stained

I've been thinking a lot about my tattoos lately.  I have two.  One of them is on the outside of my right ankle and has the big colorful emblem of the Trans Am Firebird in the center with some awesome burning flames surging up around it to symbolise the h-o-double-t hottness that was the Trans Am.  The first car that I ever bought for myself was a Trans Am, and I loved that car.  Enough to have it burned onto my ankle forever.  Sometimes I still have dreams about that car and how fast it was.  It was fast.  Man it was fast.  I got pulled over on the freeway going 138 miles an hour in that car once.  But we won't go into that here.  I didn't know Jesus then.  Of course.  Because everyone knows I don't drive like that anymore.  Ehem...  Not even on the autobahn that is the Edens.  Anyhow...  I got that tattoo when I was about 19, so, if we're going by my real age and not just the age I tell people I am when I want to feel good about myself, I've had it for 18 years.  


The other tattoo is a delicate branch of tropical night jasmine on the inside of my left ankle.  That tattoo represents...  well, let's just say that, if I haven't told you yet what that tattoo represents and you'd like to know, just ask.  I'm not shy about the train wreck that my life was before I knew the Lord, and I'm certainly not afraid to tell people about the miracle that he's made it now that I do know Him.  It's a crazy little bit of God's artwork in my life, but it's not a quick 'n easy blog post, to be sure.  That poiema (notice how I like to work a dead language in here and there) was lanced onto me - I think - when I was 'round about twenty-one, so I've had it now for approximately 16 years.


Neither one of these beauties is small.  They're both right out there on my ankles, invading a little bit onto the front and back of my shins and calves, screaming out, "Looka me!  I'm a big flashy tattoo!"  And now that I'm at seminary, I'm struck by the fact that they're not Jesus fishes or little crosses or Hebrew letters or the address of a particular favorite Bible verse, which I see a lot of here.  On his blog, Stuff Christians Like, Jon Acuff talks about the rising phenomenon of Christians and their fascination with body art.  I'm not sure how to feel about this particular phenomenon.  I know I would never get another tattoo myself.  To be completely honest with you, I don't see the purpose in having one.  I know that people who have them are very attached to them, and I can't profess to speak for them as to why, because I don't have one, but it seems to me to be an expression of one's individuality in Christ.  Or maybe, like the ancient Christians, they're putting little Jesus fishes on themselves so that they can flash them covertly at each other while those hostile and murderous Roman soldiers aren't looking.  Oh, wait!  My bad.  Wrong millennia.


But I don't get it.  I don't get Christian culture these days.  I find it very socially liberal and very want to give the stink eye to those of us who have a tendency to be more socially conservative.  What's that, you say?  These tattoos?  Oh, yeah...  They're there, but I'm pretty socially conservative.  I'm one of those "kids these days..." kind of people, even though my tattoos might be winking at you and trying to convince you otherwise.  Here's the crazy thing:  now that it's springtime and I'm wearing more skirts around campus, sometimes I'll catch some of the more conservative professors eyeing my tats.  And I wonder what they're thinking.  I know they're guys who don't approve of the "tattoos for Jesus" phenomenon, and my tats are definitely not that!  I wonder what they see when they look at them.  
Do they see, "saved by grace"?  
Do they see, "walked through Hell to get here before Jesus dragged her kicking and screaming into His Kingdom with the holy sledgehammer of mercy"?  
Do they see, "shameful sinner who doesn't belong"? 
Do they see, "something that needs to be covered up before people will think we're about the wrong thing"?
Do they see, "miracle"?
Do they see, "clean"?


Some days it's all I can do to not wear socks.  To not put on a big thick pair of wooly, crazy argyle socks to cover up my shame.  The shame of the thing that I was before I knew Christ.  I know that not every one looks at me the way that I think they do, and the kicker is that I know that really, everyone isn't even looking at me at all.  But some days when I look at my tattoos, all I feel is shame.  But I have to leave them uncovered to remind myself.  To remind myself that I am stained.  That once I was stained by the sin and arrogance that drove me to have them burned into my skin.  That I was stained by pride and anger and hate.  I wore a scarlet letter that was stained into my very soul.  But you know what, if I'm not careful, I'll forget that we're all stained.  We're all stained by the same stain.  And it stinks, doesn't it?  And if I'm not careful, I'll walk around trying to peek under your socks to find out just where you're hiding your stain, and that's what stinks even more.  Man sin stinks.  I hate it.  I hate my sin.  I hate your sin.  I hate Adam's sin, and Eve's sin.  I hate what it's done to us.


But here's what's really awesome:  There's something bigger than it.  There's another stain.  And that's why I don't wear socks.  Because I have no right to be ashamed anymore.  Tattoos are no longer the stain that defines me.


Now I am stained in a different way.  So that I never need burn anything else into my skin again.