Throwback Thursday: Sex, Shame, and Sacred Bodies

There are stories we carry in our bodies.

Some were never spoken out loud. Some were whispered in church basements or written between the lines of well-meaning Sunday school lessons. Others were shouted—through silence, through rules, through metaphors that linger long after we’ve left the building.

Episode 5 of Prepared to Drown, “The Love Boat,” was about sexuality, consent, faith, and dignity. It was lighthearted at times—but beneath the laughter was something deeply serious: the quiet grief of people who were never told they were good.

Many of us grew up with messages about sex and purity that had little to do with love—and even less to do with Jesus. We were warned that our worth was fragile. That our value could be lost or diminished through desire, exploration, or intimacy. That bodies—especially feminine, queer, or trans bodies—were something to control, correct, or conceal.

Sometimes those messages came in the form of metaphors: broken flowers, smudged hearts, Styrofoam cups. Sometimes they came through silence, the kind that leaves you with more questions than you’re allowed to ask. And sometimes, they came with the authority of scripture—but without the compassion of Christ.

If that’s part of your story, I want to say something plainly:

You are not dirty.
You are not damaged.
You are not too much.
You are not too late.

Your body is not a mistake to be managed. It’s a miracle to be honored. Your desires aren’t shameful—they’re part of what makes you human. And your longing for connection, tenderness, and love is not a flaw in your design. It’s the image of God in you, reaching for wholeness.

In Episode 5, our guests spoke bravely about the aftermath of purity culture. About how even years later, people still struggle to talk openly about sex—or to experience it without anxiety or guilt. They shared how shame lingers, even in progressive churches. And how hard it can be to name the truth: that many of us were never taught how to love our own bodies, let alone share them safely or joyfully.

But they also spoke about healing. About finding language for consent, for pleasure, for agency. About unlearning fear and reclaiming tenderness. About laughing again. About learning, slowly, that holiness isn’t about disconnection—it’s about integrity.

I believe that part of our sacred work, as people of faith, is to tell a better story.

A story where God doesn’t recoil from our bodies, but meets us in them.
Where vulnerability is honored.
Where consent is cherished.
Where pleasure and presence are not opposites of purity, but expressions of it.

Jesus never taught us to fear the body. He touched those deemed untouchable. He knelt in dust and washed feet. He healed people with his hands and shared meals without judgment. He blessed water, wine, oil, breath. He was born in blood and wrapped in skin—and called it good.

What if we believed that about ourselves?

What if our churches became places where people could learn, maybe for the first time, that their bodies are holy? What if we offered young people more than warnings? What if we offered them wisdom?

And what if, wherever we are in our stories, we trusted that it’s not too late to begin again?

If you’re carrying shame, know this: it doesn’t belong to you. You don’t have to keep it.
If you’re still healing, know this: God is not waiting for you to get it all sorted before showing up.
And if you’ve found your way to a gentler theology—thank you for holding the door open for others.

This post is for anyone who’s ever been made to feel like their body disqualified them from grace.

You are loved.
You are whole.
You are sacred.