Does this jumper make me look holy?

Choosing clothing that didn’t meet the church’s standard wasn’t just a faux pas. It revealed that you were secretly harboring sinful thoughts.

In the spring of 2007, I posted a Facebook picture of myself in a formal gown on my way to a choir banquet. I came back to see that my high school friends had highlighted something I had hoped would fly under the radar—my spaghetti straps. 

Women’s Chorale Banquet, 2004

One friend commented, “You look absolutely stunning. P.S. Remember when spaghetti straps were scandalous at CFC?” Another homeschooled friend quickly followed with “Hmmm….scandalous my dear!! When daddy’s not around no shawl is to be found!”

I grew up with strict modesty standards, enforced by my family and my church. Skirts below the knee. Shoulders covered. Camisoles under v-necked shirts to prevent any hint of cleavage. The Little Mermaid was off-limits because Ariel’s shell bra was immodest. 

My father was obsessed with purity. Jewish tradition speaks of placing a fence around the Torah; that is, creating extra-canonical rules to prevent you from accidentally transgressing Torah law. My father followed this principle, laying down electric fences and layers of barbed wire to prevent us from straying anywhere near sin. 

It was not enough to avoid drugs and swearing. We were forbidden to use words like ”crap,” “heck” and “gosh”. My mother made me alter a creative writing assignment after I had a character say “What the….” Those two words insinuated that a cuss word would follow; I changed the exclamation to “What on…” to imply “what on earth.” The beaded hemp necklaces in the early 2000s were suspect because hemp was marijuana. We did not have a TV and we could only watch PG-rated movies at a friend’s house if we called home and cleared the specific movie with our parents. 

Fear undergirded all of the decisions that were made in our house. Fear that we would fall prey to temptation. Fear that we would sin. Fear that we were sinners in the hands of an angry God, as enslaver Jonathan Edwards famously preached.

Within my family and our church, purity was measured by how intensely we submitted to the will of the pastor and the head of our household. My mother wore a doily head covering to church for most of the 1990s and prayed in tongues while washing the dishes. There might not be a specific Bible verse that commanded us to seek permission from our husbands before getting a haircut, but in so doing, we proved that we were inwardly pure. 

"Dress and act in a way that pleases your husband," my pastor’s wife taught women. "Purpose to remain attractive to him." Whether taught from the pulpit or through peer pressure, the message about my body and its purpose was clear. My body was not my own and my clothing would telegraph any rebellion to the world. 

A Wise Woman Builds Her House, CFC Series on Family, 2000

Our clothing wasn’t a practical covering against the elements; it directly impacted our ability to be holy. The church homeschool ministry required a dress code for the students with this justification:

• To present a good witness to one another & those outside the ministry. 

• To maintain high standards of modesty. 

• To promote good behavior through the understanding that inward attitudes are often revealed by outward actions. 

By this reasoning, our clothing choices revealed our inward attitude and vice versa. We could promote good inward behavior by dressing in specific clothing. Choosing clothing that didn’t meet the church’s standard wasn’t just a faux pas. It revealed that you were secretly harboring sinful thoughts. 

College marked a turning point in many ways, but it was most visible in my appearance. I entered college with waist-length hair and cheap clothes purchased at a discount store. I lopped off two feet of hair after my first semester, but it took me several years to acclimate to the college dorm culture where girls swapped clothes to try out new styles and borrowed gowns for banquets. Spaghetti straps were my tiny act of rebellion.  

Wedding day, 2013

Six years later, I chose a strapless wedding gown and didn’t think twice. My husband and I paid for our wedding, which allowed us to plan the wedding free of parental ultimatums. I chose my dress, but that didn’t stop my father from exerting control over my body on my wedding day. He walked me down the aisle, placed my hand in my husband’s, and said gravely, “I now transfer the headship to you.” 

Thankfully, I married a man who doesn’t waste his time on my hair or clothing. I wear my thick hair in a pixie cut because it’s fast to dry. I choose my clothing with questions like: “Will these white jeans survive my son’s jammy hugs?” (Narrator: they will not.)

I wish I could go back and hug my fearful teenage self. I wish I could assure her that it wasn’t her responsibility to keep men from lusting, that it wasn’t her job to contort her body into a tiny Quiverfull box.

If denim jumpers promoted good behavior, we’d have a revival every time jumpers became fashionable again. If cardigans equaled holiness, our libraries would be temples.

Throw purity culture in the trashbin with all the denim jumpers ever created.