If we’re going to warn people of the perils of Big Gulps and French fries, shouldn’t we warn them of the dangers of sex? If we’re going to go so far as ban sugary drinks and salt, shouldn’t we at least advocate abstinence? What kind of society celebrates, perpetuates, and capitalizes on a behavior that can hurt so deeply, that robs people of their innocence, their happiness, and even their lives? Is that compassion?

Every day we hear about something that is harmful to us, something the government needs to regulate or outlaw, something for which an avalanche of public service announcements must be unleashed on the American people as they drive home from work, watch television, or scan their favorite websites.

Don’t eat sugar. You’ll get diabetes and die. Don’t smoke. You’ll get lung cancer and die. Don’t stop at McDonalds. You’ll get fat and die.

Meanwhile there’s not a peep about one of the most dangerous activities people engage in all the time—premarital sex. Or extramarital sex. Or, dare I say the word—fornication? Or does that make me sound too judgmental? Probably, but the word fits because sex is loaded with moral implications: The possibility of dysfunctional relationships, of sexually transmitted diseases, of an unwanted pregnancy or abortion. The possibility of guilt, shame, depression, and suicide.

Does this sound dramatic? Over the top? Maybe, but it’s true. Sex can be dangerous. Yet, we either promote it for political purposes, exploit it in the name of entertainment—even for our children—or brush it off in the name of personal liberty.

Yes, Sex Is a Big Deal

This last point is significant because I want to make it clear I’m not saying government should regulate people’s sexual behavior, and I’m not even suggesting that conservatives start their own barrage of PSAs speaking out against the dangers of sex. What I am asking for is some perspective, some tolerance of those who speak about the costs of this highly sexualized age without being driven from the halls of public debate as if they’re witch hunters brandishing torches of judgment and blame.

When I hear people talk about sex as if it’s no big deal, as if it’s no different than eating a steak or going for a drive on the freeway, when I see ads comparing voting to losing your virginity, or when I hear social conservatives slapped down when they voice their objections to a licentious culture, my heart grieves.

That’s because I’m picturing the girl walking home alone after having sex on the beer-drenched floor of a fraternity house with a guy too drunk to remember her name. The tears on her cheeks. The tightness in her chest, the sick feeling deep inside, and the already-hardening effect of knowing she will do it again.

I’m remembering a young girl who came to me with scars on her wrists and tremors in her soft voice as she told me about the day she aborted her baby. She wept uncontrollably in my arms for an innocence, a life, she would never have again, her dark eyes filled with a sorrow that only the greatest amount of love and grace could ever wash away.

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