sat there that day in the pastor’s office and once again embraced the solace of the law.  I didn’t know then that it would be eight long years bringing me to emotional and spiritual exhaustion before I would finally consider the grace of God and dare to leave the security of the rules.

To be continued…