The night is dark but the street is bright with the glow of countless flashing signs and colorful lights. Thousands of people crowd the streets: men, women, and children from every country, ethnicity, and religion. Some are selling, some are buying, some are just looking, but they’re all there for one reason.
Sex.
This is Bangla Road, one of the most notorious red light districts in Thailand. This one kilometer stretch of Patong Beach is filled with girls dancing on poles, prostitutes strutting suggestively, and six foot tall ladyboys covered in feathers. Each of the countless bars is represented by promoters working the streets, men and women who clamor to present every passerby with the laminated menu of their establishment.
Menus of women.
This is the environment I was in three nights ago. The eleven other men of my World Race squad and I accompanied our ministry contact on a prayer walk through the heart of darkness. The women of our squad had been ministering to this area for over two weeks by going into the bars at night and building relationships with the girls who work there. This was our chance to see firsthand just how broken this little part of the world is.
As we walked through the streets, praying and speaking life over the whole place, I noticed something. It was easy to love the women we passed. It was easy to see girls who are forced (either by family or finances or fear) to sell their bodies, and to have my heart broken and full of compassion for them. It was easy to forgive them and look into their eyes and smile and hope they could hear how much their Papa loves them.
Not so easy were the men. For every one of the 1,500+ girls in that place, there was a man taking advantage of her. Some were selling, promoting them like objects. Others were buying…if not with their wallets, then with their eyes. The men I wanted to hate. I wanted to punish them for treating Abba’s princesses like a dessert on a buffet. I wanted to punch them right where it counts and damn them to hell for their sins.
But I’ve realized something. I’m not better than them. I’d like for you to think so, sure. I mean I should have my crap together right? My dad’s a pastor, I helped lead a large college ministry for years, I’m not only on an 11 month missions trip to four continents, but I’m one of the three leaders in charge of the whole thing. My Christian resume is looking pretty good.
It would be so easy to listen to people tell me how glad they are that I’m not like “those guys.” It would be easy to accept the honest admiration of women who have seen the men on the streets of Thailand and thank me for being something different. It would be easy for me to judge that man on the street, hate him for how he’s exploiting God’s daughters.
But I am that man.
I am the man that has looked at a woman like an object. I am the man who has searched for women who would satisfy desires that should be only for my future wife. I am the man who has received sexual gratification because a woman was coerced into taking off her clothes and performing.
Sure I’ve never bought a prostitute. I’ve never been to a strip club. I’ve never even had sex. But I have done all of the above and more on the privacy of the internet. In my heart, where it counts, I’ve committed all of the sins that I would love to judge the man on Bangla road for.
I know I’m forgiven. I know I’m healed. I know that though I have failed even in the last few weeks, Papa is taking me to deeper levels of freedom. But I also know we live in a culture that screams for us to keep our faults hidden, our failures locked away, and our skeletons buried in our closets. We live in a culture of leaders that show us only the wins, the trophies, the displays of strength.
I refuse to be another one of those leaders.
I will bring freedom even if it means being the first to die.
