The girl had a rose inked on her wrist, small and delicate, no bigger than a dime. She drew her hand back quickly when I complimented it—a reflex, like someone caught doing wrong.
“I’m not sure if it’s a sin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-apologizing. “I probably shouldn’t have gotten it…and people at church kind of hinted at that too.”
I’ve heard it more times than I can count. Maybe you've thought it too. Is it a sin to get a tattoo?
There’s a verse, tucked inside Leviticus, that people often quote: “Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.” (Leviticus 19:28, NIV). It sounds direct. Permanent ink on skin—off-limits, right?
But let’s slow down. Scripture, like a letter from someone who loves us, deserves to be read with care. With its heart wide open.
Leviticus 19 is part of a larger set of laws God gave Israel—a newborn nation trying to walk differently than the world around them. These commands were about holiness, about setting themselves apart from pagan practices that dishonored God and distorted His image. Some tribes around them cut their bodies or marked themselves in rituals connected to worshipping the dead or calling on false gods. God said, “My people aren’t to do that. You are mine.”
That was the point: “I am the Lord.” He was naming Himself as their identity, their protector, their home.
It wasn’t about body art. It was about allegiance. It was about love.
Fast forward centuries, Paul’s words pick up that thread—not with outward signs, but inward surrender: “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own.” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20, ESV).
A temple is holy—but the holiness is not from spotless marble or ornate ceilings. It's holy because God lives there. Holiness, for us, flows from His presence inside us. From honoring Him with all we are.
So what does that mean for tattoos?
Maybe the better question is: What’s the story the ink tells?
There’s a difference between a symbol that celebrates brokenness and one that whispers of grace. A phrase reminding someone they’re redeemed. A date inked to remember a son lost too soon. A name written over a scar with strength.
God doesn’t measure holiness in ounces of ink. He reads the heart behind the hand. The intention beneath the decision.
Some people shouldn’t get tattoos—not because it’s universally forbidden, but because in their spirit, they know it doesn’t honor their walk. Others do—with prayer, peace, and purpose. Grace leaves space for that conversation.
Maybe you’ve felt the same quiet guilt as that girl. Maybe people have looked at your skin and judged your soul.
But here’s the truth: Jesus didn’t die to give us a flawless image. He gave us a flawless identity. Loved. Washed. New.
You are not your own—not in a way that chains you with shame, but in a way that sets you free to live intentionally. Free to ask questions like, “Would this please God?” And free to hear Him answer, not with a gavel, but with gentle truth.
I remember the girl smiled later in the conversation, lifting her wrist again. “It’s for my grandmother,” she said. “She always said I reminded her of her rose bushes.”
I saw it then: not a mark of rebellion. A memory. A blessing.
Ink on skin can fade. But God writes on hearts—and His marks never wash away.
Maybe that’s what it really means to be holy. To let Him write His story in your life, one surrender at a time.
The girl had a rose inked on her wrist, small and delicate, no bigger than a dime. She drew her hand back quickly when I complimented it—a reflex, like someone caught doing wrong.
“I’m not sure if it’s a sin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-apologizing. “I probably shouldn’t have gotten it…and people at church kind of hinted at that too.”
I’ve heard it more times than I can count. Maybe you've thought it too. Is it a sin to get a tattoo?
There’s a verse, tucked inside Leviticus, that people often quote: “Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.” (Leviticus 19:28, NIV). It sounds direct. Permanent ink on skin—off-limits, right?
But let’s slow down. Scripture, like a letter from someone who loves us, deserves to be read with care. With its heart wide open.
Leviticus 19 is part of a larger set of laws God gave Israel—a newborn nation trying to walk differently than the world around them. These commands were about holiness, about setting themselves apart from pagan practices that dishonored God and distorted His image. Some tribes around them cut their bodies or marked themselves in rituals connected to worshipping the dead or calling on false gods. God said, “My people aren’t to do that. You are mine.”
That was the point: “I am the Lord.” He was naming Himself as their identity, their protector, their home.
It wasn’t about body art. It was about allegiance. It was about love.
Fast forward centuries, Paul’s words pick up that thread—not with outward signs, but inward surrender: “Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own.” (1 Corinthians 6:19-20, ESV).
A temple is holy—but the holiness is not from spotless marble or ornate ceilings. It's holy because God lives there. Holiness, for us, flows from His presence inside us. From honoring Him with all we are.
So what does that mean for tattoos?
Maybe the better question is: What’s the story the ink tells?
There’s a difference between a symbol that celebrates brokenness and one that whispers of grace. A phrase reminding someone they’re redeemed. A date inked to remember a son lost too soon. A name written over a scar with strength.
God doesn’t measure holiness in ounces of ink. He reads the heart behind the hand. The intention beneath the decision.
Some people shouldn’t get tattoos—not because it’s universally forbidden, but because in their spirit, they know it doesn’t honor their walk. Others do—with prayer, peace, and purpose. Grace leaves space for that conversation.
Maybe you’ve felt the same quiet guilt as that girl. Maybe people have looked at your skin and judged your soul.
But here’s the truth: Jesus didn’t die to give us a flawless image. He gave us a flawless identity. Loved. Washed. New.
You are not your own—not in a way that chains you with shame, but in a way that sets you free to live intentionally. Free to ask questions like, “Would this please God?” And free to hear Him answer, not with a gavel, but with gentle truth.
I remember the girl smiled later in the conversation, lifting her wrist again. “It’s for my grandmother,” she said. “She always said I reminded her of her rose bushes.”
I saw it then: not a mark of rebellion. A memory. A blessing.
Ink on skin can fade. But God writes on hearts—and His marks never wash away.
Maybe that’s what it really means to be holy. To let Him write His story in your life, one surrender at a time.
