Am I wrong? The Shocking Story of 2025
I SAW AN ADULT WOMAN WITH MULTIPLE PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS IN CHURCH, AND I FELT UNCOMFORTABLE. AM I WRONG TO THINK THERE SHOULD BE STANDARDS?
Last Sunday, I saw something in church that really unsettled me. A woman, probably in her 40s, walked in covered in tattoos and numerous piercings. To me, church has always been a place of modesty and reverence, and I couldn’t help but feel like her appearance was out of place in such a sacred space. I know everyone is different, but it just felt wrong to me. Shouldn’t there be some standards for how we present ourselves in a place of worship?
Am I wrong? The Shocking Story of 2025
After the service, I saw her outside and decided to approach her. I tried to be polite, but I told her that I felt her look wasn’t really appropriate for church and maybe she should consider toning it down in such a setting. She looked at me like I was crazy and sharply replied …………………..
One Sunday morning, a regular churchgoer noticed a newcomer sitting quietly in the pews during the service. This woman stood out—not for her voice or actions, but for her appearance. Her body was adorned with tattoos, her face and ears bore multiple piercings, and her clothing strayed far from what this churchgoer considered “appropriate” for a place of worship……
For this long-time attendee, church had always symbolized reverence, modesty, and a sense of solemnity. She had grown up with the belief that when you enter the house of God, you present yourself in a certain way—clean-cut, covered, and conservative. So seeing someone break that mold stirred something deep within her. Discomfort. Disapproval. Even a subtle indignation.
Unable to shake the feeling, she approached the woman after the service. With a tone that she thought conveyed concern, she said, “The way you look just doesn’t seem appropriate for the house of God.”
The woman’s response was simple, direct, and powerful:
“How I look has nothing to do with you.”
Those words echoed long after the conversation ended. They stung, but not in a way that incited anger—rather, they sparked introspection.
The churchgoer went home and sat with her thoughts. She began to ask herself difficult questions. Was I judging her unfairly? Was my discomfort rooted in faith—or in tradition? Were my beliefs about modesty shaped more by culture than scripture? And in a place meant for refuge and healing, did I just push someone further away from the love of God?
In today’s world, self-expression has taken many forms—tattoos, piercings, brightly colored hair, and clothing that reflects personal identity. These things tell stories. They represent moments of pain, resilience, joy, memory, and transformation. Just like scars, they speak of battles fought and sometimes won. Why, then, are we so quick to assume that such stories don’t belong in sacred spaces?
The core of this question lies in an age-old tension: Should there be a standard for how one appears in church? Or should the doors remain open to all, regardless of how they present themselves?
Many believers dress modestly out of reverence for the sacred. They feel that what we wear reflects the respect we bring into the space where we meet the Divine. That tradition is meaningful and deeply rooted in centuries of worship.
But for others, faith is not about appearances—it is about the heart. It’s about coming as you are, not dressing up to be accepted. For them, the church is not a fashion show or a performance of piety—it is a hospital for the wounded, a shelter for the broken, and a sanctuary for the seekers.
Both views come from a place of sincerity. But perhaps the better question is: Can these views coexist? Can we find a balance between tradition and inclusion?
Every person who walks through the church doors carries their own history. Their tattoos may mark moments of grief, remembrance, or transformation. Their clothing may reflect the only identity they’ve ever known. Their piercings may symbolize resilience in the face of marginalization. And their presence in church may be a fragile act of courage—reaching out for something greater than themselves, hoping not to be turned away.
As a community of faith, it is not our role to police appearances. It is our calling to open our arms. To love. To listen. To welcome.
That doesn’t mean throwing tradition out the window. It means creating a space where respect for the sacred meets respect for the individual. Churches might consider gently encouraging attire that is respectful of the spiritual atmosphere, while still allowing for personal authenticity. Not as a rigid rule, but as a shared understanding rooted in love—not judgment.
Imagine a church where the businessman in a suit kneels beside the recovering addict in ripped jeans. Where the woman in a headscarf shares a hymnbook with the teen in leather and tattoos. Where no one has to pretend to be someone they’re not in order to be seen as worthy of grace.
That is the church Christ envisioned—a place for the broken, the lost, the forgotten, and the outcast. He sat with tax collectors, touched lepers, and embraced women scorned by society. Never once did He demand a dress code. He asked only for faith.
At the end of the day, we must ask ourselves: Are we gatekeepers—or greeters? Are we reflecting Christ—or just echoing the voices of our culture?
Faith isn’t found in the folds of a dress or the shine of polished shoes. It’s found in the heart that longs for God.
So the next time someone walks into the sanctuary who looks different than we expect, may we remember: they may be closer to God in that moment than we’ve ever been. And their presence in that holy space might just be the beginning of a sacred journey.
Let us not be the ones who make them turn around.
