Hugging in church
What if consent to be touched became the guide to hugging in church? (Photo by Erika Giraud on Unsplash)
April 15, 2026 | RALEIGH, N.C. (UM News)
Key points:
- Many congregations confuse affection with holiness. We treat physical closeness as proof of spiritual health, writes Dr. Brett McKinley Pardue.
- The artist-theologian in residence at North Raleigh United Methodist Church says that the church needn’t know every story to practice consent. “We need to admit that care is part of holiness.”
- A church that asks first is not less affectionate. It is more trustworthy. And in a time when trust has been shattered in so many sanctuaries, that may be one of the most radical forms of evangelism left.
At a church I once served, a well-meaning saint stood in the aisle every Sunday with her arms open. She wasn’t trying to trap anyone. She was trying to love people. But the posture did something to the room. Before the first hymn, visitors had to choose: Hug a stranger or risk looking cold in a place that prides itself on warmth.
Most of us know the unspoken rule. Refusing touch can feel like refusing communion. Declining a hug can get translated as declining the community itself. We do it with children, too: “Go give Miss Linda a hug.” “Shake the pastor’s hand.” We teach that church is a place where “no” is awkward.
For some people, touch is not neutral. Touch is memory. Touch is power. And the church has not earned the benefit of the doubt. We live amid the wreckage of spiritual abuse and pastoral overreach that leave people haunted by what was done “in Jesus’ name.” If a sanctuary cannot honor a boundary, it cannot credibly preach liberation.
This isn’t about avoiding touch. It’s about refusing entitlement — refusing any version of “love” that requires access to another person’s body.
We sometimes defend our habits as “biblical.” Jesus touched people, we say. Christians are a hugging people. But when you pay attention to the Gospels, Jesus’ touch is never a possession. It is never a grab. It is a gift.
Notice that Jesus asks first.
To a blind man: “What do you want me to do for you?” (Mark 10:51). To a man by the pool: “Do you want to be made well?” (John 5:6).
Those are astonishing questions. If healing were a display of divine power, Jesus could have bypassed consent. Instead, he honors agency. He refuses to treat a suffering body as public property, even when he has the power to help.
And when Thomas demands proof, the risen Christ doesn’t force belief through intimidation. He offers access: “Put your finger here. Do not doubt but believe” (John 20:27). The risen Christ gives access as gift, not entitlement.
That is an Easter ethic for the church.
Many of our congregations confuse affection with holiness. We treat physical closeness as proof of spiritual health. We act as if bodies are supposed to be immediately available — open, cheerful, “fine.” But the Gospel requires love. And love does not insist on its own way.
A consent-shaped church would not be colder. It would be truer.
It would mean we stop making touch the price of entry.
Passing the peace wouldn’t become a moment of social pressure. People could offer it with a nod, a hand over the heart, a bow, a whispered “Peace to you.” We could say from the front: “Share the peace in whatever way feels comfortable. If you’d like a hug or a handshake, ask first.” If the answer is “no,” let “no” be honored — not punished with awkwardness.
It would mean we stop training children to override their own “no” for the sake of adult feelings. If a child doesn’t want to hug, that is not a discipleship problem. It is a boundary worth honoring.
It would mean pastors and prayer teams ask before we touch: “May I lay a hand on your shoulder?” “Would you prefer I pray without touching you?” Those are not sterile questions. They are tender. They tell a person: you are not an object of ministry; you are a neighbor.
It would mean we stop acting surprised that people come with histories we cannot see — assault, abuse, medical trauma, sensory overwhelm, grief that makes the skin feel exposed. The church needn’t know every story to practice consent. We need to admit that care is part of holiness.
Some will worry that this is importing “the world’s language” into worship. I’d argue the opposite. Consent is one of the clearest words we have for love that refuses domination. When we practice consent, we bear witness to a God who does not coerce. A God who knocks. A Christ who offers his wounds instead of forcing his way in.
What if “Peace be with you” became a moment where the church finally means it?
Not peace that requires a performance of friendliness. Not peace that treats bodies as available. But peace that makes room for the whole truth: Some people come to worship guarded, exhausted, hungry for God.
A church that asks first is not less affectionate. It is more trustworthy. And in a time when trust has been shattered in so many sanctuaries, that may be one of the most radical forms of evangelism left.
Let the peace of Christ be with you — without pressure. Let love look like consent. Let the Gospel feel, in the body, like good news.
Dr. Brett McKinley Pardue (Courtesy Photo)
Dr. Brett McKinley Pardue is artist-theologian in residence and principal organist at North Raleigh United Methodist Church in North Carolina.