The panel came back quickly, and we were quick to assume that a fast decision was a bad sign for us. I was escorted back to the trial room for the first time in two days, and I sat behind my abuser, flanked by security on all sides. It seemed like reality was not big enough to hold the moment, and so I felt like I was hovering just over my chair. The panel moderator addressed the room, pleading for decorum and restraint. He asked that there be no applause or celebration of any kind from either side. He then read the panel's verdict which was a unanimous declaration of GUILTY on all 3 counts: 6-0, 6-0, 6-0.
Once again a sob erupted from deep inside my body, and I caught it just as it broke free. Hovering someone very near me was my soul's realization that a panel of pastors and lay people had just acknowledged the decimation of my childhood at the hands of a member of their clergy. The part of me that knew I needed to make a victim impact statement within 10 minutes of this moment warred with the part of me that wanted to make a run for the saferoom where I could sink to the floor and sob with relief for the remainder of the day.
I could have sworn that the sob was too big, but I was able to tuck it away in a safe place in time to hear the defense's response to the verdict and plea for mercy. The defense attorney told the story of the woman caught in adultery that was brought before Jesus. He appealed to the panel to consider Jesus' admonition that "he who is without sin should cast the first stone." He told the jury that all of this abuse occurred a long time ago, and that his client had an exemplary record otherwise. He downplayed all that had been declared true by the panel, plead for leniency, and sat down.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Waiting
I spent the next few days in the anxious-yellow saferoom with my friend Carol. We prayed, we listened to worship music, we paced, we counted the cement blocks, we joked around, and we did a lot of waiting. I visited with my high school softball coach who testified during the trial. She talked about how she wished I would have asked for help. I talked about how I wished I could have asked. People came in and out, speculating on the verdict, and encouraging me to wait well.
And then both sides rested and it was time for the panel to deliberate and find a verdict. All of a sudden the yellow saferoom was full of waiters, and my anxiety was rising rapidly as I realized that I had more resting on the verdict than I had realized. All along I had told myself that my job was to speak the truth - period, and that the verdict would not change what had happened. But when the moment arrived, I realized how disappointed I would feel should the jury acquit him. The prosecutor, Michael, began to second guess his own work, and started to prepare me should the prosecution have failed to meet their burden of proof. We prayed. We worshipped. We paced. We waited.
And then both sides rested and it was time for the panel to deliberate and find a verdict. All of a sudden the yellow saferoom was full of waiters, and my anxiety was rising rapidly as I realized that I had more resting on the verdict than I had realized. All along I had told myself that my job was to speak the truth - period, and that the verdict would not change what had happened. But when the moment arrived, I realized how disappointed I would feel should the jury acquit him. The prosecutor, Michael, began to second guess his own work, and started to prepare me should the prosecution have failed to meet their burden of proof. We prayed. We worshipped. We paced. We waited.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Trial Day
When morning came, my body felt both heavy and weak. When I stood up I kept wanting to hunch over, and curl into myself. Food, although advisable, could not even be considered because of the nausea. Feeling shaky, I sat down to perform all of my morning tasks, which I performed slowly and robotically. I wanted each task to stretch out forever, because I felt like I was on a conveyor belt that would arrive all too soon at the witness stand. My friends were kind and attentive, but gave me the space they knew I needed, and prayed for me for physical strength and for the nausea to dissipate. We left the safe house and headed for the church.
I had been visualizing getting out of the car and walking into the church for weeks, because I knew that it would be a hard step, and it was. We entered the church, and my stomached dropped and I felt a little bit dizzy when I saw the security men searching bodies and bags with their hands and beeping wands. My emotions ran the gamut from fear, which seemed validated by the precautions being taken, to intense relief that the Presbytery understood the danger this man represented, to a deep sadness and sense of gravity as I considered the very real reminders, all around me, of of the abuse I had experienced as a child, and all of the difficult moments of the last three years that had led up to this day.
The nervousness of the security detail and of the Presbytery officials fed my own as they whisked me off, under guard, to a secure, safe-room where I would spend anytime when I was not giving testimony. My parents and siblings were there, along with my prayer team, and there was coffee and plenty of stuff not to eat. The head of the prosecution team, Michael, came in to see me briefly before the proceedings began, and we prayed together before walking down the hall to the trial room. Precautions were taken to make sure that my abuser and I didn't meet in transit, and so he was already seated in the room, along with his attorney, when I arrived.
I had been visualizing getting out of the car and walking into the church for weeks, because I knew that it would be a hard step, and it was. We entered the church, and my stomached dropped and I felt a little bit dizzy when I saw the security men searching bodies and bags with their hands and beeping wands. My emotions ran the gamut from fear, which seemed validated by the precautions being taken, to intense relief that the Presbytery understood the danger this man represented, to a deep sadness and sense of gravity as I considered the very real reminders, all around me, of of the abuse I had experienced as a child, and all of the difficult moments of the last three years that had led up to this day.
The nervousness of the security detail and of the Presbytery officials fed my own as they whisked me off, under guard, to a secure, safe-room where I would spend anytime when I was not giving testimony. My parents and siblings were there, along with my prayer team, and there was coffee and plenty of stuff not to eat. The head of the prosecution team, Michael, came in to see me briefly before the proceedings began, and we prayed together before walking down the hall to the trial room. Precautions were taken to make sure that my abuser and I didn't meet in transit, and so he was already seated in the room, along with his attorney, when I arrived.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Testimony of Truth
I remember praying and wondering about where my eyes would rest in that room in which sat my abuser, officials of the church, other pastors, my friends and family, and the judicial panel. I had no file to consult about how I should act - what I should do with my hands, my feet, all the nervous energy coursing through my body. My friend sat next to me, ready to help or be of encouragement if she could. My abuser's attorney caught her eye and stared at her menacingly, as if trying to intimidate her. She met his eyes and stared right back. I tried to look at Ron intermittently so that I could get used to seeing him before I was called to testify. He kept his head down as if engrossed in his note taking, and rested his head on his hand so that no one could see his face. Fine with me.
They called the room to order, opened with prayer, and read the charges. It seemed like within only moments, I was called as the prosecution's first witness. I was grateful that a brief recess was called before I was to begin so that I could walk over to the chair and get situated while people were busy milling about. Although I had little doubt that my purse would be safe in the guarded saferoom, I brought it with me because it was heavy and familiar and something I could hold against me on my lap. The chair stood alone out in the middle of the room with no table for cover, or chair next to it for a friendly presence. As I sat down I felt calm and resolved to provide the panel with all the truth they needed to determine his guilt and remove him from ministry.
The defense attorney began by asking me my high school grade point average, followed it up with a request for me to verify my all-conference athletic status in softball, and then wrapped it all up with his point - that there was no way I could have been abused because I had it all together! He then proceeded to ask me to define rape. I replied simply, saying "in this case, rape is when an adult has sex with a child." He smirked at my response and went for his second point - his assumed definition of rape. He faced the panel and stated that he considered rape to be "when there is violence, struggle, screaming and shouting that ends with forceful penetration." The prosecuting lawyer thought Christmas had come early as he heard this definition described for the panel, and doodled smiley faces on his legal pad as the panel moderator of the judicial panel addressed the attorney directly, indicating that they would go with my definition for the purposes of this trial, and that "level of resistance had nothing to do with what happens when there is an inequity of power." A lot of healing happened when the panel moderator spoke on my behalf, defending me against the very things of which I have accused myself over the years.
Because I had, for over two years, been providing detailed testimony to various investigators and attorneys in the case, I had become adept at holding the details of my own story far enough away from my emotions, that I could list off horrific details succinctly while maintaining my composure. Now I don't know that this skill has at all served me personally and emotionally, but it got me through that day, and allowed me to provide them with the information they needed. But when the defense rested, the prosecution asked me their questions, and then I heard that the defense would not choose to cross-examine? I gasped and a sob briefly escaped my throat when I realized it was over - that I was likely done testifying. I locked that sob away and waited to be escorted back to the anxious-yellow saferoom.
They called the room to order, opened with prayer, and read the charges. It seemed like within only moments, I was called as the prosecution's first witness. I was grateful that a brief recess was called before I was to begin so that I could walk over to the chair and get situated while people were busy milling about. Although I had little doubt that my purse would be safe in the guarded saferoom, I brought it with me because it was heavy and familiar and something I could hold against me on my lap. The chair stood alone out in the middle of the room with no table for cover, or chair next to it for a friendly presence. As I sat down I felt calm and resolved to provide the panel with all the truth they needed to determine his guilt and remove him from ministry.
The defense attorney began by asking me my high school grade point average, followed it up with a request for me to verify my all-conference athletic status in softball, and then wrapped it all up with his point - that there was no way I could have been abused because I had it all together! He then proceeded to ask me to define rape. I replied simply, saying "in this case, rape is when an adult has sex with a child." He smirked at my response and went for his second point - his assumed definition of rape. He faced the panel and stated that he considered rape to be "when there is violence, struggle, screaming and shouting that ends with forceful penetration." The prosecuting lawyer thought Christmas had come early as he heard this definition described for the panel, and doodled smiley faces on his legal pad as the panel moderator of the judicial panel addressed the attorney directly, indicating that they would go with my definition for the purposes of this trial, and that "level of resistance had nothing to do with what happens when there is an inequity of power." A lot of healing happened when the panel moderator spoke on my behalf, defending me against the very things of which I have accused myself over the years.
Because I had, for over two years, been providing detailed testimony to various investigators and attorneys in the case, I had become adept at holding the details of my own story far enough away from my emotions, that I could list off horrific details succinctly while maintaining my composure. Now I don't know that this skill has at all served me personally and emotionally, but it got me through that day, and allowed me to provide them with the information they needed. But when the defense rested, the prosecution asked me their questions, and then I heard that the defense would not choose to cross-examine? I gasped and a sob briefly escaped my throat when I realized it was over - that I was likely done testifying. I locked that sob away and waited to be escorted back to the anxious-yellow saferoom.
Monday, January 5, 2009
The Trial Week
The days leading up to the ecclesiastical trial of my abuser were surreal. I felt as if I was floating through, not the actual days leading up to the trial, but a blurry copy. Conversations seemed irrelevant and distant, and I robotically went through the days doing whatever seemed logical and necessary. The prosecution team picked me up from the airport and took me directly to a meeting in which we reviewed the schedules and details of the trial. We prayed together, asking for the resolve and strength necessary to walk through the next week. My parents picked me up from the meeting, looking pale, fragile and weary as they loaded my bags into the car. They seemed resigned to participating in a very difficult week, and were careful to take their cues from me, having no file on how to parent a child through something like this. We went out to dinner because that’s what my family does, and we talked about safe things mostly and laughed whenever we could.
Jesus, with skin on, arrived on Sunday afternoon by plane and a 1998 Volvo, in the form of my four prayer buddies who have been walking with me all along this journey. They are the kind of friends who don’t need to be taken care of, and don’t need to feel like they are taking care of me, and the kind of friends that think nothing of clearing their calendars and taking a road trip prayer assignment. We drove to the church in which the trial was going to be held, and prayed all around the property, asking for justice, for truth to overcome, and for me to be vindicated. I felt antsy and preoccupied, and was glad that my friends were on task and interceding on my behalf. We walked to dinner, some of us chatting, some of us not, and then came back to the safe house and spent more time in prayer and worship. As is always the case, the worship music brought me present to myself and my circumstances, and the tears came as my soul, for a moment, caught up with my head, integrating what I knew the morning would bring, with the reality of having to be present, and participative in it. As I have in other times of difficulty, like depositions or press conferences, I asked God to show me how it would be to walk into the trial room, see my abuser, tell my story, and respond to open-ended questions. The story that kept coming to mind was the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus went to pray on the eve of his crucifixion. Even though I knew certainly that my assignment was significantly easier than death by crucifixion, I felt the agony of waiting, and the overwhelming dread of the morning’s inevitable arrival. In my prayer, I saw Jesus, beaten, bleeding and exhausted, haul himself onto the cross and avail himself to his captors and ultimately to his Father. I then saw myself walk across the room and climb into a very big chair, availing myself to the trial lawyers and to the telling of my truth.
Jesus, with skin on, arrived on Sunday afternoon by plane and a 1998 Volvo, in the form of my four prayer buddies who have been walking with me all along this journey. They are the kind of friends who don’t need to be taken care of, and don’t need to feel like they are taking care of me, and the kind of friends that think nothing of clearing their calendars and taking a road trip prayer assignment. We drove to the church in which the trial was going to be held, and prayed all around the property, asking for justice, for truth to overcome, and for me to be vindicated. I felt antsy and preoccupied, and was glad that my friends were on task and interceding on my behalf. We walked to dinner, some of us chatting, some of us not, and then came back to the safe house and spent more time in prayer and worship. As is always the case, the worship music brought me present to myself and my circumstances, and the tears came as my soul, for a moment, caught up with my head, integrating what I knew the morning would bring, with the reality of having to be present, and participative in it. As I have in other times of difficulty, like depositions or press conferences, I asked God to show me how it would be to walk into the trial room, see my abuser, tell my story, and respond to open-ended questions. The story that kept coming to mind was the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus went to pray on the eve of his crucifixion. Even though I knew certainly that my assignment was significantly easier than death by crucifixion, I felt the agony of waiting, and the overwhelming dread of the morning’s inevitable arrival. In my prayer, I saw Jesus, beaten, bleeding and exhausted, haul himself onto the cross and avail himself to his captors and ultimately to his Father. I then saw myself walk across the room and climb into a very big chair, availing myself to the trial lawyers and to the telling of my truth.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Extravagant Worship
As I am preparing for the trial this month, I find myself in the Luke 7 passage of the annointing of Jesus by the sinful woman. When I try to picture myself entering that trial room, I feel a lot like the woman walking through the room full of religious authorities. I have thought and journaled lots about what it feels like to walk through the room with all of their eyes on me, their thoughts and judgment heavy in the air, pulling my gaze down to the floor as I hurry to my chair. And just as Jesus was there to receive that woman's offering of worship, I am comforted to know that he will receive my act of worship and obedience as I pour out the truth of my story, allowing his healing power to overcome my shame. To that end, as a next step, I am praying and writing through how Jesus might have experienced the Luke 7 woman's act of worship.....
I am here to do the work of my father who has sent me, and I feel an urgency to press on that is driven by an intense love for all of his children. I am heading to the house of Simon the Pharisee. I love him so very much, and yet I know all that is at stake for him, as he is confronted with who I am, and what I have come here to do. His whole life has been dedicated to living out the law according to Moses, and so much clutter has come into it that he has lost sight of the love that my Father has for him. Love is scary in that it compels us ahead of ourselves, and yet if trusted, completes us. I know that ultimately I hang on a cross, judged by many like Simon, and yet that too is work of love and completion.
As I walk into his home, I draw on the reserves of peace and love and tenderness that time with my father creates, and I am anchored deeply in the midst of so many who want to entrap me, intrigued by who I am, and yet afraid. There are many people, and it has been a long, dusty, hot day. The room is full, and the smells of spent humanity hover in the damp air, mingled with the aroma of the meal that has been prepared. As I lower my body to recline next to the table my body rests here, but my soul rests in the arms of my father who is ever my refuge in the midst of those who pursue me. My bones are weary, and my muscles ache from many hours of walking, and tension from being in the midst of crowds all day. There is no place I would rather be, because I am doing the will of my father, and he hovers so near.
As I am getting settled I am aware of a woman who has drawn near to me, as near as she dares, and is kissing my feet. I sense that she is acting out of a deep longing and hunger for love, and connection and wholeness that she has identified in me. Oh how I love her and know her. I know every hurt that has come so deeply and at times violently into her, and I care for her pain, because I know that it so matters to her and that she so matters to me. She has answered longings and cravings for love and acceptance in ways that leave her feeling empty, violated, stripped and hopelessly dirty. She has been made to think that she is unworthy of any kind of love except for the kind that is bought from her, which isn’t love at all. She is right that the people in this room see her as a sinner of a particularly disdainful kind, one who has no value to society or to the God they so righteously serve. I see her as a frightened, weak, lonely, lost little lamb who is at the feet of her shepherd, broken and aching with longing. As she kisses my feet and wets them with her tears of brokenness, my heart rejoices that she is found, and that she has waded through all that I know surrounds her, taunting her mercilessly at times, and has come to me.
As she pours her tears onto me, and into the pores of my dry, weary skin, I lavish her with my love, grace, and tenderness which is inconceivable to her based on her life experience. And yet my gift of grace comes also with the ability to receive it, and to allow gentle healing to her wounds that cry out to me. Her tears run down my feet clearing a path paved by her brokenness and her willingness to worship her Lord without regard for all that hovers near to her, reminding her. As I look at her and love her, the tear-stained pattern on my feet brings my thoughts to my eventual suffering on the cross- dirty, tearful work that I yearn to complete even if it were to be for her alone. As if she has heard my thoughts, she picks up her most precious possession, that which I know she has literally sold much of herself to earn, and commits an act of utmost extravagance. As she, amidst tears and trembling sacrifice, pours out this sweet fragrance, all else stands still, as the refreshing, cool, fragrant liquid spreads over my feet and her hands, and knits our hearts and souls together. Just as the perfume wipes clean all of the dirt and all of the tears, so will the piercing and pouring out of my very essence, wipe away all that runs in the way of her complete intimacy and oneness with my father.
The tender, suspended extravagance of that moment is broken by a voice of judgment, spoken out of insecurity bred by the belief that all earned by public righteousness. Simon, who I love and desire equally, reminds me in a loud, but quietly desperate voice, that she is a sinner, because if I receive and love her, where does that leave him? His comment hits its mark as she averts her eyes and is soaked once again in shame and the remembering of all that she has done and allowed. I know that her pain and her experiences color the exchange as she braces herself for my response, and even as I first speak my words, she can barely hear them, if at all. I tell Simon a story that speaks of two debtors, who unable to pay, have their debts forgiven. Simon correctly deduces that the one who had the larger debt forgiven has a greater love for the forgiver, but he struggles in making the leap into his own heart. I know that when she first hears me speaking of the greater debt and of forgiveness, that her mind is immediately drawn to the greatness of her debt – all that she has done and all that she has allowed, and that it hinders her from recognizing the love for which I have given her capacity, and the unmerited, but freely lavished extravagance of forgiveness that is hers.
As Simon tries to sort out where that story leaves him, and as she fights through the shame and lies that hinder her, I continue to speak against the belief that my cares and concerns have anything to do with those of this world. Simon, yes you have a lovely house, and the financial resources to feed me a nice meal, and host me and many others for the evening, but that has nothing to do with what my father wants. You have tended to all that is to surround me this evening, but this woman tended to me. She entered this place, knowing that she would be looked at through eyes of judgment and disdain. She knew I would be here, and, in spite of all that awaited her and accompanied her, she was compelled to be wholly present to me, and in the face of what she sees and feels in my presence, to pour herself out in a reckless act of love and worship. She has allowed her sin to lead to brokenness, and out of such great brokenness and love comes great forgiveness.
I turn to her and look into her eyes and treasure her with my gaze, seeking to reassure her that my words are for her. I tell her that her sins are forgiven. I know that forgiveness is especially hard for her to truly receive and I pray that my gaze speaks clearly to her of my fierce, abundant love and my fervent desire for her to wholly accept and receive my forgiveness. I pray also that this exchange will remain forever in her minds’ eye and in her heart, as she will so often need to call upon its remembering, in the face of the lies, and the pain, and the shame that her experience will allow to pursue her. And as she prepares to leave, I point to her faith as that which has saved her, so that she knows to grasp onto it firmly and not let go. And then I bid her to go in peace.
My prayer as I go to the trial is that I can see it as an opportunity to worship the Lord by pouring my testimony of truth at his feet, for his use. Just as the woman who annointed Jesus' feet likely kept her eyes on Jesus the whole time she was walking through the room, I pray that my eyes can rest on him as well. Lord, at your feet I pour......
I am here to do the work of my father who has sent me, and I feel an urgency to press on that is driven by an intense love for all of his children. I am heading to the house of Simon the Pharisee. I love him so very much, and yet I know all that is at stake for him, as he is confronted with who I am, and what I have come here to do. His whole life has been dedicated to living out the law according to Moses, and so much clutter has come into it that he has lost sight of the love that my Father has for him. Love is scary in that it compels us ahead of ourselves, and yet if trusted, completes us. I know that ultimately I hang on a cross, judged by many like Simon, and yet that too is work of love and completion.
As I walk into his home, I draw on the reserves of peace and love and tenderness that time with my father creates, and I am anchored deeply in the midst of so many who want to entrap me, intrigued by who I am, and yet afraid. There are many people, and it has been a long, dusty, hot day. The room is full, and the smells of spent humanity hover in the damp air, mingled with the aroma of the meal that has been prepared. As I lower my body to recline next to the table my body rests here, but my soul rests in the arms of my father who is ever my refuge in the midst of those who pursue me. My bones are weary, and my muscles ache from many hours of walking, and tension from being in the midst of crowds all day. There is no place I would rather be, because I am doing the will of my father, and he hovers so near.
As I am getting settled I am aware of a woman who has drawn near to me, as near as she dares, and is kissing my feet. I sense that she is acting out of a deep longing and hunger for love, and connection and wholeness that she has identified in me. Oh how I love her and know her. I know every hurt that has come so deeply and at times violently into her, and I care for her pain, because I know that it so matters to her and that she so matters to me. She has answered longings and cravings for love and acceptance in ways that leave her feeling empty, violated, stripped and hopelessly dirty. She has been made to think that she is unworthy of any kind of love except for the kind that is bought from her, which isn’t love at all. She is right that the people in this room see her as a sinner of a particularly disdainful kind, one who has no value to society or to the God they so righteously serve. I see her as a frightened, weak, lonely, lost little lamb who is at the feet of her shepherd, broken and aching with longing. As she kisses my feet and wets them with her tears of brokenness, my heart rejoices that she is found, and that she has waded through all that I know surrounds her, taunting her mercilessly at times, and has come to me.
As she pours her tears onto me, and into the pores of my dry, weary skin, I lavish her with my love, grace, and tenderness which is inconceivable to her based on her life experience. And yet my gift of grace comes also with the ability to receive it, and to allow gentle healing to her wounds that cry out to me. Her tears run down my feet clearing a path paved by her brokenness and her willingness to worship her Lord without regard for all that hovers near to her, reminding her. As I look at her and love her, the tear-stained pattern on my feet brings my thoughts to my eventual suffering on the cross- dirty, tearful work that I yearn to complete even if it were to be for her alone. As if she has heard my thoughts, she picks up her most precious possession, that which I know she has literally sold much of herself to earn, and commits an act of utmost extravagance. As she, amidst tears and trembling sacrifice, pours out this sweet fragrance, all else stands still, as the refreshing, cool, fragrant liquid spreads over my feet and her hands, and knits our hearts and souls together. Just as the perfume wipes clean all of the dirt and all of the tears, so will the piercing and pouring out of my very essence, wipe away all that runs in the way of her complete intimacy and oneness with my father.
The tender, suspended extravagance of that moment is broken by a voice of judgment, spoken out of insecurity bred by the belief that all earned by public righteousness. Simon, who I love and desire equally, reminds me in a loud, but quietly desperate voice, that she is a sinner, because if I receive and love her, where does that leave him? His comment hits its mark as she averts her eyes and is soaked once again in shame and the remembering of all that she has done and allowed. I know that her pain and her experiences color the exchange as she braces herself for my response, and even as I first speak my words, she can barely hear them, if at all. I tell Simon a story that speaks of two debtors, who unable to pay, have their debts forgiven. Simon correctly deduces that the one who had the larger debt forgiven has a greater love for the forgiver, but he struggles in making the leap into his own heart. I know that when she first hears me speaking of the greater debt and of forgiveness, that her mind is immediately drawn to the greatness of her debt – all that she has done and all that she has allowed, and that it hinders her from recognizing the love for which I have given her capacity, and the unmerited, but freely lavished extravagance of forgiveness that is hers.
As Simon tries to sort out where that story leaves him, and as she fights through the shame and lies that hinder her, I continue to speak against the belief that my cares and concerns have anything to do with those of this world. Simon, yes you have a lovely house, and the financial resources to feed me a nice meal, and host me and many others for the evening, but that has nothing to do with what my father wants. You have tended to all that is to surround me this evening, but this woman tended to me. She entered this place, knowing that she would be looked at through eyes of judgment and disdain. She knew I would be here, and, in spite of all that awaited her and accompanied her, she was compelled to be wholly present to me, and in the face of what she sees and feels in my presence, to pour herself out in a reckless act of love and worship. She has allowed her sin to lead to brokenness, and out of such great brokenness and love comes great forgiveness.
I turn to her and look into her eyes and treasure her with my gaze, seeking to reassure her that my words are for her. I tell her that her sins are forgiven. I know that forgiveness is especially hard for her to truly receive and I pray that my gaze speaks clearly to her of my fierce, abundant love and my fervent desire for her to wholly accept and receive my forgiveness. I pray also that this exchange will remain forever in her minds’ eye and in her heart, as she will so often need to call upon its remembering, in the face of the lies, and the pain, and the shame that her experience will allow to pursue her. And as she prepares to leave, I point to her faith as that which has saved her, so that she knows to grasp onto it firmly and not let go. And then I bid her to go in peace.
My prayer as I go to the trial is that I can see it as an opportunity to worship the Lord by pouring my testimony of truth at his feet, for his use. Just as the woman who annointed Jesus' feet likely kept her eyes on Jesus the whole time she was walking through the room, I pray that my eyes can rest on him as well. Lord, at your feet I pour......
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Redeemed and Healed
I spent last week back home where I met with the lead prosecutor for the church trial of my abuser. As I boarded the plane the day of my meeting, I looked forward to the day that I will hop on a plane and go somewhere fun. My briefcase loaded down with legal documents, I sat in the window seat with my eyes closed, panning my soul for glimpses of God’s nearness as I settled into what the day would bring, asking God to be tangibly present at every turn. My mom picked me up from the airport, and we chatted, catching up on the kids and the end of summer, and she told me that she hoped that the days ahead wouldn’t be too difficult for me. I thanked her as we brought my things into the house, heading to lunch and then downtown for my meeting. It was raining hard as my mom pulled away from the curb, and I had to step over puddles of water to get to the sidewalk, moving quickly to meet the brisk walking pace of businessmen and women hurrying through the rain. The sounds became immediately muffled as I entered the revolving door and rounded into the building. Passing by the Starbucks at the entrance to this massive high rise, I remembered another time when God reached out to comfort me as I waited for a similar meeting to begin, and tucked that remembering under my belt as I continued through the lobby. As the elevator ascended to the 25th floor, I tried not to feel lonely or afraid, and as the door opened, I put the finishing touches on my game face as I checked in with the receptionist and took a seat in the waiting area.
Before too long, a law clerk, who I knew from previous visits, took my soaking wet raincoat and led me back to a conference room where I was to wait in privacy for the others to arrive. The room, although bright with artificial light, was an interior room with no windows and good sound proofing. I breathed in the quiet, grateful for the time to sit alone with nothing being asked of me, and wrote absent-mindedly in my journal, doodling a bit along the margins.
After some time, there was a knock on the door, and through it walked the prosecutor with whom I had come all of this way to meet. I remained seated but greeted him with a smile and a hand shake, wondering even then if I should have stood as he’d entered. We chatted briefly about my days’ trip, and then we began to talk about the case as we awaited the arrival of our third and final party – the adovacate assigned to me by the denomination in which I grew up. When she arrived I again remained seated as she paused by my chair to take my hand and kiss my cheek in greeting. The prosecutor handed out the meeting agenda, and briefly described the intent of the meeting. The first item was Introductions/Prayer, and he asked if I was comfortable with him praying. I indicated that I was, and that I would like to pray, and invited the advocate to join in as well. The prosecutor prayed for wisdom and insight and courage for all parties as the trial approached. My advocate prayed for me to feel comforted and emboldened. I prayed that God would have his way with every inch of the proceedings, and that truth would win the day and the days to come.
The next item on the agenda was for me to describe again, in detail, the details of my sexual abuse at the hands of my youth pastor. He took copious notes as I responded to his questions about dates, times, locations, specific types of sexual interactions, frequency, and duration, interrupting frequently with clarifying questions.
I have grown accustomed, during the last two years, to being questioned in ways that reduce the sexual abuse I experienced to a series of timelines - events separated into columns based on things like the type of sexual interaction, the location, and the frequency with which it occurred. When this line of questioning comes, I stay up in my head where the facts are stored, opening and shutting the files of memories with speed and efficiency, careful not to think beyond the surface of the question.
As I answered his questions, I felt relatively comfortable with him, considering the fact that I had just met him, and felt like he had a pretty good understanding of the subject of clergy sexual abuse. After he had touched on most of the factual stuff, he backed up to press in on some details. We were talking about various locations in which abuse occurred, and he was asking me about times when we had been in his car. He asked me if there was ever oral intercourse, and I indicated that there was. He then paused awkwardly, as if unsure how to pose his next question, and said “and it was for…….?” At first I didn’t get what he was asking, and I just waited for him to find the word he wanted, but then he asked again “and it was for….?” I felt the blood crawl up my neck, and my stomach sink to my chair as I realized what he was asking, and all that his question implied. I whispered “it wasn’t for me” in reply, and then watched his face, hoping that I had read his question incorrectly, but I hadn’t. His face immediately registered relief, and he made a note on his pad as he said, “oh, good, okay.” I quickly recovered and we went on with our meeting for the next several hours.
After the meeting ended, I headed to the train with the commuter crowd, met my family for dinner, and participated in one family activity after another until I boarded the plane to return to my husband and kids, and our hectic schedule. I got up the next day and jumped right back into work. When friends asked me how I was doing in the aftermath of my trip I told them that I was doing fine, and wondered out loud if I was maybe still on an adrenalin rush heading for a crash of some kind. It wasn’t until this morning that my soul caught up with the rest of me and demanded some time. Morning met me with a feeling of utter exhaustion and pervasive sadness that I was hoping would fall away as I entered the rhythms of my work, but I kept finding myself staring blankly and sighing heavily, wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I tried to take some time between appointments, but felt too anxious and too antsy to pray, and so ended up packing up and heading out early for my next appointment, kind of wandering around, trying to outwit my soul. Later on in the afternoon, sitting in my car between appointments, I called a friend who had called to ask about my trip home. We chatted a bit, and she asked me how I was doing, and I said that I felt so tired of being misunderstood. As my mind said it, my soul sighed in relief and agreement, and I felt my heart, mind, and soul nestle in more tightly together.
People always tell me that they understand about clergy sexual abuse – that it is never mutual, and that it is never the fault of the child, and I often allow myself to believe them. But, when the prosecutor asked me to clarify who was arousing whom during our interactions in the car, it spoke volumes to me about what he didn’t understand about clergy abuse and the nuances of one having power over another.
Others, lawyers and pastors included, have little choice but to respond to my story out of their own stuff, right where they are. The prosecutor obviously believes that sexual interaction between an adult and a child is only really abusive if the child is not feeling pleasure, implying that, if my body ever responded during the interaction, that I was in some way complicit. I, for years, felt that I was an exception to the rule that the child is never at fault, because I know that my body response during the abuse told me that it must have been something short of abuse. One of the most difficult things for abuse victims to accept is that the human body can respond to a physical/sexual stimulant without permission from the mind or the soul, and that, even if the mind and soul did give permission, they did not have the freedom, maturity, and cognitive resources to do so. During the few instances in which my body responded sexually to my abuser, before suppressing its ability to respond sexually altogether, my mind and my soul were horrified and riddled with utter shame and confusion at the incongruity of my body’s cooperation given the utter revulsion and resistance of my heart and soul. When I have gone to the Lord with this shame and confusion, each time, God has let me know that He created our bodies to respond to the touch of another, and that those scenarios represent choices that my body, the body of a child under the power and control of another, should have never had to make. The fault lies, not in my body’s response, but in the hands of the adult authority figure who thrust his adult, emotional, physical, and sexual needs onto my child body, mind, and soul, and the litmus test as to whether or not it was abuse goes no further or deeper than identifying the two people involved – an adult and a child – period.
The last few years of testimony and interaction with friends back home where I have been in the papers and in the news, have given me lots of opportunity to practice holding on to my own mooring in Jesus as people ask me questions and speak words of comfort that aren’t at all comforting. As the prosecutor probed about who was being pleasured during times in the car, the keeper of my soul was opening up attic doors, and pulling out bags of shame and complicity, dragging them across the rough dusty floor of my inner most thoughts and feelings. At first I was, in addition to feeling ashamed and alone, discouraged at seeing baggage I thought had been long ago dealt with and tucked away, as if the healing process is in some way linear instead of a lifelong process of fits and starts, with layers of hurt and lies believed being peeled away like an onion, with each new layer a little bit different in shape and contour than the others. I have been asking God to prepare me for next months’ trial, so that I can process the hard stuff in privacy with Him, and as in times past, he is faithful to respond. And so I should not be surprised as he is exposes another layer of my soul that is spotted with shame, and invites me to, once again, empty out each bag’s contents, allow him to wash each item with his truth and his touch, remove the luggage tag that says “repressed and hidden” and replace it with one that says “redeemed and healed.”
Before too long, a law clerk, who I knew from previous visits, took my soaking wet raincoat and led me back to a conference room where I was to wait in privacy for the others to arrive. The room, although bright with artificial light, was an interior room with no windows and good sound proofing. I breathed in the quiet, grateful for the time to sit alone with nothing being asked of me, and wrote absent-mindedly in my journal, doodling a bit along the margins.
After some time, there was a knock on the door, and through it walked the prosecutor with whom I had come all of this way to meet. I remained seated but greeted him with a smile and a hand shake, wondering even then if I should have stood as he’d entered. We chatted briefly about my days’ trip, and then we began to talk about the case as we awaited the arrival of our third and final party – the adovacate assigned to me by the denomination in which I grew up. When she arrived I again remained seated as she paused by my chair to take my hand and kiss my cheek in greeting. The prosecutor handed out the meeting agenda, and briefly described the intent of the meeting. The first item was Introductions/Prayer, and he asked if I was comfortable with him praying. I indicated that I was, and that I would like to pray, and invited the advocate to join in as well. The prosecutor prayed for wisdom and insight and courage for all parties as the trial approached. My advocate prayed for me to feel comforted and emboldened. I prayed that God would have his way with every inch of the proceedings, and that truth would win the day and the days to come.
The next item on the agenda was for me to describe again, in detail, the details of my sexual abuse at the hands of my youth pastor. He took copious notes as I responded to his questions about dates, times, locations, specific types of sexual interactions, frequency, and duration, interrupting frequently with clarifying questions.
I have grown accustomed, during the last two years, to being questioned in ways that reduce the sexual abuse I experienced to a series of timelines - events separated into columns based on things like the type of sexual interaction, the location, and the frequency with which it occurred. When this line of questioning comes, I stay up in my head where the facts are stored, opening and shutting the files of memories with speed and efficiency, careful not to think beyond the surface of the question.
As I answered his questions, I felt relatively comfortable with him, considering the fact that I had just met him, and felt like he had a pretty good understanding of the subject of clergy sexual abuse. After he had touched on most of the factual stuff, he backed up to press in on some details. We were talking about various locations in which abuse occurred, and he was asking me about times when we had been in his car. He asked me if there was ever oral intercourse, and I indicated that there was. He then paused awkwardly, as if unsure how to pose his next question, and said “and it was for…….?” At first I didn’t get what he was asking, and I just waited for him to find the word he wanted, but then he asked again “and it was for….?” I felt the blood crawl up my neck, and my stomach sink to my chair as I realized what he was asking, and all that his question implied. I whispered “it wasn’t for me” in reply, and then watched his face, hoping that I had read his question incorrectly, but I hadn’t. His face immediately registered relief, and he made a note on his pad as he said, “oh, good, okay.” I quickly recovered and we went on with our meeting for the next several hours.
After the meeting ended, I headed to the train with the commuter crowd, met my family for dinner, and participated in one family activity after another until I boarded the plane to return to my husband and kids, and our hectic schedule. I got up the next day and jumped right back into work. When friends asked me how I was doing in the aftermath of my trip I told them that I was doing fine, and wondered out loud if I was maybe still on an adrenalin rush heading for a crash of some kind. It wasn’t until this morning that my soul caught up with the rest of me and demanded some time. Morning met me with a feeling of utter exhaustion and pervasive sadness that I was hoping would fall away as I entered the rhythms of my work, but I kept finding myself staring blankly and sighing heavily, wanting nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I tried to take some time between appointments, but felt too anxious and too antsy to pray, and so ended up packing up and heading out early for my next appointment, kind of wandering around, trying to outwit my soul. Later on in the afternoon, sitting in my car between appointments, I called a friend who had called to ask about my trip home. We chatted a bit, and she asked me how I was doing, and I said that I felt so tired of being misunderstood. As my mind said it, my soul sighed in relief and agreement, and I felt my heart, mind, and soul nestle in more tightly together.
People always tell me that they understand about clergy sexual abuse – that it is never mutual, and that it is never the fault of the child, and I often allow myself to believe them. But, when the prosecutor asked me to clarify who was arousing whom during our interactions in the car, it spoke volumes to me about what he didn’t understand about clergy abuse and the nuances of one having power over another.
Others, lawyers and pastors included, have little choice but to respond to my story out of their own stuff, right where they are. The prosecutor obviously believes that sexual interaction between an adult and a child is only really abusive if the child is not feeling pleasure, implying that, if my body ever responded during the interaction, that I was in some way complicit. I, for years, felt that I was an exception to the rule that the child is never at fault, because I know that my body response during the abuse told me that it must have been something short of abuse. One of the most difficult things for abuse victims to accept is that the human body can respond to a physical/sexual stimulant without permission from the mind or the soul, and that, even if the mind and soul did give permission, they did not have the freedom, maturity, and cognitive resources to do so. During the few instances in which my body responded sexually to my abuser, before suppressing its ability to respond sexually altogether, my mind and my soul were horrified and riddled with utter shame and confusion at the incongruity of my body’s cooperation given the utter revulsion and resistance of my heart and soul. When I have gone to the Lord with this shame and confusion, each time, God has let me know that He created our bodies to respond to the touch of another, and that those scenarios represent choices that my body, the body of a child under the power and control of another, should have never had to make. The fault lies, not in my body’s response, but in the hands of the adult authority figure who thrust his adult, emotional, physical, and sexual needs onto my child body, mind, and soul, and the litmus test as to whether or not it was abuse goes no further or deeper than identifying the two people involved – an adult and a child – period.
The last few years of testimony and interaction with friends back home where I have been in the papers and in the news, have given me lots of opportunity to practice holding on to my own mooring in Jesus as people ask me questions and speak words of comfort that aren’t at all comforting. As the prosecutor probed about who was being pleasured during times in the car, the keeper of my soul was opening up attic doors, and pulling out bags of shame and complicity, dragging them across the rough dusty floor of my inner most thoughts and feelings. At first I was, in addition to feeling ashamed and alone, discouraged at seeing baggage I thought had been long ago dealt with and tucked away, as if the healing process is in some way linear instead of a lifelong process of fits and starts, with layers of hurt and lies believed being peeled away like an onion, with each new layer a little bit different in shape and contour than the others. I have been asking God to prepare me for next months’ trial, so that I can process the hard stuff in privacy with Him, and as in times past, he is faithful to respond. And so I should not be surprised as he is exposes another layer of my soul that is spotted with shame, and invites me to, once again, empty out each bag’s contents, allow him to wash each item with his truth and his touch, remove the luggage tag that says “repressed and hidden” and replace it with one that says “redeemed and healed.”
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