It all started with a Google image search. I typed in Bathsheba, curious to see how artists and filmmakers had portrayed this infamous bathing beauty in biblical literature over the years. The images that popped up either presented her as an exhibitionist, bathing provocatively on a rooftop, or as a woman in love with a king, taking David’s gentle, outstretched hand.
I felt righteous anger rising in my throat. Not one of them showed the trauma of a woman taken from her home. None of the images captured the fear on her face when she realized what she had been brought to the palace for. I clicked and scrolled, shaking my head. Then I shut my laptop and walked outside the common room at St. Mary’s College in St. Andrews to call my husband.
“Honey, I think I’m going to change my dissertation topic.” I went on to explain my new idea.
“I thought you were going to write about how the church needs to create more space for lament?” my husband practically pleaded.
“I know, I know, but then I started thinking about the ways that the church contributes to a culture that shames female victims of sexual abuse. . . .” I went on and on. He listened. He is such a good listener. At the very end I asked him: “How do you feel about me delving into this topic? I know you will carry the weight of my frustration and heavy heart.”
He didn’t fully understand the sudden switch, but neither did he hesitate to say: “Of course, baby. Go get ’em.” And with that, seven months of research began over ways purity culture rhetoric harms female victims of sexual abuse.
Sexual abuse is about power. Because of this, there are victims of all ages and genders. We read in Genesis 39 about Potiphar’s wife attempting to force Joseph into having sex with her. She abuses her positional power to try and manipulate Joseph, forcing herself on him. Luckily, he escapes. But instead of receiving justice, Joseph is thrown into prison when Potiphar’s wife essentially “cries rape” and blames him. If you are a male victim of sexual abuse, your story matters, your pain matters, and I hope this chapter can provide some comfort.
But my focus here will primarily be on young women, who are the most common victims of sexual abuse. In their research, Justin and Lindsey Holcomb found that “girls ages sixteen to nineteen are four times more likely than the general population to be victims of sexual assault.”1 Because of this, and the ways purity rhetoric overwhelmingly holds women responsible for guarding sexual purity, women are the ones most often revictimized by purity culture.
“I was abused at the age of twelve,” Amber told me, “by someone in authority over me. That’s right about the time I was being introduced to purity culture. We watched a video of a woman holding up a paper heart then tearing it in half. Then she took a hammer to a beautiful vase.”
“How did these teachings affect you, having suffered sexual abuse?” I asked her.
“Because of the timing and what I was being taught, for all of my teen years I believed I was unworthy. Unworthy of God’s love, of my future husband’s love, of my father’s love. When things finally came to light at age sixteen, the reaction caused me to resent the church. I resented the leaders and my parents. They acted as if my abuse caused them more damage than me.”
Amber is an adult now, and a Christian, with a baby she treasures and a husband she loves. I ache, listening to her story. I ache, imagining how small she must have felt. What does it feel like to be met with annoyance instead of compassion when you feel broken? To be made to feel like a burden, instead of receiving the help you need?
“The things I was told while being abused made me believe he was doing what I wanted and that it was out of love. There was also fear and threats. I saw him as someone who I should respect and listen to. Eventually I ‘fell in-love’ with him. I used to think, ‘Now we have to get married!’ I believed that I could only ever be intimate with my husband so of course marriage was the answer. I was twelve. I didn’t realize that what was happening was not intimacy. I didn’t know anything.”
She didn’t know anything except what she was told. And she was told that sexual impurity breaks a person, like a glass vase left in shards on the floor. I want to tell you that Amber’s story is rare, but you know that it is not. I want to tell you that I have never heard about the church pressing in on the wound of sexual abuse, making it deeper, leaving an even bigger scar. But you know that isn’t true either.
Sexual abuse is common, a word I hate to use about something that should never be normalized, expected, or overlooked. The Holcombs point out that, according to national statistics, “every two minutes, someone in the United States is sexually assaulted.”2 If it is happening this often in America, it is happening to individuals in our churches. And beloved, those who have been sexually abused are listening to the way we talk about purity.
At a Silver Ring Thing event, speaker Matt Webster destroyed the symbolic wooden heart of a male volunteer with a chainsaw and gave a piece to three female volunteers, explaining that sexual immorality leaves parts of your heart with different people.3 The sexually promiscuous are left splintered, with just a jagged piece of their own heart to give to their future spouse. Some purity groups, like True Love Waits, attempt to distinguish between consensual sex and sexual abuse by acknowledging that “virginity that is taken away is not lost.”4 Despite this distinction, the image of a massacred heart remains.
Christine Joy Gardner recalls interviewing Rachel Hollister, a young Christian who rejoiced that, due to her commitment to sexual abstinence, she and her husband didn’t have to deal with sexual memories of anyone else.5 The idea of singles saving their “firsts” for marriage is not always limited to sexual intercourse. Sarah Mally says that she’s talked to many couples who saved “their first kiss, even their first touch” for marriage.6 While the goal of this rhetoric is to encourage young people to value sexual purity, it neglects the statistically high number of people who have had unsolicited sexual experiences and memories forced on them due to abuse.
There is wisdom in encouraging adolescents to think through what they share with others before marriage, but this elevation of “firsts” is more likely to discourage than inspire those who have been sexually abused and robbed of the chance to choose when and how to be touched. One woman told me how she must fight viewing herself as “damaged goods.” She said: “I worried that people in the church would blame or judge me if they found out, and that really affected my relationships with other believers.”
Another woman shared her story:
When I was fourteen, an eighteen-year-old male targeted me on a family-oriented missions trip. This resulted in my first kiss, which in hindsight more closely resembled assault, and is one of the most shame-filled experiences of my life. The youth pastor of another church traveling with us found out, blamed me, then gave me the ultimatum of “either you tell your parents or I will.” So I did, through tears, and my dad literally said the words, “You have dishonored me.” I also experienced childhood sexual abuse by a relative, which I hadn’t disclosed until adulthood, so that very much played into my understanding of sex and sexuality. Purity culture unwittingly told me I was already broken, yet simultaneously gave me a crushing weight of maintaining my own righteousness. By God’s grace I have learned so much about his beautiful design, and I’ve been delivered from shame by the Savior who became it and scorned it on the cross for me. I’ve abandoned the “fine china” analogies and instead revel in being a jar of clay, which has been crafted and cared for by a perfect Potter, all for his glory alone.
Being sinned against sexually is devastating and life-altering. And the shame of what has been done to our bodies attempts to block our view of the cross. But our value cannot be splintered. We may feel shattered, but our worth remains intact. No matter what has been done to us, or what we have done to others, we are never less than image bearers of the holy God. Any message that downplays this truth is worth challenging. The belief that all people are created in the image of God—the imago Dei—is a theology worth fighting for.
In 2014, Judge G. Todd Baugh sentenced the rapist of a teenager to “just 30 days in jail” because he thought the victim, age fourteen, looked older than she was, and he believed she was “as much in control of the situation” as the teacher who raped her.7 Blaming female victims for being sexually assaulted is nothing new. In America, the solution to the widespread problem of rape on college campuses often involves teaching young women strategies to avoid getting raped.8 Alexandra Brodsky, Yale Law School graduate and campaigner against sexual assault on college campuses, says that this approach will “often ease assailants’ culpability” by focusing instead on what victims should have done to protect themselves.9 This thinking, sometimes referred to as “rape culture,” has elements in common with the way the American evangelical church has addressed sexual purity.
Rape culture is a social climate of victim-blaming. Some general examples of this would be people saying the following of a woman who has been raped: “She chose to wear that skirt.” “She chose to walk down that alley.” “She chose to go on a date with him.” Some specific examples that I have heard over the years include: “Well, yes, she was raped, but she had been flirting with him before it happened.” “Yes, she was sixteen, but she knew what she was doing when she wore those clothes and spent that much time alone with her teacher.” “She is probably just exaggerating. Besides, you know her reputation.”
Sadly, this mindset appears in purity rhetoric as well. The assumption is that if a man approaches a woman with lust, she must have played some role in provoking it. While purity teachings certainly address the actions of men, the focus on female responsibility can overshadow men’s agency in cases of sexual abuse.
Abby Perry has been chronicling the abuse of men and women in the evangelical church, sharing their stories in her column “Prophetic Survivors” at Fathom magazine. She tells the story of Ruthy Nordgren, who “grew up without a television . . . dressed in long denim skirts and t-shirts that never showed more than two inches between her collarbone and neckline.” When Ruthy was twelve, she was molested by teacher, Aaron Willand, of Grace Baptist Christian School. And when she was fourteen, Willand “repeatedly raped her.”10
But Ruthy did not receive justice. When the truth came out about what Willand had done to Ruthy, “Pastor Jon Jenkins began to spread rumors about Ruthy,” Perry writes. “He told congregants and staff members that Ruthy’s doctor told her mom she wasn’t a virgin, which prompted Ruthy to cry rape. He told other congregants and staff members that Ruthy was a troubled girl known for telling lies.” Willand’s wife also began rumors that Ruthy had seduced her husband. The stories spread throughout her school, through teachers and students, and Ruthy was labeled a “whore.”
Perry also interviewed Jules Woodson, who was sexually abused by her youth pastor, Andy Savage, as a teenager: “One night, Andy offered to drive Jules home after spending time with her and other students at the church. But Andy passed the street leading to Jules’s mom’s house and took an unfamiliar turn. Jules assumed they were going to get ice cream. Instead, Andy drove down a dirt road until he reached a dead end. He stopped the car, unzipped his jeans, and asked Jules to perform oral sex on him.”11
The purity movement tries to empower women to resist the pressure to be sexually active in a sex-saturated culture, but this empowerment also creates a realm where women take on moral responsibility for what happens to them sexually. In the case of Woodson, Perry writes that “she mustered up the courage to tell their associate pastor, Larry Cotton, who said he would handle the situation. Over the following weeks and months, leadership completely ignored Jules, implying she bore as much guilt as her youth pastor.” Woodson’s abuser went on “to pastor elsewhere for nineteen years.”12 Lord, have mercy.
Purity teachings about the moral responsibility of women and the nature of male sexual lust position women as the guardians of sexual purity, so that when sexual purity is violated, it is women who are first and foremost on trial. It would be failure enough if female victims of sexual assault saw themselves as absent from purity culture rhetoric. The problem is, they do see themselves, only erroneously, as the guilty party.
Journalist Danielle Young writes about being sexually assaulted during multiple celebrity interviews over the years, including by Reverend Jesse Jackson, and how she was uncomfortable but tried to laugh off the advances. From her youth, Young says she was taught to be aware of “dirty old men” but “not in a way that held them responsible.” Instead, she was raised to redirect the sexual attention of men by dressing and acting in ways that would discourage their attention. Consequently, “when the unwanted sexual attention came,” Young writes, “I blamed myself.”13
Although it might be empowering for an individual to think of sexual abstinence as a choice, there are times when a person’s agency is stolen from them through abuse. The emphasis on personal empowerment in purity rhetoric leads some victims of sexual assault to conclude they are guilty of not using their power to prevent their abuse. Coincidently, the message of female moral responsibility in purity campaigns and books leaves female victims to wonder, like Young, if they were responsible for what happened to them.
“Contrary to the fairy-tale narrative,” Gardner points out that, in modern purity rhetoric, “it is the prince who needs protection.”14 When one gender is given greater moral responsibility, as women are in purity culture, it complicates culpability. The Holcombs point out that victims of sexual assault often have to deal with questions from those closest to them about their “role in the assault” or implications that they somehow “asked for it.”15 This, along with other misunderstandings about sexual assault, can leave victims feeling guilty for crimes committed against them.
I have never been raped. My stories are the ones every woman has her own version of. Stories about that man on the street who asked me to smile then called me a “bitch” under his breath when I failed to comply. Stories about my hands shaking while holding the gas pump, trying to avoid the unrelenting stare of the man next to me. Stories about trying to protect friends from sexually charged taunts and text messages from their boyfriends and coworkers. Stories about long nights of “weeping with those who weep”—with those whose lives have been forever changed by the self-serving actions of another. And a story about a time I went dancing.
I used to swing dance a lot in high school. It was a way to have fun with my friends without having to deal with drunk strangers or listen to dubstep. One night, when I was 18, my friends and I dressed up and headed out. We danced poorly and laughed loudly. A few hours in, one of my friends offered to show me how to dance to the blues.
He was a wonderful dancer, so I said yes. He pulled me into a smaller room where people were moving to sultry music in low light. He showed me a few moves, but I spent most of the time stepping on his feet. We laughed. We danced close. I trusted his company and his intentions.
After the song was over, before I had a chance to take a breath, another man in the room grabbed my hands and pulled me to his chest. His arms were like iron and I felt trapped against his body. I tried to push myself back to a comfortable distance but couldn’t. So I spoke up: “That’s too close.” Instead of easing up, he laughed at me and replied, tauntingly: “I saw you dance like this with him.”
Shame flooded me. He was right. I had danced close—probably too close—with my friend. I had set the standard. I was getting what I deserved. So I endured an entire song, pushed up against a stranger who seemed thoroughly amused by my inability to break free. When the song ended, he released me and I bolted out of the room.
My story is mild in comparison to what many women experience. But that doesn’t mean what happened was okay. I remember going to sleep that night convinced that I had done something terribly wrong. Somehow, I had invited that man’s actions into my life.
This internal conflict not only speaks to the way abuse and sexual harassment are regularly excused and mocked today. It also reveals an issue with our functional theology: if we truly believe in the imago Dei—that all people are created in the image of God—then we must recognize that what some brush off as “boys being boys” is actually a perpetuation of abuse that insults the image of God.
Growing up, when I got into a fight, I was often told that “it takes two to argue.” And it’s true. Rarely is a problem between two people the result of just one person’s sin. But when we apply this thinking to situations of abuse, it can create murky waters in which the abuser swims away undetected and the abused is left sitting in the muck, confused. In cases of sexual assault, this mindset is dangerous because it connects two truths that must remain separate.
We all “have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). But this truth does not invite an abuser to justify their abuse. Neither should the doctrine of natural depravity be used by the church to excuse abuse. Love “always trusts, always hopes” (1 Corinthians 13:7) but must also “do what is just and right” (Jeremiah 22:3). God’s love does not keep him from executing “justice for the oppressed” (Psalm 146:7 ESV). Our love shouldn’t either.
At Christian youth camps and during school chapels, I heard the same message over and over again: men can’t help their lust, but women can. Jonathan Trotter confirmed the proliferation of this wrong thinking in the church when he admitted: “I grew up learning of the guy’s responsibility to not look, and that’s great, but what I really heard A LOT about was the girl’s responsibility to not be looked at.”16
When we teach men that they can’t control themselves, we demean their dignity as image bearers and give them a preemptive excuse to abuse others. When we teach women that men can’t control themselves, we communicate that abuse is not only inevitable but acceptable. We tell them that sexual assault is their responsibility to prevent. What this communicates is that, if it happens, he was “being a guy” and she “should have known better.”17
Jessica Valenti, author of The Purity Myth, remembers how the 2006 rape and murder of Imette St. Guillen was reported. NBC’s Matt Lauer framed the story as a reminder to young women about the dangers of “a night out.” CBS talked about “how women can stay safe,” and one Wall Street Journal article was titled, “Ladies, You Should Know Better.”18 Valenti writes that responding to rape by advising women how to avoid getting assaulted is merely “victim blaming shrouded in empowerment rhetoric.”19
Most of the Christian books I studied place the burden of responsibility on women if they are sexually harassed or objectified by men. In Every Young Woman’s Battle, Arterburn and Ethridge include the story of Diana, who describes the experience she had with an eighteen-year-old man at a Christian winter camp when she was fourteen. “He touched me a lot,” she said, and “I began to feel uncomfortable.” When he pulled her tightly to his body and touched her buttocks, Diana says, “I wanted to be offended, but I knew I had led him on with my flirting.”20 The rhetoric of responsibility in some of these books instructs women to expect sexual harassment from men, leaving them with the weight of figuring out how to act, dress, and approach men in ways that discourage their lust.21
When I ask women what comes to mind when they think of biblical femininity, they often respond with words like quiet, meek, and polite. One woman shared: “Feeling compelled to be polite led to me being sexually assaulted—and then I still felt responsible.”22 The pressure to stay quiet and be polite doesn’t just come from the church, nor has it been placed on women only. My husband reminded me of what happened to Harry Dreyfuss, the son of actor Richard Dreyfuss, when he was reading lines with his father and actor Kevin Spacey years ago. While his father was in the room, Spacey touched Harry’s thigh. Despite repeated efforts to get up and sit somewhere else, Harry says that Spacey followed him and eventually succeeded in grabbing his genitals. “Looking into his eyes, I gave the most meager shake of my head that I could manage,” Dreyfuss says. “I was trying to warn him without alerting my dad, who still had his eyes glued to the page. I thought I was protecting everyone. I was protecting my dad’s career. I was protecting Kevin, who my dad surely would have tried to punch. I was protecting myself, because I thought one day I’d want to work with this man. Kevin had no reaction and kept his hand there. My eyes went back to the script and I kept reading.”23
Often, sexual predators count on the silence that shock and embarrassment produce; they know that they will likely get away with it. Multiple women shared with me about being groped in church. For those who ask questions like, “Why didn’t she just slap him and run away?” “Why didn’t he call the police?” “Why didn’t she scream?”—please understand that there is much more at play in situations of sexual assault and rape. In fact, Harry Dreyfuss provides a good explanation as to why so many victims are only just now coming forward. He points out that laughing off his assault and downplaying it seemed like the best way to handle it until he realized the serious nature of what had happened when others started coming forward with their stories of sexual abuse. “I did a lot of mental gymnastics to normalize my experience,” Dreyfuss admits, thanking the women who, in sharing their stories, sparked the #MeToo movement and helped him see “that what was once treated as normal never deserved to be.”
Sometimes my desire to believe the best about people keeps me from listening to the siren going off in my head, telling me to leave, run, or speak up. Sometimes trying to be polite puts me in a position to be taken advantage of. It’s hard to spot harassment when we are taught to deny its existence until it’s too late, when we are told to wait for a punch to be thrown before calling it abuse.
But it is not failing to love your neighbor to wait for the next elevator. It is not unkind to put out your hand when someone comes in for a hug. You are not failing to be a witness at work when you report your coworker for sexual harassment. You are showing respect for the imago Dei in everyone. If we believe it right to defend the dignity of those created by God, we need to be consistent and protect our own dignity as image bearers. This might mean allowing your status as a servant of Christ to trump your desire to please people (Galatians 1:10).24
There is often confusion about what constitutes sexual assault. Justin and Lindsey Holcomb’s thorough definition is so helpful, as it includes “any type of sexual behavior or contact where consent is not freely given or obtained and is accomplished through force, intimidation, violence, coercion, manipulation, threat, deception, or abuse of authority.”25 This definition gives us a lens through which to view the stories we have heard and the experiences we have had. It takes courage to revisit situations we have brushed off or mislabeled, and it takes humility to challenge our misconceptions about what constitutes sexual assault. One place Christians can start is by revisiting the story of David and Bathsheba.
Growing up in the church, I never heard Bathsheba described as a victim of sexual abuse. She was at best careless, and at worst a seductress. I cannot provide an exhaustive discussion of how purity rhetoric influences our hermeneutics, but I want to dig briefly into this one example. The Christian authors I studied each had something to say about Bathsheba. I will examine their views alongside the arguments of scholars and writers of theology like Sarah Bowler, who believes that challenging Bathsheba’s portrayal in the church is one small step toward correctly viewing sexual abuse against women today.26
“Uriah’s wife.” New Testament scholar Richard Bauckham notes how genealogies “evoke the narratives” of those named.27 When we read these lists, certain names stop us in our tracks. We recognize them and immediately begin recalling their story. In Matthew’s Gospel, Bathsheba is mentioned alongside Ruth, Rahab, and Tamar in the genealogy of Jesus. But unlike the others, who are called by name, Bathsheba is referred to as “the wife of Uriah” (Matthew 1:6 ESV).
While John Eldredge says in Wild at Heart that Bathsheba goes unnamed because God was disappointed with her,28 Richard M. Davidson suggests the opposite. Bathsheba’s presence in the genealogy of Christ, he says, depicts her as honored.29 He observes that Bathsheba is referred to as “the wife of Uriah” in the 2 Samuel account as well, after the death of Uriah, which implies her “continued fidelity to her [first] husband.”30 Bauckham points out that the adultery was David’s alone, as Bathsheba “could hardly have been expected to do other than obey the orders of the king.”31 While Eldredge views Bathsheba as displeasing to the Lord, indicating his corresponding belief that she was complicit in an affair with David, theologians like Bauckham and Davidson provide support for their conclusion that Bathsheba was an unwilling participant.
An unrecognized victim. But David is not just guilty of adultery. I believe he is also guilty of rape. Without directly accusing Bathsheba of sin, Harris and Arterburn and Stoeker fail to label the story in 2 Samuel 11 an instance of rape or sexual abuse. Harris writes that David “slept with” Bathsheba while Arterburn and Stoeker say “he went to bed” with her.32 Even David Powlison, in his book on restoring the sexually broken, mentions what “was done to” Tamar by Amnon but describes David’s actions against Bathsheba as something they “did together.”33
One possible explanation for these interpretations has to do with the way rape was defined, culturally, during the time the Old Testament was written. Unless a woman was kicking and screaming while it happened and someone witnessed it, it was unlikely that her assault would be labeled rape. Alexander I. Abasili points out that there is “no clear evidence in the narrative that the messengers literally seized and dragged Bathsheba to the palace,” in the 2 Samuel account.34 However, Bowler notes that David was in a “position of power” while Bathsheba was “not in a position to choose” whether or not to be brought to David.35 Davidson echoes this conclusion, calling what David did to Bathsheba an example of “power rape,” where someone in authority abuses their power in order to victimize another person sexually, with or without their consent.36
One other possible explanation for Harris and Arterburn and Stoeker’s interpretation is the phrase in 2 Samuel 11:4, “she came to him.” Bauckham notes that even feminist scholar Elaine Wainwright attributes action to Bathsheba based on this verse, but he does not believe this action implies consent, as Bathsheba had only two choices, “obedience or certain disaster.”37 Bowler adds that there is no indication in the text that Bathsheba “knew why she was summoned.”38 In other words, just because someone doesn’t put up a fight doesn’t mean they weren’t raped.
But more convincing is Bowler’s main argument, which centers on the fact that David is the one held accountable for this sin.39 When Nathan confronts David, he uses masculine pronouns, while Bathsheba is symbolized as an innocent, stolen lamb. God does not appear to hold Bathsheba responsible. Why would we?
Bathsheba’s moral responsibility. Purity culture’s emphasis on a female sexual responsibility shows up in Gresh’s and Mally’s interpretations of the story of David and Bathsheba. Gresh believes that Bathsheba mourned the death of Uriah because “in a way, it was her fault,” since she and David “sinned together.”40 Mally goes so far as to call Bathsheba a “tool of the enemy to bring calamity into David’s life.” She believes that the warning for men not to “give [their] strength to women” in Proverbs 31:3 was written by Bathsheba, who “learned very painfully” the consequences of “moral failure.”41 While scholars such as George G. Nicol view Bathsheba as “calculating” and “deliberately provocative,” ambiguity surrounding Bathsheba’s responsibility dissolved for Bowler when she actually studied the text and became convinced of Bathsheba’s innocence.42
Read through the lens of purity culture, the narration that from his roof, David “saw a woman bathing” (2 Samuel 11:2) recalls teachings on female modesty and men’s susceptibility to visual stimuli. In that context, it becomes easy to categorize Bathsheba as a temptress. But in examining the context of the passage, we remember that David is a king; a king who likely has a unique view into the homes of his subjects from his high castle. Bathsheba is not the scantily clad woman walking past men in her shortest skirt and brightest lipstick in hopes of being ogled; it’s more likely that Bathsheba thought herself safe from prying eyes. And, to further crumble our original reading of the story, Bible scholars point out that Bathsheba may have actually been partially or fully clothed as she obeyed God in “ritual washing” from her “menstrual impurity.”43
In regard to visual stimulation and sexual self-control, much is revealed by comparing the two men in the story. While David chose to peer in on a private moment and then satiate his sexual lust by “forcing Bathsheba into his bed,” Uriah, who knew intimately of his wife’s beauty, practiced sexual self-control, finding it “dishonorable to sleep in his own house with his wife while his comrades sleep outdoors on the battlefield.”44 After raping Bathsheba and discovering that she was pregnant as a result, David gave Uriah the chance to go home and sleep with his wife, hoping this would hide the truth of what he had done. But Uriah’s decision to honor his duty dispels the purity myth that men reach a point where they are helpless to resist their sexual urges. He had been away from his wife at war for some time, and he still refused David’s invitation to go home and sleep with Bathsheba for a night (2 Samuel 11:7, 11).
Powlison observes that “Tamar bore no blame for what Amnon did to her,” and yet she still wrestled with “shame, grief, dismay, and isolation.”45 If Tamar struggled with shame when what she endured was labeled “rape” in 2 Samuel 13, how much must the Bathshebas in our midst wrestle with false guilt and blame for the sexual abuses they have endured without ever being declared innocent. The Holcombs note that too many victims of sexual abuse believe “they didn’t do enough to stop the assault,” or that they were at fault for being “at the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people.”46 An astounding number of individuals experience sexual abuse without any form of justice or recognition as victims.
As a largely unrecognized victim of sexual abuse, Bathsheba demonstrates the importance of a clearer definition of sexual assault. If men are to be truly held accountable for their sexual actions, and female victims of abuse are to be recognized as true victims, we must stop labeling sexual assault as “lust gone wild” and understand it as the act of “power and control” it truly is.47
Gresh, Arterburn, and Ethredge, the same authors who failed to see Bathsheba as a victim of sexual abuse, also categorized instances of sexual assault in their books as stories where women failed to properly guard their bodies.48 Once Christians can recognize what David did to Bathsheba as rape rather than a story about “predatory women” or Bathsheba’s failure to guard herself sexually, they can begin to recognize female victims of sexual abuse outside and within the church.49
Caryn Tamber-Rosenau draws attention to the fact that Bathsheba is never blamed or held responsible for her sexual experience with David in the biblical texts.50 She notes that “even when David and Bathsheba’s first son dies,” Nathan points to David as the one responsible, and therefore any blame placed on Bathsheba is the result of “postbiblical interpretations.”51 These postbiblical interpretations have an influence on how Christians respond to cases of sexual abuse, including those that take place in our own churches. Reevaluating stories like Bathsheba’s can reveal errors in our thinking and theology and aid the church in recognizing victims today.
In his religious studies course, Jeremy Posadas has a strategy to help his students grasp the concept of rape culture.52 It is simple—something any of us can do. He has his students read the stories of people who survived sexual abuse. This practice alone—of listening to survivors—could have a transformative impact on purity leaders who have treated female victims of sexual abuse as an anomaly rather than a significant percentage of their audience. It could change the way the church treats survivors who come forward. It could help the abused experience the comfort of community, support, and the pursuit of justice. And it could change the way we talk about sexual purity as the measure of one’s worth and value. Stories have the power to disarm. To open blind eyes.
One benefit of the #MeToo movement is that these stories are more accessible now than ever. You can watch former gymnast Rachael Denhollander testify in court against convicted child molester Larry Nasser. Denhollander was the first of many victims to publicly accuse Nasser, and she did not mince her words or shrink from describing Nasser’s abuse against her. Denhollander, a strong Christian, also took time to call him to repentance and to forgive him, saying: “I pray you experience the soul crushing weight of guilt so you may someday experience true repentance and true forgiveness from God, which you need far more than forgiveness from me—though I extend that to you as well.”53 You can read Abby Perry’s “Prophetic Survivors” series. You can watch Jules Woodson respond in the New York Times to her abuser’s “confession” to his church congregation, where he called the sexual assault against her a “sexual incident.”54 And most of all, you can listen when those around you open up about what they have been through.
Why is it important to recognize victims? This is the question so often at the heart of our hesitation. Can’t we just move on from these things? What good does it do to dwell on who did what? Powlison points out that our sins and the sins committed against us are often entangled. It isn’t always clear where one ends and the other begins. But I believe that culpability is worth untangling. Here’s why.
First, justice matters to God. We won’t all receive justice this side of heaven, but the church must set the example when it comes to reporting cases of sexual abuse. The vulnerable often seek safety in our pews, buildings, and Bible studies. We have the responsibility to protect them and to handle their stories with care. This includes but is not limited to reporting abuse to the proper legal authorities outside the church or Christian organization. This must be our first response.
In the #MeToo and #ChurchToo movements, we have seen that the church and Christian institutions too often fail to achieve legal justice for the abused because they try to handle situations “in-house.” Sadly, some have neglected to report abuse out of a desire to protect the reputation of church leaders, institutions, and denominations, at the expense of the vulnerable. Beloved, this ought never be. The job of the church is not to play judge and jury while ignoring the laws of the land. We help victims legally, and then we continue to care for their emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being in the long-term recovery of sexual abuse.
The other reason blame is worth untangling is that we cannot be forgiven of sins we didn’t commit. Powlison comforts victims of sexual abuse with these words:
The Lord addresses the fainthearted in a very different way than he addresses unruly and lustful desires. When you are gripped with apprehension, or you doubt that your Father could ever love you, or you’re confused about how to think and what to do, or you flinch at the memory or possibility of being harmed, he simply says, “I am with you. Do not be afraid. I know what you are facing. I will never leave you or forsake you.” Fears, shame, confusion, a sense of abandonment, and painful self-condemnation can continually darken the human heart. Fears are false prophets, breathing threats and prophesying disaster.55
Too many victims of sexual abuse blame themselves for what happened. This false guilt does not produce the righteousness of God. Peace cannot be achieved on a foundation of lies. God holds individuals responsible for their own sins. And, goodness knows, we each have enough of those to fill our daily prayers. Abuse victims wrestling with deep shame need to grasp their victimhood so they can understand the difference between what they have done and what has been done to them. This may take time. There is no time clock or foot tapping. But ultimately, healing springs from the soil of truth.
1. What do you think of when you hear the term “rape culture”? Do you believe that it exists within the church?
2. How do you feel about the practice of teaching women how to avoid being raped?
3. What is the balance between loving our neighbor and protecting ourselves?
4. What were you taught about Bathsheba? Did you view her as a seductress, a romantic lead, or a victim of rape?
5. The idea of sexual consent is being emphasized in modern American society. Should the church be talking about consent too? Why or why not?
6. What can we take away from the story of Joseph and Potiphar’s wife?
7. What can we take away from the story of David and Bathsheba?
8. This chapter does not thoroughly address how the local church should respond if someone shares that they have experienced sexual abuse. To begin this vital discussion, I recommend the resources available at churchcares.com and netgrace.org.
This chapter raises difficult issues and questions. End your time by praying together for your local church (and, if applicable, denomination), that God would bring healing and justice to the abused, grant your church leaders wisdom and compassion for victims, and that any sexual abuse taking place within the church would be revealed and rooted out.