I first wrote these words in 2020. That essay came almost 15 years since Tarana Burke first began to say #metoo as an expression of solidarity and support for survivors of sexual assault, especially women of color. #Metoo gained momentum in 2017 as Harvey Weinstein faced charges and received the justice deserved for his abusive acts. In those days, it felt like the tide was turning. I thought perhaps that maybe women (all humans) would be seen and treated with the dignity.  Maybe people would be seen for the fullness, the preciousness with which we were created, instead of being perceived, treated, and discarded as objects for another’s pleasure.

And yet, here we are again. This essay is coming to you for the third time. With news of the horrific rape done by students at Cornell University, a football player at Louisiana State, (not to mention the assaults perpetrated on other campuses that didn’t reach headlines or receptive ears) here is this essay. Again. It comes because, still, comedians feel just fine to call women whores on national TV for of what they wear to the gym and because elected leaders can demean and dehumanize without recompense. We need to say, again, “I hear you. I believe you. It’s not your fault.”

But that’s not enough. We need to boldly stand up and say how wrong this is. We need men and women to intervene, to speak out against words and actions that turn precious children of God into objects. Let’s channel our fury and work together – in the ways we raise our sons, in the conversations we have with our friends, in how we spend our money, and in our choices in the voting booth – to build a world where this essay can be forgotten, where women can wear whatever they want, and walk safely through streets, and celebrate at a party without fear.

We are not there yet. So here, again, are some words on living, listening, and loving in a world where sexual violence is all too common.

by Sara Olson-Smith

Our memories are strange things. When we think we’ve got things filed nicely away in the back of the drawer, something yanks them out, scattering piles of memories like paper across a desk. Sometimes those rediscovered memories are a blessing, like when a song on the radio reminds you of a fabulous road trip, or the smell of baked goods pulls you into your grandmother’s kitchen.

Other times, it’s more traumatizing. It is disorienting and painful to have them brought out of the dark. Those memories are hidden to protect us, and it can hurt to have them triggered. For survivors of sexual assault and other gender-based violence, the news headlines and national dialogs of these last years have been like having those drawers dumped out, over and over again.

Because more and more of these stories have been told, there has been a reckoning in these past months. It was not assumed that Harvey Weinstein would face any consequences to his decades of aggression and violence, he was jailed and awaits guilty verdicts.

Hearing Christine Blasey Ford bravely tell her story, even as her voice shook, gave so many of us the courage to tell experiences that we’ve never shared. The #metoo movement’s truth-telling has meant honest conversations between partners, an openness of what women (and men) experience. It is no longer assumed the perpetrators could act with impunity.

But these small advances have come at a cost. The burden was carried mostly by women like Dr. Ford, who risked everything to tell their story and others who spoke their truth, knowing their own lives would be exposed. And for survivors (of all genders), it also means being confronted with our memories and trauma, over and over again, as we hear those stories and take in the news.

As hard as it is, I am convinced that it is worth it. The more we tell our stories, the less shame we have. The more the truth is shared, the more it will be believed. The more we dare to shine a light on the experiences of survivors, the less they can be ignored.

A few years ago, I listened to a woman speak at a fundraiser for one of the agencies in my community that provides support and care for survivors of sexual and domestic violence. The speaker, Kelly McReynolds, shared her own story of rebuilding her life after rape. Kelly used her platform to call out a culture where assault is pervasive and normalized, where power is unchecked, and women are seen as objects and not people.

Near the end of her talk, she gave all of us some pretty clear instructions, “if someone tells you their story, their experience of assault–this is what you say: I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.”

Still, nearly four years later, those words have such power. Maybe more, because they’ve given me the courage to face my memories, which I’ve kept hidden. And they’ve taught me to be a better advocate and listener, as more stories have been shared in these days of #metoo. We are seeing the transformation that comes–not just to survivors, but to our culture–when we repeatedly say: “I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.”

Those simple statements of assurance and compassion and truth have such power. They echo words for our sacred scripture. I heard in her voice, words of the Apostle Paul, “weep with those who weep” and “bear each other’s burdens.” She spoke in ways that made tangible the prophet Micah’s words to “do justice and love mercy and walk humbly.”

I could almost hear Jesus whisper those words to that unnamed woman, surrounded by the men who were ready to stone her for her supposed adultery. “I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.” Maybe we can imagine the Good Samaritan kneeling next to that person beaten and robbed and left on the side of the road, “I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.”

As followers of Jesus, this ought to be our script when we are confronted with stories not just of sexual assault, but every kind of injustice, violence, and oppression that seeks to dehumanize, denigrate and destroy God’s precious people. As we listen, we can say “I believe you” and, in doing so, move from silence and doubt toward truth and trust. We can say, “It’s not your fault” and help to replace shame with worthiness. We can live the promise “You are not alone” and step forward together from isolation toward belonging.

Through the courage of survivors telling their stories, our culture is (slowly) changing. We are creating a world where survivors are beginning to trust that if they speak, they will be believed. Their experiences are not to be hid and locked away in the shame-filled recesses of our memories but heard and believed and surrounded by a community of care and compassion and transformative anger. Change, though still small, is happening. Voices are being heard.

And because of this, things are shifting. Women are speaking and being believed. As Rebecca Solnit wrote in the New York Times: “The most important change will be found in what we cannot measure — all the crimes that don’t happen because would-be perpetrators fear the consequences, now that there are consequences. All the potential victims know that if they speak up, someone might hear them and heed them. I want more than that, though: I want a society where the desire and entitlement to commit sexual violence wither away, not out of fear but out of respect for the rights and humanity of victims.”

We’re not there yet. We’re so far from there. But as followers of Jesus, we are part of building this vision of God’s reign. Our faith demands that we keep working together, so violence withers away, and everyone can live abundantly with joy and without fear. And until we get there, we can be people who listen and bear witness, saying, “I believe you. It’s not your fault. You are not alone.”

The Rev. Sara Olson-Smith is an ordained ELCA pastor, serving at St. Paul Lutheran Church in Davenport, Iowa. A mother of two, spouse, quilter, podcaster and writer, she is a frequent contributor to Gather magazine. In her writing, teaching, and pastoral work, Olson-Smith weaves together God’s ancient stories in scripture and contemporary stories, movements and hopes—particularly in light of the current climate crisis. Find more at www.saraolsonsmith.com