A Feminine Voice In A Masculine Theology

A few days ago, I sat next to a woman who is a minister. We were in a training retreat for a few days (not faith-based) and this was the first time I had the opportunity to ask the question, “How has the journey as a minister been for you?”

She shares some of her stories with me and the conversation branches off into the experience of women who are also pastors/preachers. Another woman who was a pastor for ten years joins the conversation and we all, to a certain extent, discuss the ins and outs of daring to be a woman who announces her call to preach out loud in front of everyone.

I share the counsel the seasoned pastors gave my husband when he started to pastor: “Sit her down; let her look pretty and don’t let her get involved with the people.” In other words, “Don’t let her make waves.”

Thankfully, my husband ignored those wise men and gave me space to grow, learn, teach and speak in his ministry. I am pretty sure his friends gave him the Baptist side-eye, though. In those days the wife just wasn’t that involved aside from the women’s ministry or working with children/youth. I often taught with my husband in workshops, I co-taught some classes with an assistant pastor, and when my husband was out of town, I often had the opportunity to fill in for him at Bible study. My husband did not accept women preachers/pastors, but he trusted me with his vision, I loved every moment!

When he died, I’ll wager that some of those pastors waited for my public announcement of being called to preach. What they missed or even overlooked, perhaps, is that a passion for the work of the ministry is not necessarily a desire to stand behind the sacred desk (as it’s often called) and declare her call to the ministry but it is, rather, a purpose-driven passion. The one call I continue to proclaim is that singular call found in 1 Peter 2:9.

But, isn’t every believer called to serve, called to proclaim the gospel of Christ, to be that witness wherever he, or she. may land? Oh, yeah, what happens, though, when she lands on that spot marked “men only.”

The conversation got me to thinking. The minister to whom I first turned is working on her doctorate and she is, in her words, “Looking for a different angle to this discourse.”

That’s when this phrase came to me: “A feminine voice in a masculine theology.”

Why is it considered an intrusion, this feminine voice in a masculine theology, the idea that the feminine must be muted when it dares to raise its voice in a self-aware declaration, of “I am here!”

Why must the men take it upon themselves to not only denounce the call but also despise the woman who steps forward into the glare of male scrutiny? What threat might she be to a ministry that has tightly shut the doors of ministry to the feminine pulpiteer? Could it be that there is a fear of a female uprising in that local assembly, that women will rise from the pews to bum rush the pulpit or might take their tithes, offerings, gifts and service to a more open door?

I myself am a bit ambivalent about whether a woman should pastor but I will not join the ranks of “silence her, silence her!” I dare not try to confirm or validate another’s call. It is between that individual and God, and while I’m on this particular tact, allow me to hurry and say that since this has nothing to do with one’s salvation that is by grace alone, through faith alone, in Christ alone, why the furor? If you don’t accept it, don’t accept it and allow the chips to fall where they may.

Oh, yes, I know someone is ready to tackle my thought/concept of a “masculine theology,” that there is no such animal, that theology is the study of God and man’s hand is nowhere in it. It’s God’s revelation to mankind who in turn studies God to draw nearer to Him.

Yes, this is true. Theology is all about God, but when man adds his personal perspective, the theology that should solely be of God and about God can be corrupted.

From my limited view, it appears that conversations about women and the pulpit are too often male-driven with a smidgen of testosterone soused ego thrown in for an impact resulting in declarations that too often seem condescending, rude and machismo driven. This is when God’s theology becomes a masculine theology determined to eradicate the feminine voice.

However, I must also hasten to say that I’ve often been a little distressed to hear a frustrated and feminine voice seemingly almost scream for affirmation or validation from the purveyor of masculine theology. I’ve had the opportunity to say it a few times, “If God called you to it, then just be about the work and leave the door opening to God. If a man says “Not in this house,” respect the house and go construct your own. If God called you to it, He’ll get you to it!

A never-ending conversation? Perhaps. But, at some point, maybe the opposing parties can disagree their way to unity as the feminine and the masculine each take their place in their respective works to praise God that the Kingdom Agenda for Kingdom Building continues to be fulfilled.

Let the Church say “Amen.”

 

 

 

The OG

OG or Original Gangster is a term used these day as a nod to or a sign of respect for someone who has been around for a while (as in old).

A group of ladies, including me, was sitting around a table at a church breakfast gathering. As a younger woman walked by, she called out, “A table of OGs”

Some of the other ladies laughed. I did not. I can’t remember my response but it was something to the tune of “Seriously?”

Listen, I don’t mind my age.

What I do mind is assumptions made about me because of my age.

American hates aging; the older you get, the greater the depreciation when it comes to your value and place. Here’s the thing; unless one dies young, he or she will get old! I just wish I could be around when  all those young and energetic people turn old and ignored!

Don’t play with me. This OG just might show you how it’s reallly done and take no prisoners in the doing!

 

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YEP! YEP!

 

 

Mayberry, Oh Mayberry

I’m not sure why, but for the last few months I’ve been on an “Andy Griffith Show” binge.

Yes, you heard me right, an “Andy Griffith Show” binge.

I’ve gone through all eight seasons, from black and white to color though my preference are those black and white episodes.

Speaking of color, yes, I am well aware that there are no people of color who visibly live in Mayberry. Now mind you, I have sighted a few representatives here and there (a nod to the changing times, I suspect) but no major roles for any people of color except one color episode as the show neared the end of its run.

Still, noting this lack of color in the black and white episodes did not derail my binge (my people from the South will get the irony here).

As I stated above, I’m not sure why I’m on this binge, what triggered this hunger to be a vicarious part of Mayberry, North Carolina (or is it South Carolina).

I suspect my binge watching may have something to do with the years that keep stalking me, the numbers that are adding up fast and the birthdays that feel like a runaway train headed downhill.

I want lazy Sunday afternoons spent on the front porch in a rocking chair and me chock full of a traditional dinner of roast and mashed potatoes that I’ve washed down with an ice cold goblet of sweet tea.

I want cicadas to sing me to sleep every night.

I want to take a Saturday trip to town and run into familiar faces on Main Street, stop to share pleasantries before we each scurry off to the next errand that demands immediate attention.

I want to sit on wooden pews in a clapboard covered church to watch the robe clad choir march in and nod off as the minister drones on because the summer heat has prompted me to take a quick nap.

I want houses nestled on broad, quiet streets and neighbors to chat over the fence with one another as they pot flowers or weed gardens.

I want winter holidays so cold that my ears tingle and my nose needs a warmer.

I want to shake my head at the self-absorbed antics of a Barney Fife, snicker at the serious quirkiness of a Floyd the barber, have a goober aptly named Goober pump my gas from an old school gas pump, wonder about Opie’s unique name and speculate with Clara Edwards and Aunt Bea as to why Helen Crump and Andy Taylor are still engaged after eight years of courting (and hand holding?).

I want the nostalgia of Mayberry with just a little more color in the mix.

I want the wisdom of a small town sheriff who is content with his place and purpose in a hometown he did not leave until years later (and apparently finally married Helen) only to return because he knew what I now understand, “Home [really] is where the heart is.”

Though my home, these days, is far removed from the small town in which I was raised, my heart still lives in the memories of my yesterday community.

Yeah, I want Mayberry living these days. I just want it thirty minutes away from the bright lights of a big city (to appease my “black-ish” moments).

Mayberry was created In someone’s mind; my hometown was home grown!

Oh, by the way, Frances Bavier (Aunt Bea) in real life did not like Andy Griffith (Andy Taylor) at all!

I guess Mayberry wasn’t so “pure” after all.

 

A World Of Difference

I am cleaning out email boxes and I discover some notes from a writing class I took at a National conference that addresses multicultural education

I discover a piece I wrote in the class about an experience I had as an assistant librarian in an independent school.

When you’re the multi in a culture not so used to difference:

She is in the second grade
She stands in the library,
surrounded by books, a determined seeker
of that which only she knows.
There is no smile on her face but she does not frown either.
Deep in thought, surrounded by her classmates
she does not see anything but what she seeks.
The found book is brought proudly to the circulation desk
where I stand. I do not frown but I do know this is not the book
she can have right now. I do not remember why it is not right.
I just remember it is not right for her right now.
She balks and pouts and keeps asking “Why,” as if to hear me
say the same thing over and over again. I sense that she is not used to
the color of my voice,
this child with permission to resist an adult.
It is a battle of the wills, her determination vs. my authority
which I do not think about in that tug of war moment.
I want what’s best for her seven-year-old mind.
She wants what she wants. I do not see the steel in her eyes
when she turns to leave the library with her class.
She leaves sans coveted book, but wrapped tightly in her determination
she tells a different story of intimidation
when she gets home to Mama.
who writes to the teacher who writes to me
though knowing me does not defend me
but succors the mother.
I am a black woman who manages her voice at school,
tempers it to match the sensibility of my little patrons.
This time.
I lose.

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THE OTHER THAT IS ME!

The Other
The Other is an individual who is perceived by the group as not belonging, as being different in some fundamental way. Any stranger becomes the Other. The group sees itself as the norm and judges those who do not meet that norm (that is, who are different in any way) as the Other. Perceived as lacking essential characteristics possessed by the group, the Other is almost always seen as a lesser or inferior being and is treated accordingly. The Other in a society may have few or no legal rights, may be characterized as less intelligent or as immoral, and may even be regarded as sub-human.” http://academic.brooklyn.cuny.edu/english/melani/cs6/other.html

I have worked with summer programs for 20+ years. In the early years, the programs were cocooned, separate from the majority culture. Though the population of children was somewhat diverse, the teachers and staff all looked like me, all African American.

The summer program to which I am now attached is of a different “color, “simply meaning, while some diversity is still in place in the student population, the teachers are mostly white. There is nothing wrong with this mix because the teachers (who are in the final stage of a credentials program) bring to the students all they need to continue to grow and stretch academically. However, we are housed on a campus with a separate program that is not used to such diversity, so the field is ripe for misunderstandings, assumptions and micro-aggressions … on their part, not mine.

Yes, this issue of the “Other that is Me” lies not with the students or the teachers but with the opinions of those around me who do not look like me, individuals whose only information about the “Other Who Is Me” may come through the media and/or opinions of people who also look just like them.

When the “Other That Is Me” comes into view, certain assumotions come into play about the capability and ability of the “Other Who Is Me” to function well, if even at all.

It is assumed that when a situation appears untenable or unmanageable, I will, of course, need assistance, without bothering to check with me to see if, indeed, I need any help at all.

It is assumed, when the children wander into spaces where they should not be (which children have been known to do), that I should be informed as to how such scenarios should be handled without even once just Informng me about the situation and trusting me to handle it because, after all, I do have some experience with this population and the program.

It is assumed that if a playground is left messy that it had to be our kids because, you know, that is how the “Others” roll. And yes, trash was left on the playground, but, having worked at the site during school years, I am well aware of messes left behind in the cafeteria and on those same playgrounds. When I do check out the “mess,” I discover trash along the perimeter of the playground that appears to have been there for a while. I leave it in place for their maintenance people to do their job.

I have been the “Other That Is Me” all my life though the burden of “Otherness” is not as much of a concern for me as it was when I was younger. I am more vocal these days about those things that need to be addressed in the moment. I see every such moment as an opportunity for someone to learn and to grow and to stretch, namely those individuals who can only see me, and the children, as the “Other.”

What I do need, as well, is the grace to speak the truth in love, to understand the micro-aggression as ignorance, the stereotype as uninformed and the assumption as asinine misinformation.

That’s my plan, anyway.

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“God, give us grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, courage to change things which should be changed and the wisdom to distinguish the one from the other.”

 

A Lemonade Dream

The “Black-ish” episode of a few weeks ago, “Lemons,” was thought provoking. The premise of the episode was the diverse responses to Donald Trump’s election as President.

The musical intro to the episode is Marvin Gaye’s iconic “What’s Going On?” still a valid question, especially in today’s chaotic and confusing climate.

Dre’s voiceover reminds us that “Upsets are as American as apple pie; someone wins, someone loses. But what happens when the winners and losers are supposed to be on the same team?”

What, indeed?

Everyone is dealing, in their own way, with the after-effects of the election.

Rainbow is dressed in every piece of activist apparel she could buy on sale at “Barneys” (a bit of irony there).

“You look like a NPR [National Public Radio] commercial,” is Dre’s response to his wife’s gear.

Zoe and Junior are not in school this day because it has been designated a day of reflection after a student declares to a teacher that she, Ms. Gomez, will soon be shipped back to her country and leads his classmates in the chant, “Ship her back! Ship her back!’

Junior prepares to share the MLK  “I Have A Dream” speech at the day of healing while Zoe concentrates on a very special lemonade recipe, a drink she plans to share that day.

Rainbow is concerned about Zoe’s seemingly disassociation from all that is going on in the country after the election and her apparent obsession with the making of this lemonade.

When her mother tries to ascribe some symbolism to the lemonade,, Zoe responds that is just a “non-carbonated refreshment” which her friends will like.

The tension is high in the company conference room as everyone voices their angst and despair and even satisfication about the election outcome. Fingers are pointed and voices are raised. Charlie admits that he voted for Obama because he was black. Lucy admits that she voted for Trump as opposed to voting for a woman and in rebuttal to the accusation that her vote marks her as a racist, she declares, “I am not a racist. I have black friends.”

A word to the wise right here: This statement of Lucy’s does not endear you to the hearer who is black. This is not a pass for anyone white who makes this declaration.

“No one knows how we got here, but everyone has their own ideas.”

Their ideas are all over the place with no resolution in sight.

Dre’s father, when he learns that Junior is going to make the “I Have A Dream” speech on the day of healing at his school, tells him that this is not the entire speech and recites it for Junior.

“There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.” `~excerpt, MLK, “I Have A Dream” Speech

“Why didn’t I know this?” Junior decries his ignorance.

“Because they don’t want you to know. … Yeah, Martin had a lot more Malcolmin him than a lot of people give him credit for.”

Junior, astonished by the tone of the text, becomes the black clad radical brandishing a baseball bat in his bedroom.

His grandfather takes away the bat as he tells Junior “Heyy, what’s going on here. I did not tell you this for you to become another angry black man.”

He then explains to Junior that Dr. King added the “I have a dream” section to the speech after gospel singer Mahalia Jackson, who had heard that portion before, yelled out to Dr. King, “Tell them about the dream, Martin. Tell them about the dream!”

The inhabitants of the conference room begin to wonder about Dre’s solemnity in the passionatate discussions and someone asks, “Why don’t you care?

As Nina Simone’s “Strange Fruit” plays in the background and pictures of African Americans flit across the screen, Dre speaks:

“I love this country even though at times it doesn’t love me back. For my whole life my parents, my grandparents, me, for most black people, this system has never worked for us. But we still play ball, tried to do our best to live by the rules even though we knew they would never work out in our favor, had to live in neighborhoods that you wouldn’t drive through, send our kids to schools with books so beat up you couldn’t read them, work jobs that you wouldn’t consider in your nightmares.

Black people wake up everyday believing our lives are gonna change even though everything around us says it’s not. Truth be told, you ask most black people and they tell you no matter who won the election, they don’t expect the hood to get better. But they still voted because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

You think I’m not sad that Hillary didn’t win? That I’m not terrified about what Trump’s about to do? I’m used to things not going my way. I’m sorry that you’re not and it’s blowing your mind, so excuse me if I get a little offended because I didn’t see all of this outrage when everything was happening to all of my people since we were stuffed on boats in chains. I love this country as much — if not more — than you do. And don’t you ever forget that.

Junior makes his speech. Zoe shares her lemonade as she asserts it is not liberal lemonade, not conservative lemonade, just lemonade made with love.

There is no resolution in sight but everyone arrives to the point where each realizes that all voices are needed in the conversation, courageous conversations is what I call them.

I have not added much commentary to this post because I just want us all to think about where we are headed, where this country is headed, and how we can add our voices to the healing of the obvious rifts in this land.

I leave you with words from the movie “Red Tails,” words spoken by Andre Braugher’s character, Benjamin O. Davis:

“How do I feel about my country and how does my country feel about me?”

That is still the question.

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Watch the episode here:

http://abc.go.com/shows/blackish/episode-guide/season-3/12-lemons

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