I’m Percy, a social worker, counselor, and gay man in my twenties, trying to figure out what the Lord wants me to do in life. In my limited spare time I write, play video games, spend time with friends, and read. Hopefully you resonate with my journey and find something in these words worth thinking about.
I hear yelling and laughter down the hall — they’re out again. Our dorm’s nudists don’t have a shower party every night, but they seem to occur more and more frequently now. If I wait long enough, maybe they’ll be done before I need to use the bathroom. I work on some backup plans; worst case scenario, I can take my stuff to another bathroom. It’s a little more inconvenient, but I’d rather walk a little further than wade through a mob of exposed genitalia.
I take a breath in between rounds of Super Smash Bros. and ask myself: Do I really belong here?
~
Moving to college opens up a new world; for many, it’s a first step away from the only home ever known. An exciting and scary new world of possibilities, schedules, and relationships. I experienced all of that, but with extra anxieties and questions.
Would I be okay as a same-sex attracted Christian in a dorm with all these other men? What would happen if they knew? Would there be enough privacy in the dorm bathrooms?
I first battled depression my senior year of high school, much of it related to my sexuality. I was forced to acknowledge my sexuality the previous year, and my attraction for men was not going away. The horror of its potential permanence was crippling.
With my friendships at home in a rough place, I knew I needed a fresh start away.
Liberty University had (and still has) a lot going for it, both academically and professionally. Its size is almost unparalleled in Christian higher education, with opportunities everywhere, including clubs for anything you might want to do, amidst the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains.
Opportunities aside, I moved to Liberty University for the hall life. Liberty has a structure of RAs, RSs (“Resident Shepherds,” or an equivalent to RAs but for spiritual leadership), and community group leaders who co-lead groups with and mentor each student on the hall.
I loved that vision, and I craved friendship, brotherhood, belonging, and spiritual growth. I chose to live in the Circle, the oldest dorm on campus, because I was told they had the strongest community.
I was told correctly. I moved into the Circle with a whirlwind of helping hands, meeting new people and witnessing the laughter and camaraderie already present among the guys on this hall. The male dorms valued legacy, tending to keep the same hall leaders for several years at a time, passing the positions down to students who had lived on the hall in years prior. As a result, most returners to the hall were extremely close with one another and welcomed the incoming freshmen with enthusiasm.
I spent three and a half years in the Circle, and it remains the strongest Christian brotherhood I’ve ever enjoyed to this day.
I did not, however, participate in the Circle’s nudity culture. With the vanguard of returning seniors, juniors, and sophomores, a contingent advocated hard for shared nudity as a tool for building fellowship. This group of men frequently showered together, or hung out nude in their rooms with their doors open, or even nude in the hallways.
One former RS shared with me that when he led his first community group, he encouraged everybody to take off their clothes for their first naked Bible study. He followed up the story by saying, “Nudity builds community.”
Did it, though?
As I observed the Circle’s nudity culture my freshman year, this statement seemed only partially true. It’s undeniable that for a segment of the hall nudity was a bonding opportunity, a chance to be seen to a degree likely never experienced. But for me nudity was a barrier.
To start, my ongoing fears of lust and embarrassment wouldn’t let me engage. What if I had an erection? It was almost certainly a guarantee around a bunch of attractive men. No one but my parents and doctor had ever seen me naked.
Beyond that, sharing nudity with a bunch of college guys almost felt too intimate. Yes, these men knew each other deeply and many of them would become friends for life. But I felt strongly that my genitalia should only be seen by people I knew would be in my life forever.
Traditionally, that person would be a spouse — but for me, I didn’t know. Maybe no one. I didn’t want the other men on the hall exposing themselves — along with this stark reality to me — even further.
Others in the Circle were also uncomfortable with nudity: a few other same-sex attracted Christians, as well as many of the straight ones.
It turns out that nudity did build community at Liberty University, but maybe only for about 40% of the people on the hall. Nudity also excluded others who weren’t able or willing to engage for a variety of reasons.
And yet even I found some benefits. As time passed, I became friends with people all over the hall. As I grew more confident, both spiritually and relationally, I became desensitized to my peers’ nudity and even more desensitized to the male form. I certainly still struggled with lust, but I also wasn’t scared of seeing a stray penis anymore.
Hall nudity in the Circle eventually died over the course of my four years at Liberty University. After the old guard of my freshman and sophomore years graduated, my peers and I stepped into leadership and we didn’t encourage or discourage nudity. The younger guys in the Circle didn’t seem interested in getting naked with each other, and they didn’t see the appeal for the few guys who still did.
In the end, I’m indifferent to that outcome. Perhaps that’s a disappointing conclusion for a male community like YOB with many strong opinions on shared nudity. I don’t think Liberty University’s nudity culture was sinful, and nobody coerced or forced anyone else to participate who wasn’t comfortable.
But I also never found shared nudity necessary for brotherhood or masculine intimacy. I still believe that nudity with the right person or people in the right context could be beneficial.
But I’m still waiting. How about you?
Did you experience cultural nudity at a college like Liberty University? What positive or negative experiences have you had with shared nudity? Do you see generational differences in shared nudity, and how have your views changed through the years?
About the Author
I attended a Christian college in Tennessee, where my dorm featured open shower bays. These bays became bonding spaces for us as we turned them into makeshift saunas. At times, we would gather in the showers and sing together. We often roamed the hallways and played card games while naked. I felt a stronger connection with those men, especially since I had grown up without brothers. Throughout history, from ancient Greeks and Romans to today, men have gathered, competed, and bathed together in the nude. I often think about the passage in John 21:7, where Peter stripped down for work. While I doubt Peter was working completely nude, it’s likely that Jesus and the apostles saw one another naked as they roamed around ancient Israel for three years. I believe that nude bonding is a natural and healthy way for men to connect.
The last time my friends and I saw each other naked was in the 9th grade gym showers. I was so scared leading up to class, but it really wasn’t an issue for me (thanks be to God). While it helped me to be a little more relaxed, it didn’t really change my relationship with them.
20+ years later I’ve been struggling lately with wanting to see certain friends naked. Part of it is curiosity, and part is this idea that it will bring me closer to them (and not having seen is a shortcoming in our current friendship). But that’s a lie. there are better kinds of vulnerability/intimacy that we should focus on instead; more shared conversations and lives.
Ultimately, if I asked my friends in an honest and humble way to be naked with me, I think they would. And I think just the fact that they would means we have that bond, even without having actually seen each other.