And I Roar!

Jan 28, 2013 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

Commemorating the 40th anniversary of Roe v. Wade

In this moment, one’s feelings about, or position on abortion are not what matter. What does matter, a lot, is that a woman’s right to manage her own body is still, or ever has been, at question. How is it possible that this topic is even entertained in politics, religion, or cultural critique of any kind? How is it possible that anyone is still talking arguing about this? Why is this legitimate tenet given enough media coverage to continue being discussed and proselytized?

It’s an old, sad story…

The Old Testament tells of Esther; a young girl who was captured and then taken to be part of the King’s harem. She was prepped and readied for a year before being eligible to be “chosen” by him then risked life and limb to protect her people from a route of ethnic cleansing by the king’s power-hungry, right-hand man. It is from this text that we hear the well-known words spoken by Esther’s cousin, Mordecai:

“Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone of all the Jews will escape. For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have been made queen for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:12-14)

Esther’s is a powerful narrative worth knowing, (re)telling, and redeeming; words themselves that impact and transform when internalized and allowed to inspire. And (as is always the case) her story rests on the shoulders of another’s: Queen Vashti.

The prequel…

The King had been celebrating (translate: drinking) for days. A huge party that included all the dignitaries and military leaders under hisreign. On day 7 of this endless revelry, he remembered his wife, Queen Vashti, and called for her to join him.

“…he commanded the seven eunuchs who served him to bring before him Queen Vashti, wearing her royal crown, in order to display her beauty to the people and nobles, for she was lovely to look at. But when the attendants delivered the king’s command, Queen Vashti refused to come. Then the king became furious and burned with anger.” (Esther 1:10-11)

Her “no” unleashed a chain of events that culminated in losing her throne and being deposed. And this led to the region-wide search for all eligible young girls, including Esther. These realities, in and of themselves, are upsetting, but it’s the reasoning diatribe that ensued about why Vashti had to go that causes me to hyperventilate almost every time I read it:

One of the nobles present said, “. . . the queen’s conduct will become known to all the women, and so they will despise their husbands . . . There will be no end of disrespect and discord.” (Esther 1:16-18)

My response . . . 

I’m taking deep breaths.

(Parenthetically, let me calmly state that this is exactly what has happened for centuries upon centuries. Women’s lack of rights, silencing, less-pay-for-equal-work, and an exhausting list of atrocities borne throughout time has, in large part, been motivated by the same reality that motivated King Xerxes: fear. Fear of a woman’s strength. Fear of a woman’s power. Fear of a woman’s “no.” Even fear of a woman’s “yes.”)

Enough of the deep breaths. Enough of the calm. I feel the emotion build – way, down deep within. I roll my shoulders back. I stand up even taller . . . 

And I roar . . . 

on behalf of Queen Vashti-deposed and Esther-turned-concubine-and-queen. On behalf of Eve and Noah’s wife and Sarai and the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet with her tears and the hundreds and hundreds of ancient, sacred narratives of women waiting to be heard, understood, and honored. On behalf of the countless named and unnamed women before Roe v. Wade and after. On behalf of you. On behalf of me. On behalf of my daughters. On behalf of our daughters. And on behalf of our sons, our husbands, our fathers, our lovers, our friends.

And I roar . . . 

until the day when it never occurs to me to write this post. Until the day when the sacrifices of so many are a distant, but esteemed memory. Until the day when terms and concepts like feminism and record number of women in Congress and sexual trafficking and rape and domestic violence are no longer in our lexicon or shared consciousness – other than to proclaim, again and again, the stories of those who suffered so we don’t have to.

And I roar . . . 

to praise the enduring strength and power of women. No matter the obstacles, the harm, the silence, the struggle. This is the nature of women. This is the capacity of women. This is what we do. Not as martyrs; rather as necessary and willing fighters, advocates, lovers, fierce friends, champions of truth and justice and all-things-good-and-right.

And I roar . . .

in the belief that despite how heavy our hearts and sore our throats, we do and will have the strength to continue, to keep hoping, to keep believing, to keep our desires for healing and change alive . . . 

. . . for such a time as this.

Lucky are you, reader, if you happen not to be of that sex to whom it is forbidden all good things; to whom liberty is denied; to whom almost all virtues are denied; lucky are you if you are one of those who can be wise without its being a crime. ~ Marie le Jars de Gournay, from “Grief des Dames” (1626) as quoted by Elise Boulding in The Underside of History.

We are lucky. And with such privilege comes responsibility – and a roar that has the potential and passion to shake both earth and heaven.

So go ahead and roar – on behalf of women’s stories, your stories, and all else that matters. I hear you. And I feel the quaking even now.

As it should be.

Choose Life

Feb 22, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I spent a couple of lovely hours with a young woman this morning who asked me what I thought about spiritual oppression.

“Do you think that the deep insecurity I feel, the fear of saying what I most know to be true, the anxiety over how others will perceive or understand me could be spiritual oppression?”

This is a paraphrase of her story, her words, her experience, but it captures what I hardly believe to be unique to her. 

What does it mean for us to truly believe – and act upon – what we feel and hear deep within ourselves? What do we do when we can anticipate – far ahead of time – how others will respond to our “truth” or our actions? How do we quiet the voices that tell us it is better to remain silent, behind the scenes, hidden, adaptive? And how do we honor the deeper voice that tells us we are beautiful, strong, wise, gifted, powerful, worth hearing? Not easy questions. And they are familiar questions that are imbedded deep within our souls – particularly as women. 

My spiritual director has often said to me, “Ronna, what God offers and invites is always life. Do the questions (and their answers) with which you struggle bring you life or death? If the latter, they are not of God. Choose life!” 

As I listened to this woman this morning I wondered what her life would bring: what realms of ministry, relationship, struggle and hope will she step into? What will her questions invite both in her own choices, as well as in the lives of others? How will she totally change her world – and the world around her – by choosing life, over and over again, no matter the cost? I believe that this is what God wants of and for each of us: changing our own world and the world around us by choosing life – no matter the cost. Splitting the world open… 

“What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? The world would split open.” Muriel Rukeyser 

Women Together: the best kind of danger

Sep 27, 2006 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I just returned from three glorious days on the waterfront in Gig Harbor, WA. If that wasn’t good enough, I was in the company of 15 amazing women – half of whom flew in from all over the U.S. and the other half of whom are located here in the Pacific Northwest.

Sally Morgenthaler was with us as the “host” of what she calls Conversations. Together we reveled in each other’s company and the beauty of not only the location, but the faces, hearts, stories, and lives of those by whom we were surrounded.

I’m exhausted tonight, but I am also overwhelmed by the beautifully dangerous power present when women are together.

That danger is not to be feared, but embraced, welcomed, and aggressively ushered into many places that are deeply in need of the power women have to offer. It is not a command-and-control kind of power, but power that is deeply connective, deeply intuitive, deeply generative, deeply creative, and deeply committed.

16 powerful, dangerous, beautiful women in one place for 3 days are now disbursed into their larger communities. They came strong, broken, tender, wounded, growing, struggling, rejoicing. They left more powerful, more dangerous, and more beautiful – with even more to offer, more tears to shed, more voices to raise, more eyes to open, more lives to change, more worlds to alter, heal, and lead.

I am not the same woman I was on Monday morning. Their voices have shaped and changed me. I am now more powerful, more dangerous, more beautiful, and more heartbroken, more committed, more compelled, more prepared, more tender, more strong. And I am not alone.

I am surrounded – in heart – by 15 amazing companions; women who have and will continue to labor on behalf of one
another and all that we are yet to birth. I’m grateful to every one of them. I’m hopeful for many more such conversations. And I love that danger abounds in their beauty and strength – and in my own!

Will I tell you what I want?

Aug 14, 2006 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Writing

A friend loaned me a book last week that I can’t put down. It’s called Women and Desire: Beyond Wanting to be
Wanted by Polly Young-Eisendrath. Check this out:

…as successful as (many) women have become, they often feel “out of control” in their personal lives. Although they can speak openly and passionately about the values and principles they believe in, and defend others’ rights, they still resist claiming and asserting personal needs and desires, especially when these are in conflict with others’. They fear being seen as too bossy or too self-absorbed.

There is something in me that reacts to this (and not favorably), while another part of me that knows it all too well. I am good at speaking openly and passionately about ideas and concepts, but when it comes to things I’m passionate about on my own behalf – both professionally and
personally? Well, that becomes a different story altogether.

I’ve been working a lot on this – diligently (and even passionately) – and I believe I’m making progress. It’s a challenge, though, to unlearn such well-taught and well-honed skills.

What does it mean for women to speak boldly of our own desires? Not desire for desire’s sake, but professionally, relationally, systemically, culturally, theologically. What does it mean to continue to speak and name what we see? To willingly choose to use our god-
given gifts of perception, intellect, and experience to provide alternative perspectives on things that often go unnoticed which can then cause subtle (and sometimes blatant) harm. What does it mean to have the courage to continue to speak, period?

All of this and then some is what I want
so deeply to be true for me – and for those with whom I live, work, and love. That’s what they deserve. That’s what I deserve.

In a similar vein, I read an article last night by the author of Finally Feminist: A Pragmatic Christian Understanding of Gender. Though I struggle a bit with both the title and the general idea of the book, there was one paragraph that caught my attention and has stuck with me the past couple of days: 

[She] urges women not just to wait for a brighter day, but to speak up now, and particularly about the small things…She points out that repeated small slights constitute large-scale social patterns of repression–that mountains can, in fact, arise out of the accumulation of molehills. So women can and must do something to keep the pattern from being reinforced.

I want to speak. Not because I have something urgent that needs to be shouted out, time and again, until it’s heard (though that is true) but because I want to be seen and known fully for who I most truly am, not some censored, edited version.

Yep. That’s what I really want.

Prophet as Female

Aug 9, 2006 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

While I was still a student at The Seattle School, I remember hearing one of my professors lecture on the categories of Prophet, Priest, and King. He said that a prophet “dreams of that which will one day be. He exposes and invites. And he is not liked. We try to silence prophets with shame by telling them that they are too emotional and/or that they just see too much.” In another class, when covering similar material he said, “The prophet is the guardian of hope. He envisions glory as it will one day be.” 

Let’s change all those pronouns, shall we?

I think these statements sound exactly like the soul of a woman.

Most of the women I know see well. They can name what they see – even if at great personal cost. And when they speak what they see and reveal what is true, many attempts are made to silence them – culturally, institutionally, and interpersonally. 

So what would it be like for women to intentionally embrace this persona as prophet as theirs? 

For me? I would know, beyond a shadow of doubt, that the potential for misunderstanding, dislike, and harm would be high. And I would still speak. I would name what I see, reveal what is, and repeatedly invite hope – functioning in ways that feel profoundly more true and consistent with who I most truly am. 

The bind here, of course, especially when we look at examples of prophets – particularly in Scripture. is that a) none of them are women; and b) none of them lived lives we’re remotely interested in! They did crazy things and had crazy things done to them. They weren’t heard. Or if they were, they were seen as practically diagnosable. Their own self-doubt was mammoth and their questions of the God who had purportedly “called” them were laden with conflict and angst. All because they spoke the truth. They called the people back to the God they’d forgotten. They spoke with kings and confronted corruption. They brought about change. And usually at great cost to themselves. 

Yes, that’s the bind. But it’s also the beauty.

Choosing to see myself as a prophetess  changes the way in which I choose to engage. It alters my readiness and expectation of potential harm. It increases my stamina, courage, and capacity to persevere. And I consistently hold on to hope and continue telling the truth. Beautiful, to be sure.

Rise up, prophetesses. We have much to say, much to offer, and redemption to bring about!