part 4: lady-preacher

And then, somehow, I turned into a preacher, or lady-preacher, as my BFF once called me.

As a sophomore at Harding, I dated a guy taking preaching. We spent all evening once in the lobby of Cathcart dorm, he wrestling with writing a sermon for the next day that would meet the established criteria, I trying to, well, help write it. It wasn't quite "three points and a poem," but it was old-school. Particularly onerous was the requirement of an illustration for each point. Finally, for lack of a better (and original) idea for a needed illustration, one of my suggestions was adopted--it was close to curfew, time was running out. The next day I attended the preaching class, as moral support. I was invited to fill out a peer-critique form, but asked not to speak. The peer critiques from the other would-be preachers were pretty harsh--but pretty much uniformly, regarded the bright spot in that sermon to be my illustration. We didn't let on.

(It's an interesting historical footnote that the other would-be preacher in that class who preached that day did a good job, even without my help. Brent preaches an even better sermon today--with or without my help.)

The next year, as a junior, I took "religious speaking for women." We couldn't call it preaching, but our text was Tom Long's The Witness of Preaching. We learned about exegesis and commentaries. We learned about the different styles of preaching. And we preached--if only to each other, in that small crowded room full of eager females. I worked hard on my first sermon, writing, re-writing, feeling stupid while reading aloud but in the process discovering the utter necessity of that discipline, timing it just at the limit. I don't know what went wrong there, because I was a good 10 minutes over. But no one stopped me; I don't think anyone could have.

One of the girls in that class began the semester wearing a headscarf as part of her daily dress. She chose as her text 1 Corinthians 11. The day of her sermon, she arrived without it.

I didn't preach again until 2004, at the West Islip Church of Christ, where Lance Pape and Katie Hays were then the ministers. They were away; Brent and I stayed at their house that Saturday night. I think I remember leaving flowers on their table as a thank you. What else can you do to thank people who've given you, not just a place to stay the night, but that place to go you'd always needed?

I was nervous. Terribly, terribly nervous. It had, after all, been years since my "religious speaking for women" class. And this was the real thing. I would have to walk up to an honest to God pulpit.

And the preparation for this, my inaugural sermon, was done in the aftermath of what I can only describe as a homiletical ambush. Just the week before, visiting the home church of a dear, dear friend, I listened to a sermon which went beyond simply the assertion of Church of Christ orthodoxy on the role of women into slanderous territory, naming names: Lance Pape and Dale Pauls and gal328.org, impugning motives: selfish, willful misrepresentation of the Word, to a chorus of amens and laughter at the mocking punchlines. It was like taking a soccer ball in the stomach, that awful sick prolonged moment when you can't draw a breath, when I realized it was all for my benefit. I'd been asked by the preacher if I was going to be there; at the time, googling my name brought as the top result gal328.org/forum. I sat and listened to that sermon, the whole damn thing, with my friends beside me, apparently insensible to my trembling, my near-hyperventilation. It was impossible to discipline my body's outrage even while I disciplined my mind to listen, consider, analyze, evaluate. After, I went and cried in the bathroom. After that, I went and ate sandwiches at the sandwich supper. I cried again till 2:00 am in my friends' living room, never able to say in how many different ways I felt betrayed by both the words and the silence. I cried again on the airplane home, writing and rewriting a letter which I never sent, and remains on my hard drive even now. For years I would cry in the shower, that sacred place where no one can bother you or see you, remembering it, thinking about it. Last year, I cried while blogging about it.

(Perhaps St. Francis of Assisi was onto something when he, perhaps apocryphally, said, "preach the gospel. use words if necessary." In our churches, a woman might preach effectively just by placing her female body behind the pulpit, and saying nothing at all. Just stand there. Let them see you there. Let them wonder, what's this about. Let them ask, why don't we see this more often. Shall we stage a protest, a silent pulpit stand-in?)

A week after that first sermon I received a card from Katie, telling me she'd heard the sermon tape (which, I have to say, I still have not, despite David Fritz's prompt supply of one for each sermon I have preached there) and that I'd done good. I still have that card. Of course.

Still later, I preached my first sermon at CCfB. I discovered how different it is to preach to people you know well. Not that there isn't honor in the hometown--just that the communication is weighted with so much more personal knowledge and intimacy and nuance. My weakness as a preacher is also my strength as a theologian: my sermons tend to be all about ideas. But preaching to CCfB has taught me that playing with ideas is not enough in a sermon.

A sermon has to communicate the basic truth that God loves. You. Me. Messed-up people, and with-it people. Know-it-alls and dumb-asses. Straight, gay. Needy, secure. Party people, lonely people. Moms, dads, babies, people orphaned or disowned from their own families.

Men who do what's expected of them. And women who don't.

God loves. God loves us all.

protecting the innocent

"It kinda makes you feel like Jesus only died for the boys."

--anonymous, 10 years old

JTB: from Hetty (an old, and second-hand, story)

"There is a story about Hetty, one of Charles Darwin's daughters, when she was an eight-year-old girl troubled by the death of a slightly older sister. According to family records, Hetty was worried with thoughts of the afterlife and especially concerned about her sister going to Heaven. One day Hetty asked her mother, 'But Mamma, where do the women go to, for all the angels are men?' According to Emma Darwin's diary, she then burst into tears."

links

Before rudetruth hosted these narratives of the experience of gender in our churches, gal328. org did. Don't miss these voices of experience.

Ann Evankovich
Katie Hays
Mary Lou Hutson
D'Esta Love
Lance Pape
Floyd E. Rose

by Casey

Though it was never really an option for me growing up in a conservative church of Christ in Texas, I always knew I was not cut out for the ministry. I am too introverted to be expected to speak every week, far too fond of controversy, and I have to hire people to be my internal censor, as I really have none. So this was nothing I ever wanted to do. I never remember any of the girls in my youth group feeling anything but pity for the boys when they had to participate in services. There was just a slight pang of jealousy when they got to sing together, but then we just mocked them and changed the name of their singing group to ‘All the Kings Dorks.’ And when I went away to college, going to a public university rather than to ACU where many of my friends were, I felt that I was free to do whatever I wanted. I continued going to the church of Christ because that’s what you do, and there was one within 5 minutes of my dorm, and the friends I made at church are for the most part the people from college who I remain friends with today. But as I have gotten older (and gone to therapy), I have begun to realize what it is the church does to us by making it known that our sole purpose is to sit quietly.

When I left for school, even though I chose a non-religious college, I still pictured myself in the life I had been told was for me. I would go to school, and be successful because I’m smart, but I would also meet someone and marry right after graduation (or maybe even before). I would teach high school English, and sing as part of the makeshift chorus at weddings and funerals. I would run VBS, and maybe some sort of ministry for the homeless, if I had time, what with my kids and husband and job. I say all of this in sort of a mocking tone, not to mock people who live this life happily, but in mockery of myself, because this was never me. I swear like a trucker, cry without exception at all weddings and funerals, I am not good with any more than one child at a time (and then only for about an hour), and I am possibly the most undomestic person you have ever met, my only talent really being arts & crafts. But it has taken me many years to discover this. Up until this point, I have felt at many moments like a failure for not having achieved this ideal. And I know I am not alone here.

I see this in women I know who remain single into their 30s, despite their best efforts to find and keep a nice Christian man. I see this in my friends who married early and then discovered that this is not what they wanted out of life at all, but having made the commitment and stoically staying put, hoping to make it work or that the next 60 years will go by quickly. In my friends who decided not to stick it out, and who are demonized by the church for their decision to end an unhappy, at times abusive, marriage. In my friends who are blamed by the church for their husbands’ acts of infidelity, and are told that it is their wifely duty to make him want to stay. Or in people like myself, who struggle for so long to be the ideal, hoping that someone will come along who is okay with the fact that we are not. Someone who can forgive us for having slipped up, or being too quick to speak, or to act, or too selfish to see that our careers are not more important than the potential of a family that we do not really want to have.

The greatest blessing of my life was the day I set foot on the campus of the University of Texas. It was for me the opportunity to be seen for who I am, and to be appreciated for my voice. To meet people who would teach me so much and change me in profound ways, leading me to do more than I ever thought possible. Instead of meeting a husband there, I met a best friend with whom I have walked through the last decade or so. He had a journey very similar to mine up to that point, and has had his own journey since. Like all of us, having to learn that God does not make imperfect things and loves us wholly for who we wholly are.

JTB: for Kile

The day before I left Wuhan, my friend, whose tears in my living room preceding her baptism have marked a turning point in my spiritual journey, came to my apartment for a farewell lunch. In the months following her baptism, her bible studies had been conducted by her baptizer: she didn't have time to meet with me, or even come to the women's bible study. I knew she was smart and strong and incredibly faithful, but still, as I prepared to leave China, I worried about her. I wanted to tell her just how much I no longer believed in so many of the things we Americans were telling her was God's truth, but I was dreadfully afraid that that itself might be more damaging than liberating.

We ate our lunch.

And suddenly, from across my tiny little table, she looked up at me and said, out of the blue, "Brother _____ sometimes just talks a lot of nonsense, doesn't he?"

I nearly choked. And then I laughed. I couldn't help it.

And then I praised God for this beautiful reversal of my all-too-human assumptions and expectations, and for the divine symmetry of our friendship. As she had once said to me, "God has answered my prayers in your words," this was true again.

It wasn't that she agreed with me. It was that in that moment I knew that she was okay, more okay than I was, even. She was not a baby who needed looking after. She was a woman, a woman made in the image of God and more mature in the image of Christ than I myself was. She was, in that moment, my angel, my divine messenger, sitting across the table, teaching me. Teaching me that our distortions of the gospel were just a lot of nonsense. Teaching me that such nonsense has no power, unless we grant it such. Teaching me that I too could mature into the image of Christ as she had, resilient, patient, forbearing and fearless.

She is okay now, I know. And so am I.

by Kile

At this point in my life and after having struggled so much I've gotten to the point I honestly don't care enough about the C of C to fight anymore. I've checked out.

And the strange thing was it happened so fast. Just two years ago we (my wife, son, and I) were part of a vibrant active progressive congregation. We moved away due to a new job. We looked for another congregation and found that, in the area we moved to our choices were extremely limited. We chose the best of the bad and settled in. I knew the congregation was going to be much more conservative than our last and an order of magnitude more conservative than me. But I thought I was ready. We had feasted on spiritual food so richly at our previous congregation that I thought I could survive some lean times. In fact the Elders came over one evening very early on in our tenure here and we talked for a long time. I told them that I was very likely going to disagree with a lot of things and was never afraid to share my opinions. They didn't seem to have a problem with that. But now, after being a member of a congregation who has no interest in being the hands and feet of Christ but rather are just interested in behind his wagging disapproving finger, I'm done.

I didn't want to be angry or frustrated on Sunday's anymore so I just stopped caring. I would walk away from the C of C but my wife isn't ready and I'm not going to be the husband that sends the wife and kids to church while he sleeps in on Sunday. Perhaps I should, for all the good attending is doing me or anyone else. I've lost the will to care about my congregation and my brotherhood and I am ever so slowly losing the will to care about the Kingdom at all. I pray with and over my son with fervor and that's about it anymore. I don't deny Him (or Her as J so eloquently put it). I still love Him. But I don't think I've got anything for Him, at least not now. That probably doesn't make Him very happy. But damn it, I'm not even sure if I care about that all that much either.

In the back of my mind. In the recesses of my soul. I want to care. I want to feel my spirit stir. I want to engage my intellect. I want to serve. But I don't. I don't do any of those things.

I am unwhole. I am broken. I feel these things. I know these things. They torment me some nights as I try to sleep. But apathy is a damn powerful thing.

[JTB editor's note: you can find Kile's original comment here, as a response to J's post. I asked for permission to re-post his words as a stand-alone blog post, and I am grateful that he consented.]

by JW

I think I may be one of the blessed ones. It wasn’t until I was a young adult that I really began to understand that my gender made a difference in my ability to share in the ministry of the church. I was fortunate to be raised by parents that worked to intentionally nurture my ministry skills and to model a life of service and leadership—both by my mother and my father. Even when I was a young child, my mother was writing articles for Christian magazines and going out of town to speak at churches and retreats. I didn’t know at the time that she was blazing a trail for women in Churches of Christ. Nor did I realize that her primary audiences were women—her gender prevented her from speaking to mixed audiences most of the time. All I knew is that my mother was using her God-given gifts in ministry in various ways. And it didn’t seem strange to me at all.

When I was a teenager, my mother began working on her master’s degree and, eventually, her doctorate in ministry. She did this on top of her full-time job, balancing these responsibilities with her marriage, children, and ministry at home. Again, I didn’t find this particularly remarkable at the time—it was just our life. But I do remember beginning to understand that my mother was unique. There were not many other women in her classes and sometimes the men didn’t know how to respond to her. I won’t try to tell any of these stories here because they are hers to tell, not mine. Plus, I don’t know if I really know any of them. I just remember beginning to develop a sense of otherness around this time. I knew that the way I understood myself as a female was not maybe how other people understood me.

My feelings of frustration about my gender didn’t begin until I was in late-high school. In those days, the youth group kids would sit near the back of the auditorium on the far lefthand side. Many Sunday mornings, a slightly frantic, sweaty deacon would come rushing over and would ask one or two of the guys to help serve communion. At first, it didn’t really bother me that I was never asked, nor were other great girls from the youth group. But one Sunday I looked up and saw that I was being served on each side by two guys who had JUST been talking about the party they had attended over the weekend. While they had both baptized in the previous months, neither one was resisting the temptation to party with their friends. Not that I was sinless or expected that the people serving communion would be any more righteous than any of the rest of us. But I felt the first painful pangs of frustration that my ability to serve at church was not evaluated based on spiritual maturity, desire, or willingness. Even though I had been a baptized Christian for seven years, I was not considered able to walk down the aisles with a tray because I lacked the important “spiritual gift” of the phallus.

Despite that frustration, I continued to serve in leadership roles in my youth group and was asked to deliver a public response to the church on Senior Sunday—one of two times I have ever spoken publicly during worship.

When I entered my freshman year of college, I still didn’t have much of an idea about the restrictions women faced in Churches of Christ. I had been sheltered and empowered by my family and, in many ways, by my home congregation. I quickly became involved with like-minded friends and we organized a devotional for freshmen—attended by probably 50 students. During one of the first devotionals, I volunteered to “give the talk.” You know, to use Scripture and my personal experience to edify and challenge the assembled group. After we sang a few songs, my (male) friend who was leading worship introduced me. And he said that I would be “giving my testimony.” Which was true, in a way. But what I was doing was no different than what my male cohorts had done in previous devotionals, only their talks weren’t specified as “testimonies.” He had chosen that word to describe my talk so as not to offend anyone. I remember feeling conflicted and a little hurt by that distinction, though I wasn’t wholly surprised by it. I didn’t want my gender to be the focus of my talk, I wanted the Lord to be the focus.

At the end of my talk that evening, I prayed for all of us. I don’t remember anything specific or remarkable about the prayer at all. And I didn’t think twice about doing it—after all, I had been able to pray, read scripture, and lead discussions in my youth group just months before. But after the devotional, a male friend of mine came up to me and told me that he had covered his ears while I had prayed because he didn’t want to participate in a sin: being led in prayer by a woman. I was absolutely floored. And hurt. And angered. This was the first time (and, thank the Lord, I think the only time) I have ever been so directly attacked for my spiritual leadership.

I attended college in my hometown, and my home congregation was undergoing an extensive study of women’s roles in public leadership. I was invited to be part of a discussion group one afternoon, to share my views with other members of the church as well as the elders. I shared my previous experience about feeling frustration when the boys in the youth group were invited to serve communion and the girls were excluded…and a man in the discussion group responded with the following sentiment: “It’s probably a good thing that young women don’t serve communion. What if a woman wore something sexy that made the men in the congregation lust after her. That would be detrimental to the spiritual state of the men during communion. Therefore, women shouldn’t serve communion.” Again, I was floored. I couldn’t believe his willingness to disenfranchise women based on some men’s inability to control their sexual desires (not to mention the total lack of trust that women are able to dress modestly and appropriately!).

When my husband and I started dating, he was working on his Master’s of Divinity and was ministering at a tiny rural church outside of town. I joined him in that work, and, though the church was conservative, I witnessed beautiful female servant leadership by Audrey and Mildred, the octogenarian matriarchs of the church. Each week, they would arrive at the building early to prepare for worship. One had a good right arm, the other had a good left arm. So they would stand, bad shoulder to bad shoulder each week, preparing the communion trays—Audrey on the right, using her good right hand, Mildred on the left, using her good left hand. And even then, in my early twenties, I didn’t miss the significance of this image: two women devoted to the service of the church working side by side, taking up the other one’s slack to the glory of the Lord. My husband and I learned a lot at this tiny church—our first ministry together. But the witness of Audrey and Mildred is the primary image that remains for us.

And I think of so many other women, both in progressive and conservative churches, who have blazed trails or have quietly made strides in their service of the Lord—their curious exploration of the Word. And I am grateful. Because I know that my way, though frustrating, is easier because of their work, their pain, their humiliation.

I am blessed to have a husband with whom I have an equal partnership in our marriage and in our ministry. He actively supports all of my gifts—both spiritual and otherwise. I think this may be the heart of the blessing I feel from the Lord when it relates to women in public leadership: I do not feel the desire to have full-time or public ministry in the church. At least not right now. I am a theater artist and I feel fully empowered to explore and utilize those gifts in my career. Most of the frustrations I have felt with my congregation in the last three years have had nothing to do with my gender. I have been blessed to be part of a young professionals group that has accepted me (and other women) as full teachers and leaders. I am still baffled by the silly little semantic acrobatics we go through to be sure not to offend more conservative members (women in my church are allowed to read scripture during the worship service, but they do it from a seated position; to “justify” this, men who read scripture also do it from their seat). But the last three years have been encouraging to me because, in that time, I haven’t really had any arguments about whether or not women are able or gifted to lead in the church—the conversations have been focused on how quickly the church can adapt to female leadership and what the appropriate next steps are…

And this is where I find hope, as a strong, gifted woman in Churches of Christ. I think churches will either change their views on this central issue, or they’ll further isolate themselves from the rest of the world, will lose their young, dynamic members, and will eventually either shrivel up and die or implode on themselves. I feel churches of all stripes reorienting their focus to be more concerned with justice and peace. A few Churches of Christ are joining this movement. And this gives me hope and excitement. I can see that the road will be long as women have to continue to fight for a voice and an equal share in the gospel mission. But I am encouraged that there is hope within Churches of Christ. I am committed to sticking around and doing what I can to help in the journey, knowing that if—after years of struggle and attempts at reconciliation within the C of C—my husband and I can’t make it work, we will move on to another group that recognizes my voice as equally as important as his.

Until then, I join with so many other witnesses—male and female, silent and outspoken—in testifying to the goodness of our God, even (or perhaps especially) in the face of frustration, suffering, and doubt. To Him be the glory forever and ever.

part 3: girl meets boy

And then I became a theologian.

It happened like this:

I got a letter, a sweet, respectful, and very brief letter, from a boy I actually really didn't know that well, who was, apparently, a bit impressed with my theological ambitions. That boy's name was, of course, James Brent Bates. I wrote him back, included my email address, and pretty soon, we were emailing regularly. Like, every day. Or almost--the days I didn't get an email, I stalked about begrudging the rest of the world its sunshine and happiness.

Our first emails, I kid you not, were about the role of women in our churches.

It was love at first...well, email, I guess.

And Brent mailed me a care package that included a recording of Carroll Osburn's lecture on the role of women, the one that begins with the facetious "shut up and sit down!" quip. I invited the other American women I thought would be interested to listen to it with me, and we sat in my living room to hear it. Not everyone came. But those who did needed it. Like me, they were thirsty for some word of affirmation and hope, some indication that they hadn't somehow missed the mark by choosing to come to China to do mission work. Like me...They were like me. And not only were they like me, but so was Brent, and this mysterious Dr. Osburn, whose book on women in the church Brent was then helping to research as his graduate assistant. I wasn't alone. I wasn't crazy. (Well, I was crazy, but that's a different story.)

And I could say anything to this guy, this out-of-the-blue sympathetic and smart guy who, for some reason, replied to every lengthy email with equally lengthy replies, taking everything I said totally seriously.

And when I visited him in Abilene (also a different and crazy story), he invited me to sit in on all his MDiv courses, so I could decide whether I wanted to study theology or Bible or what, or perhaps just go on in English lit, or linguistics, or ESL, or something. And I went to his Hebrew class, where they were translating and studying the text of Ecclesiastes, and the professor, Dr. Andre Resner, not only welcomed me but actually asked me what I thought about something. And I sat in on a philosophy of religion class, which Brent wasn't even taking, just because he thought I'd be interested; and again, the professor, Dr. Frederick Aquino, not only welcomed me but included me in the discussion. And I sat in on Brent's worship course, taught by Dr. Jack Reese, where I took notes on the most fascinating things about Eucharist and a man named Justin Martyr.

And I knew, because I felt the same thrill I'd felt when studying the gospel of John with my dad as a high school kid, that this was the stuff I wanted to spend my time thinking about.

So, of course, I married the boy. (Also a different, and crazy, story.)

And he does the dishes if I cook dinner, and he has always ironed his own shirts (nowadays, they're clergy shirts with funny little collars). And he has always, always told me that this is what I should be doing: this thing, which takes my whole brain and my whole heart and consumes my waking lucid moments with its glittering, fascinating, elusive interconnectedness. This faith seeking understanding thing, this theology Thing.

So I joined him at ACU, and we took classes together: theology, philosophy of religion, church history. Sometimes my grades were better. Sometimes this really bugged him. By the end of my degree, it really bugged me that my gender--which didn't keep me from planning grad chapel services but did at that time still keep me from leading them--generated so much attention that Brent's scholarship and contributions somehow seemed eclipsed by all the light and heat. I refused to go on to doctoral study unless he did too; it seemed intolerable to me to concretize that unwanted dynamic in a piece of paper I might someday possess that he wouldn't. He made that Faustian bargain, not simply because he had some desire to go on academically himself, but because he was utterly confident that this was what I should be doing.

So, too, was my mom, who'd always said I'd end up a college professor. She also prognosticated I'd marry a man 10 years older than myself. That turned out not to be true, but even my mom can't be right all the time. So, too, was my dad, who, as a second-career preacher already in full-time ministry, was completing his own MDiv, and used to talk to me on the phone about his coursework occasionally. I send them drafts of my dissertation chapters now, which I don't think they read (who can blame them?), but they tell me they're proud of me. Maybe, crazy hippies that they were, they'd always wanted to raise a little heretic.

I landed at Princeton Theological Seminary, having been warned a few weeks before we packed the U-Haul that I should watch out, because "there's bad people up there." (Sorry, PTS readers.) Not sure what that meant, exactly, but if I was bound to go, I was charged with teaching everyone up there the Truth.

Would I have done it anyway? It's not a question I can answer. I was already pondering studying theology before China, before Brent. But would I have done it? Would I have actually applied somewhere, knowing that not only was there no place to go, but that even my imagined refuge in mission work was proving horribly false? Or would I have found something safe, something secular, something to keep me busy while I waited for Life to deliver whatever came next? Would I have done the unthinkable, and become the high school English teacher I had known for years I no wanted to be?

I thank God I don't need to know. I thank God that, out of the blue, this man saw what most wouldn't: that the defiance, the desire to shock, the need to get out, the desperate loneliness, was an expression of a self in need of a place to go, a place to be. I thank God that, out of the blue, this man didn't just offer me a place to go be myself in the small private space of our teeny-tiny home and in our marriage, as if that tiny isle of refuge (or comfortable exile?) would be sufficient. He has always understood--even before I did--that the church should be everyone's "place to go."

The Bible describes Jesus as homeless: the Son of Man had no place to lay his head. So, too, were the Israelites, the people of God, homeless for a good chunk of their history. Perhaps living with no place to go is simply the reality of vocation. But Jesus also promised us a place to go: his father's house is a mansion with many rooms; he goes before us to prepare us a place there. Some of those rooms, the old joke goes, you have to tiptoe past, because the CofC folks inside think they're the only ones up there. The rest of those many rooms, I'm sure, are plenty big to house the rest of us; but I think I'd like to knock on that CofC door awhile, and see if anyone answers, even if it's a woman's voice they hear, asking to come in, if there's a place for her there.

TKP: Not Being Able to Come Home, Part 3

For those of you who keep reading, thank you. I realize I'm not being as concise as other writers, which I wish I could say I blame on JTB, but I am truly grateful that she welcomed our stories.
***
We arrived in Abilene after our van's air conditioner broke down halfway. Fortunately, my dad had the foresight to travel at night when it was considerably cooler. My mom cried as she hugged me goodbye, but I was too busy being mesmerized by the new college atmosphere to really acknowledge her pain and loss (I was the last to leave home and the am the youngest of six children.)

My first week at ACU included a freshman ritual called "Welcome Week," which eerily reminded me of summer camp at York College, except we didn't go home afterwards. There were similar "light a candle in a room and make teenagers cry" kinds of attempts to immediately evoke intimate stories. And then the culture shock started to sink in. Over and over again I kept hearing speaker's anecdotal jokes about the "M-r-s. Degree," opportunities for older guys to get naive freshmen girls' numbers and the staggering amount of spring weddings in the Bible chapel. Having just returned from a summer of mission work I was quite taken aback by this rhetoric. And in this context I was walking up the stairs of the Bible department and ran into a Bible professor (whose friendship I respect, treasure and continue to this day) who I'd met at an incoming Bible majors' function. He smiled at me and said,

"So, are you engaged yet?"

My eyes grew very wide and I decided I would take out my frustrations about the past few days on this unsuspecting person:

"I did NOT come here to get an M-R-S degree! I came to get an education and prepare to be a minister and I would like to be treated as such!"

Oblivious to his poor timing, the man immediately changed posture and profusely apologized to me, reassuring me that of course I had come to get my education and that he was merely repeating a bad joke he told his son. More than a year later I came to talk to him in his office and he remarked at how glad he was that we became friends after that first awkward encounter. I had no idea what he was talking about until he reminded me. I laughed, because he is a strong supporter of gender inclusion within Churches of Christ. But of course I did not know that then.

As the school year began, I started my Bible major courses with vigor. After attending a couple local Churches of Christ I settled on a smaller congregation with a consider amount of theology professors and Graduate School of Theology student members. Those grad students were hilarious, mysterious, often socially awkward, but nevertheless fascinating. I couldn't get enough of them. I sat down with a male classmate and friend one evening outside of the Bible department and we talked for hours about our dreams of grad school at ACU, our MDiv and Ph.D plans that included ministry, writing, publishing and homiletics. Nothing could stop us from achieving our dreams. Except maybe politics.

The spring semester I made very official arrangements to speak with the recruiter, Dean, and several prominent faculty members of the GST (all male), to show them just how serious I was about being an MDiv student in four years. They were kind, sometimes encouraging, and honest with me. One told me that Pepperdine would offer more opportunities for me as a woman in ministry. Another told me about his daughter who struggled with her role as an MDiv graduate with no job offers. Others told me that Churches of Christ were opening up and exploring women's roles in worship and that I should go for it. Yet another told me to talk to him in four years. It was a mixed bag but I didn't really care. I was going to do it! I changed my major to Christian Ministry, which was the most versatile mix of theology and ministry courses. I went back to Tomobe, Japan the next summer, leading a team and served as a conflict resolution mediator and curriculum developer that summer.

During the next year or so I developed a passion for social justice issues in the context of Biblical theology. I was not a stellar Greek student, but I adored my female professors. I beamed with pride when I heard that a male student was giving a severe speech about women staying in their places and was thoroughly admonished using comprehensive textual criticism by a male professor. I felt like I had the support of everyone: my church, friends, mentors and school.

In the spring of my Junior year something wonderful happened. All of the Junior Bible majors were required to do a summer internship in ministry or missions. I interviewed for a chaplain and church internship position. The latter was with the Stamford Church of Christ in Connecticut, a multi-ethnic, gender-inclusive church of Christ with a heart for social justice. Debbie, the church's involvement minister, told me that she was specifically looking at hiring of a female intern. By the grace of God and generosity of Debbie, I was offered the position the next day. The church members (including some very young adorable girls) started sending me encouragement cards later that spring. I couldn't wait to get to Stamford.

That summer was glorious. I was by no means a perfect intern. I had a lot to learn and messed up quite a bit. I was shown much grace by the ministers and friends I made along the way. I started learning about the nitty gritty, heartbreaking, exhausting work of a full-time minister. I spent a weekend with a congregation in New York that had two preaching ministers-male and female. I became a contributor for Gal328.org and participated in wonderful discussions there. I taught - not only VBS arts and crafts (because I wanted to), but the youth group and adult Bible studies. I led singing in front of men and women for the first time. I was nervous and they were all so wonderful and kind.

At the end of Youth Sunday, an annual tradition where the youth group takes responsibility of the Sunday worship service, I gave my first and only sermon from the pulpit. My mother came that weekend and read a passage from Luke before I spoke. It meant so much to me to have her there - the quiet, servant-hearted woman who led the man who would become my father to Christ over 30 years before. That Sunday was deeply personal for me on so many levels; I spoke from my heart about social justice and received a warm response from the congregation. I owe this church a lot for making me into the woman I am today.

As I stood in line at the airport waiting to say goodbye in New York I was handed a small envelope by the pulpit minister, Dale. He made me promise not to read it until I went past security. After I hugged him and Debbie I walked through security and, of course, ripped open the letter from him. It read,

Dear, dear Teresa. You have what it takes.

I couldn't stop the tears and I wanted to run back through security and tell them in incomprehensible babbling that I could believe those words because of what they taught me that summer. So, to the dear and wonderful people at the Stamford Church of Christ: thank you for letting me use my gifts and my voice. I will never forget it.

by J

When all else fails, proof text. Right? That’s the CoC way; when logic, morals, and consistency let us down, we can always pull out a verse or two that protect the status quo.

And it’s natural after all. It’s a conservative church. Not just in recent politics, but in the simplest sense. The CoC is a church that tries to conserve a tradition, so its reflexes are always to protect whatever’s always been done.

So I learned to proof text the hell out of everyone. Proof texting was like porn. I was just gazing at a bunch of dismembered parts, treating them like object(ive)s, getting the rush I craved, then feeling a little dirty afterwards.

I felt dirtier when I learned some Greek. I learned past the point where I knew just enough to be dangerous and actually had some budding hermeneutic chops. My writing was clumsy, and I still was mostly reading through a centuries-old haze of conservation, but there were signs that I was starting to reassemble the parts, glimpse a wholly different text than the hol(e)y one I had been working with.

I felt even dirtier when I wondered about the tutor for Greek. I never used the tutoring section because I really enjoyed Greek, so it wasn’t hard work. But I noticed that the tutor was a woman, my age, who had been in the program a little longer. And she was trusted with teaching the rudiments of Greek to a bunch of would-be youth ministers who saw the course as an impediment and who, as soon as they had gotten their Cs, would revert to their proper authoritative place over her. She was good enough to teach us all Greek, but it was time to shut up on Sunday morning.

I wish it had been that simple. But proof texting is a hard habit to break, and, besides, I barely knew the tutor. She dated and eventually married a friend of mine, but I never had to actually confront the paradox of her position.

No, the CoC pews became too hellish for me a few years later, sitting beside my wife, who is smarter and more creative than me in ways that are too numerous to count. It was sitting beside her and hearing her silence that I finally realized what I was doing to her. Trying all week to live up to our equal partnership (it’s a thing with us), then trudging to a church that had us behave otherwise. And for what? Ultimately just to have our souls nibbled away. A few pieces here, struggling to figure out what to do with the church of our youth. A few pieces there, hearing our parents tell us we were hell bound. A few more pieces there, hearing those same sentiments over and again, being called a disappointment, having our son marked as religious territory to be exploited.

The definition of Christian is hotly contested in the CoC, and it isn’t just one’s gender that gets in the way. It’s political affiliation. Language. Music preferences. Sexual preferences. It’s everything, all the way down. There’s a checklist of what counts as Christian, and I and my family are decidedly not measuring up.

Go outside the CoC, and checklists still apply. The otherwise profound and kind Episcopal rector tells me my son needs to be baptized instead of asking us what our choice (not to mention his!) is. The generous Catholic friends want to make sure we don’t raise our son to be the wrong kind of black. And many churches - even many progressive churches - send missionaries to the other side of the world to convert people to Christianity without once asking what these cultures have to teach us about spirituality.

All these lines are tiresome. I see Christianity defining itself narrowly in US politics, showing its ass to the whole world without the slightest bit of self-awareness, and I think that I should be hot and bothered. I should be out there reclaiming the word Christian for something better, something more inviting, something that, for Christ’s sake, includes women!

But I don’t feel it. I’ve decided somewhere along the way that God’s a big girl who can look out for herself. I’ve realized that I’m dealing with a church that will psychologically abuse my wife and my son if they go back, and I’ve started to lose interest in being a party to that sort of fate for them. I’m not even 30 yet, and already I feel too tired for the kind of fight required when one squares one’s shoulders to the CoC.

The problem is…I’m a young educated white guy. Just the sort of person who’s allowed to talk in CoCs. Just the sort of person to whom much (undesirable privilege) has been given and, therefore, of whom much (what? What’s my obligation?) will be asked. So maybe I should be in the CoC mix, fighting the good fight.

But…

I’m not a victim of the CoC’s bias. I’m its instrument of oppression. I’m the one who’s handed undeserved power because of the random specifics of my inception. The best I can see to do is throw it down and walk away.

Think we’ll turn into a pillar of salt?

Not likely.

TKP: Not Being Able to Come Home, Part 2

After my first taste of advocacy as a young teenager with a cassette tape recording, I remember several key issues with gender and my church experiences. In high school I started attending two additional church of Christ summer camps, desperate to form a spiritual connection with people my age. I always loved singing at camp; it wasn't at all like the singing at our house church. There were so many talented singers, and if you didn't know the right tune or words, you learned quickly. I wrote my first songs at Bible camp; one I sang with a friend at a talent show and another that I got to teach our singing class (after I taught it to a boy and he sang it to the class, of course.) It was exhilarating. I believed that this wonderful, amazing tradition of Christian songwriters was more relevant to me. I appreciated the poetry and lyrics of the songs I sang and started to think critically about the conflict between the words I sang and the words I spoke or thought in my mind.

That summer at camp one of my favorite staff members was a young college-aged woman whose name I do not remember. She was the epitome of cool with her icthus symbol tattoo on her ankle, her cute ripped light washed jeans and her vivacious personality. She was assigned the role of "recreation director" or something to that effect. It was basically a glorified PE/Arts & Crafts position for someone who didn't want to be a cook or counselor. She expressed her frustration at not being able to teach any classes; not just Bible classes, but any sort of class, because she was a woman. I didn't think too much about it then, but looking back I see the beginning of my questions.

The other gender-related camp issue was the Big Controversial Issue of whether or not a woman could lead a four-part song that began with a soprano or alto melody. You know, one of those "pretty songs" church of Christ schools like to sing over and over. I loved singing them, because we didn't have enough singers who knew four-part harmony at my house church. One night at campfire one girl started to lead a song that was not one of these songs. She just started singing a regular song that didn't require a female lead. I didn't find out what happened to that girl, but I'm sure that a few people took her aside to explain the usurping error of her ways. I was too busy singing the pretty songs to pay much attention.

When I was 16, I began a wonderful relationship with several international exchange students at my small high school. We had never had so many exchange students in one year and I thought it was wonderful. We formed a close-knit group of the six exchange students and three Americans. We spent Wednesday nights at a Congregational youth group. I had a couple individual Let's Start Talking classes using a simplified version of Luke to teach English. That fall I applied to do missions work in Nairobi, which sounded exotic, exciting and far away from Iowa. I could ride some giant zebras, tame lions and maybe help a few orphans along the way. I was ready for my life as a missionary (or so I thought.) I was informed a few months later that since I would only be 17 by the following summer I would not be allowed to travel across country. I was offered a domestic missions trip with the same missions group.

Instead I got on the Internet and searched for church of Christ missionaries who might want a summer intern. I e-mailed one in Europe and was referred to a couple in Tomobe, Ibaraki, Japan. They were long-time missionaries and alumni of Pepperdine University and they said, "Yes!" I spent that spring writing fundraising letters, making travel arrangements and studying Japanese with the one Japanese exchange student at my high school.

My eight weeks in Japan were amazing. I was a real life missionary and I loved it. I returned to the States for a week and then rode with my parents 1,000 miles to Abilene Christian University, where I promptly changed my major from English to Missions. For the first time in my life I was about to experience an American church of Christ as my home church and a church of Christ school with very interesting views on women in worship.

by JDB

My mother and father had me baptized in the Lutheran Church when I was a baby. I was confirmed as a child and took my first communion at the octagon rail with the other children, eating the bread we had made in Sunday School class and drinking the juice from the small glass cups. I can still remember what it felt like to walk and kneel, waiting my turn, then taking the bread while Pastor W. put his heavy hand on my head. “This is the body of Christ broken for you, Jennifer.”

My family stopped going to church a little while after that. My mom was exploring other ideas about God and the universe. I was invited to my friend’s Nazarene church in fourth grade and found a community that wasn’t as reverent as my earlier years in the Lutheran Church, but very emotional and desperate in its need for Jesus. I went down to the altar and accepted Jesus there. My friend’s family supported and encouraged me in all my search and made sure that I wore a skirt or dress to church. My mother even came to church with us once, but her Methodist upbringing and lifetime of searching was not compatible with the emotional pleas from the pulpit.

I went onto the Presbyterian Church with a boyfriend in junior high. I remember being in a “new Christians” class with 2nd graders. I remember friends who were partiers on the weekends and devout Christians on Sunday. I also remember the first time I prayed out loud. It was in a prayer chain in a group of young girls. My heart beat so fast and I thought I might fall out, but the ability to pray and proclaim to my God in front of other people was humbling and exhilarating at the same moment.

I moved onto the United Methodist Church with a new boyfriend during high school. My experience was vast and full there. When the youth ran the service one Sunday, my friend Tara and I read the scripture and prayed from the pulpit. I was one of the teens who ushered and passed communion trays. We had a woman co-youth minister.

I met Jeff in 1996 and started exploring the Church of Christ. We were dating long distance. He was at Harding University (which I had never heard of) and I was at the University of Tennessee. I wanted to see what his “denomination” was all about. I went, on my own, to a local “progressive” Church of Christ, eager to figure out where I could be involved. As I sat in the pew I couldn’t find my place. I would gladly pass plates. I would gladly pray or read. I would gladly serve in a way where I could be involved in the worship service, but I couldn’t see a place for me, especially as a single woman. It bothered me, but not enough to leave. I thought maybe I was missing something and I wanted to know my new boyfriend’s perspective on Christ and his indwelling.

Jeff and I got married and we moved to Tupelo, Mississippi. We attended the “progressive” church that was really an old church that had been taken over by some of the mainline churches’ splits. It was a bit of a mess, but it was immediately our second family. We were on our own with our parents at least 6 -8 hours away. We became the de facto youth ministers in this very small congregation. One day Jeff asked for someone to lead prayer in the youth room. After none of the boys were willing, one very spunky young woman volunteered and then looked around nervously. Jeff and I enthusiastically encouraged her. After a few moments of silence she deferred until “maybe next week.” She also rebuked the boys for not taking part in this wonderful opportunity, one that she wasn’t sure she should participate in. Jeff asked the youth to come to us or to their parents if they had a problem with a girl praying in class and let us know. The next week she wouldn’t pray, and no one else would either. So I did.

The emotions still blind me. I cannot convey adequately the heartbreak, confusion and sorrow that both Jeff and I experienced in Tupelo. I cried a lot. I didn’t take communion one Sunday because I could not be in communion with this body. Jeff was required to attend the Men’s Business Meeting in which he had to defend me and my willingness to pray in front of these youth. Jeff asked fervently for our church and our preacher to study 1 Corinthians 11, especially the verses dealing with women praying and prophesying in the temple. The preacher said he would have to study on that. A month later when Jeff asked our preacher if he had looked into the verses the preacher said he had not been able to get to it yet. No one came to me except for one woman, my friend, who cried with me but then said that these issues were not such a big deal for her now in her older age.

We left Tupelo.

In Jackson, Mississippi we found a good church. A church that truly wanted to be the hands and feet of Jesus. A church in which we found some kindred spirits. A church that was bound by its tradition in deeper ways than I could fathom. In a “young professionals” class the role of women in the church came up. Surprisingly most of the men were very comfortable with the idea of women in leadership, although some of them said it might be strange to have a woman preacher. Even more surprising was that the women who had grown up in the Church of Christ were not remotely interested in using their gifts in a position of “leadership” or what they perceived to be leadership. I couldn’t understand the wholesale denial of the joy of serving in a worship service because it was in front of people.

In Jackson I also heard our gifted, wise preacher wonder aloud why women would want to serve communion when they would get a chance to be off their feet.

Now in Montgomery, Alabama, we attend the most gender inclusive Church of Christ available in our city. Men and women read scripture together during the service. I have read scripture by myself in a service. Women pray in class, even in front of elders. Men have joined the women’s class at times. We love the pastor (he even calls himself that). We love the elders, with whom we agree on some things we wouldn’t share with many people. The rub comes when our two year old daughter mentioned to my husband, “I want to throw the plates,” while watching men pass the communion trays. We’ve talked to our pastor and some elders about this. They sighed and said, “ah, yes” and suggested that for now that Kate accompany Jeff when he passes the offering tray. That was about six months ago. We have tried to encourage her to go with her daddy, but she refuses now. I have offered my services to be the “first” woman to pass trays and have been told that my offer is appreciated. I would be willing to be the first to pray, do the communion meditation and possibly preach, although I would need some good practice for that. Maybe if my daughters see me doing these things, they too will be able to imagine they will experience the beauty of serving God and serving His body in a moment dedicated to Him.

I want to participate fully in the worship service. I am so appreciative of the steps that have already been made. We are ready to make the next steps.

God bless us all.

from Amy Wilson: "She-Preach"

By Michelle Sanchez, MDiv
Printed in Priscilla Papers, Vol 23, No 2, Spring 2009

Flames of beauty-fire erupt from her lips
Like pure Pentecost
Her sister-speech sears and refines
Until all who listen
Dazzle like gold

Her mother-mouth is a fountain of life
Beckoning blossoms to sprout in desert souls
And birthing warm, fresh children
Into the cradle-kingdom of God

With enraged enmity her seed-sayings
Crush the skulls of satanic strongholds
Warrior-princess, her daughter-declarations
Authoritatively enact the triumph-rule of her Father-King

Like Eve, she promises life and redemption —
Like Sarah, she finds and inspires faith —
Like Miriam, she leads her sisters sweetly in song —
Like Deborah, she leads her brothers boldly to battle —
Like Jael, she is a secret weapon who smashes the enemy —
Like Ruth, she righteously breaks the rules —
Like Abigail, she is an ambassador of reconciliation —
Like Hannah, she prays in the revival of nations —
Like Huldah, she poignantly prophesies the troubling truth —
Like Mary, she chants magnificent melodies of peace and justice —
Like Priscilla, she patiently teachings the mysteries of the Word —
Like Junia, she is an outstanding preacher of the gospel!

Sister-mother-daughter-aunt-wife-friend . . .
At last!
Her soprano sermons rise and resound
As she joins the symphony with the best of her brothers
And so
The Great Co-Mission
May be completed
At last!

by TKP: Not Being Able to Come Home, Part 1

I was absolutely livid. As I sat on the couch and squeezed my fiance's hand so tight it turned colors, my mind was furiously racing.

How can they just sit here and not say anything? Why are the loudest supporters of women's spiritual second-class status female? Did I spend the past seven years preparing for and practicing church leadership just so I could come home to this?

I had so many questions and comments that I wanted to contribute to the discussion of F. LaGard Smith's Male Spiritual Leadership, but I kept them to myself. After all, I was a woman in a church of Christ. It didn't matter that this was the intimate house church that lovingly raised me with my parents since I was an infant. It didn't matter that I was baptized in a literally ice covered river in March when I was 13 and then surrounded by these people with towels and blankets to keep me warm. I didn't feel warm anymore. I was heartbroken, frustrated and angry.

As my fiance and I drove back to my parents' house that Sunday evening we couldn't stop talking about what had happened. John, my fiance, pointed out that the man leading the discussion had problems pronouncing the relatively easy words in the book, while his wife (who had just taken off her head scarf since the 'official service' was over) had to frequently correct his pronunciation. We also discussed the fact that another woman often corrected her husband's off key lead singing, but only after he had started the song off himself.

We talked about my experiences growing up in a loosely defined house church of Christ in rural Iowa. My ties to the mainstream church of Christ came through reading The Christian Chronicle, going to Bible Camp, youth rallies, The Tulsa Soul Winning Workshop, and being recruited by York College on numerous occasions. I loved my church growing up; my mother was frequently my Sunday School teacher and she was a nurturing and creative hands-on teacher. Even though we had to rotate homes every Sunday (some weeks traveling as far as 70 miles) it was always worth it, because we'd enjoy a meal together afterwards. This was my second family.

I began noticing gender issues after I became a teenager. One day in Junior High, after listening to a riveting Voice of the Martyrs radio program about current church persecution (which I knew nothing about), I became convicted of the human rights atrocities happening every day. I tape recorded the next radio program and asked my father if I could play it for our church, as it was being held at our house and it was his turn to lead a lesson. He agreed and we all listened to it that Sunday. After we prayed about it together, our church decided to contribute money to sending Bibles to Christian persecuted areas. That day I became an advocate. The ministry bug had bitten me.

part 2: the place I went

With no place to go, I went as far as possible.

As a sophomore in college I had, actually quite unintentionally, been audience to a missions workshop presentation on the possibilities of teaching English in mainland China. All that was required was a college degree, a native accent, and the ability to raise the airfare. Conspicuously absent from the list of qualifications: maleness. I thought it was perfect.

Within a few weeks of my arrival, a unilateral attempt to homogenize our house church practices with regard to the conduct of women was initiated by one zealous colleague. Showing up unannounced at the home of our hostess one Sunday morning, he delivered a sermon which enumerated precisely what women could and could not do. Proof texts for word studies of the Greek laleo and ekklesia were cited; in possession of the only Greek NT in the room, I searched diligently only to find that those words did not appear in the cited texts. The consternation on my face and page-flipping in my Greek NT flustered our unannounced guest preacher, who stumbled and lost his focus just as I figured out the problem: he'd gotten the citations mixed up. Desiring to reassure him, I began to say, "It's okay, I got it"--and then realized, that would probably count as laleo in ekklesia. Oh well.

For awhile I hosted church in my living room--it seemed like a practical and concrete contribution, and moreover, entirely uncontroversial. I cleaned house every Saturday and rearranged the living room furniture to seat as many people as possible. On Sunday mornings I made the communion bread in my tiny narrow kitchen, and baked it in the toaster oven. Having suffered through some Sundays choking down manifestations of the body of Christ that were truly inedible--stale, or tough, or worse, one time somehow slimy--I was determined to make it good. It took a few weeks to get it right, but finally, a pastry-like bread made with the only margarine available, "Mother's Choice," evolved from my earnest experimentation. One Sunday, inspired, I threw a pinch of sugar into the flour mixture; the bread that morning was flaky, baked to perfection, and just faintly sweet. I thought, now this is the body of Christ. After church someone complimented the bread: it's the best communion bread I've ever eaten, he said. Thanks, I told him, see, I put a pinch of sugar in it this morning. A few minutes later, I was summoned to my living room, and sat down on my couch, and rebuked. Sugar doesn't belong in the communion bread, Jennifer. Don't do that again.

Frustrated, we women instituted a Tuesday night women's bible study, and my centrally located, easily accessible apartment was an ideal spot. Almost immediately we began to outgrow the space available--we packed ourselves like sardines on the couch, perched on the arms of chairs, even sat on the floor, which I scrupulously cleaned every week. We had, after all, come to do mission work, and we could do it on Tuesday nights among ourselves without the boys around. The singing was marvelous. The discussions even more so. The prayer time got so long that we exhausted ourselves with it. After awhile the men started their own Tuesday night study, and after it concluded, would drift over to my apartment to hang out. Sometimes they would arrive before our study was done, and we would close the door to the living room and, conscious of the male presence in the apartment, would try to hurry up and finish.

One evening, after all my students had said good night and drifted away, two girls approached me and asked if I was a Christian. Yes, I said, surprised at this directness. One of them wasn't my student; she was a friend of a student, and had come to my class specifically to engineer this moment and ask this question. She had been a Christian for two years, she said. She wanted to ask me about baptism: what was it, and why were people in the Bible always doing this mysterious thing she couldn't find a satisfactory definition for? I invited her to Tuesday night Bible study, and went home and wrote a whole new lesson plan for it, on baptism. After the study she approached me with eyes shining, and said, "God has answered my prayers in your words. Now, I think I understand, and I want to be baptized. ...But...you never said...how do I do it?" Overwhelmed, I assured her that was the easy part. (If only that had been really true.) We could do it now, I said, if she wanted to. Yes, she said, and we called the man in our group who held the membership card to the swimming pool in the luxury hotel down the street. "She's ready," we said, "we need the pool card," and he replied, "I'll get my swim trunks and be right there." When he arrived, swim trunks in hand, we were ready to go. But he wasn't. Leading us back into my living room, he sat my friend down on my couch, and let us know that if he were going to perform this baptism (no one asked him to!) he needed to be sure she was ready (we had already told him that!). I watched, feeling absolutely helpless, as he reduced my friend to tearfully admitting that she was not, could not be, a Christian yet, despite her years of faith, because she was not yet baptized. Only then was she ready to be baptized. By a man she'd never seen before who had just reduced her to tears, in the uncomfortable intimacy of immersion in a public pool, wearing a borrowed swimsuit.

A few months later, another friend arrived at my doorstep to spend the night, as she routinely did on Saturday nights, fresh from Bible study. It was an uncomfortable friendship, full of unwanted intimacies I hadn't asked for: I discovered in retrospect she'd been borrowing my toothbrush for months, and she was either lacking in standards or adequate facilities for personal hygiene. That night, she told me that she had decided to be baptized, and she wanted me to do it. Um, okay, I said; but knowing this would be controversial within our group of Americans, I said, what did [her Bible study teacher] say when you told him this? She answered, with a puzzled look, "He said, 'isn't God a man?'

I like to tell people that I went to China to be a missionary, and became a feminist. This is why.

Part 1: dressed up, with no place to go

One time, very young, seized with a sudden inspiration during Sunday school while singing the "The B-I-B-L-E," I literally took my stand on the Word of God by putting my Bible on the floor and standing on it. I was aware that this wasn't what the song really meant, but I thought it would be funny. It was.

I learned to sing harmony and read music sitting in the pew (second row, on the left) next to my mom, following her strong alto and watching my dad lead the singing from the pulpit.

I would listen to sermons until they got boring, and then pass the time by reading Proverbs or Song of Solomon. And Revelation 12: I didn't understand it, but I liked picturing the woman "clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars."

In high school my dad led our small "youth group" in a study of the gospel of John. I can still remember the fascination of delving into the meaning of those first words: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. I can remember the thrill of the realization that here was something huge, so much packed into these words, something that just kept getting better and richer the more I thought about it. No one else seemed to get excited about that, though everybody was polite. Just my dad, and me.

In college, I took "Religious Speaking for Women," and first year Greek, for fun. My senior year a well-known CofC author visited Harding's campus to give a series of lectures on his new book. On the slight strength of a rather extended family relation, I decided to introduce myself to him afterward, and tell him I was thinking about studying theology. His answer was very kind, and sincere, and direct. He didn't tell me not to. He just said, "I think you'd be getting dressed up with no place to go."

He was telling the truth; and nowadays, there are a great many of us, well "dressed up," with MDivs and MAs in missions and theology and Christian education and even PhDs in Old Testament and ethics and church history and philosophy. And we have "no place to go," still, unless we choose to leave the church that inspired to study and devote our lives to these things. To leave the church we started out inspired to serve. Because that church refuses to make "a place to go" for us. That church refuses to hire the talented ministers who graduate with the same MDivs as their male colleagues. That church refuses to recognize their readiness, their ability, their gifts, their willingness to make the work of the church their life and calling. That church continues to say, "you look real pretty all dressed up, too bad you have no place to go."

the invitation

One of the most powerful things about the Friday morning panel at the Christian Scholars Conference, which I blogged about below, was the simplicity of it. It was, simply, a time and space created to let women talk: to say the things that are scary or straightout forbidden to say at other times and in other places. We need more opportunities like this. Part of the problem is that the institutional structures of our churches define when and where things may be publicly shared, and who may share them, and this rarely includes women. Even in those public spaces and times when women may speak, these experiences and stories are not the ones being sought. Why would they be, when they are cries of pain and stories of exclusion, and prophetic condemnations of the injustice of the way things are? You can hardly respond to the great challenge of being the first woman to teach a class in your church, or lead communion, or preach a sermon, by sharing truths that are so unedifying and disturbing.

So: we need more of these times and spaces. We need them convened in the flesh, and God bless the CSC and the brave folks whoever they were who organized those sessions. Let's do it again. In the meantime, let's do it here. Let me know if you'd be interested in guest-blogging. If you want to be anonymous, email me and I'll post for you. I want women's stories and women's voices, but men, if you've got a story to tell, bring it. I want stories of staying and stories of leaving. I want stories of heartbreak and stories of hope. I want it all. We need to hear it, all.

***
Here is the introduction and the prompts from the CSC discussion, moderated by Dr. Ken Cukrowski:

Intro
As the church and the academy have addressed the topic of women's roles, various theological resources have been brought into the discussion. Not surprisingly, given our heritage, Scripture has played a significant role in our reflection. Reason has also played a role, although this issue understandably stirs emotions, which sometimes strains our use of reason. Tradition--what we have always done--has played a huge role in actual practice. The use of experience--of women specifically--however, has been rare or absent, for at least a couple of reasons. First, there are few opportunities when women are invited to speak in public; second, it is culturally difficult for a woman to ask for the floor without negative connotations. So, women's stories have gone untold and unheard.

Our goal is to provide a place where those stories can be told and heard. Specifically, we'd like to know how has being female in CoC has affected you over your lifetime? How has it affected your religious experiences (e.g., in church, with other members, your own spiritual life)? How has it make you feel? In short, how has your gender affected your heart, mind, faith, and families?

Questions
I will ask specific questions, more or less moving across the life cycle:

1. What's your first memory of realizing that being female meant something different in terms of opportunities or expectations?
2. How did being female in CoC affect you as a teenager, in college, in your dating relationships?
3. How has being female in CoC affected you as an adult?
4. How has being female affected your church life?
5. How has being female in CoC affected your marriage relationship?
6. How did has being female in CoC affected your interaction with children (yours and others' children)?
7. Last question: What would you like to say? What do we need to hear?

***
If you've been silent, not because you thought it was biblical, but because you thought no one wanted to hear what you have to say, this invitation is for you. If you've been silent, because you've never been asked to find the words for your experience, this invitation is for you. If you've been silent, because you're too busy seeking ways past the scandalous obstacles placed in your path to even bother with thinking about or sharing your experiences, this invitation is for you. If you've been shouting because it's been impossible to get anyone to stop and listen, this invitation is for you. If you've been crying, because the time for words is past and all you've got left is tears, this invitation is for you.

Friday, Saturday, Sunday

On Friday, this is what I heard:

a panel of women--academics, ministers, teachers and other professionals, wives, mothers, grandmothers--talk about their experiences as women in the Churches of Christ. The purpose of the panel was explained briefly and simply: while we do a lot of talking about the "issue" of "women's role," and while that talking has utilized scripture, and reason (at least some form of it anyhow), and tradition (defined as 'how we've always done it'), experience, women's experiences, have been glaringly absent from our considerations. The panel was convened to address this gap, to create an opportunity for women to share their experiences. The first question was, "when did you first realize that your gender mattered in your church, and what was it that made you realize this?" This question generated answers ranging from early exclusion from brothers' childhood church roleplaying to "not until my 40's." These experiences were not uniform, except in one respect: at some point in their lives, each woman was forced to the realization that being a woman limited her ability to participate in the kingdom of God in the ways she knew herself to be capable of, in ways that she knew to be needed. And the responses to this realization were not uniform, except in one respect: each woman refused to listen to the message that she could not be the Christian, the fully empowered agent of God, the imago Christi, that the gospel itself proclaims she is. Whether she continued her work by creative accommodation of restrictive boundaries, or sought alternative spaces where she could serve without restriction, each woman's life testifies to the inherent power of the gospel as good news, for everyone, despite the ways our human flaws and blindnesses restrict it. The emotions present were not uniform, except in this respect: every one of us in that room wept at someone else's pain, whether it was generated by that first shock of discovery, or the backlash against stepping out in faith to serve, or the sense of fear and failure that accompanies these attempts. We all wept. Because these stories, which we have so long refused to allow to even be told, are about courage and fear and pain, survival, and hope that maybe things will change for the better.

At the end of the session, the woman sitting next to me, whom I'd never seen before, dabbed at her eyes and smiled at me, and gave me a hug. She, older and never married, native Tennessean and CofC her whole life, read my nametag: Jennifer Thweatt-Bates, Princeton Theological Seminary. "Good for you," she said. (And, "are you related to...?") I thought, this is who sits in our churches' pews, silent and with so much to say.

On Saturday, this is what I heard:

three ministers, all formerly of the Churches of Christ, currently "disaffiliated." Their experiences were not uniform any more so than the previous day's panel, other than that each one of them had remained in the Churches of Christ for as long as possible, and each one of them left sorrowfully. Each one of them, it was clear, still grieved the necessity of departure--whether it was decades ago or still fresh. Disaffiliation is too neutral a word. Divorce would have been better. The Churches of Christ divorced them, on what it self-righteously considers to be biblical grounds.

At the end of the session, a man I'd never seen before walked up to me and introduced himself. He'd been watching me watch them, he said, from his unseated vantage point at the front of the room facing the back, where I'd been lucky enough to snag an extra chair in that packed audience. He'd been watching me weep through Micki's recount of her preacher refusing to recommend her for divinity school, because she was a woman. He'd been watching me weep as Katie told how they'd told everyone they were preparing to leave the Churches of Christ for months and months, hoping someone would say to them, "please stay," make it possible to stay, and no one did. He'd watched me smile wryly as Andre told about the pink-haired tattooed girl in his ACU preaching course, who stunned everyone in her initial sermon with insights they'd never heard before, because "we never had a pink-haired tattooed girl before." He'd watched all this, and said to me, "These stories are your story right now too, aren't they?"

On Sunday, this is what I heard:

a youth minister, emceeing the baptism of a 15-year-old girl, rhapsodizing about the intimacy and spirituality of the experience for a father to baptize their child.

a sermon illustration comparing the experience of the Spirit to falling in love: the passion of the process of courtship, all the silly things guys do to woo their loves. You know what I'm talking about, don't you, guys?

an introduction of a missionary couple, in which the man was congratulated on finding himself such a great wife.

Afterward, no one said anything about any of that at all.

in the hometown

First, it wasn't till I went back to middle TN that I realized this is our sixth year in NJ. That seems like a long time. We didn't, like some folks, celebrate our New-York-aversary, or whatever the NJ equivalent might be, because, well, NJ isn't NYC after all. (I do love the Garden State and all, but...) Anyhow, going back produced, like always, those feelings of simultaneous belonging and strangeness. That's not sad; it just is. And that weird limbo is familiar space to me in so many ways anyhow that it ceases to be weird, and is just...life. And, you know, I enjoy it.

Second, there will be some kind of major blog post soon, on some of the incredible moments from the CSC. And possibly some follow-ups of an anecdotal sort, taking my cue from the format of the Friday morning panel session on women's experiences within the Churches of Christ. I wish I had taken notes--but it was impossible to even think about it--the whole thing was too riveting for such a distraction.

Third and most important, if you don't know what's happening in Honduras, get thee to a TV or NPR or whatever you use for news these days and find out. Then get yourself on twitter, and follow @missionlazarus to get my bro-in-law's updates. And then pull out your prayer hankies, your prayer rug, your prayer bench, or whatever it is you use, and start haranguing the Almighty to keep Jarrod, his dad, and all those children at the Refuge safe, or perhaps just to come down and start enforcing that will-done-on-earth-as-it-is-in-heaven bit. Yes, harangue. No pretty pleases or polite petitioning. Start yelling--God can handle it, and this is important.

on God the Great Physician and Jesus the Healer

Yesterday, one of CCfB's longtime members spoke to us on the topic of vocation: specifically, the challenges of integrating his Christian faith and daily work. He is a physician, as is his wife. He spoke personally and candidly, and it was riveting. Stories of turning of machines; of saying the words, "I'm so sorry" to families in waiting room; of confronting the dilemmas of social injustice in treating the uninsured and the homeless; of struggling to resist the pressure to treat sick bodies rather than sick people.

As he spoke I thought of Jesus' healing miracles, and how Jesus must have confronted these same challenges and pressures in his ministry. So many people pressing in, demanding help. So many unsolvable problems. So much to do, and only a finite opportunity and limited options. No wonder Jesus withdrew to mountains to pray, and climbed into boats to get away from the crowds. And yet, the stories of miraculous healings demonstrate above all that Jesus never neglected to deal with people holistically: body and soul and spirit. My own theological preoccupation with embodiment has led me to think of the healing stories as emphasizing the importance of the body--which is true--and yet, the testimony from this physician reminded me that in the profession of healing there is a danger of reductionism that many fall into, and the struggle is to keep oneself open to the reality that these material bodies are people, with emotions, families, goals, fears.

And never has the metaphor of God as the Great Physician been more meaningful to me. What was once a purely intellectualized theological grasp of that metaphor has been enriched with this glimpse into what being a physician really means.

Pete Sessions Hates Babies

Okay, so that's inflammatory and ridiculous. But any politician stupid enough to allow this soundbyte on the airwaves deserves to be labeled a baby-hater just for plain political stupidity.

Maybe we oughta just tell people to stop fucking around and making babies while we're in this recession. Then, Sessions can quit worrying how we're gonna pay for the enormous economic cost of these pesky babies and their thoughtless, thoughtless mothers.

Federal Employees Closer to Paid Parental Leave

Latina wisdom: a blog post on epistemology and politics

Let me start with something that I think should be fairly uncontroversial, given its pride of place in the Western canon on philosophical axioms:

Know thyself.

When Judge Sonia Sotomayor talks about the role of experience and her identity as a wise Latina woman, she is not sounding some crazy radical pomo activist socialist whateverist scary siren song of identity politics and--as the more ridiculous critics have termed it--racism. (Honestly?) She is stating something obvious and unavoidable, and something absolutely necessary to the process of making decent judgments about, well, anything. Know thyself. Plato said it first, and I guess we'd put him in the category of hallowed white males, wouldn't we.

In the lecture that the supposedly damning quote is pulled out of, Sotomayor makes two points, both of which hang on the necessity of knowing yourself as a part of the process of making judgments. The first is that being who you are, whether that's a "wise Latina woman" or a "white male," is a specific identity, the cumulative result of a lifetime of experience and circumstances that are unique to each person. This is the part where the quote comes from. The controversy about it comes not from her acknowledging that she is a Latina--which everyone is busy pointing out as well. It's fine that she's willing to acknowledge the specificity of her identity. The controversy comes from the presumption that a Latina's specific experiences are a valid perspective from which to judge. That presumption means not just that Sotomayor is rejecting the idea of some universally objective non-personal standpoint but that she regards Latina experience as on par with any other American experience, equally valid and representative. And this is only controversial because in his country, apparently, we still retain the idea that there is some kind of universal American experience and identity from which all judgments should be made--and that this universal American experience and identity is the epistemological possession of white men. (If Sotomayor were willing to say it doesn't make a difference that her body is Latina because her mind is the same as a white male's, then we would call her "fair" and "objective" and "dispassionate." She would also, of course, be a liar, but that lie is one that we cherish and like to hear.)

Of course, not all Americans are white or male, a point that Sotomayor also makes. Most of the defenses of her that I've heard focus on this point, arguing that she is talking about her Latina experiences as particularly relevant in the context of discrimination cases. As true as this may be, it is the wrong defense to make, because it emphasizes the experiential gap between the "wise Latina woman" and the white male--precisely the thing that scares the pants off of all the white males calling her racist at the moment.

It would be smarter--and more relevant--to point out that Sotomayor goes on to make the second point, also connected to 'knowing thyself,' that acknowledging one's specific experiences and identity does not mean one is unable to understand that other experiences are real, valid, and require understanding. Rather, it means the opposite. Being a wise Latina woman does not mean that she can only properly understand the experiences of other Latina women, or that she makes Latina experience universal for everyone in an epistemological oppression mirroring the supposed universalism of the particular experience of white maleness. Understanding that her experiences are particular, not universal, she can therefore perceive the need to actively seek to understand experiences not her own. Only if you understand the particularity of your own experiences can you get the fact that other people's experiences may differ from your own. The larger question Sotomayor addresses in her lecture is how one goes beyond the particularity of personal experiences in the process of making judgments: does one do by aspiring to some sort of universal standpoint outside onself, "objectivity," or does one do it precisely through acknowledging the preferences and presumptions one's own experience has provided, seek to evaluate their relevance and impact on one's decision making, and possibly revise or even counter them in light of the experiences of others? Sotomayor advocates the latter. As any honest thinker should--and must. This is what makes her, not simply a Latina woman, but a wise Latina woman.

on what you can and can't say, in church

I was a high school kid, telling an anecdote about something outrageous after church, standing in the center aisle...and slipped up and said "damn it." "Jenny! You're in church!" came the shocked response.

A couple years ago, Joe asked us to share our most joyful moment as we prepared to celebrate the Eucharist together. Everyone in the church shared something about the most joyful moment in their lives, and then it was my turn. I described how it felt to pee on that little stick, wait 2 minutes, and look at the little blue plus sign. "OH shit. We've done it now," is what I said in that moment, and this time, my church family didn't censor me at all--just joined in the sense of stunned wonder I felt as I realized I was responsible for nurturing a whole new life in this world.

See, I go to a church where you can say anything. Even "shit."

But all churches--even mine--have to work hard to be places where people can say what they really think, really believe (or don't), really feel. But if church isn't the safe place where people can be honest and vulnerable with each other--what the hell is it? And if the people who are part of your church don't feel safe in expressing what they think and feel and believe, how in hell is someone who's not a part of the church going to feel like it's a safe place to walk into?

In my church, we have to work hard to make sure that those still struggling with how to read the Bible and understand it on the topic of human sexuality know that they can say so, without censure. We have to work just as hard at that as any conservative church in the midwest has to work to make sure that the lone gay marriage supporter in its midst knows she is still welcome, even if she's not understood.

Because that's what unity is. That's what bearing with each other means. That's what living in community takes. And it's worth it. As we struggle through the conflicts of opinion and disagreements in doctrine, we each bear witness to the gospel--to each other. And often, out of dissensus comes greater understanding of what living the gospel really means. But we can't bear witness to each other in this way unless we're free to speak our minds, unburden our hearts, and live our convictions. We can't bear witness to each other, if we're too busy censoring each other's statements.

And if we can't bear witness to each other, how can we bear witness to the rest of the world?

Is anyone else totally grossed out by the ubiquitous "cure your yellow teeth" ads in the hotmail sidebar and all over facebook? The ones with the "free" and "discovered by a mom" taglines, with the great big closeups of people's mouths. The last straw was the mustachioed man licking his white white teeth. BLURG! Please, please, please make it STOP.

AIDS Walk NY 2009

The AIDS Walk was Sunday. Our CCfB team collectively raised $475, and Clare and I officially reached our donation goal of $100!

Special thanks goes to Grandmom and Grandad, and Sylva's Nana.

Clare's collection can gathered a total of $10.97 from various anonymous donors, from both CCfB and Calvary Episcopal Church (where we placed the can in the church office). Thanks to all of you, too. I matched your donation to bring it to an even $20 with some "play money" from Anna Mercedes, so thanks to Anna for helping us make our goal!

Y'all ROCK.

And as Dora would say, "Thanks for helping!"

the Beatles on scientific epistemology

c'mon...tell me you see it too...

"Nowhere Man"

He's a real nowhere Man,
Sitting in his Nowhere Land,
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody.

Doesn't have a point of view,
Knows not where he's going to,
Isn't he a bit like you and me?

Nowhere Man, just listen,
You don't know what you're missin',
All the world's at your command.

He's as blind as he can be,
Just sees what he wants to see,
Nowhere Man can you see me at all?

Nowhere Man, don't worry,
Take your time, don't hurry,
Leave it all 'till somebody else
lends you a hand.

Doesn't have a point of view,
Knows not where he's going to,
Isn't he a bit like you and me?

Nowhere man please listen,
you don't know what you're missin'
Nowhere Man, the world is at your command

He's a real Nowhere Man,
Sitting in his Nowhere Land,
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody.
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody.
Making all his nowhere plans
for nobody.

question of the day

Question: when will you have your first/next child?

Answer, me: when the dissertation is done.

Answer, sister: when my kitchen is remodeled.

Answer you?

publications

Today I got my copy of volume 12 of Stone-Campbell Journal, which includes my pretentiously entitled article "How to Talk about Religion and Science...Rationally." It's probably unfortunately not apparent how ironic I conceived that title to be, but in its original form the paper was a presentation for a session on "Re-imagining Faith and Reason" at the 2007 Christian Scholar's Conference--hence the "rationally." It's probably even less evident that the "how to" is meant ironically, though I dare to hope that reading the article makes that at least somewhat clear.

Also included in the volume is a review of the one-volume commentary from ACU Press, The Transforming Word, which includes my little essay on religion & science. The review singles out my essay, which would be a good thing, if the reviewer had in fact said something positive about it. Instead the essay is criticized for being too general to be helpful, which I personally find to be quite fair--that's pretty much exactly how I feel about it. Sigh.

And now to click over to the ol' CV and change the "forthcoming" to "12.1 (2009): 31-38."

AIDS: New York and Rwanda 2009

This year is my--and Clare's--third year to participate in the AIDS Walk. One of us can legitimately say that she's been doing this her whole life. That would be Clare.

The first year, I brought the stroller but spent most of the time carrying Clare in my homemade Maya sling, although I also pawned her off on other willing CCFB walkers. The second year, Clare was sick and running a fever, so I left her at home with Brent and went walking without her. But since Clare was the bigtime fundraiser, I think she legitimately deserves the credit.



This year is different; we will participate in raising money but we will probably not actually walk. Our time together on Sundays at CCFB is getting more and more precious as the weeks go by, and none of us wants to miss even one chance to be together, even for something which has itself turned into a CCFB annual event like the AIDS Walk.

We're a quarter of the way to our modest goal of raising $100, because I believe in putting my money where my mouth is. If you'd like to help Clare and me make our fundraising goal for the third year in a row, click here to get to my donation page, and we thank you.

While you're at it, pause for a moment to consider how much effort and general human kindness and goodwill goes into organizing the raising of these funds for the GMHC in New York every year...and think about the millions of AIDS sufferers in Africa without the benefit of such massive organization and affluent givers to help them. Greg Kendall-Ball is raising money in order to partner with the organization Physicians for Human Rights, to document the effect PEPFAR funds have on the lives of people in Rwanda. Greg's goal is to use his skills as photographer and visual storyteller to help organizations like Physicians for Human Rights effectively communicate--thereby enabling them to better help the people they seek to serve. As Greg says on his site, "Statistics can tell part of the story, but putting a real human face on this global pandemic is crucial." Click here to read more about this trip and to reach his donation page.

Greg's fundraising strategy is microdonations from as many people as possible--so consider splitting what you might put toward Clare's and my AIDS Walk fund, and give some to Greg. A little can go a long way. It might even go as far as Rwanda.

commentary: which whos are Whos

received a political email forward today which contained at least one statement I do in fact wholeheartedly agree with:

"But the meaning of marriage – how it is defined and who defines it – is tremendously important for our entire society, because it has implications that go well beyond the desires of two consenting adults."

The italics are mine, because that is indeed what I see to be the central struggle: how it is defined, and who defines it.

The power of defining is, as this statement suggests, a political one. And in this country, which at least attempts to place political power in the hands of a broad constituency rather than concentrated in the hands of a few (rich white male) persons, the power of defining ideally belongs to everyone--more accurately, all citizens (leave aside who has the power to define "citizen," although that question truly gets at the heart of the difficulty of inclusive democracy, and the immigration issue in this country puts that front and center, yes?).

Which means that "the power to define marriage" is (again, ideally) a collective power shared by all citizens. And as long as you're honest enough to admit that there are in fact gay people who are American citizens, then you ought to be honest enough to recognize that they too are (ought to be) included in the "who" who gets to define things. Including marriage, which as this statement at least implicitly grants, is a social and political institution in addition to being whatever else you might believe it is.

Or, you're claiming they're not a "who." They're a They.

And as Horton would remind you: "a person is a person, no matter how small; a person is a person is a person, after all."