Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 47

Can Judaism or Christianity explain away God’s violence?

When I think of the “Jewish Bible” (or “Tanakh,” to be more accurate), I think of the classic Sunday school tales that Jewish and Christian children alike are taught: Adam and Eve and the Forbidden Tree, Noah’s Ark, Jonah and the whale. It wasn’t until after becoming a Christian that I got around to the less popular, more disturbing passages of the Old Testament: the offering of Lot’s daughters to be raped by a mob, the massacre at Canaan, descriptions of dashing enemy infants’ heads on rocks. Christians, at least, have the New Testament to (not always satisfactorily) explain away the sickening bloodshed God himself authorized.

Apparently, in the centuries between the canons, God underwent a personality transplant before introducing Jesus, who offered a more inclusive, less violent covenant (until the crucifixion, anyway). Christians explain that the new covenant fulfills the old; the purpose of the Old Law, and by extension the flawed examples of those who followed it, was to highlight our sinful nature. I’d say the Old Testament definitely gets that message across. What troubles me is how Judaism might explain away or justify this divinely decreed violence. We have no “new covenant” to fulfill or otherwise eradicate or excuse it.

What does this say about our morality compared to our Creator’s? Most human beings find genocide abhorrent, and won’t be inclined to study the “context” of these verses that seem like a portrayal of a very angry, tyrannical god. Once again, Jewish culture is not just my only option for claiming Judaism, but maybe even the preferred option. Of course Jesus seems nicer by comparison.

But even Jesus has undergone cultural makeovers through the ages, and has radically different personalities depending on who you talk to. I have friends who were raised with the radically exclusive (“No one comes to the Father except through me”), table-flipping, family-values-stomping Jesus (“If one loves his father or mother more than me, he is not worthy of being my disciple”). Conversely, some of my college friends embraced the long-haired, non-judgmental (“Let he who has not sinned cast the first stone”), “All you need is love” hippie Jesus. Can they both be the same person, or is one camp of belief more wrong than the other? What if they’re both wrong?

I wonder if some groups identify with the side of God they need the most. People who grew up with fire-and-brimstone sermons only are missing the side of God’s love. People who learned only about love and grace are missing the judgment and justice side of the coin. People need a God of anger and love just like children need loving parents who aren’t afraid to discipline when needed. But these two sides of God remind me of those sinks with two faucets: you can have scalding hot water or freezing cold, but you can’t adjust both temperatures so they come out of one spout, creating the ideal temperature. Yet, both faucets are part of the same sink. And God’s relentless compassion and relentless anger are both part of the same book.

I’ve made people in bible studies and small groups very uncomfortable with these questions, and I certainly don’t ask them to cause a stir for the fun of it. I hate being “that person” to challenge a faith that brings comfort and purpose to so many, but I do for two reasons: 1) These are the passages that are often the beginning of a journey out of faith to atheism, and 2) Because other people might have the same questions, but are too afraid to ask. I am determined to understand this thing that is literally under my skin – I have religion etched into my DNA, which, for me, is enough of a reason to keep wrestling for a lifetime.

If you liked this post, you might be interested in checking out Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Judaism, social justice

The truth is complicated – “A Stunning Accusation” COVER REVEAL & excerpt

It’s the day I’ve been waiting for on pins and needles for weeks – cover reveal day! Looks pretty foreboding, doesn’t it? My cover artist, Jennifer Howell, did a phenomenal job capturing the tension and suspense I was hoping for. A STUNNING ACCUSATION releases on July 6th. If you are interested in an advanced copy for review, please fill out this Google doc and email it to Melissa.Flickinger@Booktrope.com.

Don’t forget to add to your Goodreads list!

Adelaide Scott is a 25-year-old relationship advice columnist for Stunning! Magazine. Her new boyfriend, Jordan Johnson, is a renowned photographer for Sports Unlimited. Their relationship seems perfect, until his ex-girlfriend confronts them at a bar – and accuses Jordan of raping her, turning their world upside down.

It doesn’t help that her best friend and editor, Kiersten Sharp, sees rape as a black-and-white issue, with no shades of doubt. Addie is about to discover that the truth – in all its forms – is complicated, and not at all what she expects.

***

     I was no closer to a new column idea by the end of the workday than I was that morning. Well, to clarify, there were always ideas; just nothing worth printing that would garner the same kind of attention as the one my readers loved most. If I were truly desperate, I could always piggyback off that column and write a series of other attention-getting accessories to attract men.

It was as if I turned Tracy Cavanaugh into a pin-up doll, where I borrowed her shoes, her hair, her clothes…her things. But what would happen once I peeled that all away? Then there would be just the woman, herself, to dissect. All the inside stuff that made up who she was.

Would anyone want to read about that?

Without much difficulty, I shoved the thought away, because it was Jordan Time. He suggested Mochahitos, a place known for serving alcohol and coffee, my two favorite things (though to my knowledge, they had yet to make a drink that was both a mocha and a mojito).

“Make good choices,” teased Kiersten as I slung my bag over my shoulder. Like I needed any reminders.

Jordan was already waiting at the bar when I got there. I hope I didn’t look too eager as I set my bag on the counter and took the chair next to him. Be cool. Be Stunning. “What are you drinking?” I asked.

“Coffee-flavored stout,” he answered. “Wanna try?”

He pushed the bottle toward me. I exhaled before trying a sip because it was a stout, a drink I knew I’d hate. I don’t like beers that are thick enough to be a meal.

“It’s good,” I told him, and then signaled the bartender. “I’ll have what he’s having, please.”

“So,” Jordan said. He turned to face me. “There’s someone I want you to meet. She’ll be here shortly.”

My stomach clenched at the word she. His next hookup partner? A secret girlfriend? I supposed either possibility was inevitable, since it’s not like he ever promised me anything serious. I realized I was acting a bit paranoid. Still, it would have been nice to get a heads up before springing this new woman on me out of the blue in a casual moment.

In fact, I grew annoyed, and opened my mouth to rip him a new one, but I was interrupted.

“Hi,” chirped a child’s voice. We both looked down, and I wanted to kick myself for being so paranoid. The greeting came from to the toddler from the photo in his wallet.

“Zoe!” Jordan scooped her up, which she loved, judging by her breakout smile. “Where’s your mom? You’re too little to be in here by yourself.”

“Potty,” Zoe answered.

“Ahh. Okay. Well I guess you can chill with us while we wait for her to come back. Addie,” Jordan said. He settled Zoe in his lap and rested his chin on the girl’s head. “Meet my niece, Zoe. My favorite person in the whole world.”

“Hey there,” I said. I had to stop myself from extending my hand, as if toddlers knew how to handshake.

I’m not the best with kids, but Jordan clearly adored her. My uterus almost skipped a beat.

Not before too long, Jordan’s sister showed up. “Do you mind watching her for a few minutes, Jordy? I’m so behind on this research paper, I only need maybe twenty minutes to look some things over. Your next drink will be on me, I promise.”

“You know you don’t need to bribe me to hang out with this girl,” Jordan responded, bouncing Zoe on his lap, which made her laugh and laugh. I almost couldn’t handle this cuteness. “Hey, this is my girlfriend Addie, by the way.”

Girlfriend! Addie? Seriously? I felt as shocked as I was honored.

“Oh, wow, hey. Sorry, I’m so rude. Nice to meet you Addie, I’m Elise. I’d love to stay and chat, but I have so much homework. We’ll talk later?” She disappeared to a table across the bar before I could respond.

What just happened here?

While Jordan ordered a scone for Zoe, I nursed my drink and tried to think of what to say. “So…girlfriend, huh?” Not too eager, not too emotional. I hoped.

“Well, yeah,” He broke the scone into smaller bites for his niece. “What did you think?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “You just made it seem like we were…”

“Well maybe that’s how it started.” He reached for my hand with his free one, as the other gently cradled his niece. “But I like you. I assumed you felt the same.”

     Keep calm, Adelaide. I forced myself to take another swig of beer. “Of course.” As much as I’d have loved to know when he realized I was a keeper and not just a fling, I switched to another topic instead. “So Elise seems nice.”

“Yeah, she is. Just constantly tired and overworked. She finally decided to go back to school after she had Zoe, and she’s determined to graduate within a year. Not bad for a single mom.”

My next question – assuming I could have found a tactful way to put it – was going to be about Zoe’s dad, since I noticed Elise didn’t have any rings on her left hand. “You must be very proud of her.”

“I am. I’m proud of both my sisters. Emma is a junior in high school and did better on the ACT than I did. And she kicks my ass in chess.”.Now mindful of the impressionable girl in his lap whose face was covered in scone crumbs, Jordan cooed, “I mean, butt. Don’t say ‘ass,’ Zo-Zo. Uncle Jordy has a potty mouth.”

“Potty mouf!” Zoe cried, releasing a spray of crumbs. Jordan shook his head. “What can I do? I’m her favorite babysitter, but also her worst influence.”

It was hard for me to reconcile these two sides of him: Jordan, the high-profile photographer with a girlfriend list as long as my arm, and goofy Uncle Jordy, fun-loving family man, charmer of adult women and two-year-olds. I was about to say, “I highly doubt that’s true,” but was interrupted by a frail, redheaded woman who just entered the bar. She stared directly at us. I only noticed her because of the fiery brightness of her hair – the merciless eyes that locked onto mine gave me an unexpected shock. I jerked my head back to Jordan. “How long can you go before teaching her your dirtiest jokes?” I asked.

“Hmm…” He continued to hold Zoe with one arm as he grabbed his beer and took a big gulp, pretending to ponder. “Those will have to wait until she’s much older. Like kindergarten.”

“Will Elise approve of that?”

“Elise will be grateful to have someone else to blame so people don’t think she’s the one who corrupted her.”

My laugh, though genuine, was louder than I’d anticipated, as the red-haired woman’s intense stare continued to freak me out. Her gaze locked on Jordan’s back, but Jordan didn’t face her, so he had no idea. “So, you come from a family of potty mouths, I take it?”

“I wouldn’t say that, exactly. My parents…well, let’s just say, we try to hide that side of ourselves when we’re around them.”

“I see…” I stopped speaking as the woman started walking toward us. Her eyes continued to bore holes in Jordan’s back, but she wobbled as she stepped closer. Was she drunk? No, more like…nervous.

“Hey.” Squeezing Jordan’s knee, I jerked my head in what’s-her-face’s direction. “You know that woman?”

By the time Jordan turned around, she stood in front of him, close enough to almost feel her visible anger. Her eyes widened and her face grew red like her hair.

“Jordan Johnson?” she said. “Is that you?”

Jordan’s forehead creased as he stared her down. Cautious. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes, mixed with surprise, and, then, dread. He knew her. And however he knew her, it looked like he wished he didn’t. “Um, yeah. What are you doing here, Sam? I thought you moved out of the city?”

This Sam was so thin and short statured, with a baby-looking face to match, she could pass for a high school senior. Her eyes darted around like a spooked horse’s as she shook her head. “You,” she exclaimed, voice shaking while pointing a trembling finger. “You!”

“Look, Sam, I’d love to catch up sometime, but I’m kind of with my new girlfriend here.”

I relished this moment, the second time in the same hour I’d been referred to as Jordan’s girlfriend. But the euphoria didn’t last long, because the next words out of Sam’s mouth were piercing and unforgettable:

“You raped me.”

Filed under: Rape Culture, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, cover reveal, rape culture, Writing

Grieving a national tragedy when you’re already grieving

It’s a double-whammy of difficult days for me this week: my first father’s day without my dad, and what should have been my parents’ 35th anniversary the day after that. Here I’ve been, sitting in my little library, journaling and drinking tea and wondering if it will be good for me to attend church this Sunday. I’ve been considering skipping it altogether and instead following the advice of a friend of mine: do something Dad and I liked to do together. So maybe I’ll take my husband out for breakfast (he is, after all, a doting father to our kittens).

But then the shootings in Charleston happened, ripping me out of my grieving hole and keeping me glued to images of devastated families, biographies of the victims, and alarming information about how it’s apparently illegal to take down the Confederate flag.

As a human being, of course I’m outraged, but I don’t feel it as strongly as my father’s absence. The truth is, my own grief has worn me out. There is so much to be angry about in this world, and now I’m approaching burnout. On some level, this makes me feel selfish. Innocent people lost their lives in a senseless act of hate – but I’m worried about being emotionally triggered in church this Sunday.

I find myself wondering if it might be an act of self-care to turn off the news for a bit. This doesn’t mean I stop caring – but if I don’t care for myself, I’ll have no energy left to care about anything beyond myself, and that too would be a tragedy. For me, it’s the same logic of flight attendants instructing airplane passengers to put their own oxygen masks on first before assisting other people.

And then there’s the realization that I can only do so much – but I am capable of doing a lot. I struggle with learning to pick my battles, because they are all equally important. The last thing I’d want to do is send a message that by choosing one issue over another, I am saying one matters more than the other.

There will be much grieving this weekend. I hope it’s a small comfort to the victims’ families in Charleston that their names have been added to my list. Even if grieving is all I can do, acknowledging the value of lost life is never nothing.

Filed under: Other stuff Tagged: Charleston Shooting, depression, Father's Day, grief, self-care

Let’s stop apologizing for others’ bad behavior

One of the books that most influenced my life is The Sunflower by Simon Wiesenthal. It’s the true story of Wiesenthal’s experience in a concentration camp, from which he was pulled aside one day and lead to the hospital room of a dying SS officer. From his deathbed, the officer detailed his horrific crimes against humanity, and reasoned that the only way he could die with a clear conscience was to ask forgiveness from a Jew. Except the Jews he should have asked forgiveness from were murdered. He figured he could fulfill this request by talking to any Jew. Wiesenthal was selected at random.

Floored – because all Jews were the same, in that officer’s mind – Wiesenthal said nothing. The rest of the book is a collection of essays from religious leaders of all stripes about what they would have done in his place.

That book taught me most of what I know about forgiveness. Mainly, that the only person who can rightfully give it is the person who was hurt or offended somehow. But if the victim refuses, the offense remains an open wound, and the only other way for the offender to have resolution is to appeal to his God, who reflects himself in all humans.

What the SS officer was asking makes as much sense as requiring all 21st-century white Americans to apologize for slavery in 19th-century America. It’s an empty apology, because it is not within their right to give it. Recently, I’ve seen countless apologies in the blogosphere from pastors and Christians on behalf of all corrupt pastors and Christians. While the sentiment behind this gesture is well intentioned, it absolves the real offenders of personal responsibility. It doesn’t do much to comfort me, personally, when the offending person is still out there, offending without remorse. It doesn’t comfort me to read #NotAllMen tweets because I know “not all men” are assholes; I married one, after all. Rational people ought to be aware of that. I’m only interested in an apology from one specific man, but I know I’ll never get it. It’s rare for certain kinds of offenders to ever show a hint of remorse. Luckily, I’m not putting my life on hold for that. Real forgiveness is refusing to let the offense(s) poison your life.

In light of recent events, I’d rather see Christians prove with their lives that they are “not all like that.” Let’s not trivialize the suffering of people who are hurt and burned out by acting as if what happened to them is a rare occurrence. Let’s not be arrogant enough to assume responsibility for people whose actions we cannot control. The only time this is acceptable is when a mother apologized to me recently after her young son stepped on my foot. He couldn’t have been older than three or four, and when she said to him, “Apologize to her!” he blew spit bubbles instead. It was more than enough for me to see proof that that mother was doing her best to raise a well-rounded, socially considerate person. But at some point, we leave the shelter of someone else’s responsibility and must be held accountable for our own individual choices.

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Judaism

A confessional on pride

My “I can’t believe this, I’m so above this” face

When I was six years old, I temporarily quit ballet and took up figure skating for the sole purpose of having the stage (or in that case, rink) to myself. I hated blending in with a dozen other girls wearing matching costumes, doing the exact same moves. I wanted all eyes on me – only me.

From an early age, I knew I wanted to be famous. I participated in every talent show, auditioned for every play, entered every contest. I wanted to excel at everything, and hated when someone else received recognition for something I worked equally hard to accomplish. I even resented my parents for naming me Sarah Elizabeth, the “It” name of the eighties, and one I shared with dozens of other girls in my school. How could I possibly stand out if I had such a boring, common name? No one would remember it!

First-name recognition was the reason I started writing under the name Sarahbeth when I became a weekly columnist for my campus newspaper. “Are you Sarahbeth?” was my new favorite question: no last name required. Of course, living in Yankee territory, double-barreled first names do not easily roll off most people’s tongues, and the majority of people I encountered preferred to shorten it to Sarah in casual conversation. Plan failed.

It was Christianity that helped me reach that level of humility where I realized I am just a speck in the vast, unfathomable universe. After all, I worshiped a God who shed his divine privileges to live as a poor man in a society where he could have benefited greatly by using them for his own gain. Whatever gifts and talents I have to offer should be for the betterment of the world and of others, not my own self-seeking glory. Using my gifts should be a demonstration of thankfulness to the creator who gave them to me. Understanding this, I was able to accept living as Beth; a name I realized was a much better fit, despite being “common.” I came to a radical understanding that I could actually make this name my own – and it made going to Starbucks a hell of a lot easier.

I still want to be an influential writer, and there’s nothing inherently wrong with that. But my motives are different now. I credit Christianity for helping me rearrange my priorities, so I care more about my words touching and influencing people than being a household name, or seeing one of my stories turned into a movie (though I can’t lie, that would be incredibly awesome). Humility is simply more attractive than pride. Humility says to others, “Let me put your needs first and give you my full attention.” Pride, on the other hand – always seeking opportunities to put myself out there for the sake of putting myself out there – gets annoying. I don’t miss the competition I created in my head, seeing other people’s talents as a threat to my own. How sad that former way of life was – how exhausting.

I don’t mean to imply that Judaism couldn’t teach me healthy humility and help reorganize my priorities; it certainly could. I guess it helped to have a visual reminder, and that reminder was Jesus on a cross demonstrating the ultimate self-sacrificing, humiliating, and degrading act of love with absolutely no possibility of self-gain. I really needed to understand what that meant.

But now, returning to the Faith vs. Culture collision, I often see the exact opposite of humility: I hear about restaurants offering discounts to customers who are seen praying before a meal (does that mean they will hold off prayer, letting the food get cold, until a server comes around to take notice?). I’ve experienced judgment for not raising my hands high enough during worship, because my form of worship doesn’t involve those gestures, and I don’t feel I need them. That pride I worked so hard to overcome comes back with fiery fierceness in the form of “humble-bragging”: at least I’m not jumping around waving my arms like Susie over there. Who does she think she is, showing off like that? I’m the one doing it right, sitting here quietly without drawing attention to myself…

Most ironically, I pride myself on having such keen self-awareness of my flaws. But hey, I’m a work in progress. We all are.

Filed under: Religion, Writing & Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Christian culture, Christianity, evangelicals, Judaism, Writing

Losing Jesus in the sea of cliches

For all my moaning and groaning about how I just don’t “get” evangelical culture, I seem to have lost sight of Jesus. It’s an easy thing to do, when many who represent him attribute quotes to him and his dad that neither of them actually said, and that gets rather frustrating.

“Everything happens for a reason” is found nowhere in the Bible, but for how many Christians say it, you’d assume it was the eleventh commandment to believe it. This is a hard one for me, because it’s comforted me many times during unexplainable hardships. It’s especially hard when I realize that if I hadn’t joined my college ministry, an organization that caused me more spiritual harm than good, I never would have met my husband. In fact, if I hadn’t joined a dance class in middle school, where I met my future maid of honor, who later recommended I get “plugged in” to a ministry to help me grow, I never would have met my husband. Was I meant to join a very specific dance class to be lead to Cru to find a husband? Who knows.

“Love the sinner, hate the sin.” The sentiment is a nice one: love people without always agreeing or supporting what they do. It sounds wonderful in theory but often fails in practice when hating the sin feels an awful lot like hating the sinner. Truthfully, I have no time or energy to hate other people’s sins. There’s no one’s sin that I despise more than my own.

“God protected my house from a tornado/Jesus healed my tumor.” Aside from being offensive to those whose homes weren’t protected during a storm, and to those whose loved ones did die of tumors, statements like these are particularly senseless coming from the mouths of people who follow a religion in which God allowed his own son to die a horrible, agonizing death. Think about it for a moment: if God allowed Jesus to suffer, why should any of us be exempt?

That’s not to say God can’t or won’t protect a house in a storm or zap an illness away, but I find it’s easier to believe those things when it happens to you personally. Those of us who spent significant amounts of time in the chemo ward without success are more inclined to accept that the doctors did the best they could (really, thank God for doctors!), but sometimes, shit happens anyway. It’s a cold comfort – not really a comfort at all – to accept that sometimes tragedy has no apparent reason; you were in the wrong place at the wrong time, you inherited crappy genes, you ignored the phone ringing that would have made you five minutes late, preventing you from ending up in that fourteen-car pile-up on 1-25.

I believe Jesus when he says that there is meaning and redemption that can come out of suffering. That, to me, is his biggest selling point: shit happens, but it can be used for great fertilizer if harvested the right way. I find comfort in being part of a faith that emphasizes meaning and closeness to God in suffering rather than seeking to excuse or avoid it. In such a fallen world as this, avoiding suffering is impossible. The promise of Jesus to redeem it is a far more comforting and realistic hope to rest on.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, First World Problems, grief

Ethnic hair and the Great Identity Complex

Me and my “Fro of Shame,” circa 1994

My one-time summer at a Jewish sleep away camp was full of, shall we say, unique experiences, from a production of The Sound of Music featuring nuns with popsicle-stick Stars of David instead of crosses to lively debates about who looked “most Jewish” and who could pass for a gentile. In that contest, I ranked somewhere in the middle with my ashy-brown curls and pale skin. The winner of the Most Likely to Pass for a Gentile award was a tall, blonde, blue-eyed girl who was half-German, half-Swedish. Before camp, I had no idea such a Jewish person could exist without the help of colored contacts and hair dye.

I never knew whether to take offense when people occasionally told me I “looked Jewish.” I imagine it’s somewhat similar to being told you “look gay”: it’s offensive, a compliment, or a casual observation, depending on who says it. But how can it be offensive if it’s true? I am Jewish, ethnically speaking. My heritage is a mix of Polish (my last name, pre-Ellis Island, was Czaplinski), Russian, and a dash of German. As previously mentioned, I check off Ashkenazi any time it’s required for an accurate assessment of medical history, and with that background comes an expectation – read, stereotype – of physical appearance. But don’t all stereotypes begin with a grain of truth?

Growing up, it was not my so-called big nose or thick eyebrows that gave me grief over my Jewishness, but my thick, unmanageable curly hair, which only decided to be curly on some days. The only consistent thing about it was its poofiness, frizz, and tangles. When a stylist commented “You have enough hair for three people!” as I settled into her chair, I cried. I was nine years old at the time, and extremely sensitive. It’s not an exaggeration to say that hair has an impact on one’s identity and self-esteem, especially when living in a culture that worships shiny, straight hair as the ideal standard of beauty.

My battle for curly hair acceptance began three years before that moment at Great Clips (which made my mother realize it was time to join her at an official Grown-Up Salon) when a ballet teacher told me my bun wasn’t smooth enough. Well, news flash: curly hair is anything but smooth! I posted several angry rants on the forums of NaturallyCurly.com when The Princess Diaries heroine, Mia Thermopolis, received a “royal makeover” that made her wild mane sleek and unnaturally straight. Couldn’t those royal stylists, with every kind of product supposedly at their disposal, have given her a different haircut and recommended a special shampoo and leave-in conditioner instead? Why enforce the idea that curls somehow equal disorder and sloppiness?

Today, it’s somewhat of an embarrassment to admit that part of my acceptance of being Jewish happened when I learned to properly care for my hair. To me – and to anyone belonging to an ethnic or cultural group marked by a very specific kind of look – having the right hair could make or break an effort to assimilate. A jab about frizz is akin to a jab about who you are as a person, and where you belong.

To that end, the limitations and boundaries about the appropriateness of cultural jokes are still blurry. I can make jokes about the “Jew fro” I had when I was six, but if someone else makes a similar comment, does that make it anti-Semitic? And today, is it fair to say that my beliefs may be Christian, but my hair never will be? I’ve had friends light-heartedly tell me that if I straighten my hair and dye it a lighter brown, I can “pass” for a typical gentile; but if I leave it curly and dye it dark, I look “more Jewish.”

For some of us, how we look cannot be completely severed from who we are. Right or wrong, that is just how it is. There are so many trends we can try to squeeze into (at great financial expense) before we are forced to come to terms with the radical thought that the way we are made is the way we are meant to be. Recognizing that has saved me a great deal of time and stress getting ready in the morning.

Experimenting with a chemical relaxer as compromise. Tackles the frizz but leaves the natural wave intact. No more daily frying.

Filed under: Other stuff, Religion Tagged: Christian culture, Christianity, Judaism

I used the same excuses, too

Watching Jill and Jessa Duggar talk about the abuse they suffered from their brother on Fox News reminded me of someone I knew from college. “Jane” had told me that the guy I went on a date with the previous weekend raped her at a party. At least, she thought he raped her, but wasn’t entirely sure. She remembered being drunk. She remembered that he was drinking, too. There was a gap of time missing from that night, and when she woke up to find the guy on top of her, she wondered if she just didn’t remember consenting.

The entire story hinged on what she remembered, because the guy certainly denied it when I confronted him, furious. When Jane found out I accused the guy, she turned on me and told me I was making too big a deal out of it, which confused me greatly. Wasn’t she a victim? If so, why was she acting like what happened to her wasn’t a big deal? Worse, why was she suddenly changing her tune and defending the guy?

That was enough for me to believe that she lied about the whole thing – out of jealousy, as a plea for attention, who knew. What I know now that I didn’t back then is how much pressure a victim might be under to defend her attacker. In Jill and Jessa’s situation, the reputation of their family depends on their defense of their brother Josh. For Jane, I probably made things worse for her by confronting that guy. I forced her to deal with something she wasn’t ready for, and she probably told me what happened under the assumption that it was meant to stay between us – I violated that confidentiality. I acted no better than In Touch Magazine by blabbing someone’s private business, wreaking havoc on Jane and the friends she shared with him.

Not surprisingly, she never spoke to me again.

A few years later, I understood better than I wanted to why someone would defend a rapist. To this day, even, I defend him in my head by entertaining the thought that he too was unaware of what he was doing. Maybe some signals got crossed, and I didn’t make my intentions clear enough. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe this, maybe that. But he never showed a shred of remorse for hurting me, for violating my trust, and putting his needs so far ahead of mine that my dignity ceased to matter. I go back and forth between wanting my privacy and fearing the consequences of going forward, and wanting to shout the truth from the rooftops because I am so angry that he will never receive justice. And he could be out there doing it again to somebody else.

His last words to me were by phone, and they were “I can’t change what happened, what do you want from me?” My last words to him were “You’re dead to me” before hanging up. Listening to Jill and Jessa say they forgave their brother a long time ago just wrenched me. I don’t know if they truly forgive him, or if their extremist environment demands that they do. For their sakes, I hope it was their choice, but given their background, it probably wasn’t.

Even worse, they never used the specific word “rape” or “molestation” once throughout the whole interview. They used “inappropriate touch” and “curiosity” instead, again perhaps due to coaching from their family. From the abuser himself. It’s easy when that’s all you know. It’s easy when that person manipulating you is someone you’re supposed to trust.

Truthfully, I find it very unlikely that an abuser can stop abusing without legal and psychological intervention, if they ever stop at all. The Christian concepts of grace and reconciliation go out the window for me when it comes to dealing with rape. But as Jill said, “Only the victim can tell their story.” She is right about that. I can only hope that the Duggar girls – and Jane, too – can tell the story they know to be true, not a sanitized version they are pressured to believe instead.

Filed under: Rape Culture, Religion Tagged: censorship, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, Duggars, evangelicals, grief, rape culture

On Christians “reaching” transsexuals: you don’t need instructions to share what matters to you

A friend of mine posted a rather brilliant smack down on Facebook about Christians who freak out more about the sin of being transgendered than the sin of sex trafficking, and it could be their own judgmental Facebook posts preventing them from getting to know any transgendered people. It summarized everything I’ve been feeling about the reactions toward Caitlyn Jenner’s unveiling. Inevitably, someone asked what I knew would be asked eventually: “So how do I share Christ with transsexuals?”

That “How do I share Christ with [insert specific group here]?” question has been a favorite among many of my college small groups – a college that boasted a very diverse demographic of students. My alma mater is particularly known for being an LGBT friendly campus. During my senior year, there were rumors about possibly building LGBT-specific dorms as a way of those protecting students (to my knowledge, this was only a rumor).

Thanks to my presence in those small groups, my friends posed the question to me: “How do we share the gospel with Jewish people?” As if there was a step-by-step secret manual that only I had keys to. I would stutter and stumble over specific Old Testament messianic prophecies and C.S. Lewis’ “Liar, lunatic, or Lord?” Catch-22, designed to guilt people who might answer “liar” or “lunatic,” so all they are left with is “Lord.”

But it didn’t take long for me to realize those narrowed tactics were a waste of time, and I have plenty of past experiences with evangelists to back that up. The organization Jews for Jesus in particular is well known for dressing up gentiles in Jewish clothing and teaching them essential Jewish keywords like “Tanakh” instead of “Bible” and “Yeshua” instead of Jesus.

The problem? People on the inside of the group they are trying to reach know better. I have a keen sixth sense of being able to tell when someone is trying too hard, not only because his or her pronunciation of the Hebrew is laughably wrong, but trying to cram as many Jewish-isms in one sentence is also a dead giveaway. I almost want to spare the evangelist further embarrassment and say, “Dude, please, stop. Seriously, just stop.”

If your mission field were the black community living in the inner city, would you, as a white person, try to learn as much of Ebonics as possible to sound “relevant”? No, you wouldn’t; you would sound completely ridiculous, and it would be impossible to take you seriously. This same logic applies to transsexuals and other LGBT people. You don’t know their lives, you don’t understand their struggles, you don’t authentically speak their language, so don’t even try.

You don’t need any tailored tactics to discuss something that matters to you, especially when it comes to something as important as the gospel. That message has to do with sin and redemption, which is relevant to every living person. Stop with the seminars about how to talk to people who are different than you as if they are a completely different species; they aren’t. If you want to get to know someone else’s authentic self, do so by being your authentic self. That’s really all it takes, but I’ve known plenty of Christians over the years who want to make this sharing process more complicated than it needs to be.

All people want to be respected, and the best way to demonstrate that is by asking someone what their journey has been, how they became who they are. And then shutting up to listen. Nobody likes being treated as a project.

Aside from all that, I have a plethora of concerns about how Christians are so certain that being transgendered is a sin when the Bible is completely silent on the issue of gender identity, and gender identity differs from sex because sex has to do with anatomy and gender is a social construct…but that’s a completely separate post.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, evangelicals, Facebook, Judaism

Defending the Duggars is defending rape culture

I’ve watched reactions to Josh Duggar’s molestation charges with morbid interest over the last several days. Aside from being yet another celebrity “scandal” (one involving a family with absolute Christian values, no less), you wouldn’t think this news would affect me personally. I didn’t grow up in a cult, or in any kind of abusive household, and I’ve never known a form of religion as narrow and severe as what the Duggars practice.

What I’ve latched onto are the words of Jim Bob Duggar himself in an interview with Megyn Kelly on Fox News last night, which have also been found in comment threads all over the blogosphere: It’s not like he committed rape or anything like that.

That gets to me. A lot.

Legally speaking, maybe Josh Duggar didn’t “rape” his sisters (or anyone else we haven’t heard of yet), but I’ve found that the word “rape” can, in many cases, be subjective. In other words, forced intercourse isn’t the only way to violate someone. What about people who are forced to perform other sex acts, or who are penetrated by objects other than body parts? This is where the law often fails rape victims, because the latter form of violation may not leave any DNA, and being fondled under one’s clothes may not leave any visible marks.

That doesn’t mean it’s not a crime. That doesn’t make it any less traumatic than a “completed rape.”

It absolutely infuriates me when people treat other forms of assault as somehow less traumatic and therefore less deserving of attention or justice than forcible intercourse. The trauma is not always in the physical damage of the assault itself, but in what goes through the victim’s mind and psyche during. Ask yourself how you would feel if someone you loved and trusted touched you without your permission. Imagine your “no” being ignored, and realizing that you don’t know what this person is going to do to you. Imagine holding your breath and preparing for the worst, realizing he isn’t going to stop, he isn’t going to let you escape, and you might cause more trouble if you cry out and wake your family members, who might not believe you anyway.

It really doesn’t matter whether there is physical evidence left behind, or any visible bruising. Assault happens when your free agency over your body is taken away. The Duggar children were never taught about bodily autonomy and consent, if you understand anything about ATI and the atmosphere in which they live. This is not a happy, smiley, modern-day Christian Cleaver family that the TLC network wants you to believe. This is a sick family in desperate need of counseling, and you don’t have to be a victim of any kind to be outraged by the utter failure of Jim Bob and Michelle for covering up their son’s abuse of his sisters, for signing on for a TV show already aware of that fact, for doing everything in their power to “cure” Josh instead of reporting him to the police.

Any decent person should be outraged by the great miscarriage of justice for his victims, his own siblings, who now have to relive the trauma under a spotlight with every other aspect of their controlled lives.

In any other circumstance I would agree to disagree with people who see a situation differently and I would accept that everyone is entitled to their opinion. But in this case, I can’t. Any Christian who says “But everyone sins!” doesn’t understand the magnitude of abuse, which is a far cry from a “mistake” like stealing cookies out of the jar before dinner or breaking a window playing baseball. Sexual abuse is a crime, a deliberate choice. Normal, healthy people just don’t do that. Truly repentant people don’t hide behind Mommy and Daddy and later confess once their past is publicly exposed, and apologize using the most minimal, bullshit excuses.

Please consider that if you are tempted to keep on excusing the Duggars with banal Christian platitudes. You understand NOTHING about the long-lasting effects of abuse and how those words can further trigger the survivors.

Filed under: Rape Culture, Religion Tagged: censorship, Christian culture, Christianity, Controversy, Duggars, evangelicals, grief, rape culture