Salt, Light, & Conformity

I want to address a somewhat sensitive topic that I hope may be of value both to those in our church family and to Christians across the body of Christ who find themselves increasingly concerned about the cultural trends affecting our nation, our youth, and the church at large.

As an intentional community, we represent an effort to strip unexamined assumptions out of our lives—to re-evaluate at least the essentials, and to make conscious, deliberate choices, rather than passively inheriting the cultural currents handed down by generations before us—many of whom questioned little to nothing of the issues we now face. As the old adage goes, “The unexamined life is not worth living.”

The reason we’re committed to examining everything and living intentionally is because we recognize that, in the broadest sense, the seed of the gospel falls on different soils. Some rocky, some thorny, some hard and compacted—and some soft and fertile. According to Jesus, it’s the soil that causes the seed to grow (Mark 4:28). And we believe that the seed of God’s truth needs not just a willing heart but a cultural context in which it can flourish.

Scattering Seed Is Not Enough

Until the church stops focusing solely on scattering seed (spreading the gospel) and starts turning its attention to the soil into which that seed is planted (our cultural milieu)we will continue to see declining effectiveness—especially among youth, in intergenerational continuity, and in relational health within families and communities.

Let’s face it: the culture most Westerners are raised in is hostile to Christian faith. Culture is formed through countless, seemingly minor decisions. If we are to attempt to build a new culture—one that supports rather than undermines faith—we must first examine the assumptions we’ve never questioned and become intentional.

This intentionality defines our church community’s approach to education (K-12 and beyond), health and wellness, and economic life—methods and practices in all these areas are assessed based on whether they fragment or strengthen the social fabric of family and community. Likewise, this intentionality shapes our views on materialism, consumerism, and fashion. These and other spheres—economy, art, language, education, tradition—form the coordinates of a culture. When the seed of the gospel bears less and less fruit, we ought not to blame the seed—we should ask instead if we’ve neglected the soil.

One of the primary missions of the church must be to become a nurturing, intentional culture.

The specific cultural aspect I want to focus on here relates to materialism and consumerism—particularly as they manifest in fashion, design, clothing, and personal appearance.

Our communities affiliated with Heritage Ministries are perhaps more distinctive in their traditional dress than in any other visual aspect. But we don’t seek to be different for difference’s sake. Nor are we ignorant of the criticism—even the discrimination and contempt—that our clothing choices provoke in the broader culture.

We did not always dress this way. These convictions were not absorbed through osmosis—they were the result of deliberate consideration and spiritual reflection. And I would like, in brief, to explain how we arrived at this conclusion.

Parenting by Conviction, Not Default

I’m not only a minister of the gospel, blessed to support church leadership around the world. And I’m not only a writer and cultural critic. I’m also a father—a father of six beautiful, wonderful children. And the choices I make in guiding, educating, and shaping their character are not choices I take lightly.

Raising children forces every responsible parent to reconsider everything they once took for granted. So it’s not enough for me to blindly try to do for my children what was done for me. I want to ask all the questions anew. To examine all the arguments afresh, in the day in which we live. To arrive at my own conviction about what is best for my children—in their relationship with God, with one another, and with the surrounding culture.

For some, the very idea that a father or mother would attempt to guide their children’s perspectives and choices in matters of dress and fashion is, in itself, almost sacrilegious.

And yet, those who protest our approach reveal in their very protest that they are doing the same thing. They are protecting their children from our perspective, our culture. For, in fact, all parents are shaping their children’s palettes—forming and informing their future choices, either intentionally or by default. This is not intrinsically authoritarian—it is the unavoidable reality of being a parent.

What is irresponsible is to accept, without question, that whatever we inherit from the broader culture must be inherently good, healthy, or best. That kind of blind trust is the very definition of negligence. It is to hand over my role as a parent to faceless experts—many of whom are themselves riddled with anxiety and raising alarms about the very culture they helped create.

The Myth of Neutrality in Modern Culture

Cultural inquisitors may sneer from their ivory towers and say, “You’re not preparing your children for the real world. They don’t even know how to roll a marijuana joint or order alcohol at a bar. Your girls don’t even know their bikini size.” To which I might reply—“And they don’t know their burqa size either. Nor do they know the customs of the Far East or get to try out tribal cannibalism as a lifestyle.”

What this exchange reveals is that I have unabashedly chosen a culture in which to raise my children—for their early formative years—knowing that, in time, they will have the power to choose for themselves which culture they will adopt. But the bigots imply, in some maddening twist of logic, that raising children in the mass culture of modernity somehow makes them freer and more aware of their options than raising them in an intentional alternative.

Let me ask a question wrapped in metaphor:

Picture a vast, heaving ocean—larger than any continent—crashing endlessly against a tiny island. Now ask yourself: is the island more aware of the ocean . . . or the ocean more aware of the island?

We, as an intentional community, are, at best, that tiny island—surrounded on all sides by an ocean of alternatives. Our children are constantly confronted by the tidal waves of the broader culture—in the billboards they see, the retail displays in stores, online ads, the books they read by the hundreds, their extended family members outside the community, and the customers they serve and love every week at our public marketplace. Every year, hundreds of thousands of people from the broader culture walk through our farm. Our children know.

And that is the point.

At least my children know they have choices. They understand that this cultural sea around them does not define their destiny. They have the freedom to choose—to say yes or no, to adopt it or reject it—based on a real, informed comparison. That is freedom.

But what about your children?

Are they as informed, as exposed, as immersed in alternative ways of life as mine?

Because if freedom is the power to choose, then which children are truly freer—those raised unaware that any alternative even exists? Or those raised intimately aware of modernity, but equally aware that another way is possible?

A Distinct People: The Church as a City on a Hill

From a Christian perspective, it is unavoidable: Scripture teaches that the church is meant to be a people with a distinct identity.

Many believers rationalize their conformity to the world—and their decision to send their children to be educated and formed by that world—by saying, “We just want them to be salt and light.” But the light Jesus described was not a scattered handful of candles thrown into the entrails of Babylon’s alleys. No—He said plainly:

“You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden.”
—Matthew 5:14

That is the kind of light we are meant to be: a city, not just individuals. A gathered people. An alternative society.

When you try to shine a lone lamp in the shadows of Babylon, its glow is swallowed by the smog. But when a people come together, when they “come out from among them and become separate”—not separate from interaction but distinct in identity—then they become that city set on a hill. Then the lamp is placed on a stand, and it gives light to all who are in the house.

Some will appeal to the Great Commission and say, “We’re called to go into all the world and make disciples.” And I will agree—once they are ready. If your young children and impressionable teenagers are truly qualified to be traveling the nations on their own, preaching Christ, baptizing new believers, and teaching them to observe all that Jesus commanded, then your argument holds water.

But if not—then “watch over the flock of God, over which the Holy Spirit has made you overseers” (Acts 20:28). Do not “cause one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble,” lest you be better off with a millstone hung around your neck and drowned in the depths of the sea (Matt. 18:6). Raise up evangelists and missionaries, yes—but send them only when they are mature enough to proclaim the gospel and make disciples of those they reach.

And make sure, before you preach a message about the Kingdom, that a visible, functioning expression of that Kingdom actually exists in your own life. That there is a city to bring the children of the Kingdom home to.

Jesus said, “I am the Door” (John 10:9). But, as my father once preached, the modern church has placed the door of the gospel message in a two-dimensional stage-prop wall instead of a real building. So people believing the message and going through the door only find the same cultural atmosphere on the other side. They don’t enter into a completely different space, a new cultural context, as God intended His church, the “house of God,” to provide.

God’s call is clear:

“Come out of her, My people, lest you share in her sins and receive of her plagues.”
—Revelation 18:4

And the plagues of Babylon are not just fire and famine—they are relational collapse, mental confusion, soul fragmentation, loneliness, and generational dysfunction. These are the plagues the church was never meant to share in. But she continues to do so—because she resists Christ’s call to be set apart.

Not Isolation, but Identity

Let me be clear: my call to a distinct identity is not a call to isolation. That’s a straw man. We interact constantly with the world—through our businesses, our service, our preaching, our hospitality. We love and befriend the lost. We welcome them into our homes. But we remain a distinct people.

And this distinction is what many Christians despise.

Why?

We find the reason in the book of Hebrews:

“Let us go to Him outside the camp, bearing the reproach He bore.”
—Hebrews 13:13

To follow Christ outside the camp means you will be misunderstood. Misrepresented. Mocked. You will bear reproach. You will become the target of slander—from bigots, from pundits, from those who cling to conformity and call it compassion. And no one wants to bear that kind of treatment.

So instead, modern believers retreat into compromise and call it “becoming all things to all men.”

We hide in conformity and call it witness through relevance.

We offer our children on the lap of modern Moloch and call it salt and light.

But Scripture warns us:

“Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
—Romans 12:2

“Friendship with the world is enmity with God.”
—James 4:4

“Do not love the world or the things in the world. If anyone loves the world, the love of the Father is not in him.”

—1 John 2:15-16

“Come out from among them and be separate, says the Lord. Touch no unclean thing, and I will receive you. I will be a Father to you, and you shall be My sons and daughters.”
—2 Corinthians 6:17–18

And these warnings were written not to pagans, but to Christians. We who already believe are urged to keep renewing our minds—to escape the subtle pressure to conform.

So if you can’t swallow the pill that we’re meant to be a corporate witness—not just a scattered handful of pious individuals, but a people, a city, a united light . . . then you can stop reading here.

If you can’t stomach the reproach that comes from refusing to buy from the booths at Vanity Fair—refusing to affirm the legitimacy of their wares—and being attacked for disengaging from their system . . . then stop here.

But if the future of your children—and their ability to make a free and informed choice—is more precious to you than your reputation in the eyes of a hypocritical world where absolutes have been banished and all values have been relativized, then let’s keep going.

Beauty Is Not the Same as Sexuality

Restoring the Distinction at the Heart of Modesty and Womanhood

One of the most corrosive confusions of our age is the cultural collapse of the distinction between beauty and sexuality—the unthinking equivalency that to be beautiful is to be sexually provocative, and to be feminine is to be alluring in a public, performative way. This is false. And it is enslaving.

Yet this lie has become so normalized that when concerned Christians raise objections to the sexualization of women and girls, they are accused of attacking beauty itself—or worse, femininity. But this is a bait-and-switch. It’s the oldest trick in the book: swap the categories, then shame the question. As if to resist the commodification of the female body is to resist the glory of womanhood.

The Bible offers no such confusion. In fact, it honors and uplifts feminine beauty. As she entered Egypt in her later years, “the Egyptians saw that Sarai was a very beautiful woman” (Gen. 12:14). Rebekah, “very beautiful,” drew attention when she came to the spring (Gen. 24:16). “Rachel was beautiful of form and face” (Gen. 29:17). Esther “was lovely in form and features” and “won the favor of everyone who saw her” (Esther 2:7, 15). Scripture doesn’t despise feminine grace; it celebrates it. The woman of Proverbs 31 is “clothed with strength and dignity” and “makes herself coverings of tapestry; her clothing is fine linen and purple” (Prov. 31:22, 25).

Beauty, in its rightful place, is not shameful. It is sacred. But what modern culture has done is take what was meant for the sanctum of covenant—the shared intimacy of a husband and wife—and broadcast it for the masses. What was meant to be a fire in a hearth has become a wildfire in the street.

The tragedy is not that women are beautiful. The tragedy is that society has taught them their beauty is only valuable insofar as it excites sexual attention. The culture has told them that the power to arouse is the highest expression of worth. But this, too, is a lie—and a cruel one. It turns womanhood into a marketable commodity, one with a shelf life constantly threatened by younger competition, trends, and time.

And it is precisely here that modesty reclaims its power.

Modesty is not the rejection of beauty. It is the redirection of its purpose. It says to the world: My value does not reside in how much skin or shape I reveal, but in who I am. My worth is not based on erotic desirability to strangers, but in dignity before God. My body is not advertised for public consumption. It is a temple. And it is reserved.

Yes, there is a place where beauty and sexual desire overlap. But it is not the public square. It is not the boardroom or the bus stop or the Instagram scroll. It is the private garden of a marital covenant. And to treat that fire as a carnival sideshow is to strip it of its sacredness.

There is a difference between being beautiful and being sexual. Not all that is beautiful is erotic. Nature is beautiful. Children are beautiful. A grandmother in her 80s, wrapped in dignity and poise, radiates more graceful beauty than a racy magazine cover. The curve of a cheek in laughter. The kindness in a gaze. The elegance of long, cared-for hair—these are beautiful. And yet, not sexual.

Scripture affirms this: “A woman’s long hair is her glory” (1 Cor. 11:15). And I have seen that glory—not as vanity or flamboyance—but as humble, quiet strength. Women in their later years whose countenance still shines. Their beauty was never reliant on exposed skin or seductive poses. Their beauty grew with time. Because it was rooted in character, not in performance.

Contrast that with the social pressure facing girls today. Social media has weaponized body image into a competition. Studies show that 88% of women compare themselves to filtered, curated, often sexualized images—and over half walk away feeling worse about themselves.¹ The suicide rate among teenage girls has doubled in a decade.² The link? Body dysmorphia. Sexualized pressure. Comparison fatigue. Fashion, once an expression of culture, has become a vehicle of psychological assault.

Yet we are told we must not question this. That to push back against public sexualization is to oppress women. But who is really doing the oppressing? The Christian father who teaches his daughter her worth is not in her body, but in her spirit? Or the culture that tells her her only chance at love is to win in the game of seduction?

Let us be clear: modesty is not about hiding beauty. It is about protecting it. Honoring it. Distinguishing it from its counterfeits. Allowing it its proper place.

The Bible does not celebrate women who flaunt their sexuality in the street. It celebrates women of virtue, grace, and self-respect—whose beauty is evident, but not exposed. It urges women to dress with modesty and self-control, not merely because it is proper, but because it reflects a heart that fears God.

“I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, but with good deeds, appropriate for women who profess to worship God.”

—1 Timothy 2:9-10

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment . . . but from the inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.”

—1 Peter 3:3-4

A woman who dresses with elegance, modesty, and grace is making a powerful statement: I am not yours to consume. I am God’s.

And that kind of beauty does not fade. It deepens.

It is the kind of beauty that, when her hair is white and her shoulders stooped, will still shine with the grace of God. The kind of beauty that makes children feel safe and makes husbands give thanks. The kind of beauty that makes people rise and call her blessed.

We must stop accepting the world’s twisted standards as our own. We must teach our daughters that their power does not lie in seduction but in consecration. That their dignity is not found in desirability but in distinction. And we must restore the truth:

Beauty is sacred. Sexuality is sacred. But they are not the same.

And modesty is not the enemy of beauty—it is its greatest defender.

Modesty as Consecration, Not Control

Modesty is not about repression—it is about consecration. It is not about control but commitment. Not denial of beauty, but the protection of its purpose.

The modern world does not understand this. It can’t. Because it has no category for holiness—no reference point for sacredness. And so, any effort to preserve mystery is mistaken for prudishness. Any boundary is seen as bondage. Any restraint is labeled repression. But the call to modesty is not a call to deny the body—it is a call to redeem it. To set it apart. To recover its purpose as a vessel of honor (2 Tim. 2:21).

Christian modesty is not the fearful obsession of the insecure. It is the joyful offering of the devoted. It is not about hiding skin. It is about revealing allegiance. It is not ashamed of the body—it simply refuses to weaponize it.

In a world where fashion has become a billboard for rebellion, modesty becomes a signpost of another Kingdom. Where others broadcast seduction, we embody reverence. Where they glorify autonomy, we reveal surrender and devotion.

And this is why modesty provokes. Because it exposes the lie of liberation. The great feminist promise—freedom through exhibition—has delivered a generation into bondage. It has not freed women to be more than their bodies. It has taught them to be only their bodies. It has not liberated sexuality to a higher purpose. It has commodified it. It has not elevated dignity. It has erased it.

This is why I guide my children—both sons and daughters—to embrace modesty, not merely as a style, but as a stance. A posture of the heart. A testimony of love.

Because I do not believe that freedom is found in the ability to conform to cultural trends without guilt. I believe freedom is found in the clarity to say no—to the pressures, to the illusions, to the masquerade. Freedom is not the absence of boundaries: it is the presence of conviction.

As the prophet Ezekiel declared of Yahweh’s people, “They shall teach My people the difference between the holy and the profane, and cause them to discern between the unclean and the clean” (Ezek. 44:23). Modesty is not the creation of that difference. It is the recognition of it.

And let us be honest—it is precisely this difference that the world resents.

Because modesty resists assimilation.

It reveals that you belong—not to yourself, not to your culture, not to the advertisers and tastemakers, but to God. That you are “not your own, for you were bought with a price. Therefore, glorify God in your body” (1 Cor. 6:19-20).

This is the Biblical frame. And this is why modesty is not a side issue, a niche obsession, or a cultural oddity. It is an act of worship.

It is love, pressed out.

Fashion and the Fragmenting of the Soul

Fashion today is not merely fabric. It is philosophy. And it has become one of the most powerful agents of cultural transformation in the modern world.

If you want to know where a civilization stands, don’t just study its laws—study its clothing. If you want to know what a generation values, don’t just ask its poets—look at its fashion runways. Fashion has become one of the primary carriers of identity and, therefore, of ideology. And when a culture casts off God, it does not do so only with the pen and the ballot—it does so with its wardrobe.

Once upon a time, clothing distinguished. It bore witness to role, to honor, to function. A man’s garments reflected his strength, his labor, his restraint. A woman’s dress expressed her grace, her dignity, her sanctity. Even children’s clothing reflected the innocence and clarity of youth. In every age, dress served not just to cover the body, but to declare something of the soul.

But not anymore.

What was once underwear is now outerwear. What was once shameful is now stylish. The prostitutes of yesterday would blush at the casual dress of today. Jeans hang below waistlines in defiance. Skirts vanish into threadbare suggestion. And somehow, even among Christians, this trend is called freedom.

It is not freedom. It is fragmentation.

In place of enduring style—once a reflection of identity, dignity, and belonging—fashion offers an endless churn of self-reinvention. Every hemline, every slogan tee shouts the same lie: “Your body is your leverage. Your image is your worth. Your value is performance.”

But Scripture tells another story.

It tells of a people clothed in humility (1 Pet. 5:5), adorned with good works (1 Tim. 2:9-10), robed in righteousness (Isa. 61:10). It tells us that what we wear can either glorify our Maker or betray Him.

And this is why fashion matters. Because when clothing ceases to be functional and begins to be ideological, it becomes a weapon. It is no accident that the radical feminists of the early twentieth century marched into public wearing trousers—not because they were practical, but because they were polemical. Amelia Bloomer’s defiance set off a century of aesthetic rebellion—each decade shedding not just fabric but form, not just style but structure.

First came trousers. Then miniskirts. Then crop tops. Then tattoos and piercings and the fashion of defilement. And with every stage, the culture applauded the breakdown—as if it were progress.

But no one stopped to ask what goal it was progressing towards.

It was not progress toward dignity. It was desecration.

And today, that rebellion has reached its logical end. We no longer debate skirt lengths. We now debate what a woman is. The same cultural force that erased the distinction in dress has now erased the distinction in gender. The line is not just blurred—it is gone.

You can be a businesswoman, a mother, an artist, and a feminist—whatever you want to be—and still be a sexual being . . . . Power’s not given to you. You have to take it.³— Beyoncé

SlutWalk is so important. We can band together as women and stand up for each other and realize that we do have a voice that can make a change. It doesn’t matter what we have on.⁴— Amber Rose, founder of SlutWalk

The trans movement is not a new phenomenon. It is merely the flowering of seeds planted long ago—when the church stopped drawing lines and started chasing “relevance.” When we confused love with license. When we forgot that holiness begins in the heart, yes—but it always flows outward.

You cannot serve a holy God while profaning His created order.

So let me say this plainly: I do not teach my children modesty because I want them to be old-fashioned. I teach them modesty because I want them to be whole—where their faith in Christ, their humility that invites His grace, their fidelity and faithfulness, and even their appearance all speak with one voice. I want their lives to harmonize the same message, inside and out.

I teach them modesty because the fashion of this world does not merely shape taste. It shapes identity. It shapes belonging. It shapes belief.

And the fashion of this world, Paul tells us, is passing away (1 Cor. 7:31).

The Myth of the Inner-Outer Divide

We’ve all heard it—sometimes from pulpits, sometimes from pews, sometimes from our own uncertain hearts: “Man looks at the outward appearance, but God looks on the heart.”

True enough. It comes from 1 Samuel 16:7, and it speaks to God’s sovereign discernment—His ability to see through the surface and into the secret. But in the hands of modern Christians, this verse has become a pretext for disregard. It is now wielded not as a call to integrity but as a license for inconsistency. It no longer draws us to authenticity—it detaches the heart from the body altogether.

But this was never the message of Scripture. God does not oppose outward expression. He demands that it reflect inward reality. Jesus never said, “Clean the inside of the cup, and leave the outside however you like.” No—He said, “First clean the inside of the cup, so that the outside may become clean also” (Matt. 23:26).

The Pharisees were not rebuked for caring about appearances. They were rebuked for masking hypocrisy with appearance. That’s not an argument against outward expression—it’s an argument against disintegration, against the lie of one thing on the surface and another in the soul.

If the body is a temple, then its outer courts should harmonize with the inner courts (1 Cor. 6:19). If our lives are letters read and known of all men, then the ink we use—our behavior, our choices, our dress—must match the message (2 Cor. 3:2-3).

Let me be clear: I am not promoting some harsh or legalistic approach that insists the outside of the cup must be scrubbed before God has even touched the heart. Not at all. I do not judge those who still appear conformed to the world’s patterns simply because they’ve never seen another way. I do not look down on those just coming out of the world, whose hearts are being cleansed—who are learning to love and honor the Lord—even if the change has not yet shown on the surface. In fact, I think it’s a beautiful thing to see hands lifted in worship, even if they bear the marks of the past—tattoos, scars, reminders of where they’ve come from. Like Apollos in the New Testament, who did not change his name when he followed Jesus, I don’t believe we need to erase our past in order to follow Him into the future. Our stories matter.

I’ve baptized people in shorts and T-shirts, and I would do it again without hesitation if the heart was clearly ready. I never begin by addressing someone’s clothing—and I’ve never had to. In fact, it’s almost never a topic in our church. But if our choices are being maligned and misrepresented, I’m going to explain myself.

The Spirit works inwardly, and as His ways take deeper root, outward change follows—not by pressure but by a growing desire to reflect Christ. So, no, I’m not speaking to those still learning to walk the narrow road. I’m speaking to the believers who are openly celebrating and rationalizing unabashed conformity to the world—and condemning those of us who are striving to build guardrails for the next generation. I gladly worship alongside brothers and sisters in Christ who don’t share all my convictions about dress. Why should I judge others for what God has not revealed to them or required of them? But please don’t judge me if I feel bound, as a father, to mark a clear trail through the weeds—for my children and for the culture we’re shaping. For some of us, these visible distinctions are not about superiority but stewardship.

Early Christian Viewpoints

The false dichotomy between the inward and outward is a uniquely modern heresy. The early church saw no such division.

Tertullian of Carthage, writing in the early third century against makeup and adornment, challenged vanity as spiritual corruption: “For they who rub their skin with medicaments, stain their cheeks with rouge, make their eyes prominent with antimony, sin against Him. To them, I suppose, the plastic skill of God is displeasing! In their own persons, I suppose, they convict, they censure, the Artificer of all things . . . . Whatever is born is the work of God. Whatever, then, is plastered on (that), is the devil’s work.”⁵

Hippolytus, a near contemporary, reinforced this view: “Let not women wear ornaments of gold and silver and precious garments . . . but let them be clothed with modesty, as becometh women dedicated to Christ.”⁶

Later in the same century, Clement of Alexandria warned that immodest fashion contradicted Christian identity: “Luxurious clothing that cannot conceal the shape of the body is no more a covering. . . . The whole make of the body is visible to spectators, although they cannot see the body itself.”⁷

Ambrose of Milan, in the fourth century, urged restraint even in ordinary dress: “The body should be bedecked . . . with simplicity, with neglect rather than nicety . . . so that nothing be lacking to honesty and necessity, yet nothing be added to increase beauty.”⁸

Jerome, Ambrose’s contemporary and the great translator of the Latin Bible, denounced spiritual hypocrisy: “Either we must speak as we dress or dress as we speak. Why do we profess one thing and display another? The tongue talks of chastity, but the whole body reveals impurity.”⁹

These early-century Christian leaders fought to resist the slide into a world already drunk on the wine of self-display. For them, the body was not a canvas for ego but a temple for God—and what clothed it was a testimony.

Modern Christians don’t deny God with their words. They deny Him with their wardrobe. We say we follow a crucified Christ, but we dress like celebrities. We preach self-denial but practice self-advertisement. And then we wonder why the world is confused.

What we often forget is that dress communicates—always. As sociologist Penny Storm explained, “Dress is one of the most powerful mediums of expression ever devised.”¹⁰ It signals belonging, reveals allegiance, and transmits values. In every culture, whether tribal or technological, the style of dress functions as a social liturgy—teaching, reinforcing, and celebrating the values of the group.

So the only real question is: to which group are we signaling allegiance?

When a young woman steps into a sanctuary wearing a miniskirt, whose message is she carrying? When a young man patterns himself after rap culture, with sagging jeans and branded gear, who is he imitating? These are not neutral choices. They are sermons—visual proclamations of who we are, what we love, and what we believe will make us desirable, powerful, or accepted.

And this is why modesty matters.

Not because God is obsessed with measuring hemlines. But because He is jealous for our hearts—and our hearts are inextricably tied to our bodies.

This is why I cannot reduce modesty to a private opinion or a quirky family preference. I cannot say to my children, “Just love God on the inside, and wear what you like.” Because that’s not how love works. Love presses outward. It manifests. It reveals itself. It draws boundaries. Not out of fear, but out of loyalty.

The same love that will cause a young man to take off his hat at a funeral will cause him to dress with honor in the house of God. The same love that keeps a woman’s voice soft toward her children will shape her desire not to draw every eye to herself in public.

Love expresses itself in form.

Generational Drift: The Slope of Unquestioned Choices

The tragedy of modern Christianity is not that it made one great compromise. It is that it made a thousand tiny ones—and called them wisdom.

Christian culture didn’t collapse overnight. It collapsed by degrees. It drifted. It swayed. It gave a little here, relaxed a standard there, and rationalized each change with the assurance that no real harm was done.

But every erosion has a trajectory.

And when we fail to discern the direction of a decision—when we judge a shift only in isolation—we lose sight of where it leads.

In the 1950s, a Christian mother wondered if wearing pants to a picnic was really a problem. It seemed harmless enough. In fact, for her—girded by a clear sense of her role as wife and mother—it may not have meant very much. But her daughter inherited not just her trousers, but the rationalization. And the granddaughter inherited less. By the time the great-granddaughter came of age, the question wasn’t about pants. It was about gender. It was about identity. And that is the result of ignoring trajectory.

The pants grew shorter. The neckline sank lower. The skin exposure increased, the dignity decreased—and the church, far from resisting, staggered along behind the world like an embarrassed relative trying to catch up to a party it never wanted to attend.

This is the slope of conformity.

People mock us for the way we dress at Homestead Heritage. They roll their eyes. They smirk. They dismiss us with a scoff and a label—“cult”—as if the conversation doesn’t deserve a fair hearing. But mockery is often the last refuge of those unwilling to engage in honest dialogue. Laughter becomes a defense mechanism—because if you had to actually consider the ideas, you might be forced to wrestle with them.

What exactly is so strange about us? That we’ve chosen not to keep pace with the moral tailspin of modernity? That we reject its fruit—broken families, lost identities, commodified bodies, and the corrosion of meaning? If that makes us a “cult,” then what does it say about the Christianity of your own ancestors—who believed and lived and dressed the way we do?

A hundred years ago, these standards were considered normal among Christians. Reverent dress. Modest behavior. Simplicity of life. Were they in a cult, too? Or have we just drifted so far from the shore that those who remain on solid ground now look like radicals?

During the Reformation, Calvin warned that “luxury and immoderate expense [in clothing] arise from a desire to make a display either for the sake of pride or of departure from chastity.” He observed that when “debauchery reigns within, there will be no chastity; and where ambition reigns within, there will be no modesty in the outward dress,” as many “rush into such excesses of lasciviousness as to glory in their shame.” Calvin admonished that “everything in dress which is not in accordance with modesty and sobriety must be disapproved.” He warned that “it is disgraceful for men to become effeminate, and also for women to affect manliness in their dress and gestures,” upholding gender distinction “not only for decency’s sake, but lest one kind of liberty should at length lead to something worse.”¹¹

In the Great Awakening, the Wesley brothers called people to holiness in both heart and habit. John Wesley thundered that Christians must “wear nothing of a glaring color, or in any way bright, glittering, or showy; nothing made in the very height of fashion, nothing intended to attract the eyes of bystanders.” He warned that indulging in such things, even if fashionable, was spiritually dangerous: “a little self-indulgence may do much harm to your soul.” And he made clear that the pursuit of wealth beyond one’s needs “is what is here expressly and absolutely forbidden,” declaring that anyone who seeks “a still larger portion on earth… lives in an open habitual denial of the Lord that bought him.” For him, immodest or worldly dress was not a harmless indulgence—it was a renunciation of the gospel’s transforming power.¹²

Such a dangerous cult leader!

And today? We pretend as if God has spoken some new revelation that invalidates the entire historical witness of Christian modesty—as if the apostle Paul’s admonitions can now be quietly retired because culture has moved on.

But the predominant culture is not our compass. If we judge ourselves not by the standard of Christ, but only by staying ten feet behind the worst of the world, then we are not being led by the Spirit—we are being dragged along by the current. God’s standard hasn’t moved. We have.

No, there was no divine prophecy declaring sin to be righteousness. There was no scriptural revelation reversing the call to modesty and simplicity. What happened is far more tragic: Christians revealed that their anchor was never the Word of God, but the tides of public opinion. They stayed tethered to the world—just at a comfortable distance. Not to be holy, but to be superior. And so long as they were a few steps behind the world, they convinced themselves they were still following Christ.

But distance from the world is not the measure of holiness. Faithfulness is.

Seldom does one generation abandon truth outright. They simply tolerate the erosion of its edges. Casual convenience trumps conscious conviction. If the choices are considered at all, they merely ask, “Can I do this and still be a Christian?” instead of, “Will this shape me and my children to be more like Christ?” The concern is always framed around personal liberty rather than generational legacy. And so the cracks widen, the foundation weakens, and eventually the whole edifice collapses.

We forget what Paul told the Corinthians: “All things are lawful—but not all things are beneficial. All things are lawful—but I will not be mastered by anything” (1 Cor. 6:12). He was not warning against lawlessness. He was warning against slow, subtle captivity—being mastered by things we once thought we controlled.

This is why generational thinking is so urgent.

We must stop asking, “Can I personally handle this?” and start asking, “What path am I paving for my children?”

Because the world is not raising them. We are. Or we’re surrendering that right to someone who will.

And in matters of dress, this becomes glaring. The fashion industry is not neutral. It thrives on discontent. It capitalizes on comparison. It feeds off of insecurity and then sells back the solution in the form of flesh, fantasy, and fabric. Every billboard, every Instagram ad, every seasonal trend is shouting: “You're not enough—but buy this, wear this, expose this, and maybe you will be.”

And so children—especially girls—are groomed to believe that their value is tied to visibility. That dignity is synonymous with desirability. That femininity is found not in quiet strength, but in public performance.

This is not accidental. It is engineered.

While all too many women are swept along unconscious of what is at stake, some of the drivers and influencers are quite clear on the end goal of their agenda. Naomi Goldenberg, one of feminism’s more honest voices, put it bluntly: “We women are going to bring an end to God . . . . The feminist movement in Western culture is engaged in the slow execution of Christ and Yahweh.”¹³

And how do you execute Christ?

Not always with nails and wood—but with slogans, costumes, and compromise. You start with fashion. You end with faithlessness.

That is why the modesty conversation is not about nostalgia. It’s about survival. Not survival of a style, but of a witness—a clear, distinct people who refuse to be swept along by the tides of confusion.

“I see a people who live apart, and do not consider themselves one of the nations.”

—Numbers 23:9

This was said of Israel. But it should be said of the church.

And so I ask again—not just of my daughters, not just of my sons, but of myself: Am I dressing for comfort or for calling? For relevance or for reverence? For attention or for allegiance?

Because I know that how I dress will shape how they see. And how they see will shape how they live. And how they live will shape their children, and their children’s children. That’s the kind of math that matters.

The seed we plant in this generation will be the fruit—or famine—of the next.

The Radical Power of Simplicity

To the modern mind, simplicity is a retreat. A negation. A dull rejection of the color and creativity of life.

But to the mind renewed by Christ, simplicity is not withdrawal—it is warfare. Not merely the absence of something, but the presence of something stronger.

The world doesn’t fear the extravagant. It fears the incorruptible. It doesn’t tremble before the fashionable or the flamboyant—it trembles before the consistent. Because the consistent can’t be bought. Can’t be wooed. Can’t be assimilated.

That is the power of simplicity.

This is why Gandhi, by spinning his own cotton, threatened an empire. The British could deal with armed resistance. They knew how to crush rebellion. But what they couldn’t crush was a people who refused to wear British clothes, buy their cloth, or participate in their economic machine. Simplicity, in Gandhi’s hands, became a revolution. When asked why he went from wearing a pinstripe suit as a barrister to now wearing a simple cotton, homespun garment, he replied, “I'm decolonizing my body.”¹⁴

It’s time that Christians do the same—“decolonize” their affections, values, and bodies from the expansionism of the kingdoms of this world.

Too many believers want the fruit of the Spirit without the pruning. We want holiness without boundaries. We want purity without practices. But it doesn’t work that way. Simplicity is not the opposite of holiness—it is its embodiment. It is the pruning that bears the fruit.

“Every branch in Me that bears fruit, He prunes, that it may bear more fruit.”

—John 15:2

The world views modesty and simplicity as repressive. But the early church saw them as liberating. We saw that Cyprian of Carthage warned against “defacing God’s work and fabric” with the paints and dyes of Roman fashion. Clement of Alexandria condemned garments that accentuated the body and stirred passions. These were not peripheral concerns. They were warnings against spiritual adultery—the corruption of the inner life through a compromise of the outer.

Because what we adorn ourselves with reveals what we adore.

Simplicity reveals singleness of heart.

Modesty reveals the boundaries of love.

And both are acts of resistance in a world that worships excess.

Paul said, “I am jealous for you with a godly jealousy . . . lest your minds be corrupted from the simplicity that is in Christ” (2 Cor. 11:2-3). He saw simplicity not as a hindrance to love, but as its safeguard.

Because the serpent didn’t tempt Eve with depravity. He tempted her with an image. Something pleasing to the eyes. Something desirable. And in grasping for it, she lost her singleness of purpose—her trust in God’s boundary, her identity in His pattern.

The same temptation persists today. It doesn’t always come in the form of a snake. Sometimes it comes in the form of a sale. A slogan. A trend. A desire to “be like the other nations.”

But Peter writes, “As He who called you is holy, you also be holy in all your conduct, because it is written, ‘Be holy, for I am holy’” (1 Pet. 1:15-16). God calls us to distinction. To draw a line. To dress like a people not of this world, “a people for God’s own possession” (1 Pet. 2:9). Not to flaunt our difference—but to preserve our devotion.

So, yes, I teach my children simplicity. Yes, I guide them in modesty. Not because I want them to look plain. But because I want them to live free.

Free from comparison

Free from confusion

Free from the slavery of competitive self-display

I want them to have singleness of eye—so that their whole body might be full of light (Matt. 6:22). I want them to know that the glory of a woman is not found in how many heads she turns, but in how faithfully she reflects the One to whom she belongs.

And I want them to know that the path of simplicity is not loss—it is gain.

We may lose a few things of this world, yes. But “all that is in the world—the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life”—is passing away (1 John 2:16-17). And we will gain a Kingdom—and that Kingdom will last.

Not Legalism, Not License—But Love

One of the most predictable responses to all I’ve said is this: “But isn’t this just legalism?”

To many modern believers, any standard of visible obedience—even if chosen in love, practiced in freedom, and lived out with joy—is mistaken for Pharisaism. We’ve been so conditioned by a shallow understanding of grace that we recoil at anything resembling form. But God is not opposed to form. He is opposed to form without power (2 Tim. 3:5).

The real danger isn’t external obedience. It’s internal apathy. It’s a heart that wants all the benefits of the cross with none of its demands. And when Christians treat grace as a license to blur every line, indulge every trend, and mirror every cultural fashion in the name of freedom, what they’re practicing is not grace—it’s lawlessness. It’s fleshly opportunism masquerading as liberty (Gal. 5:13).

Let’s be clear:

Legalism asks, “What’s the minimum I can get away with?”

Love asks, “How much can I give?”

Legalism trims the edges. Love overflows. Legalism hides behind loopholes—it hires an accountant to reduce the tax bill to the penny. It keeps the speed limit (plus four), constantly pressing the boundary because it views the law as an external obligation, not an internal conviction. That’s legalism: a life calculated, not consecrated.

But love transcends the letter—it fulfills the spirit. Love doesn’t ask how close it can get to the line; it runs toward sacrifice with joy and devotion. That’s why Paul said, “Let all that you do be done in love” (1 Cor. 16:14), and why Jesus declared that all the Law and the Prophets hang on this: Love God. Love your neighbor (Matt. 22:37–40).

This is the root of modesty and simplicity: not a list of dos and don’ts, but a heart constrained by a supreme love.

When my wife chooses to cover her body in public, it’s not because she is ashamed. It’s because she is secure. It’s because she loves. She’s not broadcasting shame—she’s declaring dignity. She’s not suppressing her beauty—she’s guarding its purpose.

And when my daughters choose to dress with humility, they are not victims of control. They are students of honor. They are learning that true confidence doesn’t draw attention—it draws from conviction.

Some ask, “But aren’t you afraid that by teaching your children this, they’ll grow up to rebel?” And my answer is simple: “I’m far more afraid of raising children who were never given anything worth rebelling against.”

The world will teach them license. Their mother and I must teach them liberty. The world will teach them indulgence. We must teach them identity. The world will teach them to conform. We must teach them to belong—to Someone higher, greater, and holier than themselves.

This is not about fear. It’s about formation.

And no child is formed without boundaries. No soul is shaped without standards. The most loving parents are not those who let their children eat unlimited amounts of sugar or play with matches and gasoline. No, the most loving homes are not the ones with the fewest rules, but the ones where the rules grow out of relationship and care. Where every no is backed by a deeper yes. Yes to love. Yes to peace. Yes to joy unsullied by regret.

If we love our children, we will give them more than permission—we will give them purpose. We will give them clarity.

Because the question is not whether they’ll be influenced. It’s whether they’ll be anchored. The winds of culture are too strong for ambiguity. The tides of identity confusion are too swift for silence. And if we don’t speak plainly—if we don’t intentionally model something better—we will lose our children to a world that has no idea where it’s going.

So no, this is not about legalism. And no, it’s not about control.

It’s about consecration. It’s about covenant. It’s about raising a people who will not be trampled underfoot because their salt has lost its savor.

Because Jesus didn’t say we ought to be the salt of the earth. He said we are (Matt. 5:13). The only question is whether we will preserve or spoil. Whether we will add flavor or fade into tasteless conformity.

And love—real, holy, visible love—is the difference.

Conclusion: Salt, Light, and the Power of a Distinct People

In the end, this is not just about fabric or cosmetics. It’s not about fashion trends or modesty codes or hem lengths. It’s about formation. It’s about becoming a people who can withstand the pressures of a culture that’s unraveling by the day.

Because the world doesn’t need more trend-savvy Christians. It doesn’t need a church skilled at fitting in. It needs a church set apart—a people shaped by another Kingdom. A people who have come out from Babylon, not in pride, but in purity. A people who have embraced the reproach of Christ outside the camp (Heb. 13:13) because they love Him more than the comfort of cultural approval.

And so we must ask: what kind of church will we be?

A chameleon church, forever adjusting its tones to match the backdrop of the times?

Or the church triumphant, built on the immovable rock, withstanding the very gates of hell?

A dim, isolated lamp flickering in the alleys of Babylon?

Or a thousand gathered lights lifted high in unity as a city on a hill—visible, distinct, impossible to ignore?

If our children are to know who they are, they must first see who we are. If they are to choose the good, they must know what it looks like. And if they are to stand, we must show them how—not just in belief, but in being. In language. In lifestyle. In love. In simplicity. In dress.

Because what we tolerate, they may embrace.

And what we compromise, they may surrender altogether.

But if we teach them—by truth, by tenderness, by testimony—that another way is possible, then even if they wander, they will know how to return. They will know there is a people, a pattern, a path of peace. They will know there is a city, a homeland—a real alternative—where the light has not gone out.

This is why we live as we do.

This is why we dress as we do.

Not because we are better.

But because we are called.

And we intend to answer that call—not with pride, not with shame—but with the quiet confidence of a people wholly given over to love.

You are the salt of the earth.

You are the light of the world.

Do not hide. Do not fade. Do not conform.

Shine.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. How have you wrestled with these questions in your own family or community? Leave a comment below.