Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Miley & Me.

I’m certainly heartbroken.

No, I’m not the kind of dejected that a pint of Ben and Jerry’s & a tub of cookie dough can rectify. I’m also not the kind of distraught that slips on a ratty pair of sweatpants, cranks up old Dashboard Confessional harmonies and slinks beneath a down comforter.

It’s worse than that. So, so much worse than that.

A few nights ago, my eyes watched a sister take the stage before an profound amount of people. As she stripped her garments off, she sauntered about as if she was starring in an X-Rated film. At first, my eyes broadened. Then, I felt my jaw falling.

Just like that, I was enveloped by a muddy, repugnant feeling… a emotion that summoned me to sprint up onto that platform and look her right in the eye. I wanted to raise my voice in such a way that my very words could reach the room she was in, miles and miles away.
Then, a bewildered feeling swept over me. As the cameras panned across the stage, my heart began to crack. I found myself hoping that someone, ANYONE, would just halt the music and escort her away. I longed for someone to be so infuriated, so revolted that they would shift to commercial break instantaneously. 

But… they didn’t. 

There was no halting of the music and no commercial disruption. No one felt the need to censor the moment unfolding before America. Everyone stood motionless and just…watched.

Including me.

After the fact, I sat out on an endeavor to process what my eyes had just been saturated in. I speculated…did anyone else see what I had just seen? Is she feeling liberated? Humiliated? Violated? Desecrated? Empowered?

Then…my heart began to break. My heart fractured for the girl I had just seen parade her body on a stage in front of billions. As my mind repeated the five minute escapade, my heart craved discernment. How do I talk about what just happened? What will my reaction be?

First thing the next morning, I was bombarded by people asking, “Did you SEE her last night? Did you SEE what she was doing?” Right away, I found myself defensive. Protective. Why? Because I know that girl, and I know her all too well.

My story of redemption is nothing but a narrative of the grimiest, most nauseating sinner girl EVER being called out of obscurity by a sweet, resilient Savior. I was once the girl looking for immediate gratification, instantaneous pleasure, total attention, constant affirmation. I simply preferred my sin over my Savior. I sought grace… but I craved sin more.

And there came a time where I was her. As I tread through thick, murky mire on my own kind of stage, I felt trapped. I was dazed. I was a girl wandering through a brawl, doubting if anyone was going to notice or aid me. Then, as I was about to collapse flat on my face, Jesus dashed in. A sinner girl was tugged out of the filth, bathed and dressed in a unsoiled, snowy frock.

As I overhear conversation whirling through the air over this socialite, I am grieving.

Yes, I am concerned that young girls will see her and reason her behavior is “cool”. Yes, I am nervous that little middle school girls will admire tainted, belittling, immodest behavior. But more so, I’m concerned about my sister.

May we be slow to speak, swift to pray. May our cores be searched and our mouths be closed. May our souls ache for our sisters who are searching for worth, meaning and purpose apart from Jesus. May we be PROPELLED to love our sisters so very hard that we don’t have to witness such horror in their lives.

And, lastly, may we see ourselves for what we are… sinful, dirty, vulgar girls, parading around in our flawed, marred and tarnished state, in desperate need for a Savior.

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