The #MeToo Reckoning

Facing the Church's Complicity in Sexual Abuse and Misconduct

Ruth Everhart

• Publisher: IVP
• Year: 2020
• ISBN:
  9780830849437
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Sociology
• Index: Social Sciences

- 2020 Publishers Weekly Book of the Year - Religion? Publishers Weekly starred review.The #MeToo movement has revealed sexual abuse and assault in every sphere of society, including the church. But victims are routinely ignored by fellow Christians who deny their accounts and fail to bring accountability to the perpetrators. All too often, churches have been complicit in protecting abusers, reinforcing patriarchal power dynamics, and creating cultures of secrecy, shame, and silence.Pastor and survivor Ruth Everhart shines a light on the prevalence of sexual abuse and misconduct within faith communities. She candidly discloses stories of how she and others have experienced assault in church settings, highlighting the damage done to individuals, families, and communities.Everhart offers hope to survivors as she declares that God is present with the violated and stands in solidarity with victims. Scriptural narratives like those of Tamar and Bathsheba carry powerful resonance in today's context, as do the accounts of Jesus' interactions with women. God is at work in the midst of this #MeToo moment to call the church to repentance and deliver us from violence against the vulnerable.

CHAPTER ONE

POWER AND PATRIARCHY

Men are afraid that women will laugh at them.

Women are afraid that men will kill them.

MARGARET ATWOOD

No, my brother, do not force me; for such a thing is not done in Israel; do not do anything so vile!

2 SAMUEL 13:12

NOT FAR INTO MY FIRST YEAR of seminary, I began to wonder whether I would make it after all. The four-year program had already begun to feel like a marathon—and I’m not a runner.

I was earning a master of divinity degree, which would equip me to receive a call to a church and be ordained as a minister of word and sacrament in the Presbyterian Church (USA). Every part of seminary, from the heady subject matter and interminable readings to the demanding internships, felt all-consuming. Seminary seemed designed to consume us, or at least to consume every sure thing we brought with us: the childhood beliefs, the rote creeds, the heartfelt but unexamined convictions. These had to be examined and dismantled so that new beliefs could be constructed. By graduation, we would have presumably mastered the divine.

Judy, an older friend who had graduated and received a call to a ministry position, invited me to her ordination. I attended to see what it looked like to cross the finish line. The service took place on a Sunday evening in a beautiful, old church in a Minneapolis neighborhood. The vaulted sanctuary had long, curving pews in dark wood and a sloping floor. Organ music reverberated as a half-dozen participants dressed in black robes and colorful stoles proceeded down the center aisle. The service brimmed with songs, Scripture, and solemn vows in a mood both festive and serious. I drank it in. A seminary graduation confers a diploma, a sheepskin, but ordination confers a status, the standing of shepherd. My classmate would no longer be just Judy but reverend.

The pursuit of that title—at the time a forbidden status for women—had brought me to seminary. The Christian Reformed Church, the church of my childhood, barred women from entering ministry.1 I felt this as a deeply personal affront. To my Dutch forebears, the fact that I was female meant ordination was verboten. That I felt the call of God did not matter. Whether I was smart enough, skilled enough, or disciplined enough was irrelevant. The door was shut. So I enrolled at a more liberal seminary. My professors were welcoming, but I encountered internal barriers: Who was I fooling? I didn’t deserve to be here. I would never make it.

That evening at my friend’s ordination, my whirling emotions found an anchor in the black pulpit robe presented to her as a gift. Judy would don it officially for the first time after the laying on of hands to signify that she had become Reverend Rhodes. I knew that some pastors wore such robes, but not in my tradition, where preachers wore dark suits and white shirts, the conservative attire of powerful men. A pulpit robe struck me as outdated and ungainly. Even ridiculous. A preacher couldn’t so much as fill a water glass without those flapping sleeves getting wet. How nerve-racking to walk up chancel steps with all that cloth fluttering around your feet. But for all those limitations—maybe because of them—the robe declared its power. It was not designed to be handy, or useful, or particularly beautiful. It was designed to convey that the wearer had entered a rarefied profession, adding power and authority to the preaching of the Word.

The ordination service was nearing its climax. Judy knelt and the black-robed participants clustered around her, each laying a hand on her head and shoulders. An authority figure prayed for the Spirit to descend upon her. Watching, I felt a flood of awe, a frisson of fear. Power was present, undeniably—but also danger.

To me, the ordination felt as mysterious as the practice of alchemy. An ordinary mortal had been transformed into a minister before my eyes. It didn’t occur to me then—or for decades afterward—that the ritual of ordination might be considered, in some sense, a way of joining the patriarchy, of donning the power of a certain status.

PATRIARCHY

I was five years old in 1963, the year Betty Friedan published her seminal work The Feminine Mystique. What she called “the problem that has no name”2 described the shared female experience of being less than men, of being given a very limited role to occupy. Friedan’s work spurred women to become conscious of patriarchy. Seven years later, Robin Morgan edited an anthology of radical feminist writings that included the voices of women of color titled Sisterhood Is Powerful: An Anthology of Writings from the Women’s Liberation Movement.3 Morgan’s work highlighted the systemic nature of women’s oppression in the workplace and political system. This not only raised consciousness but also called people to push back against patriarchy.

Loosely defined, the word patriarchy refers to laws that keep males in power, ranging across systems of governance in the nation, state, business, church, and family. Across the millennia, men’s legal rights—to vote, hold office, own a business, buy property, and pass property on to male heirs—ensured that men had access to power that women lacked. Patriarchal laws also ensured that white men had access to power that men of color lacked, creating the racial disparities that afflict America today. Since the fruit of patriarchy is injustice, patriarchy is sinful.

Included in patriarchy are traditions and norms that don’t carry the force of law but rely on longstanding habit and common practice. These often linger longer than laws. Examples are a wife taking her husband’s name, a husband expecting his wife to shoulder the housework, or referring to a father’s portion of childcare as “babysitting.”

Patriarchal laws and norms descended from antiquity, so they color the stories we read in Scripture. These “biblical norms” are often used to defend today’s patriarchal norms. Certainly, they shaped the way I was raised. To be a “good girl” meant being silent, docile, and obedient. In my home, church, and private Christian school, it was assumed that males would wield the power. After all, the pattern of male dominance and female compliance was dictated by Scripture.

SETTING THE STAGE: TAMAR’S STORY

If it didn’t involve incest in a royal family, the story of Tamar in 2 Samuel 13 would seem commonplace: a powerful man targets a beautiful woman, deceives her, traps her, overpowers her, sexually assaults her, and then casts her aside as worthless. Had Tamar been a nameless woman, her story would have been lost to history, as so many others undoubtedly have been.

But Tamar is the daughter of David, a towering biblical figure, the shepherd boy who killed the giant Goliath with a slingshot and was anointed king. Because of her proximity to the throne, Tamar’s story is riddled with palace intrigue. Amnon, her assailant, is also her half-brother and first in line to David’s throne. Absalom, her “rescuer,” is her full brother and second in line to the throne. When Absalom avenged Tamar’s assault, years later, his action not only altered the line of succession but made him king. This is probably the reason Scripture records the story.

Even though Tamar has the power of a royal name, the story of her rape ends up being less about her and more about her brothers vying for power. These dynamics—both of power and vulnerability—are captured in a rare textual detail about her clothing, a “long robe with sleeves; for this is how the virgin daughters of the king were clothed” (2 Samuel 13:18). It’s fitting that Tamar laments her assault by tearing the robe that defines her place.

SETTING THE STAGE: MY STORY

When I graduated from seminary, my husband, Doug, was finishing his teaching credentials, our daughter was a toddler, and I was pregnant with number two. As soon as our second daughter was born, I called the headquarters of the Presbyterian Church (USA) and requested the list of churches with open positions. While my infant nursed I pored through the computer printouts. Each listing contained a possible new future.

Doug and I were more than ready to become professionals and leave our student juggling act behind. For years, we had passed everything back and forth between us like a four-handed circus performance: three part-time jobs, two sets of professional coursework, and one rattletrap car—not to mention taking care of our daughters. We dreamed of the day our family would be settled in a place where he could teach and I could preach. I purposely cast a wide net of applications, feeling excited to entertain a dozen dreams at once. Wherever God called us, we would go.

When our baby was eight months old, a call came from a thriving church in upstate New York, a thousand miles east of our home in Minneapolis. Penfield Presbyterian Church was located in a wealthy suburb of Rochester. I would be the associate pastor in charge of programs for children, youth, and families (which struck me as pretty much everyone). The executive presbyter told me that the position was a “plum.” In fact, I would be the first female to serve this prestigious church. Doug and I were ecstatic and deeply grateful to God.

Still, we felt a sense of shock at how quickly the change would unfold and how complicated the logistics would be. We needed to sell our ramshackle house—an old Victorian that cost less than a BMW—and buy one in our new community. We quickly realized that housing prices in Penfield were completely out of our range. We would need two incomes, which meant finding a full-time job for Doug and full-time care for our two daughters.

The church’s senior pastor, Reverend Zane Bolinger, phoned. Appearing to be helpful, he volunteered to plan my ordination service and the reception to follow. As he said, it was one chore he could take off my plate. Bolinger was a long-time pastor, beloved by his congregation. At sixty-two years old, he was twice my age and had recently been widowed. I felt honored that he offered to preach the ordination sermon. I knew that when I knelt for the moment of ordination, he would be the first to lay his hands on my head. I felt thrilled in anticipation of that holy moment.

I couldn’t possibly have known that in a year’s time Bolinger would lay his hands on me again, with unholy intentions.

THE TRAP IS LAID: TAMAR’S STORY

In 2 Samuel 13, the text uses the phrase “fell in love” to describe how Amnon lusted after his half-sister Tamar: “David’s son Absalom had a beautiful sister whose name was Tamar; and David’s son Amnon fell in love with her. Amnon was so tormented that he made himself ill because of his sister Tamar, for she was a virgin and it seemed impossible to Amnon to do anything to her” (2 Samuel 13:1-2).

Ancient texts use euphemisms too. Amnon “fell in love” and could not “do anything” to Tamar. But look! Help is on the horizon: “Amnon had a friend whose name was Jonadab, the son of David’s brother Shimeah; and Jonadab was a very crafty man. He said to him, ‘O son of the king, why are you so haggard morning after morning? Will you not tell me?’” (2 Samuel 13:3-4).

Can you hear cousin Jonadab’s ingratiating tone? “O son of the king!” In other words, “O, you important man! You are not like other men!” Schemers have always orbited the powerful. Whether they’re tangential relatives, hangers-on, or opportunists, they know how to give influential men their heart’s desire. Jonadab is the cunning type willing to offer up a woman’s body to advance his own agenda.

The ruse that Jonadab concocts is wonderfully simple. Amnon could pretend to be sick. His appetite is gone, but it might be tempted with one of his sister’s special recipes. Those steamed dumplings! Those are his favorite.

As Jonadab anticipated, David orders Tamar to Amnon’s house to cook for him. Tamar cannot refuse the king’s order, even if she suspects that she is being summoned to satisfy other appetites. Obediently, she prepares the dumplings and sets them before Amnon. He will not eat. He clears the room and orders Tamar to bring the food into his bedchamber. Is she wary about what will happen next? She does as she’s told and the door closes behind her.

THE TRAP IS LAID: MY STORY

Before we moved, Doug was told he could secure a teaching job with his credentials, but he soon discovered that the local schools required a master’s degree, which would require another full year of classes. After a long talk we decided it made sense for him to stay home and take care of our daughters full time, at least for this season. We would have to live off my salary, which was the minimum allowed by the denomination. We thought we could scrape by since we were used to living a simple student l...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication Page
• Contents
• Preface: To My Readers
• Introduction
• 1. Power and Patriarchy
• 2. Silence and Shame
• 3. The System and Secrecy
• 4. Accountability and Justice
• 5. Purity Culture and Rape Culture
• 6. Betrayal and Deceit
• 7. Vulnerability and Voice
• 8. Apologies and Amends
• 9. Lamentation and Clericalism
• 10. A Way Forward
• Acknowledgments
• Notes
• Name Index
• Subject Index
• Praise for The #MeToo Reckoning
• About the Author
• More Titles from InterVarsity Press
• Copyright