Acknowledging ugliness in the Bible - Tamar, Amnon, and David

I deeply appreciated Christianity Today's recent article asking whether we can finally break the silence around Tamar.

Jen Wilkin makes the following point about the story in 2 Samuel 13:

"Amnon, one of David’s sons, violates his own sister and then casts her aside. When her brother Absalom learns what Amnon has done, he tells her, “Has Amnon your brother been with you? Be quiet for now, my sister. He is your brother; do not take this thing to heart.” Absalom’s shushing and dismissing are certainly vile, but it is David’s reaction that stuns: “When King David heard all this, he was furious” (vv. 20–21). 

Furious. That’s it. No public denouncement of Amnon, no vindication of Tamar. No justice, no words of comfort or kindness for his daughter, just impotent, mute anger. David is silent. He takes no action against Amnon, opening the door for Absalom to have his brother murdered in revenge. And Tamar is left desolate."

She argues that David's own sin (with Bathsheba) and guilt prevent him from acting appropriately. We, the readers need to acknowledge not only that David's response was deeply inadequate - an anger that goes nowhere, but that we, as God's people, are called to respond very differently: with justice and compassion. Justice to punish those who have sinned and compassion to not abandon those who have been hurt.

Talking about the things that matter

At the recent Christian Reformed Campus ministry association conference we talked about a lot of hard things: racism, abuse of power, and sexuality (and all in one day!). It hadn't really occurred to me that people might perceive this as strange until one person asked me why we were focusing on all these things and another wondered if we'd planned in a drink at the end of the day (pub locations were indeed made public).

The hard conversations were framed by worship and by sharing with each other about how we [campus ministers and students] were doing. That, I hope, helped place the conversations in the right perspective, even as I believe that the conversations were still hard and could potentially have caused people distress and anxiety. I hope and pray that people are still positively working through what we talked about. After all, we have these conversations together because we all need to see how faith relates to all areas of our lives, including and especially the hard things.


Furthermore, I believe these are areas "where a lot of pain and distress has happened and continues to happen,” and so “I’d like to do all I can to be equipped to know best how to bring the hope of Christ to those [who] are hurting.”

cross-posted on the Campus Edge blog

More Jesus

For many years I attended churches that celebrated the Lord's Supper every Sunday, and I looked forward to this very tangible reminder of Christ's presence with us. I miss this at my current church, and so I often try to find a way to attend a (liturgical) church and participate in communion.

More often than not, the little is with me/us for these services. Thankfully, most of the churches welcome and enjoy her presence - and she seems to enjoy their attention to her.

Because the little is also part of the body of Christ, many churches will allow her to participate in communion. And I gladly encourage her to participate, which has perhaps led to challenges for Matthijs, as she's no longer content with receiving only a blessing. But her participation in communion seems good and fitting: I want her to know and experience Jesus and this is one tangible way to do so, even if she doesn't fully understand what is going on. At the same time, her presence helps me experience Christ more fully: awhile ago, she asked for 'more' after getting some communion bread, and while it was mildly disruptive, it made me pray that all of us would echo her words: more, please, more Jesus.

Easter and Church

Growing up, I wanted to attend an Easter sunrise service. But the church I was part of never held such a service, and so my desire to celebrate the joy and wonder of Christ's resurrection at dawn went unfulfilled for years. That changed somewhat in Seminary when a friend and I experienced the wonder (and length) of an Eastern Orthodox Easter Vigil: it started around 10:30 p.m. and ended at 4 a.m. I also started regularly visiting St. Gregory's Abbey and discovered there the goodness of the Palm Sunday liturgy, especially hearing the Passion story anew (and also learned to appreciate being immersed in the Psalms before dawn).

And then I moved to Amsterdam, and I became a part of a community that not only held an Easter sunrise service, but held multiple services as part of the three days of Easter. In the three days of Easter, I'd participate in footwashing and the last supper, strip the chapel of everything and change the liturgical colours, hold vigil for Christ's death, hear the Passion story again and again, sit in stillness by the cross and grave, and remember Christ's death. Each time of gathering would end without a blessing, as a tangible reminder that something was deeply wrong. When Easter morning came, I would have come to a place where I was ready to celebrate Christ's resurrection, including sharing in a delicious breakfast afterwards. For three days, I was focused primarily on Christ's death and resurrection, and it was good. I miss that.

Since moving to Lansing, we've done our best to celebrate Easter well, but it has been different - and often less focused than back in Amsterdam. Since having a child, it feels like that focus has decreased even more - the little is currently more interested in running around than in hearing or remembering. Yet, I'm also thankful for the time in Amsterdam and what it showed me: first, that the Easter Vigil (something I never even knew existed as a child) is really the church service of the year (and I wouldn't miss it). Second, that there are many ways to remember and celebrate, and that being able to share the joy of Easter with family (or friends) is also one of those good ways. 

A little perspective

While life has gotten easier in the last months (e.g., the green card process seems to be going well, Matthijs' comprehensive exams are over and his program has become less demanding, and Lydia has continued to be healthy and cheerful, growing in independence and stubbornness), I think Matthijs and I are still carrying with us some of the stress of the previous harder months (alongside of the usual stress of wanting to do well in our jobs and in parenting our child). It's thus hard not to feel a bit overwhelmed at times.

And so, when I found out late last night that day care would be closed today because of illness, I couldn't help but wonder how we would manage. More accurately, my first thought was that I wasn't up for handling this.  

But this morning, we split up the day, and Matthijs cancelled some things that were less relevant, so he could do childcare for the most of the morning, so I could go to a meeting. And later this afternoon, a friend is looking after Lydia. And, so I, got a bit of the afternoon with Lydia. 

And in that early afternoon, while Lydia and I got to be outside in the almost spring weather, I remembered again how her presence often helps me find perspective. Because when we need to, Matthijs and I can and do adjust to make extra space for her. And when I am with her, I am reminded that sometimes all of our plans and responsibilities aren't as important as we sometimes think they are.

And last of all, when I am with her, I am filled with joy: because how could I not be filled with joy after seeing how happy she was when she could play in the sandbox for the first time this season, even if it was really still too cold?

Advent: longing

It has been a season for me of reflecting on the challenge of being female: about the power of women in ministry and sexism, about women's anger, abuse (especially at Michigan State), and about what leadership looks like. The reflections have brought with them my own anger at how hard it is to be female today, especially when one goes against expectations.

And so I long for a time and a world where women's gifts are valued and used and when women aren't blamed for abuse (or seen primarily as victims or sinners). Yet, as much as Advent is about longing for the world to be better, Christmas is about remembering how with Christ's coming the world is already better (and one day Christ will come back and everything will be fully right).

The longing is articulated well in recent articles that I read: Longing for All things to be made right and Rahab the Survivor.

Heather Walker Peterson in Longing for All Things highlights how through their Jesse tree, she is seeing the ancestors of Jesus in a new light. She is reminded of how Abram lies "to the Egyptian pharaoh about his wife Sarai being his sister. He was protecting his own skin but not the skin of Sarai, who was a hair’s breadth away from sexual relations with the Pharaoh. Our daughters, seven and nine, although not in complete understanding, are offended. And so am I. How had I lost the grievousness of Abram’s sin in my familiarity with the story?" In reading the story of Ruth and Boaz, she hears again "Boaz telling his male workers to keep their hands off Ruth while she was picking up the leftover grain. I’m glad for Boaz’s integrity, but I wish that the people of God who worked for him didn’t have to be told. Things are not all right."

Jennifer Lucking, in Rahab the Survivor, highlights the strength found in this ancestor of Jesus, while lamenting that her strength and desire to follow God faithfully are often left out when we talk about her:

Most of the Advent stories I’ve read about Rahab go something like this: “Rahab was a prostitute! Rahab was a liar! A harlot! But even someone as shameful and bad as Rahab is in Jesus’s lineage.”And I understand this type of storytelling: we are meant to recognize that despite our own sinfulness, despite the wrongs we do, we are redeemable and we are loved by God. Other articles I read about the women listed in the lineage of Jesus included words like sordid and notorious.. . Today I am choosing to see the resilience of Rahab the Survivor. She was proactive and went to the spies with a plan (see Joshua 2:8, 15-16). Rahab was confident and bold as she proclaimed what she knew (Joshua 2:9-11). She advocated not just for herself, but for her family (Joshua 2:12-13). She was faithful to what God was doing in her life. She is Rahab the strong. Rahab the leader.

As much as the articles point to a longing for the world to be better, they also remind me that through Christ women have been seen and given voices. And we, as Christians, have the ability to use the power of our words to tell a different story: a story that highlights that Jesus comes from a line of women of strength and perseverance who dared to risk everything for God and who cared deeply about justice.

Advent: hope

Several months ago, the Banner published an article about infertility that spoke to me, as it describes well the messiness of infertility and the messiness of hope.

They describe the challenge of not knowing, as well as the difficulties of hoping when one is continually disappointed but each month brings with it the possibility of new life:

"Every month we go through the repeated cycle of hope, then fear and disappointment. . . At times it seems easier to stop hoping than to live with the heartache of repeated disappointment. But it’s hard to know how to mourn when you don’t have definitive answers."

The author also speaks of how unhelpful many people's comments are. They "reveal an unwillingness to sit in ashes with us. This incapacity for solidarity is painfully sad and incredibly isolating for those suffering. Is it any wonder more people don’t speak up about infertility in our churches?"

Finally, the author speaks of the messiness of hope.

Someone will inevitably ask, “Aren’t you forgetting about the gospel and its offer of hope?” Eschatologically, our hope is secure—the risen Christ will return; sin, Satan, and death will be no more (Rev. 20:7-21:4). But hope—biblical hope—should lead us to be more attentive to present suffering, not less. Hope is not an opiate; rather, it keeps us crying out to God. Hope should lead us to groan laments because things aren’t the way they’re supposed to be (Rom. 8:18-27), such as the continuing mutilation of black bodies, the usury of Latino labor without providing legalized status, and, yes, even the silent suffering of infertility.

Hope is fragile, sometimes even dangerous. And yet we cannot live long without hope.