When I sketched out the shape of our Education is Power series, I envisioned a three-part release of informative articles that could help people understand what is at stake for sexual violence survivors in an attack on Title IX. That was back in July. I had it planned out so neatly. And then the news kept coming, and between keeping on top of the news, responding to an increase in communication from survivors, and answering lots of questions from concerned people in our communities, it was hard to know where to focus my Title IX-related energy.
Hilary, Jay, and I have had a lot of conversations in the past three months about our personal investments in what’s happening with Title IX. All three of us have had experiences with campus sexual assault or harassment. A previous installment of this series described the result of one of Jay’s experiences: a successful Office of Civil Rights complaint that, in 2004, changed the standard of evidence in Title IX hearings at The Ohio State University, from “clear and convincing” to “preponderance of the evidence.”
(Civil rights cases are generally tried on the preponderance standard, and Title IX is civil rights legislation. Using the “clear and convincing” standard effectively treats the complainants in sex-based discrimination claims as less credible than complainants in other civil rights-related cases; see part II of this series for more background on this.)
When Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos announced on September 22 that the ED was rescinding the guidance in the 2011 “Dear Colleague” letter, she took aim specifically at the preponderance standard. Her clear intent is to undo what a succession of survivors, advocates, and lawyers spent the early 2000s fighting to achieve: the uniform use of the preponderance standard in Title IX hearings.
The new guidelines give schools the option of choosing the “clear and convincing” standard. Again, this is the standard that the courts had already established, through years of precedent, to be too high to ensure the equal educational access guaranteed in the Higher Education Act.
I know that all this talk about standards of proof can make the eyes glaze over, particularly for those of us who aren’t lawyers. DeVos and her supporters have exploited that confusion. But the core issue at stake in this debate about evidentiary standards is whether people who claim to be sexually assaulted and/or harassed deserve a fair hearing, one that isn’t biased in favor of the person or persons they’re accusing. If we choose to believe that sexual violence claims are inherently lacking in credibility (and many people do believe this), we’re easier to sway towards a standard that puts a higher burden of proof on accusers than it does on the accused. But that isn’t consistent with what we know about sexual assault accusations, and it certainly isn’t how civil rights law is meant to be enforced.
Which is why we suspected, from the outset, that this whole mess would hit the courts before long. (And as of last week, it has, in a suit filed by the same civil rights lawyer who represented Jay in 2003-2004. I expect more such suits in the future.)
We decided to issue a moral challenge to the higher education administrators we know best: the ones who run Mennonite colleges, universities, and seminaries. We published an open letter to those administrators on October 6, in the denominational magazine of Mennonite Church USA (The Mennonite), asking them to publicly commit to maintaining the preponderance standard in their Title IX hearings. The Mennonite’s editor, Hannah Heinzekehr, seized on the opportunity to ask for responses from all the schools we addressed. You can read those responses here.
I interviewed Into Account Co-founder Jay Yoder about their Title IX experience in 2003-2004, and how they feel about that experience in light of what’s happening now. The first part of that interview, in Jay’s words, is below. (Content warning for general descriptions of sexual assault.)
Jay: For me personally, for Betsy DeVos to take back this guidance that was issued in 2011, as if the guidance issued in 2011 was new information that she could just take back–it was really offensive. For a long time, there has been movement of people bringing attention to sexual violence on college campuses. When I was at Goshen College, I had at least three friends who were sexually assaulted, off-campus and on-campus. They had difficulty reporting, because alcohol was involved in one way or another. Goshen had a longstanding practice of getting students in trouble for drinking alcohol when they reported sexual assault. So often the girl would get in trouble for drinking alcohol, and the guy wouldn’t get in trouble. So for reporting her rape, her reward is to be disciplined by the college. For decades, we’ve been working on–as more and more women attend college–and right now I think we’re at the point where more women are seeking higher ed than men–how do we integrate women into what was originally men’s educational opportunity? All of that is to say, there’s been a movement in place for a long time.
I participated in Take Back the Night at Goshen, which is an event bringing attention to sexual violence on college campuses. I led and put together a Take Back the Night movement for several years at Ohio State. Thousands of people attended those events. Then, way back then, in the early 2000s, some of us survivors were talking to each other, exchanging resources, trying to figure out how we could continue our college educations when the people who had raped us were at the same schools with us, oftentimes in the same programs as us. How could we get the education we needed to get when we were faced with our perpetrators, and/or their friends and enablers, or the professors who had enabled them, on a daily basis? When we were just trying to get our degree?
So there were two big cases when I was at Ohio State: mine, and another woman who I will call Jane Doe. Shout out to my friend Jane Doe. A student raped her, and he had been moved to her dorm because he had raped someone else in another dorm before hers. After that he was moved to off-campus student housing. So he had raped multiple people on campus, and was just being shifted around from one housing situation to another. You can see how that would be a Title IX violation, right? How are you having safe access to education when there’s a repeat rapist moving around from housing situation to housing situation? So she pursued a Clery Act complaint. She also sued the university for putting her in danger. I’m calling her Jane Doe because her information can’t be disclosed; part of her settlement was a non-disclosure agreement.
Almost right away when I transferred to Ohio State, one of the few people I knew there was this young Mennonite man who I went to high school with. I didn’t have the greatest high school experience. I was a young, queer person in a tiny, Mennonite-majority town. It’s not that he and I were close friends, but he was one of the only people I knew at Ohio State. He kept pushing alcohol on me one night. I kept trying to say no thank you, like a good Mennonite, but he kept pushing it into my hand, that kind of thing. And then he raped me. I didn’t know how to get home from the place where I was; he walked me home and raped me in my own apartment. It was a former hotel room, a very tiny room that I then continued to live in for the rest of the year.
So it was a really difficult experience. I had lived in this tiny little town, Archbold, and then I moved to Goshen–not much bigger. And then I went to Columbus, Ohio, and Ohio State, and a campus of 50,000. This young man was in my program, too. I was a music major at the time. It made life really complicated.
I got a rape kit, which is a terrible name for it–we can talk about that another time. And I went to the advocate–there was an advocate on staff at Ohio State. She listened to me and gave me my options, and I decided to both pursue a rape report to the police and go through the campus judicial system, so that I could go through my degree without having to be in multiple classes with this person.
So I went through the hearing. It was a really difficult process. They found him in violation of providing me with–at his count–sixteen alcoholic beverages over the course of the night. It was more than I had even counted, because I couldn’t remember. They did not find him in violation of the rules on sexual assault. They agreed that I had consumed at least portions of sixteen alcoholic beverages, and that I had then consented to sexual activity. That was pretty devastating to me. I struggled with, how are these people sleeping at night, what kind of training did they have and why isn’t this system working the way it’s supposed to work? And a lot of things were at play that we always talk about. Caring more about “ruining a young man’s future,” than the impact on the life of the person who was assaulted, that kind of thing.
Jane Doe, who had filed the Clery Act complaint, connected me to Daniel Carter, whose name you’ll see a lot in articles about what Betsy DeVos is doing to give rights to accused individuals that accusers do not have. He was at the Clery Center at the time. He’s been instrumental in writing legislation, he’s been in the campus safety movement for a long time, and he’s a really well-respected advocate. He connected me with Wendy Murphy, a civil rights attorney. She had recently helped students at Harvard file a complaint about the evidence standard, and she assisted me in filing a complaint about the evidence standard.
I remember talking to Wendy Murphy at one point in a stairwell of an OSU building between classes. She told me, “You’re legally allowed to do this, and they’re not legally allowed to retaliate against you, but I’ve seen it over and over. You could get kicked out. You’re putting your college education at stake. I just want you to know that, when you make this decision.”
It was important enough to me that no one else go through the pain that I went through. Because of the complaint that I filed, it was so much more likely that a Title IX panel would feel empowered to find someone in violation of the policy [on sexual assault], based on the preponderance of the evidence: it’s more likely that it happened than that it did not happen. Which is different from the “clear and convincing” standard, which is the one in between preponderance and the standard that we’re all familiar with from criminal courts, “beyond a reasonable doubt.”
It’s about education access and safety. It’s not a criminal hearing. Everyone who’s talking about it now doesn’t seem to understand that. This isn’t a criminal process that puts someone in jail; this is a process that makes sure that people who have survived violence have access to education, and are not forced to interact with their perpetrators constantly while trying to recover and go to college. So I made the choice to file the complaint. I got really involved in campus anti-rape activism, and sat on a panel to revise the code of conduct. We were ultimately successful in our civil rights complaint with the OCR, and OSU agreed to change the standard of evidence.
Again, this was 2003, and until 2004. We’re under George W. Bush. This is not an aggressive “using identity politics and civil rights to change everything for men” situation, this is a totally standard, normal decision, one that the Office of Civil Rights continued to make consistently, from that Harvard decision, to mine; survivors across the country kept filing these complaints, and one by one schools were changing their standards of evidence to come into compliance with federal law. And then the Office of Civil Rights issues this guidance in 2011 that says, essentially, “hey, reminder: rather than doing this one by one, let’s just tell all of you at once: time to change your standard of evidence to preponderance of the evidence.”
I don’t think I can express–I put my my college education at risk, I struggled through literal blood, sweat, tears, pain, chaos; I took a semester off of classes; this took up all of my time.
It was a really important time in my life, and I feel that the best thing that came out of it–I knew that survivors at Ohio State were better off because of what I sacrificed. And to watch her take it away, I can’t express how painful and infuriating it is. Having not ever achieved any justice in my personal case, I get asked all the time, was it worth it? Would I do it again? It’s been one of my personal rocks, that I did everything that I could do. I may not have gotten justice for myself, but I fought back as much as I could fight back and I made things better for the people after me. And with a stroke of her pen, she can just take it away. She has no idea what she’s doing.
To pretend that it’s somehow undoing “Obama activism” is just ignoring history. That’s not what happened. The Office of Civil Rights under George W. Bush repeatedly held up the same standard. To say that now schools can do whatever they want, it’s turning back the clock to before schools understood what was expected of them under federal law. And changing the expectations at the same time.
So yeah, it’s really personally painful for me. It’s really hard to watch. And I know it is for all the survivors and advocates who have worked so hard. We’re the ones who enforced those federal expectations. Things like the Clery Act, the Campus SAVE Act, and Title IX, they’re passed, they’re written into law, and they’re not funded. It’s not like they fund a huge staff of people that then scatter all over the nation and make sure that everyone’s in compliance. It’s a backwards enforcing model, where schools do the wrong thing, and then survivors and advocates step up and say, no, you’re not following the law. And then they ask someone to come in and investigate.
So the people who have been enforcing this are survivors and advocates, who alert investigators to schools that aren’t following the guidelines. DeVos just undid decades of work, with no understanding of the process.
(To be continued)
This case begins with an unsettling email. It came from a powerful man of the church, a Mennonite executive, and it was a response to an email from me, in which I told this leader that he was perpetuating violence against queer people.
I was an ethnographer writing about the Mennonite movement for queer justice, and I also was a Mennonite, at least by background. In the interviews I was doing with LGBTQ Mennonites around the country, I kept hearing the word violence: rhetorical violence, spiritual violence, institutional violence, systemic violence. The violence they spoke of was often quiet and subtle, invisible to many. It happened in the wording of denominational statements, in all the ways in which LGBTQ identities were cast as worldly distractions from more important church work; it happened in families, inherited patterns of sexual shame that thrived on the specter of a monstrous sexual outsider. It happened most particularly in the process of what Mennonites call “discernment.”
Mennonites have little in the way of doctrine. What they do have are committees, some of which are called “discernment groups.” Listening committees are a regular feature of Mennonite discernment, particularly in the realm of LGBTQ people, who in the course of the forty-year history of their organizing within Mennonite contexts have often been invited to “share their stories” in front of appointed listeners. I will return to discernment, but for the moment, I will say two things about it.
One, I don’t believe I know any LGBTQ Mennonites for whom the word “discernment” fails to produce groans, eyerolls, and other expressions of deep cynicism. For them, discernment about whether they are acceptable to the church has rarely yielded anything more than promises for more discernment. Two, the powerful church leader whose email I am about to quote has written a book about discernment and its role in understanding God’s will.
I had initially approached this leader with the presumption that he would be an informant, but when you’re doing ethnography on the same religious group that you grew up in, boundaries get fuzzy. Many of the people I could call “informants,” I relate to in multiple ways: friends, family, antagonists, co-conspirators, to name a few. I have not attended a Mennonite church for almost fifteen years, but my last name, Krehbiel, is a common one in Mennonite circles, and thus I can never present myself without revealing some piece of my own history. The name “Krehbiel” generates questions such as, “Who are your parents and grandparents?” “Where are you from?” and finally, “Where do you go to church?” To this last one, the answer “nowhere” is unremarkable for most of my informants. They have their own fraught relationships with church.
But for this leader, I knew immediately that my lack of church attendance would be an issue. His theology was based in binaries. In The Book of Jerry Falwell, Susan Harding writes of the evangelicals she studied, “There is no such thing as a neutral position, no place for an ethnographer who seeks ‘information.’ Either you are lost, or you are saved.”[i] As with Harding’s evangelical informants, this leader wanted to save me. Given how Mennonites had already marked me, it need not even be a dramatic conversion. It would be more a matter of gently urging me back into a semiotic universe in which I would be suitably chastened by his authority.
Prior to receiving my email, the leader had answered my lengthy questions about church polity and authority structures with a mentorly condescension. I learned about him from these exchanges, and it was invaluable to my work. I learned that he had specialized listening skills. He listened not for content but for rhetoric, the verbal cues that would place a person on the cultural/political map he seemed to carry in his head. Though he presented himself as a mostly powerless servant of the battling forces within his denomination, he communicated as someone who likes to control people, and I could tell he was measuring me, looking for my vulnerabilities. I learned that he prized his notion of himself as a detached intellectual, as the one who interprets what’s really going on. I saw that he wasn’t particularly good at recognizing his own limitations; he was almost a parody of a mansplainer at times, used to women performing subservience to him. What did it say about the denomination I was studying, that this man had ascended to power within it? That’s what I wanted to know.
But eventually, I got sick of the patronizing. I wanted to break out of the rhetorical dance I was doing with this man. I could tell that at some level the exchange was hurting me; I was sleeping badly, unable to shake off the gnawing sense of menace that I felt in the subtext of his communications. So I wrote him another email, and told him that his repressive leadership reproduced the same patterns of violence and shame that I saw manifested in my own family. In response to that email, he wrote me this:
Thank you so much for telling me about your family. This explanation helps me understand the context out of which you are writing. I felt the hot breath of your anger as I read and reread your email. I acknowledge your accusations of violence and abuse. I do not take these accusations and judgments lightly; they strike me like sharp arrows in my heart… Since I am pastor at heart, your story stirs up deep empathy in me. I would love to sit with you in person to explore the ways that your church has failed to be there for your family in times of deepest need.
My memories of reading this email, two years ago, are physical. I was on the couch in my living room, and my body was suffused with adrenaline, pulsing shame, the familiar nausea of feeling an older man’s predatory intent: I fucked up. I brought this on myself. Why on earth had I addressed him like this, as someone with whom I had a relationship built on any sort of trust? How did that serve me, methodologically speaking? I’d given him an invitation to address me as a pastor might address a lost sheep. I’d tried to break out of his rhetorical cage, and walked right into his next trap.
To complicate the situation further, a friend with whom I shared my email asked my permission to publish it as an open letter on her popular blog about Mennonite sexual violence. I consented to this, and thus it appeared in a public forum even before he had responded to it. I later regretted allowing it to be posted like this. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of what I’d written, but the public nature of the communication no doubt fueled this leader’s embrace of a martyr position in relation to my critiques. He was pierced in the heart by sharp arrows, flung indiscriminately by me in my fit of angry emotion. His response to me, of course, was private. He had to reset the stage, back into a context in which he had the authority to mediate my claims.
I’d written to him of a family incident several generations old, when my grandmother’s sister was forced to apologize in front of her church for divorcing a husband that had cheated on her. The incident had a profound effect upon my grandmother, for reasons I suspect are tied to some sexualized abuse in her own past, alluded to but never named outright. She came back to the story of the public apology again and again, in vague fragments I tried to piece together, and when she died, I felt that I’d inherited a puzzle, something to do with the violence of a theology in which a heterosexual marriage bond is so sacred that it must be fed with sacrificial victims.
I was trying to get at something systemic, but this church leader insistently focused on the personal, transforming me into a case— not someone with an analysis of anything, just a person with an emotional problem. My academic work that critiqued his leadership and my advocacy for queer justice was just a symptom of something broken in my family; he was the one with intellectual remove.
My sense of ethnographic failure in this exchange was layered over something deeper and for me, profoundly Mennonite. I felt vulnerability and violation, coupled as always with an internalized admonition that my feelings of violation were histrionic and paranoid, taking up space in a world where far more consequential violations were taking place. Why did an unwelcome offer of pastoral care trouble me beyond the energy it would take to reject or ignore it? Somehow I could not bear the fact that he presumed.
In order to explain the kind of violence that Mennonites do, I have to start with their love of peace. Born out of the Anabaptist religious movement in sixteenth-century Europe, Mennonites hold nonviolence as a central tenet of their faith. For centuries, separatist Mennonite communities migrated through Europe, and eventually, to North and South America as well, settling wherever governments would accommodate their refusal to serve in militaries. Mennonites in the United States have forged their pacifism in response to the wars of the twentieth century, under the threat of conscription for their young men. Mennonite pacifism developed as a masculinist discourse, not only about men’s choices in relation to the state, but about their choices in response to those who called them queers, among other things, for refusing to fight.
Mennonite men have trouble admitting, or even understanding, that they have power. It’s a problem that comes with generations of defining themselves against dominant, warrior masculinities. This is a generalization, of course. I’ve met plenty of thoughtful and reflexive Mennonite men, some of whom are gay, who recognize the problem of unacknowledged power and work to challenge it. But the problem remains.
Like many religious groups, Mennonites commit a lot of sexualized violence. I use the word sexualized here rather than sexual, because it suggests a broader spectrum of violation, encompassing not only what bodies can do to other bodies, but also what theology, institutional structures, and communal processes can manifest in the lives of those who are caught up within them. For the past seven years, I’ve been writing about the ways in which Mennonite peacemaking practices enable and perpetuate certain kinds of violence while carrying out activism aimed at documenting the epidemic of sexual abuse in Mennonite churches. Woven through all this work have been competing claims about what constitutes violence.
Carol Wise, director of the forty-year-old Brethren Mennonite Council on LGBT Interests, speaks of the “violence of process” in Mennonite practice.[ii] In Mennonite theology, God speaks not through divinely-appointed individuals but through community. In order to decide how God is speaking in a given situation, Mennonites engage in the process of “discernment.” Who is worthy of being in the room when the discernment takes place, and whose claims to truth can be heard as the voice of God? For Mennonites, these questions are the stuff of schism.
Given this focus on discernment practices as a means to access truth, perhaps it is not surprising that when Mennonites want to push back against another Mennonite’s claim of violence, they attack at the level of knowledge. It’s less, “you’re lying,” and more “What you think you know is based on a false way of knowing.” Or, with a more pastoral veneer, like the e-mail that so upset me, “You make the claims that you make not because they are true but because you’re damaged. Let’s sit down together and talk about how you can be repaired.”
This essay, then, is about how knowledge is legitimized and authorized. In my experiences with Mennonites, nowhere does that contestation feel more acute than in the realm of sexualized violence and survivor advocacy. In the summer of 2015, after finishing my PhD, I helped to assemble a new chapter of the thirty-year-old, largely Catholic, Survivors Network of those Abused by Priests (SNAP). We are a small assemblage of Mennonites and ex-Mennonites, academics and activists. In the course of conducting my research on queer Mennonites, I had heard so many disclosures of sexual violence that I was desperate to act.
Most of us in the group, at some level, are struggling with the effects of trauma, be it primary or secondary. Few of us can walk comfortably into a Mennonite church. None of us has any official role within Mennonite church structures. We try to agitate from the outside, as whistleblowers, although sometimes the line between “inside” and “outside” feels as fuzzy in this activism as it does in ethnography. We collect the stories that are told to us: of adult women abused by pastors who offer them counseling, only to be told their experiences were “consensual”; of students abused by professors at Mennonite colleges, and children abused by church members in congregations that rushed to forgive the perpetrators and isolated the parents of the abused child; of church officials who gaslight survivors and demand that they “forgive” their abusers; of abusive pastors who manipulate congregations into loving them; and of incest, endless stories of incest, a violation that seems to set up so many of its survivors for a lifetime of encounters with predators. It is soul-searing work to collect these stories, to keep lists of perpetrator names that I can only reveal under the correct legal circumstances, and to see in horrific detail where Mennonite theology and communal practice has failed.
There seems to be no room within the practice of discernment for full acknowledgment of this reality. Mennonites, like so much of the rest of society, are perpetually waiting for the perfect survivor, innocent until violated, whose story can be managed into coherent narrative, unbroken by the memory fragmentation of trauma, that culminates in healing and reconciliation with the community, the perpetrator, and God. This expectation is a trap, of course; real human beings never meet its standards of blamelessness. The stories I collect are mixed up with the failures of marriage, with alcohol and drugs that numb PTSD, with sexual yearning that is exploited, with buried queerness that manifests as sexual vulnerability, with thwarted attempts to resist sexual shame. To share and narrate these stories is to bear witness to a fundamental failure of the church’s heterosexist sexual ethic. The monstrous sexual outsider has always been inside, and the monster has never been queerness.
Sometimes Mennonites who feel attacked by my work accuse me of having power I don’t deserve. Usually these accusations come from angry men on the internet. Sometimes they call me “Dr. Krehbiel” as though it’s an epithet, as if they’re so affronted by the audacity of my title that they have to spit it out. They’re right in a sense: I do have power. It’s tied to having a PhD, but it’s bigger than that. It’s the power that comes from knowing the people for whom the existing sexual ethics aren’t working; it comes with naming, with claiming, with pronouncing what is violence and what isn’t, what is abuse and what isn’t, what is love and what isn’t. It is the also the power of secrets, of knowing things I’m not supposed to know. The church is supposed to have that power. The carefully-selected discerning committee is supposed to have that power. The men who sneer “Dr. Krehbiel” at me aren’t just afraid of what I represent, as a woman with a PhD. They are, I think quite literally, afraid of what I know.
My friend Jay Yoder, a queer Mennonite activist as well as a survivor of rape and sexual abuse, breaks down one of the ways that discernment takes power from survivors:
So, you’re the one who has experienced trauma and you have come out the other side with incredible and painfully-earned expertise. And you make yourself vulnerable and share that experience and expertise. Then church officials tell you that they’re going to form a panel and serve as judge and jury as to whether your experiences ring true and are worthy of real change or if they just don’t matter that much in the eyes of the church, and by turn, God.
Where do they get off and just what makes them feel qualified to be an expert on realities that as a rule are not theirs??[iii]
Where do they get off? That’s the question we’re always asking, in my Mennonite activist circles, with the double entendre fully intended. Mennonites don’t like to talk about power and the way it organizes their communities. To talk about power, it seems, is to admit that they are not peaceful. It could become an admission that discernment can be violent, that it can go wrong, that God could misspeak, or that the community could misspeak what God was trying to say. To talk about power might also be to acknowledge that power can be erotic. I suspect that denying the erotics of power makes those erotics all the more destructive.
My files are full of stories, of queer people and sexual abuse survivors, made to feel shame and then offered that consolation, the private, pastoral words, the words that make a person feel like an individual, aberrant case. Those encounters often end with something sexual, or something that feels sexual in a way that also makes the vulnerable person in the situation feel as though they’ve lost track of reality. When shame permeates sex, then talking about sexual violence or queerness becomes an act of intimacy. When the role of power in that intimacy is ignored, then, to again quote my friend Jay, “power is a sexy secret.”
This essay began with an unsettling email, and to tell the truth, I’m still unsettled by it. I responded to that email with a finality that ended my correspondence with the presumptuous executive. I wrote, “There isn’t anything exceptional about my family stories. Please just add them to your body of knowledge; let them help you to historicize this particular moment in the denomination that you are directing. That’s all I’m asking of you. Personally, I am fine.” I reclaimed my own authority. I asked that he respect what I know.
But what I really wanted to say was straight from my case files, from the many queer people and survivors who shared their story alone in a room to a caring church official, only to say later, after the betrayal, “I want my story back.”
Stephanie Krehbiel is a writer, ethnographer, and activist living in Lawrence, Kansas. She earned her PhD in American Studies at the University of Kansas in 2015. Her dissertation focused on the queer justice movement in the Mennonite Church USA. She is currently writing a book based on her research. She also researches and curates the Mennonite Abuse Prevention List, a growing archive documenting Mennonite sexual abuse and housed on the website of the Survivors Network for those Abused by Priests (http://www.snapnetwork.org/mennonite_map).
[i] Harding, Susan Friend. 2000. The Book of Jerry Falwell: Fundamentalist Language and Politics. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press.
[ii] Carol Wise, interview with the author, October 22, 2013.
[iii] Jennifer Yoder, interview with the author, February 3, 2016.
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Krehbiel S. The discernment of knowledge: sexualized violence in the Mennonite church. Somatosphere. 2016. Available at: http://somatosphere.net/2016/05/the-discernment-of-knowledge-sexualized-violence-in-the-mennonite-church.html. Accessed March 8, 2018.
Krehbiel, Stephanie. (2016). The discernment of knowledge: sexualized violence in the Mennonite church. Retrieved March 8, 2018, from Somatosphere Web site: http://somatosphere.net/2016/05/the-discernment-of-knowledge-sexualized-violence-in-the-mennonite-church.html
Krehbiel, Stephanie. 2016. The discernment of knowledge: sexualized violence in the Mennonite church. Somatosphere. http://somatosphere.net/2016/05/the-discernment-of-knowledge-sexualized-violence-in-the-mennonite-church.html (accessed March 8, 2018).
Krehbiel, S 2016, The discernment of knowledge: sexualized violence in the Mennonite church, Somatosphere. Retrieved March 8, 2018, from <http://somatosphere.net/2016/05/the-discernment-of-knowledge-sexualized-violence-in-the-mennonite-church.html>
Krehbiel, Stephanie. "The discernment of knowledge: sexualized violence in the Mennonite church." 2 May. 2016. Somatosphere. Accessed 8 Mar. 2018. <http://somatosphere.net/2016/05/the-discernment-of-knowledge-sexualized-violence-in-the-mennonite-church.html>