What is a Dirtbag Christian?

It's more than a "bad" Christian.

Photo by Celeste Horrocks on Unsplash

I realize I began a Substack entitled Dirtbag Christian without even… saying what that was. If you’re unfamiliar with the term “dirtbag Christian” that’s okay. As far as I know, I made it up. Not because I’m particularly original or clever because I certainly am not, but because I stole the term from the so-called “dirtbag left,” a term coined to describe the leftists who shirk overly PC/Tumblr culture and generally don’t give a shit about politeness while there’s actual, real, horrific economic injustice in the world.

I don’t know if I’m necessarily on the dirtbag left, because my political leftism is kind of nonspecific. I don’t necessarily agree with all the opinions of the so-called dirtbag left, and even so, there are a lot better, smarter people from the dirtbag left (and from the left in general) than me. I think of myself as someone who reacts to politics and forms opinion around information that’s already being presented rather than being someone who can think up new, original takes on her own.

However, I love the dirtbag concept. The idea that you’re a shitty, unacceptable, controversial person in your own circles is something I recognize in myself in the context of Christianity, not politics. No matter where I was in my theological journey, no matter what church I was attending at the time, I’ve always been an outcast, and dare I say it, a rebel.

The Making of a Dirtbag Christian

In Sunday School, I didn’t get along with many of the other kids. I was too… weird, pushy maybe. I grew up in the country without cable, reading books nobody else was reading, without many real friends or external activities. It didn’t matter how connected my family was to the Church of God (very) because I was still sort of, kind of, OUT THERE. As I moved around and got older, I hated youth groups — finding them fake as I listened to “bad” butt rock bands like TOOL and Korn (I know!) in defiance of the cheesy youth pastors who basically wanted me to listen to only Relient K, Switchfoot, and 12 Stones. I liked Hot Topic and I cut myself; I felt isolated from the respectable youth group kids. They talked a lot about not having sex or drinking, but not a lot about depression. Linkin Park talked about depression though, so.

By time I was in high school, I was actively having sex with my boyfriend, having tearfully tossed my True Love Waits ring into Tallahassee’s Lake Ella. My closest friends were irreligious. I felt like I was losing my Christianity, so I signed up to attend my family’s alma mater Lee University, which I discussed in depth in my last post. I thought for sure that Lee, with its forced chapel, Bible minor, and nonstop religious friends and influences would bring me back, along with church and family.

Alas, in college I felt like an outcast too — and in fact, being exposed to the Christian theology from its source only made me feel more disconnected with literalist Bible translations and conservative Christianity. I felt connected to the alternative chapel speakers more than the traditional evangelical charismatic ones. I was introduced to alcohol in a more substantial way, and got drunk semi-regularly not among my non-Christian friends of high school, but with my Christian friends at a Christian college. I had never even gotten drunk in high school.

As for other temptations, I met a boy named Daniel (who I would later marry!) who, as it turns out, was just as difficult to “abstain” with as the non-Christian boyfriend in high school, though we certainly tried and ended up married at 20, while we were both still in college, because of societal pressure around sex. And I wasn’t even close to being the only one who got married while still in college… but I’m certainly one of the only ones who is still married.

Even at my married, pregnant, breastfeeding, barefoot, non-working Christian womanhood best, I felt crazy, and totally out of place with conservative Christianity. I cringed at the fundamentalist sermons about sexuality and gender, and the silence around the economic and racial injustices that many white evangelical churches deny. I never felt like I belonged, but I still wanted to.

When we moved to Richmond, VA and my husband worked for an even MORE conservative church than what I had experienced in Cleveland, TN, I felt more like an outcast than I ever had before in my life. I recounted the sexism and bigotry we experienced in the Jezebel article here.

So you’d think once we left that church, moved into a very progressive church where we became actively involved, that I’d feel… at home. And in a way, I do! I love my church and all the people there accept me fully. But as I slowly began talking in progressive circles online, and especially after I outed myself as polyamorous, I realized that there… was a lot of pushback.

For one, people, even my own family, were happy to accept that I supported LGBTQ+ people… hypothetically, from a distance. They were less appreciative when I jumped from being a spiritual bisexual to a practicing bisexual. And even less appreciative when it turned out I was falling in love with, and also having sex with, more than one person.

More than one prominent progressive Christian has unfollowed me on social media after learning that I’m not just a nice, saccharine, sweet Christian mom with the polite views meant to gently persuade evangelicals into maybe not being such horrible people. I’ve been kicked out of two prominent progressive Christian Facebook groups. I’ve also been told to go fuck myself (nicely!) by so-called progressive Christian publications online when I tried to submit pieces. Oh well.

So by the time my non-legally-binding partner Tyler and I realized we were probably gonna like each other forever and my polyamory probably wasn’t just a fun experimental phase and we probably needed to move in together to save money and make my family feel complete, I knew I could no longer hide anything about my life, including this. For one, I think it’s morally wrong to ask your kids to lie for you or hide things for you, and two, I have the privilege of having a job and life where nobody will punish me for being polyamorous beyond the occasional cruel remark or familial rejection. And to those people I say, fuck ‘em.

But the “dirtbag” factor goes beyond the fact that I’m polyamorous. For the most part, in fact, my life is kind of vanilla, doubly so since COVID struck. I like gardening, baking, working, and spending time with my family. I don’t go out much. I’m only feisty online these days. I still see the bits of dirtbag seeping out of me, though.

My dirtbag Christianity is best represented when I’m getting stoned off my ass and listening to mewithoutYou, or when I’m posting thirst trap pictures where both my Jesus fish tattoo and barely concealed, obviously pierced nipples are visible, or when I’m reading the Bible app and trying to pray for myself to not actively wish death threats upon prominent conservative figures, or when I’m playing Final Fantasy XIV and making references to Vintage21 Jesus parody videos that nobody else gets, or when my kids giggle as I accidentally drop the f-bomb in front of them for the 10th time that day.

More than that, dirtbag Christianity is an attitude. It’s beyond looking to get along with our conservative evangelical brethren as perfectly nice and respectable mainline Christians. Because frankly, I couldn’t give a single fuck what those people think of me. I don’t care if they think I’m a real Christian. I don’t need to defend myself to them. I’m not scared of what other Christians think of me. I’m not here to impress them with my intellectual interpretations or kindly thoughts. There are a ton of mommy blogger progressive Christians out there who do that shit way better than I do. I don’t want to be anyone’s spiritual guide. I’m not perfect. I’m not Jesus. I never will be. So they can call me a heretic, a harlot, and a sinner.

I still identify as a Christian. I’m deeply obsessed with the figure of Christ, with the idea of overthrowing empires and pushing forth the lowest class people and all the other rejects. I want to find the most controversial, trashiest, broken people and see more God in them than any of the all-American mannequin pastors with their perfect teeth smiles. I imagine the kingdom of God here on earth, and I see the Resurrection as a reminder that no matter how bad things look, they can get better again. It’s the only optimism left in my hopelessly cynical life some days, and it’s enough. Jesus is enough. And at the end of the day, I still want everyone around me to feel like they’re enough, too.

And I’m just a Christian dirtbag, baby. Maybe I run around barefoot, unshowered, braless with my kids in tow. Maybe my opinions are dumb, littered with curse words. Maybe I’m an irreverent miscreant bringing shame and shock to my family. Maybe I’m not the ideal “Christian witness” and maybe proper progressive Christian publications can’t be associated with naughty meme-sharing dipshits like me. But that’s the only way I know how to be: a dirtbag, and a Christian.