Jesus Was Naked, Too

Sex trafficking. How could those words have anything to do with me? Why do the details of other people’s stories I’ve been hearing broadcast on radio and TV feel so familiar? Anxious to flee my suspicion that their stories are my story, too, I seek shelter in the office of my Christian counselor, Sarah.

“Can you tell me what’s troubling you?” she gently asks.

“No! I can’t say it out loud. I can’t tell anyone. Not you. Not my friends. And especially not Jesus.”

Trembling, I determine to fight for the healing that I know will only come if I stop fighting the fragmented shards of memory piercing the blanket of denial wrapped around my mind. I close my eyes and open my mind to the scene of miles of corn, beans, and cows – punctuated by silos and grain elevators – passing across my backseat window. Our destination is a large storage shed that reminds me of a Farm and Fleet, but I know we have not come to shop for everything from tractors to jeans to dish soap. Children are the only item ever for sale here.

The relative “farming me out” for the day pushes me through a doorway, roughly twirls me around like meat on a hook, then hands me over to his eager customers. I frantically look around for some way out, but the only open door of escape is within my own mind. I detach myself from reality by fixing my attention on the corrugated metal walls of the shed. Like waves washing out impressions in the sand after a day at the beach, the numbing repetition of ridges and hollows washes over my mind, erasing my awareness of the terrors perpetrated inside. This is where my conscious memory has always ended. Until today. Now, I make a different decision. I push back the waves and let my past tell its story.

I shift my mental gaze from the shed’s walls to the young girl inside, braids unraveling, one pink bow lost in the chaos. Silent tears scream for rescue. I hate seeing myself so completely vulnerable and exposed. Desperate to pull in my arms and legs, to cover my nakedness and protect myself. My flailing struggles thwarted by the rough ties binding my wrists and ankles, I go limp in defeat. I am too little, too weak. The men too big, too scary.

As I describe the scene to Sarah, I tuck myself in tight on the couch, burying my face. A few tears squeeze out. “Now do you see why I can’t tell anyone about this?”

“Are you afraid your friends won’t believe you?” she asks.

“No, I’m afraid….”

As my throat constricts around my words, I open my eyes and raise my head just enough to focus on Sarah. Drawing courage from the compassion and strength her tender expression holds out to me, I name my fear.

“What if they never look me in the eye again?”

Sarah leans in, holding my gaze.

“Mary Anne, your fear of being judged by people if you tell them your story comes from your belief you were the one who did something wrong.”

“What if they weren’t doing anything wrong? I feel like dirt. What if they were only treating me as I deserved?”

“Mary Anne, this is where you need to hear from Jesus. Can you express your fear to him and let him speak to you?”

I nod, then close my eyes again and talk to Jesus.

“Jesus, I hate seeing those men gawking and jeering as they wait in line to get their money’s worth from me. And I hate that pile of money. Was that all I was worth?”

One by one the men approach, stealing pleasures from a body too young to give them.

“I was just a scrawny eight-year-old kid, Sarah. What did I possess for grown men to desire?”

“They wanted your innocence.”

“I wanted to die. This will never be over. It’s too much. I can’t…I just can’t.”

“I know this is hard, Mary Anne. You are so brave. I’m proud of you. Don’t forget to breathe…. Would you like to invite Jesus to come inside the shed with you?”

“No! I don’t want him to see me here—not like that.”

“That’s okay. Can you just tell Jesus what you’re feeling?”

I turn back to Jesus. “I’m ashamed to let you come near. I’m terrified I’ll see a look of disgust on your face.”

Sarah prays for me. “Jesus, what help do you have for Mary Anne? Please show her how you feel about her here.”

Immediately, the scene in my mind shifts. For a moment I am too stunned to speak.

“Jesus is right next to me, Sarah.”

I stop, take a breath, then haltingly go on. “He’s on the cross. My view of him is from the back, but I can tell… he’s naked, too. And because of the nails, he can’t pull in his arms or legs to cover himself, either. He’s exposed for everyone to gawk at his nakedness—just like me—and the men are taunting him now, instead of me. They aren’t even looking at me anymore; they only see him.”

Jesus’ suffering creates a refuge from all that is happening to me in that shed. Each sharp pain in my body is swallowed up by the pounding of a nail into his flesh. He matches me gasp for gasp. I see the crown of thorns piercing all around his head and his blood pouring down his face and arms and feet, mingling with his sweat. All my shame flows out from me and into him.

How can I feel ashamed of myself when Jesus is right here taking it all with me? It’s amazing. I feel completely clean.

“But Jesus, it hurts me to watch you take all of this for me. Is it okay for me to let you do this for me?’

“Oh, Mary Anne, it’s more than okay. It’s my joy to do this for you.”

Grief hits and tears gush out. Sarah urges me, “Just let it go. Let it all out.”

And finally, I can. Before, I didn’t think I deserved to cry. Why grieve over garbage being treated like garbage?

After a while, as my tears slow and I start to calm down, I notice something else in the picture. “Sarah, next to the stack of bills, I see a pile of silver coins—the ones he was sold for.”

“Ask Jesus if he thinks that pile of coins represents his worth.”

“Jesus says, ‘No, it doesn’t. But I felt the sting of it, just as you did.’”

I feel an incredible with-ness with Jesus. I don’t feel alone anymore. Jesus is with me, and he understands everything I experienced. Even more amazing, Jesus tells me that not many people truly understand what he experienced, but that I share some of it with him in a special way. He isn’t only being with me; he is experiencing me being with him.

“Sarah, do you think Jesus could help my friends understand me?”

Sarah leans in and wraps her arms around me. I relax into her embrace. “I’m confident most people you share this story with will understand.” She pulls back a little and lifts my chin up so I can see her face. “Just remember, if Jesus isn’t ashamed to be your friend, no one else has any reason to be, either.”

…Several years later, Jesus invites me to revisit the shed with him. I find myself once again within those corrugated walls, now empty, silent, and still. The cacophony of terror gone from the room and from within my heart. I sense we have come here only for me to experience that it

was finally time for me to leave. Jesus points out the lone object in the room. My lost ribbon. My stolen innocence tied in a bow, discarded on the floor.

“You don’t want to leave that behind.” Jesus whispers.

As my fingers curl around the ribbon, Jesus wraps his arms around me and the walls open to reveal the peaceful scene of a grassy bank by a river, sparkling in bright sunshine. Jesus sets me on his lap. He gently combs out the tangles in my hair and restores my braids. He reties my pink bows in big loops. I felt safe and pretty. I am home.

Because of the joy awaiting him, Jesus endured the cross, disregarding its shame (Hebrews 12:2 NLT). He chose to take upon himself the shame of our nakedness and clothe us in his love and acceptance. Shame held me captive for decades. Now I embrace every opportunity to share my story. I invite everyone who has been hurt like me to join me in regarding Jesus on the cross, with us in every aspect of our suffering. Let us all learn to disregard our shame, not our worth.