When I became aware of what Butler wrote, I participated in
discussing the errors on my blog and social media. Initially, I noted the problems of
Soteriology that Butler's problematic analogy created, understanding as more
fruit of the Complementarian arguments that I've been decrying for more than
fifteen years. His statements were not
substantially different than what other Complementarians have written, so I encouraged
people to recognize that Butler had only done what TGC modeled for him. I'm far more concerned about the theological
problems created by the perspective, not only because the beliefs facilitate
abuse, but primarily because it robs Christ of His Glory by diminishing Him and
the Work of the Cross.
Perhaps because it's the fifteenth anniversary of my "canceling"
for criticizing Complementarians and their Eternal Subordination of the Son Doctrine,
I've pleaded for critics to show the author mercy and pray for wisdom for
him. I found the Preventing Grace
criticisms challenging. But what felt
even more difficult was their claims that Butler had made no substantial errors
through the use of the imagery and metaphors he chose.
On Sunday, I'd processed enough of my outrage over the
profane implications concerning the Doctrine of God well enough that the
sarcasm I'd been using to cover the personal elements of Butler's writing
abated. My voice cracked as I told my
friend about the flash of olfactory memory when I first read the TGC article
quote and the sick twinge of it again when I read Sheila Wray Gregoire's blog post when she noted how often she'd used the word
"semen." When I heard
Preventing Grace express appreciation and support for Butler's language, the
rest of the personal element rose to the surface of my consciousness.
I was first molested at the age of eight. The abuse continued irregularly and
progressed for several more years when the elderly woman who babysat for me
would place me alone in the care of her adult son. I had no language to describe what was
happening to me and what I witnessed. I
knew that the bodies of a man and a woman joined, but I knew nothing about male
emission. I thought my abuser was ill
when I witnessed the process as he sat beside me on the sofa that first
time. The texture of the upholstery against
my hands as I pressed them into the cushion, the smell of his sweat, and the
smell of the strange substance that was nothing like urine were forever burned
into my mind. Elements of the experience
do not invade or intrude upon my daily life anymore, but when something pulls
up those memories, I cannot get free of that smell. I have made peace with the experience, but I
resent the smell that returns to my consciousness like a witness to my
long-past trauma.
I am grateful to God and my husband of nearly 33 years that
none of these elements of my past ever invaded our marriage bed. I have always felt safe, respected, and
gratified in the "merging of our souls," which has always been the
mutual sharing of love. And I am no
prude. When I became an RN at age
nineteen, I wanted to work with oncology patients, but the hospital floor also
specialized in urology. I am grateful
for the kindness and humility of my male patients who were always gentlemen as
I learned how to care for men afflicted with so many disorders of male
reproductive health.
But that podcast set me thinking about what I would have
thought as a little girl if someone had told me that my abuser's semen was his
show of generosity with me or if my body was a show of hospitality as the TGC
author described. Or that these things
spoke to me about God's generous and extravagant gift of love or that it
represented how He "works within me."
As a five-year-old, I knelt at the altar to give my heart to the
Lord. By the age when I was violated, I
would often stay for the sermons in church with the adults instead of going to
children's church. I was hungry for
God's Word, and in many ways, I felt safer in that church sanctuary than anywhere
else I knew. I cannot imagine hearing
such ideas in my safe haven of that House of Prayer.
There was nothing godlike or good about what I endured, and
I endured because I was duty-bound to obey my abuser. Lacking the language and the liberty to
describe what I experienced, I asked my mother if I had to do everything he
asked. I showed him submission out of
duty in obedience to my mother. It was
not hospitality. It was a kind of death.
Today, I listened to a very different podcast called Kingdom Roots with Scot McKnight. I had to play it through five times to catch
all of the elements of it because it set me thinking about so many things,
almost as if the speakers had read my mind.
Dr. Beth Felker Jones addressed the problems of anthropomorphizing in
the way that Butler did, reinforcing what I'd already been thinking throughout
the previous night. She highlighted the
problematic complementarian teachings that drop deep into theological pitfalls
of bad scholarship. Dr. Lynn Cohick
concisely tackled the primary doctrinal problems in light of what we're told
clearly and plainly in the New Testament.
Dr. Scot McKnight mentioned the "silo" of TGC and
how swiftly they cancel their critics, an experience that I know too well. He brought up the root problems of their
teachings. He said precisely what my
husband said about the non-apology offered by TGC by admitting error without
identifying that error. When Knight
asked what was so different about Josh Butler's writing compared to previous
statements made by TGC, I felt like that Preventing Grace podcast had already pushed
me to the brink of that answer.
The Tenth Chapter of John tells us that we know our
Shepherd's voice, and I did not hear my Shepherd in Butler's
words. I did not hear anything that
sounded remotely like the relationship of love and trust that I share with my
husband in our marriage. I heard nothing
about God's love for me. I did not feel
that inner witness in my heart like a leap of life and joy that says,
"This is truth!" I heard a man
talking about what the mechanics of sex felt and meant to him -- and perhaps
what he hoped to find in those things.
And then, for just a fleeting moment, I smelled the memory of my
rape. As I continued to read, I asked
myself that if this was a passage meant to celebrate marital love, why would
anyone mention prostitution? This was
not a discussion of love or theology or marriage. For me, it seemed like an occasion to the
flesh and a discussion of sex for the gratification of (some) men.