Ain't You Ashamed of Yourself?

Maybe what this world could use is a little dose of shame

But what fruit were you getting at that time from the things of which you are now ashamed? For the end of those things is death.—Romans 6:21

I was probably four years old when I pitched the fit that Mamaw would reference my whole life. It was my penultimate misbehavior, the moment when I Showed My A$s, when I was Just Plain Ugly. These are two things you never, ever want to do in Appalachian society. I knew that from birth, I think. But that day, standing in the vestibule of the Friendship Missionary Baptist Church, I did both.

I can still tell you what I was wearing, not because I can actually picture it, but because Mamaw was a stickler for detail and when she told a story, she told a story. I had on a pretty church dress, the kind little girls wore when women still sewed. It had a Peter Pan collar and multiple layers of crinoline under the skirt to make it pop up just above my bare knees. I had on thin ankle socks Mamaw had tacked a ring of lace around, to make them fancy. And— this is important— I was wearing a brand new pair of black and white saddle oxfords.

The shoes are important because it’s with the shoes that the ultimate sin was committed. In truth, it all began with the shoes. I was supposed to wear my white patent leather Mary Janes to church. That’s what little girls in 1978 wore with their fancy dresses, no questions asked. But apparently I’d whined and insisted on the saddle oxfords, because they were new and I wanted to show them off. Against her better judgment— because she believed consistency was the key to raising children into self-disciplined adults— Mamaw relented. She’d remind me of this small act of hundred times when I was parenting my own kids and wondering why I couldn’t keep the order she did: “You can’t give grace all the time or it’s not grace. It’s just permission.”

Grace or permission, I wore the saddle oxfords. But there were two problems that morning— problems my 4 year-old brain couldn’t communicate. First was those naked legs and that crinoline. While I can’t conjure a picture or the dress, I have one very precise memory of that morning, and it was of me sitting on the wide, black leather passenger seat of Mamaw’s Chrysler New Yorker, those layers of crinoline popping up all over. And itching. Goodness, they were itchy. It was early spring, still the days when your pale, winter legs are getting used to seeing the sun and feeling the wind on them again. The crinoline between my thighs and the leather seat felt rough and sticky, and once I started to notice the sensation, it simply wouldn’t stop. I was trapped. Second, the saddle oxfords weren’t broken in. They were the typical, hard-bottomed, stiff-leathered shoes of the day, and until they had been worn a good couple of days, you could count on them feeling like little straightjackets for your feet. The two sensory inputs put my little system into overload, no doubt. Today, we’d have handled it all so much differently. But again, remember— this was in the days before Occupational Therapy, before tag-free clothes, before we got down to a child’s level and asked them what was going on.

In the vestibule, Mamaw chatted up her friends. She had so many of them. Her best friend was Johnnie Mae, a plump lady ten or fifteen years Mamaw’s senior who could go on for hours about her bursitis. There was also Rose, who was a neighbor in addition to being a fellow congregant. And of course, there was Maudie, her sister-in-law, and Brenda, her niece. The preacher was there, too— and about a hundred other members of the church. After a few minutes— minutes I probably spent scratching and fidgeting— people started dispersing to their Sunday School classes. Mamaw took my hand to lead me down the stairs that led to the basement, where the children’s class was held. Hers was in the sanctuary. Every Sunday, she walked me down to sit with Miss Dana and all the other kids 8th grade and under, and learn about Daniel and the Lions Den and Noah’s Ark, and sing songs about Jesus. Then she’d go back up to the Baptist Women’s group, where they used little paperback books that were issued quarterly to study God’s Word.

And this is the moment I would hear about every time I showed my stubborn streak:

I refused to go.

I locked my knees and refused to budge.

Mamaw realized I wasn’t following, and turned to see what might be holding my attention, only to find me planted firmly in the center of the red-carpeted vestibule of the Friendship Missionary Baptist Church like the tree planted by the water declaring it shall not be moved.

I pitched a fit.

Mamaw says there were no words exchanged, no chance for her to say, “Come on, Baby,” or ask me what was wrong. I simply worked myself up in to a ball of fire and started screaming that I wasn’t going to Sunday School, and stamping my feet. I’m sure everyone was looking at me, wondering what had gotten into me. I’m also sure Mamaw didn’t care an iota about the gawkers; she always said that when someone’s acting out, it’s all on them, not the people around them. But still, she was the responsible adult, so it was her job to get the situation in hand. So she attempted to do it in a way completely reasonable for a grown adult dealing with a small child having a hissy fit: she was going to pick me up.

This is where the new saddle oxfords became legend. Because, seeing Mamaw coming towards me and knowing what was about to happen (and likely fearing the spanking that was so obviously my due), I hauled my little leg back and kicked. I kicked Mamaw full on, right in the shin. Hard.

Like I said, I don’t have my own memories of this episode. I can only tell the tale as it was retold to me. And in the retelling, I nearly hobbled Mamaw with that direct hit, and ripped her panty hose in the process. I was still screaming, and had to be drug by the arms—flailing the whole way— into the empty narthex. Mamaw maintained that there are times for discipleship, and there are times for discipline, and this was one where discipline was meted out. I went to the basement for Sunday School class, my face probably red and my butt a little sore. She went to her Sunday School class, probably applying some of the clear nail polish she kept in her purse to the run in her stockings first. And thus, the episode that would forever remind me not to Show My A$s became part of family lore.

Nowadays, we focus heavily on “forgive and forget" and most advice is to never, ever bring up anything that might cause your child to feel ashamed for anything they’ve done. We’re to build them up, and use other, impersonal cautionary tales to direct their behavior, if needed. Mamaw didn’t hold to that. She didn’t have PhDs telling her how to shape the character of a child; she relied solely on the Bible. And as she would tell me time and again, God wasn’t shy about bringing up the past to the Israelites to remind them that rebellion had led to his need to discipline in the hopes of keeping them walking some semblance of the straight and narrow. A good look in the rearview mirror was an excellent tool, she maintained, to help a person stay focused on not repeating their worst moments.

There’s one small key here, and it’s important: the person being reminded needs to have felt the sting of conviction. Bringing up an unfortunate episode only builds resentment in someone who hasn’t seen the error of their ways. But in a person who has sat a while with their sin can feel gratitude for the waving of a red flag, and use it to steer themselves, their attitudes, and their actions, into safer, calmer waters. In other words, you must see humility in order for the medicine to take hold.

When pride comes, then comes disgrace, but with the humble is wisdom.—Proverbs 11:2

Now, I’ve shared a hard thing: my Mamaw, whom I treasured, who I hold up as a solid example of godliness, did not shrink from reminding me that I was a fallen creature, more than capable of doing things that caused me regret. More than once, she saw me weighing something and cautioned, “Don’t you do nothing that will cause you to be ashamed of yourself, now.” Shame, in her hands, was a mirror, not a whipping rod. It was offered up to check oneself, to measure twice before cutting. But modern eyes can’t see it that way at all. Shame has been discarded. To shame someone—or even remind them of a time when they felt that emotion— is to tread into the waters of extremism.

But, can we all agree that maybe, just maybe, the world could use a little shame? That some people could do with a loving Mamaw leaning over their shoulder as they’re hitting the upload button and saying, “I recollect how you felt when all those people saw you showing out at the church that time and honey, you don’t want to go back there.” Some people could really use a Mamaw sitting beside them before they take a podium, offering her wisdom: “I know you ain’t had a good track record of holding your tongue. Let’s pray the Holy Spirit has a good hold on it right now, because I don’t want to see you ashamed of what you say out there.”

Some people could use a little shame.

They could use a reminder that they’re imperfect.

They should be humbled.

They should repent, and seek Jesus.

Let us lie down in our shame, and let our dishonor cover us. For we have sinned against the Lord our God, we and our fathers, from our youth even to this day, and we have not obeyed the voice of the Lord our God.—Jeremiah 3:25

I can’t tell you all of the things that little drama at the church saved me from over the years, but I will tell you one that may shock you. It shocks me, to this day. I attended a large, public university on my own dime. I had scholarships, yes, but the outstanding balance fell squarely in my lap (as I believe it should have). At no point in those four years did I work less than two job to make ends meet; most semesters, the count was three. I literally ran frenetically from class to work every day of the week, then left one job to barely make it to another. I was exhausted to the point of experiencing my first bout of walking pneumonia in the winter of my junior year. It was an unspoken understanding among most of the girls on campus that there was an easy way to make money and stay afloat, and in that desperate window of realizing that I was likely not to make rent—let alone be able to pay for next semester’s classes—due to missed time from work, I considered it: the “gentlemen’s club” just outside the boundaries of campus.

I could strip.

The club paid weekly, and dancers took home tips every night. The girls I knew who did it drove nice cars (I didn’t have one), and lived without roommates in apartments far nicer than the tiny hovel I shared with two other people. They not only paid their tuition without installment plans, they were able to afford new clothes, and full bellies.

Sitting in a cold classroom, my chest aching, a $280 bill from the walk-in clinic stuffed in my backpack… it was so, so tempting.

But, oh the shame. The mere thought of my Mamaw finding out that I was taking off my clothes in front of anyone, let alone a bunch of men tossing dollar bills onto a stage? I could feel my ears turn red and the flush creeping down my neck. I had kicked her with a saddle oxford when I was 4 and could still feel the sting of that shame. There was absolutely no way I would insult her by stripping when I was 20. I wasn’t a practicing believer at that time, but I knew my sin would find me out. And there was absolutely no way I would recover from that.

Of course, the better reason for not lowering myself to debauchery would have been that I knew that it would displease not Mamaw, but Jesus. It would have been to trust that the Lord would provide, that I didn’t have to cast around for ways to make ends meet— I need only walk in what He had given me, obedient. I got there, trust me. But looking back, I’m so, so thankful that something stopped me. And if that something had to be shame, well… bring it on.

I don’t expect that this will be a popular topic. Like I said, we as a people— even as a church— are so far removed from the idea of shame having any positive use in our lives that we reject it outright. Scripture is full of verses about God Himself lifting our shame from us, after all. But consider this: the weight of those sins rests on us until Jesus relieves them. We can be free from shame in the face of the freedom we find in His blood. It’s true! But we should also be able to look back at who we were before Him, and see those tattered rags and regret the grief we caused Him. That’s what gives us the truest depths of joy that we find in the words, “Go and sin no more!” As Paul so graciously reminds us, we were not saved to stay as we were, but rather:

For if we go on sinning deliberately after receiving the knowledge of the truth, there no longer remains a sacrifice for sins, but a fearful expectation of judgment, and a fury of fire that will consume the adversaries. Anyone who has set aside the law of Moses dies without mercy on the evidence of two or three witnesses. How much worse punishment, do you think, will be deserved by the one who has trampled underfoot the Son of God, and has profaned the blood of the covenant by which he was sanctified, and has outraged the Spirit of grace? For we know him who said, “Vengeance is mine; I will repay.” And again, “The Lord will judge his people.” It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God.

But recall the former days when, after you were enlightened, you endured a hard struggle with sufferings, sometimes being publicly exposed to reproach and affliction, and sometimes being partners with those so treated. For you had compassion on those in prison, and you joyfully accepted the plundering of your property, since you knew that you yourselves had a better possession and an abiding one. Therefore do not throw away your confidence, which has a great reward. For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised.— Hebrew 6:26-36

I end with a series of sincere questions: do you think that the weight of shame can bring about repentance and, ultimately, work for good? Do you think that we have dismissed something that is, perhaps, a tool that when cautiously applied can help us endure? And do you see a need for shame that governs our public actions in our own culture?

In Christ,

Heather