Tag Archives: domestic violence

Stop enabling

I tried to write a blog about this week’s readings and I felt angry at all the different ways that exploitation of humans (women in each case) was reified as part of God’s plan and then I tried to pull back and find some good news in there to try to say that God was actually on side with the oppressed and we should…we should… and here I drew blanks. How do you respond to what is essentially a text of terror? And especially when the church uses it as a model for the Christian life that a good Christian is like Ruth or the starving widow or the almost penniless widow and is prepared to be used up and spat out in the service of God’s kingdom (or only to be nurtured by God as part of a greater plan of faithfulness to more important figures).

I want to radically follow God out of love, but not to be exploited and especially not to be part of a long tradition of the clergy and other all-male groups trivialising, exploiting and casually using women. NO FUCKING WAY.

So I wrote it and didn’t post it, I thought I would sleep on it. And then I checked my email and a friend of mine who is a sort of feral priest (ie too female to get any compensation or even acknowledgement from the exploitative Catholic church) had a rant in there about being “preached” to by people who have just got no idea. I won’t steal her story or her ideas as such, but that seemed a very productive track to go down to consider how dare I “preach” at all and who would I “preach” to and what presumptions and privilege might be contained within my preaching.

I don’t tend to like being “preached at” actually. I often feel like the person standing out the front going “blah, blah, blah, blah” wrongly assumes that I am many steps behind them on my spiritual journey and disrespects the ways I might be their equal or even ahead of them. I don’t believe we should preach that way as if to inferiors. I am not Jesus if I elevate myself (the first part of this week’s gospel makes that clear before moving into the text of terror which gets zoomed in upon in the opposite way to how the context sets it up).

The (mostly male) superior preachers who want to teach little old inferior me how to live (all without ever walking so much as half a step in my shoes or even bothering to make the smallest effort to find out anything about my life or experience) lack what we in qualitative research call REFLEXIVITY. They don’t stop to analyse who it is who is doing the preaching, that they are not just a wise conduit for God’s infallible wisdom (with a small “w” because it is not really Wisdom when it is bound by patriarchy) but that they are human beings caught up in webs of power relations in a society riddled with inequalities and that not only are they the relatively privileged, but that they also within the reign of God are pilgrims and sinners as are the “congregation”.

I am not saying that priests never examine their own conscience and never engage in their own spiritual journey, it would be wrong of me to speculate on that and God I am sure sees whatever good work or gaps exist in that work. I am simply saying that by setting up a one-way power relationship where “the people” are not meant to see “the priests” humanity there is a sort of dangerous hubris that leads to the greater and more dangerous abuses of power. It is also both discouraging and unhelpful to have to humour these people by listening to their self-satisfied and often superficial drivel week after week with little or no opportunity to speak back.

Having said that I hope that anyone who wants to take issue with what I am “preaching” is free to leave a message disagreeing with me, which provided it is not abusive I would allow on my wall. And you also are not a captive “congregation” but can tune in or out of what I choose to write as you wish.

I have tried to make it clear in this blog who I am- a disenchanted “Christian”, a graduate of theology, a single mother, a lesbian, a white middle-class person with a job and all the rest of it. In all those claims about my identity I am identifying what my bias might be and realising for me to try to speak from some ivory tower of “knowing” to you whoever reads this is arrogant, unless I realise that your different “knowing” might be equally enlightening to me, and unless I show that my struggles with these difficult texts are part of my Christian journey of NOT having all the answers and NOT always being “right”.

So Ruth makes herself available to Boaz so that she won’t starve and conceives a son for Naomi. The widow and her son are saved by God ONLY because of God’s interest in the survival of Elijah. Despite Jesus’ words about the exploitative hubris of priests, all the church sees in the widow’s donation of more than she can afford is a great role model for the poor and down-trodden in the pews to be guilted into following. Jesus is the ultimate high priest, advocating for us before God not constantly haranguing us that we are “not good enough” but other priests do NOT advocate for the oppressed within church and society and just preach spiritual opium and escapism to the masses.

The church is riddled with cancerous growths called patriarchy and privilege. It is bound into service of the ruling class and regularly commits adultery by serving the interests of capitalism rather than its spouse, Christ/Wisdom. It is addicted to its own cleverness and relatively easy place in a troubled world. We, the people must stop enabling. We must stop making excuses for the black eyes and hurt feelings, stop separating ourselves from the things that can give us life and stop being unconditionally faithful to the abuser, the patriarchal church. We must stop hurting Wisdom herself by blindly following and excusing, stop collaborating in the myriad oppressions of the world and the church.

If we have one coin between ourselves and death, we must use that coin to buy bread for our children not let it be sucked up by a not-even-grateful church. If we have a vocation we must dance it away from those who steal our labour and our dignity…somehow this must be possible. We must glean some sort of future for ourselves the widows and orphans of the institutional church!

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Free Will

This is the third part of a work of fiction (bible fan-fic) Original. Here are part one and part two. It’s best to read them in order. This is where the story gets messier (but wait until you see part 4, that is even more so). 

And so we came into Terra Nullius, the empty land, the land that had belonged to noone. I see you frown my love, and prepare to reprove me but I am not speaking an objective truth for all time, just recounting how it was for us; for Adam and Adam’s helpmate.

Something about the confrontation had broken Adam, and I had to be strong for either of us to survive. I was full of pity and a kind of guilt and felt tender toward him for a long while and tried to give him attentive listening and care as he “worked” to name every mountain range and map each river and I only did the mundane things like grow vegetables and erect a makeshift roof over our heads. He’d come home and murmur the names of the places, the animals and the birds he’d named in the evening and I would stroke his sweaty brow and heat his food and let him creep between my thighs (which were now hardened to it) for comfort.

My bleeding seemed to have stopped. Indistinctly within myself I head a sound. Was it the voice of God? What did it have to do with my bleeding, or non-bleeding? I felt a heat of mysterious possibility and danger and I forgot to resent the narrowness of my life with this pitiful man.

As you rightly reprove me, earlier I too had objected to calling our new home “Terra Nullius” I struggled to understand Adam’s feeling of loss and emptiness, he kept saying he felt the loss of his wings, that he had been cut off from “real life” and now lived in a meaningless prison of flesh. In paradise when he named all the creatures, his contemptuous term for the ones who couldn’t fly was “terrestrial” but now we were terrestrial also. I had never flown so I didn’t feel the loss the way he did.

Adam swore oaths, he was obsessed with finding a way to appease Go and regain his celestial status. He had a mania to “prove himself”. I thought of the smallness of God that I thought I had seen and wondered about all the striving and proving. But I had my own concerns, my body was becoming round like the full moon and my ankles had swelled up so that walking was difficult at times. Adam looked at me with disgust and decided that while he was out “working” I was sitting idly at home eating more than my fair share. He tried to hide and enclose food so that I couldn’t have it, but this presented a challenge for him since my work was gardening and harvesting and cooking. He had enjoyed my body more before the monthly bleeding had stopped, before I had heard the voice of God which brought me out from the shadow of having belonged to him.

I felt now that I belonged to some mysterious power that I held within my own flesh and in my heart. I struggled to understand how this could be possible in the hideous deformity of my flesh but the thrum of it was undeniable, there was power there. I feel your discomfort at my words darling, do not object to them. Let me kiss you to silence for now and later when I have told the story you will have ample time to protest every facet that was wrong in my thinking. But you have already healed so much.

You already know some of this story, you saw it written all through me. You remember how hungry and worn I had grown from having to eat only in secret. How he started beating me again, for even less reason than formerly. I needed to protect the small fire of possibility deep within me, so afraid as I was, I ran away. Remember?

I had made it as far as the lake, and had found a cave for shelter. I knew I shopuld gather firewood against the approaching cold and danger of night but I was dizzy with exhaustion and pain. My feet were sore and my stomach cramped with hunger and there seemed to be too many steps between me and any sort of rest or sustenance. Hating myself for it I burst into tears, and began to curse the absent God.

“Why did you make me?” I stormed at the divine deafness, “There is noone in the whole earth like me. I am so tired and weak and alone.” I wasn’t looking, I didn’t see who approached.

“You’re not Adam.” you said, surprise in that rich honey-dark voice of yours. When I looked up you were in the light, outlined by the setting sun so that at first I thought it was shadow only that made you look so dark. Your skin I later saw was beautiful- like earth, like the eyes of God – your nakedness surprising after the time we had spent “civilized” by Adam’s fear of God into wearing heavy clothing.

My eyes even then, drank in the sight of you- deformed like me. “Woman!” I exclaimed in wonder that somehow you contrived to look beautiful not ill-shapen.

“What is ‘woman’?” You asked, and I couldn’t stop looking at the curve of your hip, the rounded breasts, the hairless chin.

“Woman means not looking like Adam. Not chosen.” I tried to explain, but even so a voice inside me asked how I could say I wasn’t ‘chosen’ when Adam needed me so much more than I needed him.

“A person?” you asked, you seemed honestly puzzled.

“Not a man. Not important.” I tripped over my words and could not make you understand. You seemed to think you and I were both “person”.

“God made me.” you said slowly, “She said I am important.”

“God’s not ‘she’!” I said horrified

“Who said?”

“But Adam…” I paused. Adam knew everything but I considered what he knew. I thought about his “truth” that the serpent was evil and we would kill it, his “Truth” that we’d needed to hide from God’s judgement even if hiding meant eternal suffering.

“Did God say you are important?” I asked shyly. My whole skin burned with the belief that you could well be. You came up close, your eyes serious. I was afraid but wanted to be brave so you wouldn’t back away.

“You need food and rest.” You told me and somehow contrived the magic of both food and rest without me having to do it all. You stroked my hair and held my hand and told me off when I tried to help. You said I was safe and you wouldn’t let anything attack me.

You were strong and brown and wise and beautiful and I wasn’t alone.

I wanted you more than the food and rest I so sorely needed but you promised to be there when I woke and you smiled at me as though I had pleased you though I had done nothing and it was you who had attended to my every need.

“I will serve you,” I said, grateful beyond expressing- humbled by the way you had responded to my need, but you laughed.

“You need rest,” you said, and your lips brushed my temple briefly. I didn’t know then that it was called a “kiss” but I hoped you had done it on purpose. You must have seen my hope, because your eyes said “yes” and so I knew when I woke that I could also run my lips over you, to return the kiss and to ask for more of them. You gave me everything I asked except permission to be less than you.

Domestic violence and the bourgeoisie

This is from another blog that I often find worth reading. I really think this needs to be said

No Place For Sheep

Domestic Violence Silence

In the last few weeks two rather disparate male journalists, Martin McKenzie-Murray in The Saturday Paper and Mark Latham, late of the Australian Financial Review, have observed that the current orthodox position on domestic violence against women and children holds that domestic violence can affect any woman, in any demographic, and is not socioeconomically determined.

Both men contest that position, arguing instead that women living in poverty are disproportionately vulnerable to domestic attacks, and that current opinion is based on the erroneous belief that patriarchal notions of male domination, entitlement and privilege (otherwise known as rape culture) are the cause of violence against women.

Personally, I don’t subscribe to the concept of so-called rape culture as the sole cause of violence against women, but neither do I agree that violence against women is predominantly determined by socioeconomic conditions.

What I find interesting is that two white middle class…

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