It always starts with words

Currently pondering conflict, and the place ego and pride seem to play. Whether it's the smaller circle of family and friends, or the more large-scale... how to break the spiral of violence? It takes someone prepared to take a step back, and potentially put their reputation at risk, to push pause. How many lives have to be destroyed first, before reaching that place? Over the last few years, the term DARVO has become familiar. Standing for Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim Offender, it's often used in discussions around narcissism - and, politically, in reference to people such as Donald Trump or Boris Johnson, both of whom seem expert practitioners. The other word for the practice can be traced back to the 1944 film Gaslight from which we have gaslighting.

Given my research on verbal dispute, and knowing the old saying:
Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me

is a pile of nonsense, to me, the cycle of violence always seems to begin with words, used both to diminish the other, and justify one's own actions. Here, I'm thinking of Vladimir Putin's speech justifying war on Ukraine as just one example but it's been a classic strategy - from Athens v Sparta through to Hitler, and so on.

Words.

It always starts with words:

insults or propaganda.

Dehumanise.

Make them less than you,

not even worth sharing the same air.

Justify.

If beyond the bounds of family feud,

cite ancient empires and ‘taking back the land.’

Worst case: losing face.

Deny.

It never happened or,

that’s not how it happened.

Attack.

Perhaps begin with verbal volleys,

soften up the target.

Reverse.

‘Hey, I’m actually the victim here!’

Claim you’re not the offender.

Reconciliation, or retaliation?

Stuck.

Circle of life, or circle of death?

Brokering peace, or bodies, broken?

Unbending.

Stubborn pride ignores the lighthouse

and steers straight towards the rocks.

Pyrrhic.

At the carnival of carnage

no winners, only wasteland.

        Nik Mac June 2023

Of bad beginnings and happy endings

The story of Ruth and Naomi too easily rushes to the 'all's well that ends well' stage. And yet, what to do with the beginning of the story because by the time we reach the end of the first five verses, we're left with the remnants of a family that has suffered catastrophic losses? Having escaped from famine in their homeland, the family move to, hopefully, greener pastures. Conditions have clearly been dire for several years, given that the names of Elimelech and Naomi's sons are Mahlon and Chillion - meaning 'sickness' and 'wasting'.
Within ten years of having settled in Moab, Elimelech and the sons have died, leaving behind three widows - Naomi, and her two daughters-in-law. Having heard the famine in her homeland has passed, Naomi decides to return.
All of that, in just five verses.

We know, from later in the text that Naomi's daughters-in-law are given the choice to make new lives for themselves without the ties of obligation - to return back to their own families and start again. One chooses home, the other, to travel with Naomi. And, on the matter of their treatment by scholars down the centuries, poor Orpah is given quite the harsh treatment by both Rabbinic and Christian scholars (see the following excellent essay 'The defamation of Orpah' by Dr.Barry Dov Walfish). Given the writer of the story passes no judgement on her, and, given Orpah doesn't immediately leave, and when she does, it is with tears - demonstrating a hard decision, to condemn Orpah is simply unfair. But I digress - perhaps Orpah is a reflection in waiting!

Back to the temptation to read Ruth through a 'quick, let's get to the happy ending' lens...
my attempt, below, to put in some balance to address the accentuate the positive view (yeah, just call me 'Debbie downer'!).

Would I?

Would I do it again, knowing all that I know now?

So long since hunger rumbled in my belly.

Was it worth it – the wrench of leaving home

as the cost of living took its toll?

We walked into the unknown,

my man and I,

the boys dawdling behind

with their cries of

‘are we nearly there yet?’

and ‘I need to pee!’

and their stumbling sleepwalking

towards a different promised land.

Would I do it again?

There seemed no other choice;

starve, or leave.

It was as stark as that.

And having walked, we settled,

strangers in a strange land.

And there was food

and my man found work

and the boys set about 

the business of growing into men –

when staying behind meant only

sickness and wasting. (1)

Would I do it?

Even now, that familiar stab of pain;

that hollow place where love once lived,

the sting of salt in eyes.

We managed, 

but a widow’s life is made bitter (2)

by the platitudes 

and hurried awkwardness of grief.

We, who had already moved,

moved on with our lives

and the boys found wives

and the promise of life once more.

Would I?

Even when everything good and pleasant (3)

had dried up like sweat in the summer sun?

Broken. 

A wife without her man, 

a mother without her chicks.

The voice of home called weary bones to go, 

walk back where they belonged.

Releasing the girls from their obligations,

one left; I wished her well.

The other stayed, compassionate friend. (4)

Together, we walked from famine to a fruitful harvest.
    Nik Mac c. June 2023

(1) Naomi’s sons were Mahlon and Chilion, their names meaning ‘sickness’ and ‘wasting’. Apt, perhaps, if they’d been born in a time of famine.

(2) When Naomi returned to Bethlehem, she told those greeting her to call her ‘Mara’, which means ‘bitter’.

(3) The name ‘Naomi’ means ‘good’, ‘pleasant’, ‘lovely’.

(4) Ruth’s name translates as ‘friend’ or ‘compassionate friend’.

Senga, dancing

George Elgar Hicks:
The Lament of Jephthah's Daughter, 1871

I was tasked with writing a wee something on the story in Judges 11:29-40, of Jepthah's unnamed daughter - and the vow her father made. Thinking about that vow, I did wonder why he seemed so surprised and then struck by grief when his daughter came running to meet him. The vow was, after all, exceedingly specific: 
‘Whoever comes out of the doors of my house to meet me…’ 

Exactly who did Jephthah expect would come out of the house to meet him?
Not Nip the dog or Fluff the cat.
'Whoever', not 'whatever' - telling choice of word, that.
The text informs us that Jephthah's household is not exactly large: he has only one child. Presumably there's a mother... possibly some servants. Perhaps he had in mind a servant coming to meet his Master, to tend to him and the horse, then meet his Maker? Or, heaven forfend, Jephthah's wife - after all, only the one child, and a daughter at that...? He gets to fulfil his vow, and then replace the first wife with another more fertile companion? Brutal, but convenient.
But no, it's his daughter who meets him:
'Yay! Daddy's home!... You did what?!'

The unnamed daughter is sacrificed - after all, vows must be fulfilled and honour kept intact. She is the price to be paid to broker victory in battle, with no real agency of her own. And yet, for all that the outcome will still be the loss of her life, she speaks up:
she lays out her terms. If she's going to go, she'll go off and do what she needs to do - prepare in whatever way she needs to, hang out with her pals, perhaps have some big conversations where, whenever her Dad is mentioned, there's some serious side-eye happening.

I wanted this young woman to have a name... wondered about her response... thought about it in a more Scottish context. And the line wondered through my head:
'Wee Senga's off to the disco with her pals.'
So, below, a work in process. I'd quite like the finished product to be properly in Scots - we shall see!

Senga, dancing/
Wee Senga’s off to the disco with her pals.
They’ll dance around their handbags,
have a few swallies –
but not get too puggled, mind:
every moment, every minute,
meant to last a lifetime. 

Wee Senga’s off away soon.
They’ll dance like they’ve never danced before,
celebrate in style –
a cheeky Vimto and a stolen kiss,
and laugh to cover up the inner scream
at her body, brokered for him.

Wee Senga’s living like every day’s her last;
They’ll keep on dancing ‘til the party ends –
two months will go too fast –
an’ if anyone should tut and say:
‘but yer Da’ll kill you!’
She’ll just say: ‘Aye, so he will.’
     Nik Mac c.2023

Lottie, looking back

Lot's Wife Pillar, Mt Sodom, Dead Sea, Israel

A wee reflection sparked by Genesis 19:12-26 on Lot's wife, who looks back

Lottie, looking back

Lottie lifts the album

from its dustless shelf,

hugs it close,

places it on the coffee table – 

all in quiet tenderness.

It’s not a proper visit 

without the family on display.

And ach, how she loved them.

She was happy then,

fresh-cheeked, eyes twinkling –

eyes now with a soft light

as her finger moves slowly

to the children.

‘Ah, wee Callum - cheeky laddie; always the joker.

And Shona, forever making sandcastles – 

och, the sand got everywhere.

They loved the beach, eh.’

Seaside holiday snaps,

Christmases, birthdays,

a few anniversary celebrations 

in for good measure.

‘Would you look at Billy –

wearing that silly hat one Christmas:

he was always ‘silly Billy’ after that,

but there was no harm in it.’

Lottie strokes the close up face.

‘A good man,

a kind husband,

and a doting dad, that one.’

Always the photographs;

fading, dog-eared memories 

of days long gone;

smiles, frozen in time –

a past now only remembered by her.

And so she tells their stories,

while she still remembers:

when she goes

then they’ll all be gone.

‘What’s your name?’

‘It’s Shona.’

A page turns;

me, 40 years younger.

16 year old -

all excitement and puffy sleeves,

dressed up for my very first dance.

‘This is my girl, Shona – such a pretty one.

You’d like her, I think.’

Tears threaten, but I shake them off. 

‘Yes, Mum.’

My hand covers hers,

it’s warm, and wrinkled,

and still on the photo album

full of memories,

where her heart and soul,

and mind, now live.
                c. Nik 2023

She knows her place

The other day, writing a piece for a project on which I'm a team member, I had cause to ponder that much abused (and I use that word intentionally) verse from Ephesians 5:22-23 on wifely submission. For too long, it's been used as a pillar to support toxic masculinity, and a tool to keep women down - that they 'know their place' in the apparent ordained pecking order of life. It's seen, within some (and I hasten to say, not all!)

circles of Christianity as a way of control: guilting a woman to stay within a relationship that is physically, mentally, emotionally abusive. In those particular circles, the onus is on the woman to behave appropriately: if she just does as she's told, there won't be a problem - if behaviours occur that harm, then, it's her fault. Clearly, her attitude and actions are to blame, are provocative in some way. There's a whole theology around the submission of women that serves as a template for some to excuse unacceptable behaviour - more than that: to almost sanctify violence. A pious doublespeak of 'it's because I love you that I'm doing this; it's the godly thing to do.' Outwith those particular circles of Christianity, it's played its part in wider society through conversations and attitudes around the role, or place, of women... helping to create an unholy foundation for their diminishing whether by words, or mind games, or violence, or indeed, a combination of all.

As I said, I'm pondering... but within Scotland, the statistics around violence against women are horrific. Between one in three, to five, women will be subject to domestic violence at some point in their lives; around every 10 seconds, a report of domestic violence is logged with Police Scotland; in 2021-2022, nearly 65 000 domestic abuse incidents were reported. Legally, unlike England or Wales, in Scotland it's deemed reasonable to cite suspected infidelity as a justification for lethal violence as part of a plea of provocation. There's mention further below of 'a Diane, an Emma, a Nicole'. This is reference to women who died due to domestic violence: Diane Nichol, Emma Coupland and her daughter, Nicole Anderson. The day before he killed her, Nichol’s partner was overheard by witnesses ‘You’re useless, you don’t clean, you don’t make my lunch. You better make it tomorrow.' Nichol’s injuries were so severe, the attack so violent, that they were likened, by first responders at the scene, to those sustained in a road traffic accident.

Currently, we're in Eastertide - having walked through Holy Week, the violence and death of Jesus, and through to resurrection. Within the context of that week and, in particular, Friday and the cross, there are those who champion the penal substitution theory of atonement - 'every lash of the whip, every hammer blow, etc. was because of, and for you.' Taken to its logical extreme, there's an argument to be had here for the heavenly household being an divine example of domestic violence - in this case, cosmic child abuse. It provides a blueprint that ties in far too easily with the matter of wifely submission/ male headship: as God the Father punished the Son (on our behalf... it's your fault, etc.) so, the man, who is 'head' of the house has authority to punish the subordinates in his household... There's a bizarre cognitive dissonance with a theory that, at its core, affirms 'God loves you so much that he arranged for his child to be beaten, tortured, and killed' - that same classic dissonance of the abuser of a partner or child using the old, twisted line: 'I'm only doing this because I love you.' To me, that's at odds with what we see of the rest of Jesus' life and teaching - and, to only focus upon 3 hours of his life misses the wider context of seeing him as a model for demonstrating a life fully lived - and, what life in full relationship with God as parent looks like. Summing up this viewpoint perhaps as: this is how to live - in love: with God and neighbour. It can be costly, but it will overturn the mighty, and overcome injustice, and bring in God's kin-dom.

So, I lay my own theological cards on the atonement theory table: clearly, I'm more on the 'Jesus as an example for us on how to live' model, rather than following the road that leads to the problematic violence of penal substitution. We follow One who understood power not as dominance, but as vulnerability - of offering love and service to one another. This was to be the radical blueprint pointing to a life-giving way to dismantle toxic behaviours and build a life-affirming kingdom - a kin-dom - where all are valued, respected, deemed worthy, and where there will be no more tears, violence, or death; a kin-dom and culture that celebrates abundant life, in word and in deed. Until we challenge more readily some of our more toxic theology, and dare walk down that radical road of non-violence and love, we continue to be complicit in a culture of death, not life.

Certainly, historically, some sections of the church have been complicit, either overtly, or through silence. There is, however, some movement institutionally towards not only recognising violence against women, but setting up task groups and providing resources. It's a start, but the work is ongoing. How do we address the hermeneutics of power and violence within scripture, and embedded in culture? There's a whole lot of patriarchal dismantling to do. 

See article ‘As killings of women increase in Scotland, if femicide the real ‘F’ word?’ by Kirsteen Paterson in Holyrood 15 March, 2023. 
https://www.holyrood.com/inside-politics/view,as-killings-of-women-increase-in-scotland-is-femicide-the-real-f-word

For a starting place for further resources, see: https://www.churchofscotland.org.uk/about-us/our-views/violence-against-women

‘She knows her place’

She knows her place:

she needs to, for safety’s-sake.

And even then

as she diminishes herself,

becomes small,

invisible,

there’s no guarantee.

With provocation as a plea –

‘she made me do it!’

‘She deserved it!’ –

it will always be

her fault.

She knows her place

and so does he:

everywhere she goes

and who she meets;

how much she spends.

Every moment, every conversation,

accounted for

and, if not,

accusation and interrogation.

It’s because he loves her:

it’s for her own good,

the beating’s done.

She knows her place:

told by her pastor, father, man

to submit, be good,

obey.

She never measures up –

is useless, doesn’t clean, make lunch…

she’d better do, tomorrow.

She’s a Diane, an Emma, a Nicole:

she’s the 1-in-5, the every 10.*

But it’s a private matter, 

a women’s issue;

not a priority.

...She knows her place.

           Nik 2023

'Ark'

Reflection based on the women in the story... 
Exodus 1:8-2:10 

'Ark'
They placed the tiny cargo 

into the makeshift ark, 

pushed it out 

past the reeds 

hoping for salvation. 

No saccharine story 

filled with  

happily paired animals, 

no cheerful snatches of 

‘Arky, arky’. 

But perhaps, 

in its own distinctive way 

this, too, was a story 

of new beginnings: 

a reset. 

Mercy 

moved the midwives, 
not ambition; 

It was never about 

making a name for themselves 

in the larger story 

of a people 

and their god… 

Even so,  

the story lifts them above 

the nameless Pharoah: 

Shiphrah and Puah 

live on, 

named and righteous. 

  

Odd, how the ‘cull’ order 

seemed only to see 

an increase 

in the Hebrew birth-rate. 
If it was subversive, 

an act of resistance  

against state-sanctioned slaughter  

of innocents, 

so be it… 

‘The women give birth quickly, Sire,’ 

they lie 

to the old man on the throne, 

even as his daughter 

draws out 

the river-child 

from the basket that will bear his name, 

and takes him home.  
               c. Nik 2023

*'Ark' - from the Heb. תֵּבָה, tevah; 'box, or 'basket' - used only twice, the other reference: in the story of Noah. Both arks, in different ways, vessels built with the purpose of saving life.
n.b. the name 'Moses' sounds like the Hebrew for 'draw out'.