#MeToo

In the immediate aftermath of the daily increasing revelations of Harvey Weinstein’s decades-long sexual predation against women, the #MeToo campaign was launched with a simple, straightforward, profoundly compelling message:

If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote “Me too” as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem.

Carried aloft on the wings of social media, the response or rather, truly, sadly, the manifold responses of many, many women, some chronicling, detailing particular personal experiences of harassment and assault has been…is an unassailable testament to “the magnitude of the problem.”

My fear – perhaps, I confess, rooted in my prevailing pessimism about the perfectibility (or rather my persuasion about the imperfectability) of human nature – is that little to nothing will change; that, in days, weeks, months, years to come, #MeToo will have proven to be a powerfully cathartic, personally transformative, but not a communally revolutionary experience.

Why?

Because sexual predation, as, I believe, is true of all oppression, is an expression of the exercise of power, and…

Power is that capacity for one, always within the context of an enabling system, structure, society, to will and to do something, in this case, to harass and to abuse women, and…

As I read and reflect on human history, I cannot think of a time when the powerful, for the sake of the justice of equality, relinquished their privilege, however ethically bankrupt, to will and to do.

In the spirit of the Magnificat,[1] Mary’s song of praise to God in her reverent recognition of the One she bore in her womb, especially her words – He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly – I, in faith, hope, and love, shall pray fervently that I am wrong. For I, and I trust in league with many, many women and men, with the help of God and helping God, shall pray and labor for change.

 

Footnote:

[1] The full text of the Magnificat or The Song of Mary (Luke 1.46-55):

My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour,

for he has looked with favour on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,

and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,

and lifted up the lowly;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,

in remembrance of his mercy,

according to the promise he made to our ancestors,

to Abraham and to his descendants for ever.

an Advent meditation – talking with Emmanuel

“O come, O come…”

Emmanuel, “God with us,” I love this carol that speaks, sings of the heart of Advent, the season of Christian anticipation of your birth. But I wonder. Do I really want you with me?

Honestly, I suppose as long as you remain a baby, harmless and non-threatening, trying to wriggle out of your swaddling clothes, crying for your mother’s breast, then yes, O come, O come, Emmanuel, for you won’t, can’t disturb me.

But you didn’t remain a baby. Did you, Emmanuel? You grew up. Launched your mission of love and justice. Caused a ruckus. Reaching across societal boundaries between rich and poor, righteous and unrighteous, well and sick, living and dead, men and women, adult and child, Jew and Gentile. Rending sacred divisions meant to keep the peace by keeping everyone in proper (at least, according to the status quo) place. Enraging worldly authorities who took umbrage at the barest hint of relinquishing their privilege in service of the greater good.

But what else could you have done, Emmanuel? Before you were born your coming was declared by your cousin, John, also from the womb, leaping for joy at the sound of your mother’s voice. A voice that burst into a song that was no lullaby, but a righteous rant, a radical manifesto, echoing Hannah’s song of old, declaring what God would do…what God already had set in motion in your conception.

How often did your mother sing this song after you were born? Singing while she told you about your people’s history of trial and tribulation? Singing while she taught you about the God who came to her in an angelic vision prophesying liberation through you?

No wonder you grew up and did what you did. How could you have done otherwise?

Emmanuel, you, in that your life and ministry are the very embodiment, fulfillment of your mother’s song, disturb me no end! For when I sing, “O come, O come, Emmanuel,” I acknowledge anew that you already have come.

As you, Emmanuel, already are with me, taking my flesh in my mind and heart, then you also are in me.

As you, Emmanuel, are in me, then I am to be as you are, to do as you do. I am to invite all to dwell together in peace. I am to speak truth to the powerful. I am to lift up the lowly. I am to fill the hungry with good things.

Emmanuel, this kind of labor, this kind of love is hard! But you know that. Don’t you? It’s the kind of labor of love that terrifies me, for it can…it did get you killed!

Still, as life without you is meaningless, purposeless, like death to me, I sing, “I come, I come, Emmanuel.”