Patriarchy Malarkey (A Poem)
The patriarchal movement was (is) a chilling expression of Spiritual Abuse which has cultish attributes. I would describe it as a movement releasing men to reign as head of their own family cult, shaping their wives and children to carry out their vision to build a kingdom in their own image.
There is nothing wholesome about this movement, but the way it’s shrouded in biblical language and protected by the twisting of scripture is gut-wrenchingly insidious.
While this is certainly an extreme version of Spiritual Abuse, it is helpful to discuss as this thinking has made its way into many fundamentalist church communities. The main way is through the view and treatment of women.
The following poem depicts the experience of a woman who grew up in the patriarchal movement.
Patriarchy Malarkey
by Megan Benninger
Life was grand
With my band of
Likeminded sisters.
We homemade and mothered
And remained under cover
Of headship.
An umbrella they’d tell us,
For our safety and joy,
God’s design for your kind,
You’re a girl, not a boy.
Of course you are equal,
Still only a sequel
Of what God had in mind
In His garden.
Built to help,
Not to lead.
First to fall,
Be deceived.
Know your place
And you’ll stay under grace.
Invisible chains,
Can they break?
Links of beliefs
Strong and deep,
Ingrained,
Joined together,
A tether
Keeping me bound,
Down,
Oppressed, less,
Under the masculine umbrella
Where I’m sure to be blessed.
Never learned to object,
Or even detect
My subjection.
I resigned to be blind,
Maligned,
Quiet, kind,
To grow where I’m planted,
Yet withered.
Till one day,
A light shined
On my mind.
The rose-colored narrative shattered.
I could see through the cracks
Shades of black,
Facts.
It was real.
It was truth.
They had lied,
Compromised.
The cover was false,
The umbrella a fiction
Of diction.
Next I thought
Surely not.
These men were naive,
Deceived,
Unintentional,
Accidental.
But no!
They’d twisted the Bible,
A sheer act of libel.
Women are actually free!
I wrestled and pulled at the chain
In my brain
Pulled again, and again, and again,
And then
I looked down,
And I found
The chains were not there,
Never were.
Those dastardly elders,
Those false story-tellers,
Created those chains of thin air.
Figments,
Illusions,
Utter confusions
That tricked and imprisoned us all.
So I simply,
Guilelessly,
Boldly
Unshackled.
Read more on churchtrauma.org
Photo by John Salvino on Unsplash