When silence becomes its own blame

There are some Bible sto­ries we learn so young that we stop real­ly see­ing them. 

We know the words before we are old enough to under­stand them. 

Adam. 
Eve. 
The ser­pent. 
The gar­den. 
The fruit. 

We are taught that Eve ate first. 

And some­where along the way, many of us learned to read the sto­ry as though that set­tled the ques­tion of who was responsible. 

But one day, I read those old words again and noticed some­thing I had some­how missed all those years. 

Adam was there. 

Not some­where down the gar­den path. 

Not tend­ing to the ani­mals on the oth­er side of Eden. 

Not unaware of what was happening. 

Genesis tells us that Eve took the fruit, ate it, and gave some to her hus­band, “who was with her.” 

Who was with her. 

Four lit­tle words. 

And sud­den­ly, the sto­ry sound­ed different. 

Because Adam heard the ser­pent ques­tion what God had said. 

He heard the lie. 

He watched the con­ver­sa­tion unfold. 

He watched Eve reach for the fruit. 

And Scripture records no protest from him. 

No, Eve. 

No, stop. 

No, that isn’t what God said. 

No words at all. 

Silence. 

And then God came walk­ing through the garden. 

“Where are you?” 

I have always imag­ined that ques­tion as being direct­ed toward both of them. 

But it wasn’t. 

God called for Adam. 

And when Adam final­ly found his voice, he didn’t say, I was there. 

He didn’t say, I should have spo­ken. 

He didn’t say, I failed to pro­tect what had been entrust­ed to me. 

Instead, he said: 

“The woman you gave me…” 

There it is. 

The old­est defense in the book. 

She did it. 

She gave it to me. 

And, if we’re being hon­est, God, part of this is Your fault too. 

Adam had been silent while the wrong was happening. 

But when account­abil­i­ty came knock­ing, sud­den­ly he had plen­ty to say. 

About Eve. 

About God. 

About every­body but himself. 

I have thought about that a lot lately. 

Because per­haps the sto­ry of Adam and Eve isn’t only about temptation. 

Perhaps it is also about what hap­pens when some­one who has the pow­er to speak choos­es silence — and then finds his voice only when it is time to assign blame. 

We see that pat­tern still. 

We see it when a woman says she has been sex­u­al­ly assault­ed and the first ques­tions aren’t about the man who assault­ed her. 

What was she wearing? 

How much had she been drinking? 

Why was she there? 

Why did she go home with him? 

Why didn’t she leave? 

Why didn’t she fight? 

Why didn’t she scream? 

What did she expect? 

Questions about her. 

Her cloth­ing. 

Her choic­es. 

Her behav­ior. 

Her alco­hol consumption. 

Her char­ac­ter. 

Her deci­sions. 

As though some­where in the answers to those ques­tions we might dis­cov­er the moment when a man’s respon­si­bil­i­ty disappeared. 

We don’t ask those ques­tions because they tell us who com­mit­ted the assault. 

We ask them because, some­where inside us, we are still look­ing for a rea­son to believe that ter­ri­ble things only hap­pen to women who some­how invit­ed them. 

That is victim-blaming. 

And it is not new. 

Neither is silence. 

We have seen it again and again when women are harmed, harassed, assault­ed, threat­ened, or murdered. 

And too often, the loud­est con­ver­sa­tions become con­ver­sa­tions about what the woman did wrong instead of what the man did. 

Too often, men who know the accused stay quiet. 

Men who heard the jokes say nothing. 

Men who saw the behav­ior look away. 

Men who knew some­thing wasn’t right con­vince them­selves it wasn’t their business. 

And some­times men don’t even have to defend the behavior. 

They only have to remain silent. 

Because silence can become its own kind of shelter. 

A shel­ter for the per­son doing harm. 

A bur­den placed on the per­son who was harmed. 

We have seen this in cas­es like the Cornell 7, where the sto­ries sur­round­ing young women and sex­u­al vio­lence have forced dif­fi­cult ques­tions about account­abil­i­ty, bystander respon­si­bil­i­ty, and the cul­ture that sur­rounds men accused of harm­ing women. 

And every time anoth­er wom­an’s sto­ry reach­es the pub­lic square, I find myself wondering: 

Where are the men? 

Not all men. 

I know there are men who speak. 

Men who believe women. 

Men who teach their sons that con­sent matters. 

Men who inter­rupt their friends. 

Men who refuse to laugh at degrad­ing jokes. 

Men who walk away from lock­er-room con­ver­sa­tions that turn women into objects. 

Men who under­stand that pro­tect­ing women does­n’t mean con­trol­ling women. 

It means refus­ing to par­tic­i­pate in a cul­ture that makes their harm easier. 

But there are also men who remain quiet. 

And some­times that qui­et is defend­ed as politeness. 

As neu­tral­i­ty. 

As not want­i­ng to get involved. 

As keep­ing the peace. 

But there is no such thing as neu­tral­i­ty when some­one is being harmed. 

Adam’s silence did­n’t make him innocent. 

It made him present and silent. 

And those are two very dif­fer­ent things. 

I think about that when I hear peo­ple talk about men being protectors. 

Because pro­tec­tion can­not sim­ply mean stand­ing between a woman and an out­side threat. 

Sometimes pro­tec­tion looks like stand­ing beside her when anoth­er man is the threat. 

Sometimes it looks like believ­ing her before you demand that she prove herself. 

Sometimes it looks like say­ing, “That isn’t funny.” 

Sometimes it looks like telling your friend, “Don’t talk about women that way.” 

Sometimes it means ask­ing a woman, “Are you safe?” 

And some­times it means hav­ing the courage to say, “I saw what hap­pened, and it was­n’t her fault.” 

That isn’t weakness. 

That is moral courage. 

And Scripture gives us anoth­er garden. 

Another man. 

Another moment when every­thing is at stake. 

But this time, the man does not remain silent. 

In the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus falls to the ground and prays: 

“Not my will, but yours, be done.” 

Christian the­ol­o­gy calls Jesus the “last Adam.” 

The first Adam stood beside some­one in trou­ble and said nothing. 

Then, when God came look­ing for him, he point­ed toward the woman. 

The last Adam faced suf­fer­ing and spoke. 

He accept­ed responsibility. 

He didn’t hide. 

He didn’t shift the blame. 

He didn’t point toward some­one else and say, They made me do it. 

Two gar­dens. 

Two men. 

Two very dif­fer­ent respons­es to responsibility. 

And maybe that is where this sto­ry becomes less about ancient peo­ple and more about us. 

Because we all have gardens. 

We all have places where we stand and watch things happen. 

A con­ver­sa­tion at the din­ner table. 

A work­place. 

A church. 

A class­room. 

A lock­er room. 

A fam­i­ly gathering. 

A group chat. 

A bar. 

A com­mu­ni­ty meeting. 

A social media com­ment section. 

Somebody says some­thing cruel. 

Somebody cross­es a line. 

Somebody makes a joke about women. 

Somebody excus­es a man’s behav­ior because “that’s just how men are.” 

Somebody ques­tions a wom­an’s char­ac­ter instead of the man’s actions. 

And we stand there. 

Quiet. 

Maybe we tell our­selves it isn’t our fight. 

Maybe we don’t want to make things uncomfortable. 

Maybe we’re afraid of what speak­ing will cost us. 

Maybe we call our silence keep­ing the peace. 

But peace and silence are not always the same thing. 

Sometimes silence only keeps things peace­ful for the per­son who does­n’t want to be challenged. 

And some­times the per­son pay­ing for that peace is the woman stand­ing alone. 

My Great Gran used to say that some things were plain enough if you were will­ing to look at them. 

I’ve come to believe Scripture is like that too. 

Sometimes the truth isn’t hidden. 

Sometimes we’ve sim­ply been read­ing past it. 

Adam was there. 

He heard. 

He saw. 

He remained silent. 

And when God came look­ing for him, he point­ed at Eve. 

The ques­tion God asked was not, “Where is Eve?” 

It was: 

“Where are you?” 

Maybe that is still the question. 

Not only for men. 

For all of us. 

Where are we when the joke is made? 

Where are we when the woman isn’t believed? 

Where are we when the ques­tions begin cir­cling around her clothes, her drink­ing, her choic­es, her past? 

Where are we when anoth­er man cross­es a line? 

Where are we when speak­ing up might cost us a friendship? 

Where are we when silence would be easier? 

Where are we? 

Because some­times faith isn’t about know­ing the right Bible verse. Sometimes it is about rec­og­niz­ing the moment when God asks us to stop hid­ing behind some­body else’s story. 

To stop pointing. 

To stop explaining. 

To stop ask­ing what she did to cause it. 

And to final­ly have the courage to say: 

I was there. 

I saw it. 

And I will not be silent.