Matthew 1:1-17 The Genealogy of Jesus the Messiah I used to skim quickly through the genealogy of Jesus that opens the book of Matthew. Those lists of names are easy to ignore; they are too long, the names are difficult to read (even silently), and they often favor a patriarchal worldview. I would rather skip those names and head to the good stuff in verse 18: “Now the birth of Jesus the Messiah took place in this way...” Now this is the part of the story we’ve all been waiting for.
Then I found this beautiful children’s book by Sally Lloyd-Jones called “The Jesus Storybook Bible.” In the introduction she says, “The Bible isn’t a book of rules, or a book of heroes. The Bible is most of all a Story. It’s an adventure story about a young Hero who comes from a far country to win back his treasure. . . . There are lots of stories in the Bible, but all the Stories are telling one Big Story. The Story of how God loves his children and comes to rescue them. It takes the whole Bible to tell this story. And at the center of the Story, there is a baby. Every Story in the Bible whispers His name.” I realized that all of those names in Matthew 1 serve a deeper purpose; they provoke us to remember the stories that accompany them. There’s Tamar, a woman who disguised herself as a prostitute and gave birth to twins. There’s the slingshot-wielding, shepherd turned murderer and poet, King David. Even the Story of cursed ex-king Jeconiah, who was defeated and sent into exile by the the Babylonians, made the cut. They are stories of triumph and failure, forgiveness, and deceit; stories of people just like us, mixing up God’s messages and failing to love each other. Yet somehow, unlikely as it seems, these stories point to the birth of Christ. Amazingly, forty-two generations of bumbling, misguided, and downright tragic characters became a part of our beloved Christmas Story. As Sally Lloyd-Jones reminds us, the baby is the center of the Story. The manger scene is not, however, the end of the Story. The Stories recalled in Matthew’s genealogy lead to the beginning of Jesus’s life, and this Christmas story points to the end of his life: the Easter Story. Here, we find a tale of more human failures, more of God’s Grace, and a Resurrected Savior. We know that the story does not end with the manger, or the cross, or even the empty tomb. The story of the coming of the Kingdom of God is still being written, and beyond our wildest dreams, we are all part of that Story. In this season of Advent, a time of waiting and hoping, we anticipate experiencing God’s presence in unexpected places, and we pray that our Stories somehow point toward Christ. And while we wait for the baby, like those saints and sinners listed in Matthew, we give thanks that by the Grace of God, our story is part of God’s Story, too.
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"Maker of this mountain, please...
make another way." ~Andrew Peterson ,"Holy is the Lord"
Last year on the second Tuesday of November, our then three-year-old son Asher had a nightmare. The following three weeks in the Curtis home were nothing short of terrible.
For one, Asher refused to go in his room by himself at all. Even in the middle of the day. And nighttime was a complete disaster. After a long struggle to get him to sleep, Asher would wake up in the middle of the night and decide to go turn on all of the lights in the living room and sit on the couch as if it were morning. Eventually, one of us would wake up and try to put him back to bed, only to have him return over and over, preventing any of us from getting a good night’s sleep. I spent a couple of nights sleeping in the floor of his room, and several nights on the couch in the living room. And most of you know that a three-year-old is hard enough to parent. A three-year-old who hasn’t had nearly enough sleep + parents who haven’t had enough sleep either = one miserable house. Overcoming this fear of his room and of sleeping was a long and difficult process. A good bit of the complication came from the fact that I was trying, and failing, to explain abstract concepts to a child who was not able to understand abstraction. I tried to explain that his nightmare wasn’t real and that it was his imagination. To him, the nightmare was a thing that had visited his room. He questioned me as to why the nightmare came and where the nightmare went and if the nightmare would come back. He talked more and more of witches and ghosts, and no amount of my insisting could convince him that those things were not real. In the end, I realized that I would never be able to get his brain to understand what I was trying to say. So, I did what any parent might do in order to get a decent night’s sleep. I started sort of lying to him. Since I couldn’t convince him that witches and ghosts and nightmares weren’t real, I told him that bad things were all in jail. I told him that the police get all of the bad things and put them in jail, and there is no key and they can’t get out, and the police stay at the jail all of the time to make sure that the bad things can’t get out, and that the jail is far, far away from our house. We even called a friend who is a police man to help corroborate my story. Eventually I said it with enough repetition and conviction that he believed me. He slept easier – and so did I. After Anne asked me to speak for this series, I was thinking about Asher’s faith in things Godly and ghostly – and how he believes, well, whatever I (and other grown-ups in his life) tell him. It reminded me of this song by Andrew Peterson called "Holy Is the Lord." It opens with Abraham waking his little boy, telling him to kiss his mom, and asking Isaac to hold his hand as they journey together. The picture he paints here is sweet and serene. Isaac goes right along with his dad –and why wouldn’t he? The problem comes, of course, because we all know the whole story. Scripture tells us that GOD speaks to Abraham, tells him to take his son, HIS ONLY SON, and go sacrifice him on a mountain that GOD will show him. Now if you’ve been reading Genesis and you get to this point, you realize that Abraham is faced with what seems like an unsolvable problem here. God makes a covenant with Abraham back in Genesis 17, promising that his 90-year-old wife will have a son, name him Isaac, and that “God will establish a covenant with him as an everlasting covenant for his descendants after him.” SO, for God now to ask Abraham to sacrifice Isaac creates a problem that we cannot logically resolve. This Genesis story is troubling to say the least. It raises questions about the nature of God, the sanity of Abraham, and about the naivety of Isaac. Commentators struggle with this story, and rightfully so. I read one who suggested that we should stop preaching this story, since it promotes child abuse. Some say this is story is one that is simply meant to condemn the practice of child sacrifice. Yet others encourage us to ignore what is actually happening (a parent who is commanded by God to kill a child) and look at this as simply a metaphorical story about how God tests and provides. Well, let me just say that I’m not going to resolve this struggle today. It’s just beyond my comprehension – like explaining imagination to a three-year-old. So, to get back to the story, Abraham is given a totally nonsensical task for any parent, but especially for him, in relation to the promise that God had earlier made. Still he wakes up his son, chops some wood, and heads off. Three days in, Isaac starts asking some questions, “Hey dad, where’s the lamb for the offering?” and Abraham answers in true dad fashion: “God will provide,” or in other words, “just trust me.” Next, the scripture cuts to a scene where Abraham ties his son down and gets out his knife. The Angel of the Lord stops him, since he has seemingly passed the test. Abraham looks around and finds a ram caught in some brush, and they sacrifice the ram instead. Crisis averted. I wonder, though, what the walk back down the mountain was like. As I said before, it is the sweet, trusting Isaac that catches my attention at first. Here is a boy – who most commentators believe is somewhere around 10 years old – out for an errand with his father. When Abraham tells Isaac where they are going, Isaac does exactly what every kid would do with a parent. “Where are we going again? Is this the right way? Well what are we going to do? Well how are we going to do a sacrifice without a ram?” And Abraham’s answer reminds me so much of my answer to my kids when they begin in a similar line of questioning. “We’re going on a trip. Yes - this is the right way. Can you just trust me that I know what I am doing?” When I look at this story as a parallel to my life, with me as the parent like Abraham, what I realize is that grown-ups sure do have a big responsibility when it comes to children. They believe what we tell them. Bad things are in jail. Santa is watching. Jesus Loves You. They will follow us up a mountain to their own death – because we are the parent, and we sure do tell them all the time to just trust us that we know what we are doing. But when I remember that so much of scripture tells me to be like a child, I look again at this story – this time with Abraham as the child and God as the parent. When we switch the roles, we find that Abraham acts pretty much the same way as Isaac. God says to Abraham, “Come on, bring your son, and let’s go.” Abraham gets up and goes with God like Isaac went with him. So at this point, I like to let what Otis Moss III calls my “sanctified Imagination” interject. I imagine Abraham begin to ask questions like Isaac did, “Um okay God, I’ll bring Isaac to sacrifice, but earlier you said…” and God says, “Remember when you thought Sarah couldn’t get pregnant? That worked out. And, yes- this is the right way. Can you just trust me that I know what I am doing?” I imagine Abraham as he walks on, his brain scrambling to try and understand this thing that he is sure he is being told to do, even though the whole thing is too terrible and complicated and illogical for his mind to comprehend. I sit with composer Andrew Peterson and watch the scene, and I imagine Abraham sending up a plea, “Maker of this mountain, please make another way.” And beyond logic and our understanding, God does make another way. Abraham looks up, looks around, and finds another answer. You cannot read this story in the Christian tradition without thinking of a time later when Jesus looks up at his maker and asks just about the same question – “if it is possible, please let this cup pass from me,” or in other words, “Maker of this mountain, please make another way.” And for Jesus, God provides not a ram in the thorns, but resurrection. So then, I found even greater meaning in this story beyond what it means to be a parent trying to bumble through and somehow calm a terrified child. I learned more about what it means to be a child of God. It means understanding that there are concepts in this world that are just too complicated for my little mind to grasp (like the Abraham and Isaac story). It means knowing that God is doing God’s best to try and reach me despite my limited understanding. The command from God to Abraham seems illogical, unthinkable, and beyond comprehension, yet Abraham follows, asks, and looks. And somehow, once again God makes another way. As much as Abraham’s actions make me cringe as a mother, the trust that he shows to his maker is a trust that I need to imitate. Being a Child of God like Abraham means that I need to ask a lot of questions, listen to the answers, pay attention to the world around me, and to try and understand more each day what this parent of mine is trying to teach me. So, what I say to Asher is that the bad things are in jail. And Asher trusts me, so he sleeps better at night. He knows that I love him and I would never try to hurt him. And Isaac knows the same thing about his dad Abraham. And Abraham knows the same thing about his maker. The problems that I see around me are often as unsolvable and incomprehensible as the one Abraham faced. How do we make sense of the natural disasters facing our world? How do we sleep at night when so many of our brothers and sisters are suffering? How do we get out of bed when someone we love is no longer here? How do we leave our homes knowing gunmen are lurking near our churches, schools, concerts, cafes, malls, movie theaters, and sidewalks? I don’t even know where to start. But God wakes me up, just as he did to Abraham, and Abraham did to Isaac, and God holds my hand as we walk. I ask questions about what is going on, listen for God’s voice, and I look around for surprising answers. Above all, I trust that my maker loves me – and that the same God that made the mountains and saved Isaac can and will make another way for us.
I gave this message during Chapel at Maryville College on October 3. You can find a video of that service on Facebook here or watch below.
Last month, my husband and I took a quick trip to Nashville to celebrate my Mother's birthday and attend a Christmas show downtown. The trip was great, and though we enjoyed the rare kid-less evening, we also felt the tug of home. I, for one, was ready to make the trip back over the plateau to hug my little ones.
When we stopped for gas about halfway through our return journey, I headed inside to grab some quick road food. Something about car travel makes me crave the junk that I usually try to avoid. As I was headed to the register with my food and drink in hand, an older gentleman spotted my Maryville College sweatshirt and stopped to chat. He looked a bit disheveled, to say the least, He had either medicine or shaving cream stuck to the side of his face. His hair was a bit "Harry Carey" - SNL style. He talked too close, and seemed to change the subject every other sentence. I don't remember now what his connection to MC was (I'm not sure he really had one), but he did love to talk. By the time my husband came in to see what was taking so long, I had already learned of his time teaching in the math department at some tech school and the year he spent going to elementary school on the border near Mexico. Needless to say, we were cornered. I felt the diet coke in my hand becoming warmer as he talked, and my husband and I kept eyeing each other trying to find a moment to escape. I think it was Mark who finally said, "Well, we'd better get home to the kids..." We thought we had done it. We were clear for our getaway. But at that moment, the man reached inside his button-down shirt and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to me, still slightly curved from being tucked near his belly. On the front was a photo of a beautiful bride, complete with name and dates. I realized quickly that I was holding the funeral program for his late wife. They had been married for over 50 years. She had cancer early, which left them unable to have kids. She was related to the Hepburn family (yes, I could see a resemblance). He told us how she had died just a few months before. He told us how at the end, she had become incontinent, but he didn't mind. He told us that at the funeral when he was reading the 23rd Psalm, he had to skip the part about the "shadow of death" because he just couldn't say that. He looked at us with tears in his eyes, and I knew that all of his talk with strangers in the gas station was a brief attempt at distraction. The love of his life was gone, and he had no children of his own to give him comfort. For those few moments, he was once again connecting to the living, and I was so thankful that I was there to listen. I wish I had saved the funeral program, but even without it, I think about this man throughout many of my days. I hope he's doing okay. I hope his church family is keeping him company in his grief. I hope that other people in the gas station are nice enough to give him some time. I think of the Psalm that states, "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted," and I know that God must be close to him. And I hugged my husband tighter and kissed my baby more. And I thanked God that he uses strangers to teach us such valuable lessons - sometimes in spite of our rush to get somewhere else. Even though I played two sports in high school, I have never considered myself a "runner." I would often say to people, "I always wished I could just go for a run, but I just hate it." Well, friends, I am going to throw my hesitations aside for a few moments and share with you that I have become a runner.
This summer, the first when I didn't have to head to an office each day, I decided that I needed to spend some time walking. So I went to the park and walked each day - sometimes meeting a group of friends to walk together. A few weeks later, I thought, "maybe I will just jog this flat stretch." Then I thought, "I wonder if I can make it all the way to the road crossing." Things continued in this fashion until the first of September, when I officially ran the entire 3 mile loop without stopping. A few weeks later, I parked at a different spot and increased the run by a half of a mile. Then a friend encouraged me to run a 5K. Today, I ran for 60 minutes. I am not fast by any measure, and I do not run great distances, but I can look at my husband and say, "I am going to go for a run." An old friend stopped in to say hello a few weeks ago, and she asked me about my new hobby. She couldn't believe that I was now running regularly; she had heard many of my exclamations of how I could never be a runner. This had me thinking a bit about what has kept my feet moving. Many days, I don't necessarily want to go, but I do anyway. I have run in the cold, in the beating sun, and in drizzling rain. I could always use the extra hour to work, but instead I run. To the best of my understanding at this point, here are a few things that keep me going: Outdoor time. Study after study reminds us how important it is to spend some time outside each day. I have come to crave this special time. Once when it was raining, I opted to use the treadmill at work. I was MISERABLE, and my run was half-hearted. More than soaking up the vitamin D, I can wave at folks who pass by, I can see the birds, squirrels, ducks, and cranes carry on, and I can hear the water and feel the breeze. It is a great contrast to the rest of my day, where I am usually in front of a computer or teaching under florescent lights. Confidence. The other day, I ran my fastest 4 mile time in the drizzling rain. Again, I am not going to be winning any medals soon for my speed, but I was proud of myself. That day, I did not pass so many people on the path. When I did spot another who braved the bad weather, I felt like we were in a club of the dedicated few. When I found myself alone on the road (which was much of the time that day), I felt like a champion. I was proud of my legs for carrying my body so far. I was proud of my heart and lungs for holding up with my pace. I was proud of my own resolve to continue despite poor conditions. We spend a great deal of each day beating ourselves up for the things we do wrong. This day, I felt proud of what I had accomplished. Competition. In college, my group of friends were pretty sporty. They loved intramural events on campus and sometimes tried to pull me in on the action. I always stayed away, mostly because I was afraid that I would end up looking foolish or disappointing them. I took this to mean that I had become opposed to competition - I didn't like the idea of "winners" or "losers." About a year ago, my husband told me that he actually thinks that I am very competitive. I stay away from group sports because I am uncomfortable with the competitive nature that I do have, and I don't want to give in to it. I think he may be right. Running is a great "sport" for me, because it allows me to be competitive without the need for a loser. I am racing myself, and I always end up on the winning side. Meditation. I saw an article the other day that argued that coloring was close to meditating. I have done my fair share of "grown-up" coloring, and I do see how the comparison can be made. I think running is close, too. I do listen to music, and I don't actually turn off my brain, but I am able to really focus on the run while I am in it. I think about any twinges of pain that I might feel. I think about my breathing and if I need to speed up or slow down. I think about the path ahead so that I can prepare for the incline or enjoy the straight stretch. Mostly, I can turn off the to-do list, the homework assignment, or the mom guilt that normally race through my brain. For the moment, I am not habitually grabbing my phone to see what is new. I am totally focused on what I am doing right then. You may be like the old me, thinking that there is no way you could ever run for 60 minutes. Maybe so. But, if you get outside and do some walking, you may just find yourself picking up the pace. If you do, you may find, like me, that you have created a new practice that gives you benefits that you never imagined. A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon a Facebook post from a sweet friend suggesting that her readers check out a new Kickstarter campaign. I have never been a Kickstarter supporter before, but for some reason, I clicked through to see what it was all about.
I found on that page the information about Sacred Ordinary Days, a new liturgical planner. Maybe it was because I had been swamped with work, or maybe it was because my husband was at a conference and couldn't talk me out of it, but I did something that I normally do not do. I let myself impulsively order this planner and support the Kickstarter project. One benefit of ordering was that I received a free sample PDF. The idea is to give folks a feel for how the planner could work in their lives. I have been carrying mine around for weeks, and I have to say, it really has helped me to focus and to take time to read scripture. I did not grow up in a liturgical church, but in my adult life, I have come to love the cycle that the liturgical calendar provides. Mostly I love the idea that Christians all over the world are reading the same passages as I am each day. When I was in college, I remember calling my parents to ask how their pastor used the scripture, and I shared with them my pastor's take. It was a great door to meaningful conversation, and it connected us even though we were 200 miles apart. The folks who have put this planner together have big hopes for the kind of community that it might potentially create. The Facebook group already shares encouragement. One of the Kickstarter rewards is a small group session; another is a long retreat. I do believe that if there is one thing that our world could use more of, it would be meaningful connection. Even within the Christian community, differences become the focus of our conversations all too often. I would love to know what friends of mine are using this tool; maybe we can create our own private group to share thoughts, prayers, encouragement, disappointment, and insights. The possibilities are endless! I wanted to take a moment to share the link with you all; the Kickstarter campaign ends on Friday, and after that date, you will not be able to get a hard copy for the 2016 year. Maybe you know someone who would love this as a gift, too. If you want to support, but don't want to use the planner, you can do that as well. ***Click Here*** to get to the Kickstarter page and order your planner! When you do, let me know so that we can encourage one another. I am officially ready to admit that posting weekly is no longer feasible (not that there are many folks on the edge of their seats waiting for each new message). Teaching responsibilities, in addition to mothering, church-ing, and resting are taking priority. I will try hard not to neglect this page for long, so I hope to add something new for you each month.
Thanks to those of you who have been reading and checking my posts; I will do my best to bring you something new soon! As always, thinking of topics is the hardest part. If you have an idea for me, let me know! You can use the comments below or the contact link at the top of the page. Happy Fall! I am so close to, once again, becoming a bad blogger. Each weekend, I begin to fret because I have not yet found the time to sit and write. I have admitted some repeats, and some of the repeats are known only to me. Classes started last week, and I am working hard to stay ahead of my planning and grading. So far, only two class days in, I am worried about how long I will make it. I had planned to audit a non-fiction writing class, but so far, I have yet to make it. In addition to my courses, I have taken on some exciting freelance work, and though rewarding, the jobs are quite time consuming. So I find myself buried in work, panicked by the thought of getting too far behind, and guilty that my kids spend so long in daycare. So, you see, the blog quickly becomes a "least of my priorities" task. And I am tempted each week to perhaps put off until later in the week - or take a week off just this once. Still, an assignment is an assignment - even one given to the self. So, now that I have given you my confession, I will give you the words of poet Kenneth Koch. This poem was given to me by my boss several years ago, and the opening lines echo in my head when I come to the frantic point of juggling my overwhelming tasks. Yielding to someone else to speak is not quite as bad as skipping a week of writing, but it's pretty close. And I am going to do it anyway. "You want a social life, with friends"
by Kenneth Koch You want a social life, with friends. A passionate love life and as well To work hard every day. What’s true Is of these three you may have two And two can pay you dividends But never may have three.There isn’t time enough, my friends– Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends– To find the time to have love, work, and friends. Michelangelo had feeling For Vittoria and the Ceiling But did he go to parties at day’s end? Homer nightly went to banquets Wrote all day but had no lockets Bright with pictures of his Girl. I know one who loves and parties And has done so since his thirties But writes hardly anything at all. from The Help, 2009 by Katherine Stockett "The colored part of town seems so far away when, evidently, it’s only a few miles from the white part of town." *This re-post is brought to you for two reasons. 1) the internet just crashed and erased the new blog that was almost done. 2) the non-profit that I help and love is looking for board members. This post explains why I love Good Neighbors and the work that we do. You can find a link to our web page at the bottom of this post. Tuscaloosa, Alabama is hot. I experienced this first-hand when I ventured to the world of Bear Bryant to visit my great friends, Amanda and Andrew, who were both in graduate programs at the university. So when it came time to select a destination for the Maryville College Alternative Spring Break trip (which I would be leading), I figured we could all use a little more heat - and I knew Tuscaloosa was the perfect spot. Actually, we picked Tuscaloosa because we knew that the city would still be rebuilding from the April 2011 tornadoes, and we figured there would be plenty to do (for work and play). It also just so happened that Amanda and Andrew had their baby girl a week before our trip. (Total coincidence that I got to hang out with them and baby Adeline. *wink*)
The trip was a great success. The students worked hard, had fun, and ate like kings and queens. I got some quality baby time, and I was grateful that most of the organizing work was done by our partners in Tuscaloosa. The Presbyterian Disaster Assistance lead us to First Presbyterian Church, Tuscaloosa, who connected us with Habitat for Humanity. Bam. The trip was planned in full with a few phone calls. On Thursday night, squeezed between our work day and a dinner at Dreamland BBQ, the good people at First Presbyterian Church drove us around the city to show us the path of the tornado and the destruction that was still evident 11 months later. Our tour guide worked as a city planner, so he really was on ground zero right when the tornado hit. The tour was long, the devastation vast, and stories tragic. I asked our three tour guides if the city learned anything from Katrina - if the response to the disaster was different having witnessed that event. One woman spoke up, "Yes," she said, "the Church responded very quickly because of what happened with Katrina. There was food everywhere. You literally couldn't walk down the street without being offered two or three meals." She and the other two church members elaborated that one thing they learned was that communities can care for themselves better than outsiders can. (This was spoken as a criticism of the fumbling government intervention and thus the Democratic party, so I got a bit defensive. Still I understand their point.) Next, our guide spoke this sentence, which made my heart drop: "this tornado couldn't have picked a more perfect path to take out all of the poor and immigrant communities in Tuscaloosa." Now, my thoughts on this conversation were converging into this idea: "If you knew, with clear borders, where the poor and immigrant communities were, where people live and are under housed, under paid, and under fed, WHY DID YOU WAIT UNTIL A TORNADO CAME THROUGH TO DO SOMETHING??" Ok. I realized that my anger was totally displaced; Tuscaloosa was a good town with good people who were working to make things better. They were welcoming groups, like ours, to re-build houses for those without insurance. They were housing and feeding us every day that we were there. My anger rested in the fact that still today, as in the 1960's when The Help was set, the lines in our towns are still very clearly drawn. In the end, I realized that my community (and yours, too) could learning something from Tuscaloosa just as Tuscaloosa learned from New Orleans. We do not have to wait for a disaster to help each other. We do not have to accept that there are lines between the poor and rich, immigrants and locals. We do not have to wait for government assistance. If each community took care of the people in its own community, we wouldn't need FEMA to send agents to help us organize. Just send us a check to cover some of the costs of rebuilding - we've got it covered, thank you! Feed people NOW. House people NOW. Love people NOW. Not later, when the storm has come and gone, when lives are already lost, when hopelessness overwhelms our souls, but RIGHT NOW. *If you live in Blount County and are interested in getting involved with an organization that is doing this very thing - helping take care of our own people - please check out Good Neighbors of Blount County. If you don't live in Blount County, we will still put your money to good use. Or, you can find a local non-profit in your area to join! Why all the (crime) drama?
NBC’s hit show Law and Order, Special Victims Unit has become a staple in many American households – it is about to begin the 17th season. Sergeant Olivia Benson (played by Mariska Hargitay) has become one of America’s darlings, as she manages to treat the victims with tenderness and care, while relentlessly pursuing the perpetrators. Upwards of seven million viewers tune in each week to hear these opening lines: “In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these vicious felonies are members of an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories.” These stories, though, hardly seem to belong to the detectives. Yes, we love watching Ice-T and company track down the bad guys. The stories, though, belong to the victims. What strikes me as I watch shows like this (as well as the many, many other crime dramas) take over both prime time TV and syndication, is the reality that underlies the fiction that they portray. We sit, for maybe an hour or maybe several hours if we catch the USA marathon, and are entertained by these stories. But what is entertainment for most of us is reality for many. Statistics show that one in three American women will be sexually abused during their lifetime. One in four women and one in six men will be sexually assaulted before the age of 18.* As someone who has not experienced sexual assault, I cannot begin to imagine what those brave women and men have gone through. I can speculate, though, that this kind of show would be insulting at least – if not downright traumatic to watch. I doubt that crime shows are going anywhere soon, but I do wonder how we as a culture justify giving such high entertainment value to something that is so real and harmful to such a large part of our population. Perhaps the shows teach us to be more vigilant – to protect our children and ourselves. Perhaps they give us an insight into the extreme courage that victims must have in order to criminally pursue their attackers. Perhaps they show us the faults and loopholes that exist in our criminal justice system. Or perhaps we just use them as an escape – a mindless and entertaining hour. Next time you find yourself plopping down on the couch or in your favorite chair, surfing the channels until you hear the iconic “dun dun” of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit, remember that for many, these “stories” are real. So maybe during the first commercial break, instead of going to the kitchen for more chips, you can grab your computer and visit RAINN, the Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network to find out how you can help: http://www.rainn.org/. *From WOAR: Bringing communities together to end sexual violence. <www.woar.org/resources/sexual-assault-statistics.php> from the Program Description of the New Opportunity School for Women Through an intensive curriculum, hard work, community internships and career counseling, participants tap into new knowledge and skills while realizing value of their own wisdom, experiences and abilities. In three weeks, women begin to rediscover personal strengths, courage and life goals that have often been hidden by overwhelmingly difficult circumstances. The NOSW program is a life-changing event.* I stood by the white board in the back of the room, smiling as each of the six women filed into the chilly space, squinting from the overbearing florescent lights above, I had tried to make the sterile space seem cozy, pulling several desks into a semi-circle in the front. Still, some sat in the back near the window - no doubt drawn to the view and sunlight just on the other side of the glass. With minimal encouragement, the back row folks moved forward and joined the others up front. They looked at me with an eagerness that is often lacking in my normal classroom of 18 year old students. "Hello, I am Diana Curtis," I said. "We are going to spend the next few hours doing some creative writing." |
Diana CurtisWife, mom, stepmom, writing instructor, handbell ringer, choir singer, calligrapher, and expert napper. Archives
December 2017
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