Emerging Women

By Irim

“Woohoo!” I thought, as the 4B stopped next to me in the High Street. “Hi ho, Hi ho, off to Littlemore we go!” It had been a full day – talk to the Research Induction School; Dean’s Forum; the usual first week frustrations with a new intake. Now off to a 7pm case study.

It was just after 6 when I got on the bus (I like early, especially in rush hour) and was rooting through my pockets for gum (which, of course, I’d left on my desk) when my hand came upon an odd texture.

Beads.

I have a ROSARY in my pocket? Since when?

She is eternal:

Curious to see which one it was, I surreptitiously pulled it out – and found myself smiling. It was the one brought back for me from Israel by my beloved teaching colleague, Helen Raucher, and her husband, Steve, shortly after I’d converted. Blue crystal beads, silver chain, ‘Terra Santa’ where Our Lady’s image usually is. Yes, I’m a wooden bead girl, but a rosary given with love – especially from Jewish friends acknowledging and wishing me joy in my conversion to Catholicism – trumps that a thousandfold. It’s my favourite, and was a particularly appropriate one to find as Erev Rosh Hashanah was about to begin.

I gazed at it with trepidation. Anyone who reads this blog knows of my deep love for Our Lady, the dream I associate with her, the fact that I said the ‘Hail Mary’ long before I was Catholic…

long before nations’ lines were drawn – when no flags flew, when no armies stood, [her haven] was born

…but I have a shameful secret. I DREAD saying the rosary. I would rather dental floss an army of cats without body armour than have to say the rosary, especially in congregation after the 10am mass (sorry, guys!).

But I feel torn. Our Lady is what holds me in the Church, and this is really THE form of prayer that focuses on her, and I can’t abide it. I know I’m not alone; that doesn’t make me feel less guilty. “Ok,” I thought, “Let’s give it a go. Best way over guilt is to stop avoiding it. You can do it for an intention, right? Just…start.”

I tried the Apostles’ Creed, but got as far as…”We.” Hey, at least I got that far.

I looked at my phone as soon as I got off. 18.30. Not due in till 19.00. Maybe try it walking through the church graveyard at St Mary’s and St Nicholas’? Had time to spare, what did I have to lose?

I wiggled through the gate and turned left, starting the Apostles’ Creed, as I tried to remember WHICH mysteries…Tuesday…sorrowful. Crap, it’s been so long, what ARE they?

Our Father, which art in heaven…

I passed the grave of the lad who died at 19 yrs and 6 months in France in September 1918, and though I continued reciting the rosary, my heart broke with sorrow for one lost so young, so near the end of a war.

And you ask me why I love her – through wars, death and despair. She is the constant; we who don’t care

And as the beads slipped through my hands…

Hail Mary, full of grace

…I finally got it. Fr Richard told me ages ago, when I told him I couldn’t do the rosary at home or in bed, that the rosary was a prayer of motion. I kind of got it at Walsingham and on Newman night walks.

In the graveyard, I *got* it. It’s what any Buddhist or Hindu or Muslim would have told me. The rhythm of repetitive prayer allows your mind to let go and drop deeper into prayer – even if that prayer is the fact that the plumber needs to come and fix the sink. Even if it’s about a 19 year old boy I never knew. It’s all prayer.

Glory be to the Father, and the Son and the Holy Spirit…

As I wandered amongst the graves, beads rough against my fingers, slipping from decade to decade, I thought about love, life, loss, being forgotten and remembered, what I’d left behind and where I was going, the constant, deepening struggle between the institutional Church and my unfolding faith.

You wonder will I leave her – but how? I cross over borders, but I’m still there now.

As the sun lowered in the sky, I could feel the internal stillness deepen, and a sense of peace came over me.

Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy…aw, crap, how does the rest of it go? Fuck it. Salve regina, mater misericordiae…

Then I turned the last corner, and the gate came into sight again…and I had the answer. Well, I’d always had it; I’d just been letting too much get in the way, too many well-meaning people decide what KIND of Catholic *I* had to be: you’ll be a good Catholic when you receive on the tongue; if you fall in line here; if you stop thinking about this, it’ll be so much easier, dear, won’t it? And if you stop looking too hard and too deeply and seeing what’s really going on, it’ll all be fine. Will it, fuck.

I can’t say the rosary just like anyone else: others prefer kneeling, saying it together, in bed, in the car, wherever. But that’s not for me. The rosary works for me when I’m walking in a graveyard: maybe it’ll work when I’m walking on the railway line at Walsingham or somewhere else. I don’t know. What I DO know is that tonight, I made the rosary mine. Now, it is always mine.

I need to do the same with my faith: stop looking around; stop listening to even the most well-meaning when they try to change me; stop trying to fit in a mould that doesn’t work for me. The other thing I need to stop doing is getting infuriated/drawn into politics, ideological arguments, hard as that is for me, since I love a good argument. But this isn’t genuine argument; it’s polarisation. And I can only imagine Our Lady’s sorrowing eyes as she looks down on it.

How can I leave her? Where would I start? Let [the Church's] petty [factions] tear themselves apart…

Not too long ago, a friend said that I was ‘a mix’ when it came to my faith. He’s *right*. My faith is what it is – it’s ME. Complicated, light, dark, sharp, tender, angry, loving, sad – all of it. Take it or leave it. I suspect – or rather, I hope – I know which one Our Lady will choose.

…[Mother Church's] only borders lie around [her] heart.

Happy birthday.

Irim lives in England and is re-training to be a psychotherapist – after having been a teacher and a librarian. She was born a Muslim, taught at an Orthodox Jewish School and became Catholic. This post first appeared on her blog The night and half-light of dreams.

By Heather Weber

Recently, in the New York Times, I read this story about the class action suit female employees brought against Wal-Mart in 2001. One of the original plaintiffs, Stephanie Odle, tells of her initial complaint in finding out that one of the male employees, in a parallel assistant manager position, was receiving 23K more per year than she was. When she brought this to the attention of her supervising manager she was told that the male assistant manager had “a family and two children to support.” At the time, Odle was a single mother of an infant.

This situation occurred in a secular arena, but I see parallels to the church today in the message that is being sent to women who serve and lead: for some reason, women’s time and work is less valuable than the work of their male counterparts, as evidenced by the way they are compensated (or not compensated). In my extended family network, I am related to male youth pastor and his wife (a preschool teacher, grad student, and mother of three). About 10 years ago, when they were just starting out as a married couple, Rob* got a job with a very low starting salary at a rural Lutheran church in the Midwest. With his hiring came the “understanding” that Megan would also be overseeing the adult Sunday School class administration as well as other areas of church life. Rob was officially paid the salary. Megan was expected to work for free. I should mention that quite soon after “they” took the position, Megan gave birth to their first child. Wobbly and exhausted, she was back at the church doing unpaid work within five days of the birth because it was expected she do “her” job. Now she says she should have known better. But shame on those church people for turning a blind eye.

This sort of situation doesn’t happen in the secular, regulated business arena as much as it does in church infrastructure these days. What’s occurring is a two-for-one: the church gets double the labor and the woman works for free because, somehow, her work doesn’t quite measure up as being worthy of remuneration.

What are your experiences and observations on this topic? How and why do you think churches get away with rationalizing their failure to compensate women as they do men? Is there spiritual rhetoric being used to justify it? If so, what?

*names are changed to protect privacy

Heather Weber is a part-time assistant pastor in Iowa City, IA, and a homeschooling mother of three. She has an MFA in creative writing and blogs about (among other things) the intersection of life, culture, and faith at www.onravenstreet.com.

By Wendy McCaig

The air was surprisingly cool and crisp this morning as I set out from our property in rural central Virginia for what was supposed to be a 10 mile ride through the country. It is a ride I have done many times before and I was starting to get a bit bored with it. I decided to press on past my normal turn around point expecting to go just a little further.

I had not gone very far when two very fast, very fierce dogs began to chase me. I paddled as fast as I could up the hill and managed to escape unharmed. However, as I turned and looked behind me, my pursuers were poised in the middle of the road daring me to return. I did not have the courage to undergo another attack so I kept riding with no idea how I would get back to our cabin.

I soon found a road I recognized. I assumed it would get me back to familiar territory which it did. However, I was coming from a different direction, took a wrong turn and ended up going an additional 5 miles before I finally found my way back to our property. In total, I biked 17 miles which is quite a long ride for an old woman like me.

While I really wish the snarling dogs would have been napping when I rode past, without my fear of being eaten for lunch, I never would have found this new path. What I saw on these new roads was well worth the risk it took to get me there. I ended up on a ridge overlooking rolling green fields, came upon a creek as I passed through the Buckingham Appomattox Forest, and discovered I am biking distance to Holiday Lake State Park. Most importantly, I learned I can bike 17 miles and live. This one unexpected venture will yield months of new biking expeditions. I also grew tremendously as a biker from the experience. I learned to take a map with me, a cell phone, and will be investing in pepper spray as a nice surprise for the next pack of dogs to challenge me.

This weekend, when I was not biking through the country, I was reading Mike Breen and Steve Cockram’s book Building a Discipling Culture. I discovered why I seem so prone to adventures like the one noted above. According to the assessment tool in the appendix of the book, I am an “Apostle.” I never thought of myself that way before. However, as I read the description, a few things started to make sense to me. Breen makes the argument that every believer is given one of the five roles found in Ephesians 4:7, 11-13.

But to each one of us grace has been given as Christ apportioned it…It was he who gave some to be apostles, some to be prophets, some to be evangelists, and some to be pastors and teachers, to prepare God’s people for works of service, so that the body of Christ may be built up until we all reach unity in the faith and in the knowledge of the Son of God and become mature, attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ.

Breen describes the Apostles as follows, “It is from the Greek apostolos meaning “one who is sent out.” Apostles are visionary and pioneering, always pushing into new territory. They like to establish new churches and ministries. They come up with new and innovative means to do kingdom work.”

Breen then goes on to describe the pioneering nature of the Apostle and how this spirit of adventure and the resulting changes can be unsettling to those whom he describes as “settlers.” Breen explains “Settlers look to put down roots, while pioneers are hacking through dense jungle growth in search of new territory.”

Breen warns that “The tension between Settlers and Pioneers must be understood and managed to keep from being swallowed by division. Pioneers naturally want to move into new ways and ideas of advancing the kingdom. They are willing to take risks and join the Lord in new endeavors, often long before the settler even knows the Lord is moving in that direction. Off goes the pioneer, with excitement that cannot be contained, but that disturbs the settler who is working to preserve what has been handed down by previous generations. “It worked for them, so it will work for us,” is the settler’s life motto.”

What I realized is that I have entered a whole new territory culturally, economically, and racially during a time of tremendous cultural shifts and have left some behind. They simply cannot see the critical need for new methodology to adapt to this new environment. In short, I have failed to bring people along into this new territory with a new paradigm for doing ministry.

There is no doubt in my mind that God is doing something very exciting across this country and I want Embrace to be a part of this movement of God. Some will want us to follow tried and true paths from the past. Some will see the snarling dogs blocking the road and will want to turn around and stick with the ground we have already gained. I recognize the truth of Breen’s words “Without Settlers we would never keep the frontier that was won by the pioneers. Settlers must come to build and occupy, to maintain and to increase through steady, deliberate efforts.” However, I am a pioneer. I can’t help but take Embrace down unchartered roads that may take us in the wrong direction at times. We may have to travel out of our way, face attack, and feel lost and confused some times. But, I trust that in the long run, we will find the path designed for us. It will not be exactly like anyone else’s path and it will be hard work clearing and claiming this new frontier.

Breen not only helped me see myself, my gifts, and my calling more clearly. He also helped me understand why I often feel misunderstood and why it is so hard for me to explain the things I am seeing to those whose focus is on past experiences. I have learned that if a pioneering ministry is turned over before a new paradigm is firmly in place, it will return to what is tried and true. Breen helped me understand why my unconventional ways seem so dangerous and unnecessary to some and I pray I am more sensitive to these issues in the future and do a better job of stabilizing a ministry before I move on.

Wendy McCaig is the founder and Executive Director of Embrace Richmond (www.embracerichmond.org), an urban ministry in the inner city of Richmond, Va. Her first book From the Sanctuary to the Streets: How the Dreams of One City’s Homeless Sparked a Faith Revolution that Transformed a Community was released earlier this summer. Wendy blogs at www.wendymccaig.com about social justice and Christian practice. (this post first appeared at her blog here)