Hello, My Name is 'Unclean'

On Divorce, the Church, and the Name Tag Nobody Chose

He knew he’d put on deodorant — a quick tilt of the neck followed by a stealthy sniff confirmed it.

Same row as always, third row from the back, closest to the exit. Smiles greeted him but with an added plastic sheen. The handshakes were quicker, conversations shorter, eye contact more elusive. As service began, the seats around him quickly emptied, giving plenty of room to marinate in the isolation. He’d applied body wash, even used the luffa, and clothes smelled Downy soft, so that couldn’t be the issue. He hadn’t worn his people repellant in months.

Only a few nose-crinkles later, he caught a whiff of the stench. Smells like divorce.

This explains the used car salesman enthusiasm from the greeters and their insistence on slapping on the pre-filled out nametag on his shirt. They didn’t even get it right. He’d only been gone a year. These people should know his name. Is this a joke? Truth is, they knew his name, just not the one on his driver’s license. Who’s ‘Unclean’ anyway?

So, what’s it like visiting the church you’ve attended for eleven years?

Imagine walking into the lobby and everyone’s staring at the imaginary wife standing next to you, glancing at you, then shooting back to her. Their attempts at subtlety almost land as gently as a nuclear bomb. She’d walked into that lobby with you for eleven years. Eleven Easters, Harvest parties, Christmas, Block parties, with two marriage retreats in tow. First kid, second, and a whoopsie third.

It’s as though someone sputtered out “You’re missing your better half. Come back when you find her.” Then attempting to buff out the faux pas, they redeem themselves by saying, “So glad to see you today, here’s your nametag, any appendages fall off this week?”

What do you say to that? “Hey everyone, my name’s still John, I have a soul, please don’t make this weirder for my kids than it already is.” Next week you should take your divorce bath right outside church and enter the lobby shouting “Unclean, Unclean.” That’ll take the weirdness right out of it.

Divorce is the new leprosy.

Leprosy was a social death sentence in the Bible. Being forced to tear your clothes and leave your hair disheveled was the first step in the humiliation process. In today’s culture it translates to pleating your Jeans, parting your hair in the middle, and wearing socks with sandals.

Covering your upper lip was required — like carrying around a giant sign saying, “I’m hazardous waste.” You didn’t have a voice in society. The only words you were permitted to speak in public were a warning: “Unclean! Unclean!”

You were treated as though dead, living in disfigurement. Your life had no meaning. You were a zombie.

Only the priest could declare you clean. An elaborate process, involving purification sacrifices, frequent inspections, and long waiting periods, stood between you and reintegrating into society.

And there it was. The invisible nametag. No visible sores, no priest declaring him unclean, yet the stigma stung the same. There was no trial, no chance to explain, no shot at redemption. No official church vote, just the quiet, collective instinct to create distance from anyone carrying the contagion of a broken covenant.

The third row from the back had been his home for eleven years. He led Wednesday night Awana’s to be around his boys more. Stacked chairs. Lots of them. Delivered meals to families in need. Brought his famous smoked pulled pork to the church campout six years running. Sang at funerals and weddings. He knew these people. But that was before the papers were filed, before her affair, before the empty seat next to his, before becoming a diseased statistic.

We place labels on people with no intention of ever taking them off.

It’s why he didn’t get insurance with her a few years earlier. Bill’s wife that is. He’d mentioned to someone at the church about going through her agency for coverage and had that idea hammer-slammed shut. After all, she’d had an affair fourteen years prior.

You would’ve never known.

Bill and his wife seemed blissfully in love with three beautiful girls. If anything, this should’ve been an incredibly powerful story of Christ’s redemption — a couple reconciled back to oneness. Instead, fourteen years later, the nametag was still super-glued to her shirt.

Jesus touched the leper.

If there was a giant, red, pharisaical “Do Not Touch” button placed in front of Jesus, He would gently touch it fourteen feet into the ground. Touching a leper was strictly forbidden. You were deemed ceremonially unclean if you did. It was a social death sentence. Jesus jeopardized his own social standing, to restore this man’s status and heal him completely. Jesus touched the leper before He healed him. Jesus punched the red button.

Move beyond identifying people by their greatest shame.

The stats aren’t clear on how many divorcees run into church, waving pom-poms chanting “D-I-V-O-R-C-E, How’d You Like Some Leprosy?!” Or singing “All my exes live in Texas,” in the echo chamber known as the lobby. Chances are, they’re low.

Most arrive feeling the shame of failing in their covenant. They isolate, attempting to avoid further humiliation. They didn’t want a divorce. Fought to save their marriage. Never thought in a million years this is where life would take them. Wondering if they’ll be forever identified with the person no longer at their side. Now they’re standing in a place that once felt like home, being handed a nametag they never asked for.

Loving like Christ means meeting people in their greatest pain. Not to shame them in it, but to walk with them through it. When Jesus touched the leper, He was identifying with his pain. He was willing to get messy.

We need churches that dive into the mess of leper’s lives. Love goes after the person sitting by themselves or not coming at all. Love asks when that pulled pork is making a comeback. Love invites him to go golfing. Love asks if he’d ever consider coming to the ‘Stronger Men’ small group. Love asks if they can give the boys coupons for free ice cream. Love says they can’t wait to see them teaching again when they’re ready.

Love doesn’t hand out nametags, it extends healing.

Jesus didn’t heal the leper to lock him in his shame. Jesus set him free, gave him his life back.

Rise up, be healed child of God.

It’s time to rip the nametag off.

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