This Lenten season--shit, this year hasn’t gone according to anyone’s plans. Yet, here we are. Honoring. Adjusting. Pivoting. In spite of a January that jammed us up, a February that faked us out, and a March that mauled us, we made it to Q2.
And while we are in the midst of a global health crisis, I must acknowledge that Black girls, women, and femmes are surviving pandemics every, single day in this country.
April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month and Child Abuse Prevention Month. To be sure, male sexual violence transcends race, gender, class, socio-economic status, and creed--so why are we letting it transcend religion?
I know Black religious spaces have a poor track record with fostering holistic conversations around our bodies, sensuality, and sexuality. But this systemic silence is a disservice, at best, and a sin, at worst, as it pertains to the spiritual care of Black folx, particularly Black women and femmes.
While the entire world is navigating the COVID-19 crisis, I can’t help but acknowledge how Black women (living at the intersection of race and gender in a racist, sexist society), have been enduring crises of the mind, body, and spirit for centuries. Inadequate healthcare, racialized pay gaps, overwhelming losses due to domestic/intimate partner violence, astronomical maternal and infant mortality rates...Black women are the most susceptible to neglectful mistreatment, even unto death.
Yet and still, these are the somebodies who are filling the pews of Black churches the world over. Most Black church congregations are at least 85% Black women. And, according to the Black Women’s Blueprint, a sociological organization based in Brooklyn, NY, at least 70% of Black girls are sexually abused before they turn 18-years-old. That means at least 7 out of the 10 Black women that you know were sexually abused before they could vote. And many of these girls, like me, grew up in Black religious spaces that did little to nothing to ensure our safety and hold perpetrators accountable.
Notice, I didn’t say, “the Black Church.” Black churches are not a monolith and there is a critical mass of pastors, preachers, teachers, lay leaders, and congregation members who are ready, willing, and able to do the hard work of ending male sexual violence. They are preaching against rape culture, condemning misogynistic and misogynoirist interpretations of Scripture, and are evolving their prophetic witness beyond fortune-telling to advocating against gender-based violence.
However, there is still a lot of work left to be done. And I am hopeful that this global collective pause (barring life-saving essential workers) will grant us the time and space we need to take a deep dive into our community’s horrific circumstances. We are grieving. Whether we are grieving the senseless deaths of family or the non-coronavirus related deaths of friends, the corporal sense of loss and anguish is tangible. Cancelled family reunions and milestone birthday parties. Postponed graduations and wedding celebrations. Some things just cannot be facilitated via Zoom.
And yet, there are still pastors who think that not meeting in-person for worship demonstrates a lack of faith. It is this theologically deficient, socially malevolent, morally bankrupt thinking that explains why we can’t flatten the curve. Everywhere else in the world is tribal; they do what’s best for the collective. Even our African ancestors consulted the elders and did the highest good for the community. Here, in America, land of the individual and “my rights” and “my freedom” and “I’m not going to let anyone tell ME what to do” (even if it’s in your own personal best interest…*eyeroll emoji*), we are unable to sacrifice temporarily in order to preserve others. Truly, Jesus is weeping even now.
This absent concern for human beings displays the harrowing gaps between us and our neighbors that existed long before social distancing was a thing. Perhaps, we space ourselves away from each other because it is too difficult to see ourselves in our neighbor? The whole reason why Tarana Burke founded the Me Too movement was to amplify the voices of Black girls and women who had suffered male sexual violence. How can it be, then, that Black religious spaces, founded on the principles of community and liberation, would become parasitic hosts to the energy of already spiritually malnourished congregation members?
I get it. It is gory. Dismal. Uncomfortable. But, as uncomfortable as you are, imagine how the survivors in your community feel. When sermons are preached about women being deserving of rape Sunday after Sunday. When Bible studies about women being inherently evil are taught Wednesday after Wednesday. In all of this misogynoirist rhetoric, when did we stop to listen to the most marginalized among us? We would rather quote Scripture than believe Sistas.
Black Christian churches, in particular, have a deep devotion to the biblical text. The Bible has undoubtedly affected our social constructions of gender, sex, and sexuality. There are hell-adjacent “christians” (bigoted evangelicals, homophobic holy rollers, etc.) who believe in “The Word,” but don’t trust the word of Black girls who have the tenacity to come forward about their abuse. It seems that in order to get every Black church to admit that sexual assault is a worthy cause to advocate against, we must put speak it in “Jesus name.”
This past Holy Week, we remembered Jesus on his way to Calvary. But did we honor the reality of his journey? We know that the Roman soldiers cast lots for his clothes. We recite that he was beaten and bruised for us. We recount that he had two nails driven through his hands (wrists, actually) and feet. But we leave out the, arguably, most gruesome part.
Historians repeatedly highlight that the Romans humiliated people before they crucified them: stripping them naked, beating them, and, yes, even raping them. Beyond being stripped in public without consent (a form of sexual assault), Jesus was likely raped by Roman soldiers. What does it mean that the Son of God, Jesus the Christ, a poor, Jewish, North African revolutionary refugee was brutally raped on his way to being crucified? Jesus was a Black man survivor of male sexual violence.
It means the letter written to the Hebrews (which is popularly attributed to Apostle Paul) was right: “For Jesus is not some high priest who has no sympathy for our weaknesses and flaws. He has already been tested in every way that we are tested; but He emerged victorious, without failing God” (Hebrews 4:15).
So, what is the remedy? The writer continues in verse 16, by saying, “So let us step boldly to the throne of grace, where we can find mercy and grace to help when we need it most.” Let us step boldly to God’s throne of grace as forcefully as we say, “Father God in the Name of Jesus.” Let us listen to Black girls and women survivors as consistently as we “come before God with thanksgiving and praise.” Let us hold perpetrators accountable as consistently as we “come as humbly as we know how.” Let us heal our people as deeply as we “ask for forgiveness of our sins.”
Let us look at the deep, gory wounds of our Sistas. Let us meditate on the spiritual deaths of our Brothas. Let us gaze upon the loss of life of our Siblings. And let us heal to the other side.
Jesus came to the earth in the form of a Black male human being. He came to liberate and live, not just to sacrifice and die. Jesus did not die for your sins--Jesus died because he was a melanated rebel who was a threat to the empire. So it’s no surprise that he would come and suffer one of the most far-reaching assaults known to Black bodies: male sexual violence. Not because he desired rapists to rape, but because he knew they would. The hymn writer said, “Jesus knows all about our struggles.” The question is...do we?
Now is a great time to pay special attention to the survivors in and beyond your spiritual community. During this time of quarantine, there are women and children who are trapped in houses with their abusers. There are church members living with anxiety and PTSD (Post-Trauamtic Stress Disorder) who are triggered in their homes right now. There are clergy members living with depression who are afraid to admit that they need help for fear that they will be seen as “faithless” or “unfit for spiritual leadership.”
Friends, if the past month has taught me anything, it’s that systems can change when they are forced to. It is time to force the hand of our Black religious spaces to provide more radical care and concern for the stories and lives of survivors of rape and molestation. Jesus would have been on the frontlines of the #MeToo Movement, not suffering from hashtag fatigue. And if this Easter Week can teach us anything, it’s that the resurrection will only mean something when the most vulnerable among us are brought back to life, and life more abundantly.
Aśe and amen.
Pastor Lyvonne Proverbs Briggs, a New York City native, is a body and sex-positive preacher, writer, poet, transformational speaker, and seminar leader working to end #ChurchToo. An Emmy-award-winning media producer, Pastor Lyvonne is the founder of beautiful scars (@WereSurthrivors), a healing-centered storytelling agency focused on fostering pleasure and resiliency. She is committed to eradicating childhood sexual abuse in and beyond Black religious spaces. Pastor Lyvonne has been featured in ESSENCE and Cosmopolitan and Sojourners named her one of “11 Women Shaping the Church.” She is a proud member of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated and currently based in Atlanta, GA. She can be found onPatreon,Facebook andLinkedIn, as well asTwitter andInstagram (@LyvonneP).
