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Bible Challenge Week 30: The Prophets – Disaster!

We’ve experienced plenty of failure so far.  Israel failed as a people (with the golden calf), failed as a nation (throughout the period of the Judges), and failed as a Kingdom, first with Saul and then with a whole line of despotic, unfaithful kings.  But this is much worse than failure.

For no matter how bad things got, they always had the Lord.  They might share him with other local deities, but his presence was always somewhere nearby–in the tabernacle, the Ark of the Covenant, or the Temple.  The Temple was like a safe zone, where they could run after a rough patch with some foreign enemy and claim covenant status.  Their golden-boy king Solomon even foresaw that possibility in his dedicatory prayer for the temple.  The people might even repent–temporarily.  As for the temple, as long as it stood, they had an “in” with their God.  It seems never to have occurred to them that someday the temple would no longer stand.

Do we have some of the same kinds of assumptions?

To download a copy of this week’s challenge, with scripture passages, key verses, questions, and activities, click here:

Bible Reading Challenge Week 30: The Prophets – Disaster!

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

Previous: Week 29: The Prophets – Isaiah and Micah

Next: Week 31: The Prophets – Jeremiah

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Bible Challenge Week 29: The Prophets – Micah and Isaiah

Time is running out for the Northern Kingdom of Israel.  Amos and Hosea tried to warn them, but would they listen?  Noooo.  But Judah, in the south, has no reason to feel smug.  In fact, Judah is about to be visited by two of their own iconic prophets, who will let them know that they’re not so special.

We’re not so special either.  How many times do we have to be told?  For instance, the United States is operating at a budget deficit that’s 30% higher than last year’s, and the national debt is literally beyond imagining  (and I’m not one of those writers that uses “literally” figuratively).  We’ve been told, and told, and told that a crisis is at hand, and nobody is doing anything about it except talk.  Unlike journalists and bureaucrats, however, the Lord is plain about what should be done.  “What does the Lord require of you?” asks Micah.  There is an answer.

And there’s a further plan, far in the future.  Thank God.

For a .pdf download of this week’s Bible challenge, with scripture passages, thought questions, and activities, click below:

Bible Reading Challenge Week 29: The Prophets – Micah and Isaiah

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

Previous: Week 28: The Prophets – Jonah, Amos, Hosea

Next: Week 30: The Prophets – Disaster!

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It’s the Day after Easter, and We’re Still Alive

Brad’s Status is a quiet little movie that didn’t get much attention, partly because the title does not roll trippingly off the tongue.  But not because of poor production values or mediocre script.  It wanders into places most movies don’t touch and ends up hanging between comedy and tragedy, where most plots would have made up their minds long before then.

Brad Sloan (Ben Stiller) is living a comfortable west-coast life in a spacious home with a pretty, preoccupied wife (Jenna Fischer).  He owns a nonprofit fundraising organization and she teaches at a university, and together they’ve raised a musically-talented son who will soon be leaving for college.  Cue mid-life crisis!

Sure enough, as the big 5-0 rapidly approaches, Brad can’t help thinking of his four college buddies, all of whom went on to be more successful than he: the architect, the super-rich hedge-fund manager, the political pundit, the early retiree cavorting on the beach with swimsuit models.  And Brad?  The idealism that led him into non-profits leaked out a long time ago.  His friends are showing up in magazines and on book jackets, and what’s he got?

I spend so much time inside my mind, puffing myself up . . . and tearing myself down . . .

The action takes place over a single weekend when Brad and his son Troy fly to Boston to visit colleges.  Tufts is Dad’s alma mater, but Troy is thinking about Harvard, because there’s a particular music professor he’s interested in.  Also, one of his friends from high school is going there now.  This is like a gateway of significance to Brad: his son, a Harvard man!  He charges past Troy’s vague ambitions (the kid is not sure what he wants, besides music) and starts pulling any strings he can find to score an interview with the admissions counselor.  This involves getting in touch with some of the old gang, and in the process he’ll discover that their lives (big surprise) aren’t quite the success he pictured them to be.

But what about his life?  At the same time he’s hoping to peg his future value on Troy, Brad is trying to justify the past, or accept it, or regret it.  Like a middle-school kid, he takes his cues from his peers, tearing himself down seconds after puffing himself up, envying and resenting his wife, admiring and lecturing his son, reaching for the beauty and meaning that’s just outside his grasp–until it turns and meets him.

He has ducked out of a dinner date with his political-pundit “friend,” and shows up at a concert Troy is attending.  Two college girls that Brad met during the course of the day (one of them Troy’s high school friend) are soloing on flute and violin.  For the first time all weekend, Brad isn’t scheming or regretting.  He’s listening.

I sat there and just listened, and let myself really feel the life inside me.  The music was beautiful.  The girls were beautiful.  I could love them and never possess them.  Just like I could love the world and never possess it . . .

I still did love the world.

Later that night, in their hotel room with his son asleep in the bed beside him, Brad lies awake.

I tried to imagine the future . . . I kept saying in my head, We’re still alive.  I’m still alive.

We’re still alive.  Why?  What are we doing here?  It seems so random sometimes, the choices we make and the paths we walk down, usually without a great deal of thought.  But at the center of each life is one fat wad of ballast called self: what I want, what I need, what I have to have in order to be fulfilled.

Jesus said, “I came that they might have life, and have it abundantly.  He also said that we must lose our life in order to find it.  He lived a life so big we can all find ourselves within it, if we let go.  We’re so accustomed to holding on, our fingers lock in position, but surprise can pry them loose.  That’s what happens sometimes when the world wraps its arms around us and squeezes us tight, and status updates seem like dusty little points on someone else’s timeline because we’ve found something to genuinely love.

Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it, and sometimes that starts with realizing we’re still alive.

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Note: Brad’s Status is rated R for language

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Why Blood Atonement?

Early this month I sat in on a talk about the Shroud of Turin.

I don’t know what to think about the Shroud, but whether genuine or faked it’s a stunning piece of work.  The image of a crucified man is somehow burned into the cloth, which has not deteriorated near as badly as a fabric dating from the first century, or even from the 7th or 13th.  It’s fine linen woven in a herringbone pattern, very expensive for the time—only a wealthy man could buy it.  This costly fabric, and the costly myrrh and aloes found on it, were put to what a contemporary observer would consider a mean, lowly, thoroughly inappropriate use.

The man: his face is bruised, swollen at the cheekbones.  Eyes almost squeezed shut.  The nose is shoved a little out of place and the forehead clenched.  One shoulder is dislocated and one knee appears to be pushed harder against the cloth because rigor mortis set in while he was still on the cross (that is, he was thoroughly dead).  Those who took him down and wrapped him up would have had to force his arms and legs into place.  There’s a spear wound in his side and on his back are 110-120 lash marks left by the typical Roman scourge of three tails.  The body is naked, the hands crossed over his genitals for decency’s sake.

I gave my back to those who strike

. . . his appearance was so marred, beyond human semblance . . .

He was despised, and we esteemed him not

He was bruised for our transgressions

. . . and with his stripes we are healed

I don’t like sermons on the torture of Christ.  I don’t like detailed descriptions of his physical suffering or brutal, humiliating treatment.  I didn’t see The Passion of the Christ and probably never will.  I’m squeamish about blood and gore on the big screen, but also, it’s him.  It causes me to tremble.

But there on the cloth is the crucified man—is it him?  It’s somebody with a very specific description: Jewish male, 5’11”, well-built and muscular, type AB+ blood.  Battered and bloodied, pierced and shamed.  A curse, and accursed.

Whoever it is, it represents a hideous object planted—thrown, hurled—at the center of human history.  This is what it cost him.  This is what I cost him.

I’ve been having a discussion with a friend about theories of atonement.  She quotes Farther Richard Rohr, a Franciscan: “The terrible and un-critiqued premise is that God could need payment, and even a very violent transaction, to be able to love and accept [his own] children!”

Well.  Over ways are not his ways, and so on.  But Fr. Rohr’s premise is wrong.  It’s not that God requires payment to love those who are already his children.  God’s justice requires payment in order for God’s love to make confirmed and unrepentant rebels into children.

He takes sin very seriously; we don’t.  Since the fall, it’s impossible for corrupted flesh and blood to inherit the kingdom–unless the kingdom comes as flesh and blood and gives his back to those who strike.  He knows the cost; we don’t.

Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him, and cause him to suffer,

and the LORD has laid on him the iniquity of us all.

The Lord shed the blood of an animal—probably more than one—to cover the shame of the first humans, our parents.  He descended in fire at Sinai, protecting his holiness with smoke and lightning, to prescribe a temporary means of sanctification by blood: “You will be my people and I will be your God.”  But not your Father—not yet.  Not your Father by blood, until his own Son appears, in flesh and blood.

I don’t like the torture part, because I don’t like to think I had anything to do with it.  But that mark there—that’s from my playing holy while acting carnally.  That clenched brow is for my continual glory-seeking.  In my youth I sinned blatantly and today I sin subtly, in a way no one sees but me.  And him.

Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?  How repulsive is that thought to our sophisticated minds.  The ancient pagans used to drench themselves in the blood of freshly-slaughtered, still-bellowing bulls, in orgies of self-abnegation—aren’t we way, way beyond that?

Not really. God knows something we don’t: sin is serious.  He is serious.  His justice will see it punished, but his love will see the punishment that brought us peace fall upon Him, and heal us with those stripes.

 

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David’s Son

But he said to them, “How can they say that the Christ is David’s son?”  Luke 20:41

These few days are laced with music.  Roving bands of singers and musicians are not uncommon during Passover week, but the mood this year is uncommonly light.  The city fizzes with anticipation, knowing something momentous is in the works.  He may wait until after the Passover feast to declare himself—or why not during?  Passover means deliverance, and behold, it is at hand; who could keep from singing?

The Lord declared to my Lord,

‘Sit at my right hand

Until I make your enemies your footstool.’*

A cobbled-up children’s choir, blown in like blossoms and led by someone’s older sister, sing in his presence:

Rule over your enemies, call up your people on the day of battle;

In holy splendor, from the womb of dawn,

Rise up in the dew of your youth—

For the Blessed One has sworn, and will never disavow,

‘You are a priest forever, in the line of Melchizedek,

The LORD stands at your right hand

Ready to crush kings, judge nations, pile up the dead.

Refresh yourself from sparkling springs

And lift up your head!*

Their order breaks down as the song ends.  Giggling and blushing, they stammer out, “Blessings on you, Son of David!” before running away in all directions.

Charming, think the followers.  Disturbing, think the scribes, who have sung the identical psalm any crownnumber of times with no more than a theoretical understanding.  But now it is looking at them—or is it?

“Tell me,” The Nazarene asks his audience: “why do they say Messiah is the son of David?”

His followers merely gaze at him dumbly, like sheep.

“Well,” one of the scribes begin (with some hesitation, suspecting a trap), “David was promised a successor who would reign forever, and . . .”

“How can David himself call him ‘my Lord,’ as you just heard in the Psalm, if Messiah is his son?”

The people keep on grinning, delighted with this rhetorical flourish, but the scribes know it isn’t a flourish.  He claims to be greater than David, their greatest king.  This can lead to no good.  Irksome as the Pharisees are, insufferable as the Sadducees, they all must align in a common cause.

The teacher is clever, they’ll give him that, and more than that—the teacher is profound and wise and infuriating and attractive and repulsive and . . . something entirely outside their experience.

Ultimately though, he’s a great trouble.  He is on a collision course with reality.  Real kings crush pretend kings every time and the collateral damage is horrendous: often counted, as every son of Israel has reason to know, in the multiples of crosses strung along the roads.  Better one casualty than dozens, or hundreds.  For the sake of many, one must die.

*Psalm 110, commonly understood as a Messianic prediction

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Confrontations

One day, as Jesus was teaching the people in the temple and preaching the gospel, the chief priests and the scribes with the elders came up and said to him, “Tell us, by what authority you do these things, or who it is that gave you this authority.” Luke 20:1-2

He has established himself in the same courtyard—as if he owned the place! they keep thinking.  The crowds are thronging, the news is spreading, and alarm among the elites casts a pall over what was meant to be another orderly, peaceful Passover.  The chief priests, whose family lineage goes back to Aaron, the elders whose claim to authority even the Romans defer to, and finally the scribes and their Pharisee allies, who often clash with the priestly crowd, all meet to talk it over.

This disturbance, they all agree, has its roots in John the Baptist, who kept shouting about a new age until his ministry abruptly ended at the edge of a broadsword.  John’s death was a relief—one thing they could think that idiot Herod for—until the rumors of Jesus of Nazareth began circulating and swelling and all but shrieking at them.  Even at that, Jesus might have been manageable if he’d stayed in Galilee, but his appearance in Jerusalem is the worst kind of omen.

(Oh Jerusalem . . . if you only knew what makes for peace.)

Pharisees from those northern regions (those tiresome hicks, with their nattering about the Law and its proper observance) have brought troubling but useful reports about his weird claims and cheeky challenges to the old order.  Also rumors of signs and wonders, which can’t be confirmed even though they persist.  Now that he’s in the city he, doesn’t seem to be healing people (or pretending to), but his teaching is an even greater threat.  The way he talks, about my kingdom, my house, my Father—who does he think he is?

(How often would I have gathered you, as a hen gathers her chicks, but you would not . . . the more I called you, the more you ran away from me.)

There is no help for it.  For all kinds of reasons–political, social, religious–he must be destroyed.  And not in some back-alley garroting, but out in public.  First, though, it’s imperative to undermine his moral authority.  How much moral authority can a backwater preacher from Galilee have, anyway?

That afternoon, as the Nazarene is teaching in the courtyard, here they come: elders, priestly representatives, phariseescholarly scribes and Pharisees in their robes and tassels, marching across the tiles with the rocked-ribbed confidence of a Roman phalanx.  “Tell us,” say the eldest of the elders, whose name is Johannes, “by whose authority did you clear this place and take up this false teaching?”

The teacher doesn’t appear to be alarmed or taken aback.  He doesn’t even take time to consider the ramifications of the question.  “First, let me ask you something.  Remember John’s baptism, which people were pouring out of this city to receive?  Was it by the authority of heaven, or of a mere man?”

The elder opens his mouth to reply before recognizing the trap.  “One moment.”  With a jerk of his head, he draws the others aside.

“Where did that come from?” a Pharisee wonders.  “How strange—we were just talking about John!”

“Never mind where he got it,” Johannes snaps.  “He probably has his spies everywhere.  What is our answer?”

“The teaching was from men, of course,” one of the scribes whispers.  “John was a lunatic.”

“That’s not what the people think,” hisses Johannes.  “They still believe John was a holy man and a prophet.”

Eliphaz nods.  “Proclaim to the mob that John was mad and they’ll tear us to pieces.  No thanks.”

Maimonides, another elder, throws up his hands.  “Very well, then! Tell him it was from heaven.”

“And what will he say then?”  Johannes glares at each one of them in turn.  “That we should have listened to John!  Should have tossed dust on our heads and put on sackcloth and paraded down to the Jordan for that madman to baptize us.”  A seething pause follows, in which they realize they’ve been outmaneuvered. “We’ll get him next time.”  Turning back to the teacher, Johannes announces, “We can’t say for sure where John—that holy man of lamented memory—got his authority.”

“You can’t?” their adversary repeats.   “Then I needn’t tell you where my authority comes from.”  He nods in dismissal.  “Priests, elders, scribes—until we meet again.”

His disciples and all hearers are delighted to see the snobs put down.  But his closest friends hear a disturbing echo: priests, elders, scribes . . . they have not seen the last of these.

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For the original post in this series, go here.

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Oh, Jerusalem

And when he drew near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, “Would that you, even you, had known on this day the things that make for peace!  But now they are hidden from your eyes . . .”          Luke 19:41-42

“The place that I shall choose,”

City of David, the anointed shepherd-boy, who madly danced before the ark,

Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, city of the great king.

Jerusalem: Every true Israelite’s heart leapt to see it, the crown of the rock set with the gleaming jewel of a gold and marble temple.

A cry comes—from the donkey?  His startled disciples look up; it’s from the Master.  He’s weeping—actually sobbing, there among the tossing palms and fluttering hands.  The throng can’t see it, surrounded as he is by his inner circle, but the twelve are disturbed, to say the least.  Simon-called-Peter glances at his brother Andrew with eyebrows raised; John reaches a hand toward the Master’s shoulder.  Judas feels uneasiness stirring in his gut: is this how a king behaves?  Heaving shoulders, streaming tears—is this mien of a conqueror?

“Oh Jerusalem,” he sobs.  “City of peace.  If you only knew what real peace is . . . but it’s hidden from you.  All that’s left for you is destruction, because you did not recognize your salvation when it came.”

cleansing the temple

They will wonder about that shortly afterwards, when he’s turning over the money changers’ tables in the temple courtyard and driving out the dealers—with a whip, no less!  No one dares to ask him if this is what he means by “peace.”  But at least he’s taking charge, not sobbing in a corner.

“My house will be a house of prayer, but you have made it a den of thieves!”

Amid the mayhem someone sends a message to the high priest, Caiaphas, who comes to check out the situation with his entourage.  Caiaphas is no fool—before charging in with an air of outrage he takes a moment to look on silently, assessing the situation.

He has heard of this man, of course—of signs and wonders and claiming to be something great, perhaps even Messiah.  Caiaphas intended to have him thrown out—a simple order to the temple guard would do it—but the sheer presumptuousness of the man makes him pause.  This Jesus truly acts as if he owns the place, like the master of a household returning from a long trip to find his servants misusing the property.

Caiaphas remembers something . . .

Yes, that boy—that country boy who wandered into the temple school some twenty years ago.  He had amazed the elders and the teachers, even the great Shammai himself, with the maturity and insight of his questions.  Just a peasant, or a tradesman’s son.  With no education beyond the village synagogue school, he had eminent scholars tied in knots trying to agree on their answers.

His parents had found him at last—frazzled they were, wild with worry.  The boy met them at the portal and his quiet answer, picked up and repeated for days afterword, echoed now in Caiaphas’s memory:  “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”

Everyone expected to hear from that boy again.

Well, here he is.  And apparently he’s inherited the family estate: Not “my Father’s house.” My house.

Caiaphas does not give the order, even though his fellow priests are eyeing him expectantly.  This man will have to be dealt with, of course; he’s trouble.  But not now; not at the height of mass hysteria.  As carelessly as he throws words around (My house, indeed!) he’s bound to trip himself up if he hasn’t already.

“Not now,” the High Priest says irritably, in reply to a tentative tap on his shoulder.  “Brute force won’t answer; we need a strategy.  Before Passover, I daresay we can trap him.”

As they turn to slip away, a crowd is already gathered around the teacher, who has cleared a space in the courtyard.

As though he owns the place . . .

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For the original post in this series, click here.

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Sunday Morning

When he drew near to Bethphage and Bethany, at the mount that is called Olivet, he sent two of his disciples, saying, “Go into the village in front of you, where on entering you will find a colt tied, on which no one has ever sat.  Untie it and bring it here . . .”  Luke 19:29-30

After leaving Jericho, they traveled on to Bethany and may have spent the Sabbath with Lazarus and his sisters.  The “great crowd” of followers–how many now? One or two hundred?–must have overwhelmed the little town, but everyone sensed that the movement was about to come into its own.   Jerusalem was next, and something great would take place there—something fixed, definite, and game-changing.

As the sun went down on another Sabbath, he called two of the twelve to him. Which two?  Shall we pick?  Let’s say it was Simon the Zealot and . . . Judas Iscariot.

They often don‘t get along because of political differences, Judas being a straightlaced, by-the-book sort, while Simon is always popping off about Roman occupiers and the Day of the Lord, meanwhile quoting blood-curdling passages from Nahum.  But both are eagerly anticipating the kingdom, and equally thrilled to receive this commission.

As the Master explains the plan to borrow a donkey and enter Jerusalem in style, the disciples nod, glancing at each other with mutual comprehension.  When they depart, the news spreads throughout the ranks of followers, just now waking up in pastures and barns: He means to ride into the city!  He has never ridden anywhere, on anything!  What could it mean, except that he’s about to claim his kingdom?  A prancing stallion might have made the point better, perhaps, but little villages don’t often offer that kind of conveyance.  No matter; if that’s what he intends to do, they’ll help him do it right.

Jerusalem

At daybreak they are on the road, the sun opening up behind them like a benevolent hand.  Spring breezes play with the new barley sprouting up in the fields and birdsong threads the excitable air.  As they approach the rise known as the Mount of Olives, here come Judas and Simon, leading a little donkey with a gentle, placid face.  “Master!” they shout.  “It happened just as you told us.  As we were untying the colt, its owner came out of the inn nearby and asked what we were doing and we said . . .”

He does not appear to be listening as he places a hand on the donkey’s head and gazes into its dark eyes.  A look of understanding passes between them.  Without any urging the beast moves closer.  Peter whips off his coat and spreads it across the animal’s spine; three of the others follow suit.  The donkey bends its hind legs and Jesus sits on its back, rising slightly over the heads of the surrounding men when the donkey straightens and staggers a little under the unaccustomed weight.

A gasp runs through the onlookers, and then a shout: “Hosanna!  He comes!  Blessed is he!”

Several of them run ahead to spread the news: “Clear the road!  Jesus of Nazareth is coming!”  The road is already thick with Passover traffic, but the travelers have heard of Jesus of Nazareth.  Who hasn’t? They stop and move to the side, craning their necks to see—including a delegation of Pharisees outfitted in prayer shawls and phylacteries.

Young date palms sway along the road.  One of the messengers shimmies up a trunk and cuts some branches, throwing them down to the women below.  Soon bystanders are stripping leaves from other trees and the air fills with a sweet, dusty scent.

As the donkey carrying Messiah crests the hill, this is what they see: a landscape of heaving palm branches and fluttering headscarves, a waiting throng clustered along the way to the Holy City with the road laid bare as a bone.  More people are running from the fields and pastures and the city itself, using their elbows to carve out places to stand and watch.  The disciples can’t help grinning like holy fools—This is their moment!

One man strips off his cloak—his best, tight-woven and dyed russet red—and lays it down before the blessed beast.  Soon the road is patched with them—coats and cloaks and bright sashes, pressed into the ground by careful hooves.  Random cries are beginning to coalesce in a single repeated shout:

“Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!”

It’s a customary shout for festive worshippers entering the temple or gathering palms for the Festival of Booths.  That feast, also known as Ingathering, normally comes in the fall, but they’re celebrating the Ingathering early this year, and why not?  The LORD always said he would gather his people and open the holy gates for them:

Lift up your heads, O gates!

And be lifted up, O ancient doors,

 That the King of Glory may come in!

The delegation of Pharisees sticks out like disapproving schoolmasters.  “Teacher!” one of them calls to the passing procession: “Tell your disciples to pipe down!  This is Passover, not Succoth.”

The disciples can’t help feeling smug as their teacher answers, calling back over his shoulder, “I might as well tell these stones to pipe down!”

And there before them, at long last, is the Holy City, where all their hopes and dreams will come true.

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Bible Challenge Week 28: Kings & Prophets – Jonah, Amos, Hosea

Elijah and Elisha instituted the Age of Prophets with an explosion of signs and wonders.  Now comes the hard part.  Or actually, it’s always hard, speaking truth to stony hearts, but the miracles will soon be out while oracles and exhortations are in.  Israel (the northern kingdom, that is) is hanging on only by God’s mercy: Amos and Hosea are sent to warn them, first by words and then by actions.

Jonah is a special case, and not just because of his big fish adventure.  He is sent to warn Israel’s enemies, a signal to him (and to us) that God’s heart is for the world, not just one nation or one race.  Jonah as the first “global prophet” is a stunning success in some ways and a miserable failure in others.

For the .pdf of this week’s challenge, with Bible passages, questions, and activities, click here:

Bible Reading Challenge Week 28: Kings & Prophets – Jonah, Amos, Hosea

(This is a continuation of a series of posts about the “whole story” of the Bible.  I plan to run one every week, on Tuesdays, with a printable PDF.  The printable includes a brief 2-3 paragraph introduction, Bible passages to read, a key verse, 5-7 thought/discussion questions, and 2-3 activities for the kids.  Here’s the Overview of the entire Bible series.)

Previous: Week 27: Kings & Prophets – Elijah

Next: Week 29: Kings & Prophets – Micah and Isaiah

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Ladies, Let’s Get Our Act Together

When it comes to sexual harassment, reform begins with us.

On my other blog I offered some thoughts on the recent expose of sexual harassment in the world of children’s publishing.  Several well-known, best-selling authors, and a few publishing executives—all of them male—have been called out by name for inappropriate sexual comments and unwanted advances, such as ogling, groping, and hounding women for dates (“My wife is totally fine with it”).

Exposures of harassment in any sector begins with a spark, and in children’s publishing the spark was a piece published on Medium.com by children’s author Anne Ursu.  Straightforwardly titled, “Sexual Harassment in the Children’s Book Industry,” the article reported the results of an online survey Ms. Ursu ran from December to January.  She received almost 90 responses, all reporting some form of uninvited sexual attention.  Her report is well-written and well-thought-out, carefully defining terms (like “sexual harassment,” which could use some defining) and steering clear of sensationalism.  She lets the personal experiences of her respondents speak for themselves, and I don’t doubt any of them.

These men should be called out and dealt with.  But as #MeToo reels from one cultural corner to another, I’d like to signal time-out for a little woman-to-woman talk.

What’s going through her head right now?

Many of the plaintiffs framed their reactions to unwanted sexual advances or comments this way: “I felt small.”  “I was humiliated.”  Even, “He broke me.”  There were no reports of rape or violent assault; this rhetoric is in response to juvenile behavior.  Stupid remarks.  Unfunny jokes.  Silly innuendo.  Conversational gambits they should have grown out of in junior high.

Let’s think about that: certain men are acting like pigs, and we feel small?

Certain men are acting like pigs, and women feel small?

The smallness, the helplessness emerges over and over.  “Society has taught us to gaslight ourselves,” wrote one respondent.  From another: “a culture of toxic masculinity and misogyny” is stacked against them.  Anne Ursu herself summarizes an unwelcome encounter this way: “He sees you as an object, and thus you feel like an object.  He treats you as fungible, thus you feel fungible.  And ashamed for ever thinking you were anything else in the first place.”

Whoa.  I mean, whoa.  “An object”? “Fungible”? “Ashamed”?  Again, a few men are stomping around in the barnyard, and this is how we feel?

Don’t get me wrong; I understand the feeling, especially for a pretty, sparkly twenty-something hoping to make her mark in the business.  I’ve felt that way myself—up until age 30 or so.  Then I started to toughen up.  Not to excuse the jerks, but if a jerk is making you feel small after a certain age, you need to work on your feelings.  More importantly, work on your feelings before that certain age.

The standard solutions for sexual harassment have to do with protocols, guidelines, and consequences.  Those are practical steps that can do some good.  When it comes to underlying principles, though, they get a bit unreal.  “We need to upend the way we think about sexual harassment,” Anne Ursu says, meaning: “We need to put the harassed first.”  “Zero tolerance,” writes one of her respondents.  “There needs to be a top-down prioritization of people’s safety and basic humanity over the prioritization of profit.”

In person-to-person interactions, we are the first responders.

Here are 13 Reasons Why that’s not going to happen, in any way beyond lip service.  When has it happened?  Ever?  In some religious and charitable organizations, yes, but not in any business, or not for any length of time.  Because if profit is not prioritized, the business fails.  Corporate culture can still be humane, but safety and basic humanity are not why publishers—or anyone—are in business.  Nothing will really change until the reforms come from the ground level as well as the top.  Otherwise, it’s like expecting FEMA to show up before the first responders do.

In person-to-person interactions, we are the first responders.

In addition to teaching young women about balance sheets, networking, negotiating, and time management, we can teach them to stand up for themselves.  There’s no need to be shocked or humiliated at boorish behavior—some men (a minority) are boors.  A woman in the professional world needs to recognize this.  She needs to expect decent behavior from her male peers (and superiors), but not be devastated by indecent behavior.  A woman in the work world needs to settle this with herself:

I am a person of worth; I have abilities and something to contribute, and I will not let anyone convince me otherwise.  I will gladly accept constructive criticism; I will not accept diminishing comments.  I will look people in the eye.  When a man complements my appearance, I will smile, say thank you, and change the subject.  If he complements my breasts or derriere, I will stare at him coldly and change the subject.  If a clever put-down is called for, I’ll think up a few and have them ready.  If push comes to shove, I’ll shove.  Maybe even literally.  I can’t, in the end, make anyone respect me.  But no one will keep me from respecting myself.

Women have their own forms of power, and I’m not talking about marching in the streets with big signs.  We are not helpless, we are not less than human, we are not without effect.  Much of the harassment will stop when we stop accepting it, or looking to other power structures to stop it for us.