How I became a (Christian) feminist.

A “tweet” came across my screen just minutes ago that said this:

Why I Became a Feminist #feminismhttp://bit.ly/15vill

I clicked on the link, read the post, and instantly felt outrage, indignation, and the desire to get up on a soap-box and scream!!! Not the same kind of screaming as Max’s howl that I talked about yesterday. It’s a from-the-gutt, angry scream. One that needs to be heard not just as an expression of me, but as a stop-people-in-the-street, turn-and-stare, gape-open-mouthed, and shock-them-into-action kind of scream.

I don’t necessarily want to tell you what to do (well, probably I do) but you should definitely click on this link and read Rachel F’s story about why she became a feminist. Hers is not a journey into Christian feminism, but feminism itself. Still, her story reminded me anew of my own. It might surprise some of you that there are actually Christian feminists out there – or that I am one of them; women who expose and name injustice in the context of their faith – and a church (as well as textual interpretation) that often is one of the chief perpetrators. It’s a space in which I’ve lived and moved and suffered…and still, continue to hope.

Here’s my story – written and published a few months ago for a print periodical entitled Christian Feminism Today.

My journey into Christian feminism was birthed in the convergence of three streams: theological learning , cultural awareness,  and personal growth.

I was a 40-year-old Master of Divinity student at Mars Hill Graduate School (www.mhgs.edu); a place that desires to integrate text, soul, and culture on behalf of experiencing God and transforming relationships. Though rumblings of thought and emotion were grounded in the very circumstances of my day-to-day life, it was there that I entered into realms of theory, thought, and praxis. I was profoundly invited into my own story, into the story of God, into the stories of women… into feminism.

Hebrew Grammar. There were eight of us in the class, 6 men and 2 women, all given the same Old Testament texts to translate. Oddly at first, then stunningly as time went on, the other female student and I had distinctly different translations than the men. Perhaps even more amazing was that the distinction was allowed and celebrated. An awareness of theology (and even God) as accessible and “mine” in reading, interpretation, and understanding created a seismic shift in my head and heart. Why had no one told me that I had not only the right, but the capacity to interpret scripture? Why had no one told me that a woman’s voice brings something unique and powerful to the text – and therefore to self and others? Why had no one told me that Scripture wasn’t carved in stone, but was alive and waiting for me to breathe my own life into and through it? There were, I found, many who had answers to these questions; answers that sought to re-silence. But it was too late: feminism was awakened in me. First breaths were taken. I caught a glimpse of God’s heart on my own and other women’s behalf.

Feminist Critique. It was an elective so there weren’t many of us, but a reverse ratio to Hebrew: 7 women and 3 men. We looked at the history of patriarchy, the development of feminism, and feminist theology. We read the words of renowned men – philosophers, theologians, politicians – and ached at the pain inflicted then and for centuries to follow. We looked at the issues of objectification of women, sexual trafficking, domestic violence, and a myriad of other harms. We talked together, as women and men, about our own victimization and perpetration. We read. We wrote. We argued. We laughed. We cried. We learned. Why had no one drawn my attention to the blatant harm that I and all women bear in our culture and around the world? Why had no one helped me understand the heritage of patriarchy and its insidious control? Why had no one introduced me to feminist theologians; women who have thoughtfully, intelligently explored Scripture and offered voices of profound strength and beauty? There were, I found, many who had answers to these questions. But not good ones; feminism was now alive and well within me. I was drawing in deep breaths of women’s voices, women’s lives, and speaking, no longer silenced through ignorance or fear. I now knew much of more about God’s heart on my own and other women’s behalf.

Therapy. Part of my MDiv program required me to be in therapy. This ratio was far more intense: 1 man and 1 woman. I sat across from this man weekly and began to tell him my stories. And just like in Hebrew, he was able to call forth new interpretations of my life, new interpretations of God. Just like in Feminist Critique, he named the harm that I have known, the victimization that I have and continued to bear. He walked with me through the questions. How am I to understand myself as a daughter in the context of harm? How am I to understand myself as a strong and tender in the context of a marriage that makes me feel trapped and angry? How am I to understand myself as a mother of daughters, not wanting any repeat of my own patterns, my own harm, my own stories? The answers I often had returned me to silence. His, on the other hand, invited me to courage, to beauty, to life. This man invited me to use my voice. To speak out loud. To tell the truth. To be a feminist. I often had to catch my breath at the words I began to speak, the emotions I began to express, the eyes with which I began to see. God’s heart on my behalf was made manifest in that office and in my life.

My experience of myself as a feminist continues to shift, change, and grow. I still wade in the streams of theological learning , cultural awareness,  and personal growth. I am grateful for womblike waters that offer me continued re-birth, renewal, re-creation. But even more, I am grateful that I am not alone. Feminism has invited me into relationship with other women in ways I could never have dreamed: similar questions, similar hearts, similar desires. Together we breathe deep, we step to the edge, and we dive – head first. There’s no turning back.

No, Rachel F., you are not alone. Nor am I.

No one can argue any longer about the rights of women. It’s like arguing about earthquakes. (Lillian Hellman)

I became a feminist as an alternative to becoming a masochist. (Sally Kempton)

I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a door mat or a prostitute. (Rebecca West, “Mr Chesterton in Hysterics: A Study in Prejudice,” The Clarion, 14 Nov 1913)

Tagged as: feminist, The Feminine

SUBSCRIBE to the BLOG
SUBSCRIBE to the NEWSLETTER