The Older Brother's Wisdom

When a woman I once knew was fifteen, she was proud and excited to get a waitress job in a restaurant run by her extended family. She worked hard, and was surprised and humiliated when she was told she was doing a rotten job, and fired. Soon afterwards, she received an even more traumatic shock when her father abandoned the family and moved in with a young mistress. As the oldest daughter, she had always carried a heavy load of housework and childcare, and this became even more burdensome. But the deepest anguish was the emotional abandonment at a very vulnerable time of her life, compounded by her mother’s badly handled stress, and her worries about her little sisters.

After a year, her father suddenly moved back home, with no explanation and no apology to the daughters he had traumatized. The hell he had put everyone through was swept under the rug and never spoken of again. And it was many years before anyone bothered to tell her what had been common knowledge among the adults: that she had been an excellent waitress, and was fired only because her father’s mistress worked at the restaurant and he wasn’t ready to go public with his betrayal.

My friend found her way into therapy years later, and with a warrior’s courage, entered the process of grieving and releasing and working through this memory, re-experiencing the anguish and beginning to put together the pieces about just how much damage had been done to her. It became more and more painful to call or visit her parents with this unhealed wound churning within her as she was pressured to obey the three rules of dysfunctional families: don’t talk, don’t trust, and don’t feel. So, after much prayer and preparation with her therapist, she overcame her terror and asked her dad for some time alone. She shared her feelings of grief and anger, honestly but lovingly, and waited, sick to her stomach. Would he respond to the Spirit’s invitation to heal the wounds he had inflicted, whose consequences she still lived with on a daily basis? Or would he compound them by dismissing her feelings and attacking her for speaking the truth?

Tragically, he took the latter course. He angrily told her that the whole situation was long over, and none of her business anyway. He self-righteously proclaimed that he had gone to confession, and apologized to her mother, the only one beside God whose forgiveness he needed. And he ignored and discounted her attempts to explain the terrible damage he had also caused his daughters--both by his initial abandonment, and by forcing them to suppress their feelings and memories when he returned instead of making amends for his behavior. What a tragic missed opportunity for real reconciliation and healing—above all, what a tragic missed opportunity for her father. He had been offered, and refused, greater freedom from the sin that still dwelt in his heart and mind, warping and shrinking them and making him close his ears to the loving, challenging voice of God. My friend left the encounter shaken and in need of comfort, listening, and consolation. But she never regretted her choice to speak the truth, and found increased ongoing freedom in having done so in spite of her father’s hurtful reaction—though not as much, and at a higher cost, than if he had responded appropriately. She demonstrates beautifully for us one of the key truths of today’s Gospel story: the wisdom of the older brother.

I realize that this is a radical way to discuss the story of the Prodigal Son, because the older brother is universally acknowledged to be the villain of the piece. Some homilies I have heard on this Gospel focus on his behavior and how we should avoid it, while others use it to emphasize the extravagant love of the father for both sons and how we should imitate it. But in either case the older brother is almost always branded as judgmental, harsh, and unforgiving--a fool who thinks he can earn God’s love and grace, and a dog in the manger who resents it being offered to others. This interpretation is fostered by an allegorical approach to interpreting parables, which looks for—and stops at--a one to one correspondence between the characters in the parable and in the real life situation the Gospel’s writer frames it with. In this case, the younger son equals the tax collectors and sinners who party with Jesus, the older son equals the Pharisees and scribes who criticize this, and the father equals God. Therefore, the father’s every word and action must be perfect, and the older son’s every word and action wrong, with any pain at the father’s choices due purely to a foolish misunderstanding that was his entirely his own fault.

But scripture scholars remind us that Jesus’ parables are not simplistic allegories, and that the stories that present him explaining them as such—for instance, in the case of the parable of the sower—were almost certainly not historical, but added by later oral or written tradition. So I invite you to take another look at the story with a view to seeing all the characters as real, complex people—especially the older brother. He has been badly hurt by the younger brother’s abandonment and rejection—both emotionally, and by a burdensome extra workload on the farm. Remember that there is now one fewer worker to help, and that a third of the family’s resources have been liquidated and sent off with the younger brother as an advance inheritance. He has been feeling unloved and unappreciated by his father, who may well have responded to losing the younger son by retreating into depression and guilt, lashing out at those left behind, or alternating between the two. And now his brother comes home, apologizes to the father but not to him or anyone else, and the father’s immediate response is to cut off the apology and throw a fabulous party. He doesn't even bother to send anyone to the fields to invite the older son, who finds out what's going on only when he hears the boisterous merrymaking and realizes he has been excluded from the celebration of the year. So the older brother is rightfully afraid that will be the end of the story, that the past will be swept under the rug and no one will ever deal with his very real hurts—that, like my friend and her sisters, he’s being told “don’t talk, don’t trust, and don’t feel.”

And he’s far too wise to do that by burying his pain under a false smile and a party hat. He doesn’t punch his brother in the face; he doesn’t bawl him out; he doesn’t make a nasty speech and ruin the party for everyone else—he just stays outside and gives himself a little time to recover. And, when the father comes out to see if he’s okay, he shares his pain and frustration and need for reassurance—in rather stronger terms than would be ideal, certainly, but understandable given what he'd been through. And luckily for him, his father is very different than my friend’s father: he hears the pain, honors it, and responds with love and reassurance rather than attack and judgment. He invites his son to join the celebration, affirming that their loving welcome to the younger son to still be part of the family and not a servant is the first word--but this doesn’t mean it will be the last. By listening and responding to his concerns rather than shaming him and telling him to shut up, he implicitly assures him that this is the beginning of the story, not the end. Though imperfect, this is a fundamentally healthy family open to grace in which the rules are “do talk, do trust, and do feel.” So the older brother—and we--can trust that there will be many more conversations to come in which everyone can cry, laugh, speak their truth, forgive and be forgiven in a healthy and life-giving way.

The reason I am passionate about breaking out of the usual view of this story is that I have so often heard it used in the course of preaching and teaching about forgiveness that is dangerous at best, and spiritually abusive at worst. Too often both Christian and New Age writers and speakers urge us to achieve instant forgiveness of everyone who has hurt us—even if we are still suffering major damage, they have never apologized or made amends, they minimize the severity of the offense, or deny it happened at all. Careless "cheap grace" preaching on this topic can even result in victims being explicitly or implicitly pressured to "forgive" hurtful behavior that is still taking place, rather than lovingly confronting and challenging it as Jesus did. The most egregious example of this is the clergy—fewer now than in the past, but still out there--who twist Jesus’ words and example to encourage battered women to stay in dangerous situations and accept further physical and sexual abuse of themselves and their children rather than seeking justice. Of course, this does not just hurt the victims, but the abusers, whom God longs to heal and free from their slavery to evil and from the underlying wounds which likely fuel their behavior. Remember that in one of Luke's most important stories of Jesus partying with a tax collector, the Spirit moves Zacchaeus to repay his victims with interest, then give half of his remaining funds to the poor. This is the kind of life-giving forgiveness and joyous transformation that She longs to bring about in our own lives in this season of grace.

Lent is a time to check in with our own hearts and spirits and pray for the grace to know if God is calling us to work through unhealed wounds we have received, or inflicted, or both. As the Spirit guides us to ever-deeper healing and conversion, let’s remember the wisdom of all three members of this family. Like the younger son, let’s repent and ask forgiveness for the hurts we have inflicted on others; like the father, let’s listen and respond to others when they share their feelings of hurt and anger;like the older son, let’s request amends and apologies from those who have hurt us. This is a challenging but liberating process, and if we enter into it with good faith we will move ever closer to the reign of God where, as the psalmist says, mercy and truth will meet, justice and peace will embrace. And, as the Jesus who so loved a party tells us, the very angels in heaven will rejoice.

The Lipstick is Off the Pig

"I am ten years old. My Mom is a priest, I am her acolyte here in our chapel, and I can be a priest too!

So speaks the Holy Spirit through one of Her youngest and--in my admittedly biased opinion--most beautiful vessels: my younger daughter, Katie Rose. She feels no call to ordained ministry and her present aspiration, with her older brother Nick, is to study dentistry and open a practice together. But both know that naming only one worthy of representing Christ to his people is a theological travesty and a mortal sin that grieves and re-crucifies Jesus who said that he suffers in each person who is oppressed.

Our picture and Katie's words appear at a marvelous site begun by Women's Ordination Conference in response to a recent statement by the official papal theologian defending the prohibition of female priesthood. Father Wojciech Giertych caused a firestorm by reverting to long-abandoned claims of male superiority and female inferiority. His words were ludicrous and offensive, but also a huge blessing because, in my husband's incisive response, they took the lipstick off the pig. Giertych's attempt to bolster the status quo instead demonstrated the groundlessness of claims by the hierarchy and conservative laypeople--that their "separate but equal" arguments against women's priesthood neither stem from women's inferiority nor further their oppression.

As a historical theologian and a female Catholic priest, I have often taught and written about women's ministry in Christianity. Arguments against female priesthood, often assumed to be a monolithic repeated chorus, actually vary widely through time. The first in-depth arguments were made by medieval scholastic theologians like Peter Lombard and Thomas Aquinas,and come in three varieties. The first is scriptural: Jesus chose only male apostles and "ordained" them the first priests and bishops at the Last Supper. Countless Scripture scholars, including the Pontifical Biblical Commission in 1976, have demonstrated the weakness of this argument by pointing out the many female disciples, apostles, and early church leaders in the early church. The second is historical: the church has never allowed female priests or bishops, and female "deaconesses" were not truly ordained. This argument has been conclusively disproven Ida Raming and Gary Macy, providing evidence that women were ordained for service for the first millenium of Christianity. The third is misogynist: women are spiritually, intellectually, and physically weaker than men, so are unfit for roles of sacred leadership. This argument is universally recognized as ludicrous and unjust by modern people, so was carefully avoided in official Vatican pronouncements from the 1976 Declaration on the Admission of Women to the Ministerial Priesthood through John Paul II's Mulieres Dignitatem and Inter Insigniores--until Fr. Giertych.

The biggest surprise to modern people is that the most frequently repeated and heavily relied upon contemporary argument, women's supposed inability to represent a male Jesus as "bridegroom" and "head" of the Church, plays a very minor role in medieval writers and their Counter-Reformation successors. These writers, despite their limitations, were far more theologically sophisticated than modern conservative Catholics and enthusiastically embraced female images of both God and human spiritual authority including Sophia/Sapientia, Jesus as Mother, and Mary as priest. Thomas Aquinas even specifically argued that the Incarnation could have occurred, and been fully salvific, in a human female body(though he cannot resist adding that incarnation in the superior sex was more "fitting" to divine dignity). Barbara Newman has demonstrated the tremendous popularity of Sophia/Sapientia, in both male- and female-authored medieval theology, and Thomas specifically argues that the Incarnation could have occurred and been fully salvific in a female body.

When Vatican II and women's ordination in other Christian groups led to widespread calls for women's ordination began in the 1970s, Pope Paul VI re-examined the prohibition. As in the case of family planning and Humanae Vitae, his first step was to appoint an expert theological commission to gather and analyze evidence, and his second to utterly disregard that evidence because he could not bring himself to admit his predecessors' mistakes. The expert scholars of the Pontifical Biblical Commission agreed that Scripture did not warrant banning women from priesthood, while the official CDF HenceThe best analysis of the differences between the Pontifical Biblical Commission's report and the Declaration on t esed largely on scripture, including the women who followed Jesus and led communities in the early church, and concluded that it did not support barring women from priesthood. The historical argument seemed stronger at the time, but has been since been disproven by scholars like Paul VI in his It completely and prudently ignored the inferiority argument, not daring to repeat it in the modern world and not wanting to draw attention to it as a major reason for the prohibition, which would obviously strengthen the case of reformers. Desperate to shore up his weak case, Paul VI turned to the minor argument of Jesus' maleness and promoted it to a major argument, laying the groundwork for John Paul II's further promotion to the first rank argument, now incessantly repeated and elaborated on by conservative theologians and bloggers, in Those theologians and bloggers frequently refer to the work but rarely read it with care, because 95% of it is excellent and clearly grounded in the basics of feminist theology as well as contemporary scripture scholarship. He engages in radiant exegesis of Genesis 1-3, with ringing and powerful affirmations of women's creation in the full image and likeness of God; of the essence of that image being relationality rather than rationality; and the complete orthodoxy of feminine images of God. And he rereads Ephesians 5, in accord with the actual Greek text, to deny all male domination in marriage and call for completely mutual loving subordination between husbands and wives. The dangerous 5% comes when he tries to establish a comprehensible reason that Jesus would have chosen only male disciples, given his complete rejection of Thomas' and Bonaventure's misogynist ones. He turns desperately to the Ephesians passage he has just redeemed and reinscribes a new and equally bankrupt interpretation: that women cannot represent Christ the Bridegroom because they bear no physical resemblance to him. The argument would have some plausibility if Christian liturgies, like that in some pagan communities, were celebrated skyclad--a situation in which typically gendered genitals would be a helpful, if not absolutely crucial, asset to the high priest and priestess. It displays a dramatic failure to understand metaphor in the Christian context in which Jesus can be both lamb and lion, priest and victim--not to mention a dramatic failure to understand biology and a troubling understanding of priesthood in asserting the ability to grow facial hair and pee standing up to be both more physically Christlike and more fitting to a priest than the ability to give life via the breaking open of one's body and blood, then sustain that life from one's own flesh for months as sole source of nourishment and living Eucharist.

Fr. Giertych begins his piece, not surprisingly, by repeating the "only male apostles and never women priests" arguments. But he makes a crucial misstep which should hearten advocates of justice as much as it likely humiliates advocates of oppression when he carries the brilliant John Paul's greatest failure of logic to its natural conclusion: returning to the long-abandoned arguments from inferiority. Perhaps sensing the inadequacy of the bridegroom argument, he instead claims male superiority in the logical thought and repair of church roofs--an argument that might have gained popular support a hundred, or even fifty, years ago but which is obviously ludicrous in a world in which sexism remains but tremendous strides have been made in opening all fields of endeavor to highly qualified and successful women. Unlike a hypothetical counterpart of the past, though, he clearly senses that he is on dangerous ground, so he racks his brain to find something he can praise women for and even suggest their possible superiority to men. His astonishing and heteronormative answer: prayerfulness, relationality, and ease of intimacy with a male Jesus. He thus proceeds from sexism against women to sexism against men and provides--w further evidence that, were there a contest for Christlike priestliness--which no Christian feminist I know would endorse, preferring equality and diversity to reinscribed hierarchy--it would surely be the gender that excels in loving prayerfulness that would defeat the one that fixes roofs!

Living Water

In honor of this week's feast of Jesus' baptism, here is the other new hymn from my Advent retreat. It is dedicated to my sister-friend, the Rev. Dr. Debra Myers of the Association of Roman Catholic Women Priests.

1.Living water from the womb of God
Springing forth from desert sand,
Where a mother fleeing from abuse
Found the way to freedom’s land.
May we see your glory face to face,
Feel and share your saving power,
Claim your justice and your gentle grace,
Bursting forth in radiant flower.

2.Living water from the womb of God
Parting to set captives free,
Where the siblings called to lead them forth
Sang and danced for liberty.
May we use our gifts as you inspire,
Speak your truth to evil’s might,
Cross the desert led by cloud and fire,
Wait with patience for your light.

3.Living water from the womb of God
At the river of rebirth,
Where the cousins born to prophets bold
Cast your fire upon the earth.
May hear our Papa’s loving voice,
Close our ears to tempters’ lies,
Seek your wisdom in each daily choice,
Keep your truth before our eyes.

4.Living water from the womb of God,
At the well in noonday sun,
Where an outcast and a rabbi
Shared the sweet kiss of the One.
May we know your Spirit deep within,
Living water, fiery dove,
Shout your good news to friends, foes, and kin,
Freed to preach and heal and love.

Text: Laura M. Grimes copyright 2012
Tune: Beach Spring 8 7 8 7 D (God of Day and God of Darkness)

If you're not familiar with the lovely tune, you can hear it with different words in this Youtube of God of Day and God of Darkness.

Crown Her With Many Crowns

Here's my latest hymn--conceived at Christ the King but not born till my short but powerful diaconate retreat this past weekend. It's dedicated to the wonderful feminist hymnwriter and thealogian, my sister-friend the Rev. Dr. Jann Aldredge-Clanton.

Crown Her With Many Crowns


1. Crown her with many crowns, Sophia, Queen of all,
Whose justice spreads from east to west at her lifegiving call;
Who brings all things to birth through love that knows no end,
And came in Christ to dwell on earth, our Mother, Lover, Friend.


2. Crown her with many crowns, Sophia, Queen of peace,
Who heals our wounds, transforms our hearts, brings freedom and release;
Who calls us to come home to love that knows no end,
With tender patience while we roam, our Mother, Lover, Friend.


3. Crown her with many crowns, Sophia, Queen of truth,
Who speaks to all through Christ her Son, in midlife, age, and youth;
Who cries out for her poor with love that knows no end,
And comes in strangers at our door, our Mother, Lover, Friend.


4. Crown her with many crowns, Sophia, Queen of night,
Who folds us close in sweet embrace, her face so dark and bright
Who silently draws near in love that knows no end,
And meets us in our doubt and fear, our Mother, Lover, Friend.


5. Crown her with many crowns, Sophia, Queen of love,
Who breathes her Spirit through the spheres, a fiery gentle dove;
Who fills our hearts with mirth and love that knows no end,
That we might tend her sacred earth, our Mother, Lover, Friend.

Text: Laura M. Grimes copyright 2012
Tune: Diademata (Crown Him With Many Crowns)

ARCWP Deacon Ordination!

This past Saturday, on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, I was ordained a Roman Catholic deacon by Bishop Bridget Mary Meehan of the Association of Roman Catholic Women Priests in a small and beautiful home liturgy. She has some lovely pictures on her blog. As a bi-ritual priest who has been validly ordained in the Old Catholic/Independent Catholic movement for 8 years I will continue offering the sacraments at St. Junia's in the time before my priestly ordination into full Roman Catholic succession on Saturday May 25. I welcome your prayers in this special time of transition and spiritual formation.

O Holy Darkness, Loving Womb

The Rev. Dr. Jann Aldredge-Clanton is one of the most gifted contemporary hymnwriters, with a focus on inclusive/exansive divine language and imagery and justice themes. This new video of her Advent hymn "O Holy Darkness, Loving Womb" is a powerful meditation for this beautiful season. For more of Jann's books and hymns--including children's books and coloring books so healing and empowering that they brought me to tears when I first encountered them--visit her website.

Christ the King

"But Father, couldn't you make whichever you like to be the next King?" "No. The King's under the law, for it's the law that makes him a king. Hast no more power to start away from thy crown than any sentry from his post." "Oh dear," said Cor. "I don't want to at all. And Corin--I am most dreadfully sorry. I never dreamed my turning up was going to chisel you out of your kingdom." "Hurrah! Hurrah!" said Corin. "I shan't have to be King. I shan't have to be King. I'll always be a prince. It's princes have all the fun." "And that's truer than thy brother knows, Cor," said King Lune. "For this is what it means to be a king: to be first in every desperate attack and last in every desperate retreat, and when there's hunger in the land (as must be now and then in bad years) to wear finer clothes and laugh louder over a scantier meal than any man in your land."

I find these words from C.S. Lewis's Narnian classic, The Horse and His Boy, a key to a life giving retrieval of the admittedly ambivalent image of Christ the King. A dear friend who is an Independent Catholic bishop recently forwarded me a moving explanation of her jurisdiction's decision not to celebrate this feast. A central reason for this is that it is a relatively recent addition to the liturgical year, and that the concrete circumstances which led to its promulgation included the loss of political power on the part of the Vatican. Proclaiming Christ the King of the Universe and themselves his earthly viceroys propped up an oppressive system, with the despotic authority to grant or withthold the sacraments according to compliance with their dictates. Recent weeks have seen the abuse of that power in both the refusal of confirmation to a faithfilled teen who proclaimed his belief in marriage equality and the excommunication and defrocking of a faithfilled priest who took a stand of justice for his sisters in ministry. So I respect and understand their decision, and am glad that they are holding that prophetic stance.

However, I believe that the image can also be reclaimed in a positive way that empowers, in particular, those who are oppressed by such unjust authority, and I would like to illustrate this position by a tale of two communities and two masses of Christ the King. I spent that feastday two years ago with a small, largely white and middle- to upper-middle class progressive community whose defining mark was its strong advocacy of justice for LGBT persons. It had several male priests who had left the Roman Catholic ministry (as I then believed) because they got married or came out of the closet, and I was the first female priest privileged to preside there. The male priest presiding that week began his homily by announcing that Christ the King was a terrible feastday because each and every king in human history had been cruel and oppressive; any form of power or leadership whatever was inherently oppressive; and true Christianity means denouncing such oppression by recognizing that we are all friends and equals at all times and in every way. During the ensuing discussion period, I felt increasingly uncomfortable as most of the commenters gushed over the wisdom of his pronouncements, especially as I reflected on the fact that he had great, unacknowledged power in that very liturgy--and had seriously abused it. The practice in this community was for the ordained presider to select one or two lay co-presiders each week, but this presider failed to do so for that liturgy,claiming he had been too busy, and turned this irresponsible, disrespectful behavior into a joke. "It's just like the old days, as it should be--Father up here all by himself."

I took a deep breath,prayed for the right words, and explained that while I agreed with the denunciation of the oppressive use of power, I believed that there could also be a healthy use of leadership and power for good. I especially pointed out that as a survivor of clergy sexual abuse I was very aware that it is when we pretend not to have power--as when my undergraduate adviser invited me to use his first name, and deluded himself that because I was a future theologian I was his peer and ripe for sexual exploitation rather than someone entrusted to his care--that power is most likely to be abused. The only other dissenting voice was another woman, one of the few mothers in the group, who shared that her parents had been strong, loving, and wise leaders in her family while she herself had made the mistake of trying to be her children's friend rather than their mother, and that the children had borne the consequences which she was still trying to repair.

Later that year I was horrified to learn that my instincts had been more right than I knew, when I discovered that this presider was in fact the most notorious pedophile of the archdiocese and that the lay and clergy leadership who had fawned over his homily were profoundly complicit in misusing their own power to hide this from the rest of the community. He made a custom of "befriending" boys, then luring them to his private quarters to be plied with drugs and alcohol before molesting them. My heart was broken when I had to tell my children that I had unwittingly taken them to a church where they and other children were in danger, because a progressive group which claimed and intended to break the cycle of spiritual abuse and oppression by the church hierarchy had instead replicated it--including tremendous anger against me as whistleblower when I spoke out to ensure his removal from ministry.

This past week I experienced a very different celebration of "Cristo Rey" at a Spanish mass in the same community. A beautiful old church with German inscriptions in the stained glass windows was packed with working class and working poor Latin@s. There were dozens of children, who streamed up to greet the priest at the sign of peace and preceded him in delighted procession around the church with the Blessed Sacrament at the end of mass, followed by an enthustiastic "aplauso para Jesus." There was a banner in the sanctuary reading "Viva Cristo Rey," the last words of the martyr, Miguel Pro, and after the applause the priest called out those words three times, and was answered by ringing shouts of "Viva!"

Clearly these joyous, hardworking, oppressed people found not further oppression but dignity and empowerment from knowing Jesus was their king. Like the early Christians, and enslaved Africans in this country, who delighted in calling Jesus "Lord" because it meant that the emperor and the slavemaster were not Lord, knowing Jesus as their liberating king gave them hope in the face of an oppressive government and social system. The Gospel's contrast of Pilate's abusive authority with Jesus' empowering stance for truth confirmed their sense of Jesus as their good and liberating king, fighting nonviolently and sacrificing himself for his people, like the king described by C.S. Lewis. Affirming Jesus as king also validated their so often challenged sovereignty over their own lives and their baptismal call to share in his royal--as well as priestly and prophetic--missions by loving leadership and service in their families and community.

This is parallel to what I consider the most exciting development in women's spirituality: adding the empowering image of the good and loving queen to the traditional maiden, mother and crone aspects of God/dess and of women created in her image. Completely denying Jesus as king, or God/dess as queen, out of a laudable concern for justice, can unintentionally deprive oppressed people of a powerful metaphor giving them hope, dignity, and courage as they stand against evil in the loving power of the Holy One. So my prayer is that we who work for renewal and reform of the church can find a way to "detoxify" these traditional images so that they can serve and empower the priestly people of God.

Pentecost Letter to Anglicans Online

Dear friends at Anglicans Online, I was visiting your wonderful site to help locate a midweek service in my town today when I saw the Pentecost/Whitsun reflection stating that “all of them” in the account of Acts 2 referred only to the 12 apostles. This is most likely not the case, since Acts 1 mentions two larger groups of disciples: 1) the usual small community of the eleven (before Matthias’ election) plus Mary, mother of Jesus; his brothers; and several women disciples most likely including Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Susanna and the “many other women” disciples mentioned in Luke 7 and 2) a larger group of 120 (about 100 added to this smaller group), probably including additional women as well as men. It is highly likely that the mention of all in Acts 2 specifically refers back to one of these larger groups, especially as Peter specifically points out that the Pentecost miracle fulfills Joel’s prophecy that both old and young men and women would be filled with the Holy Spirit. There is a mention in Acts 2 of Peter speaking while standing with the eleven but that is more likely means he was standing up front with the symbolic leaders representing the 12 tribes of Israel rather than indicating only male disciples received the Holy Spirit, given that he immediately claims the fulfillment of Joel’s prophecy when he speaks. The importance of this detail is that there is a long history of ignoring women disciples of Jesus and claiming he only had 12 male disciples/apostles when scripture clearly states that the group was coed and much larger (think of the 70/72 he sent out to preach and heal, which Eastern Orthodox tradition believes includes my patroness, St. Junia, and her husband St. Andronicus, mentioned in Romans 16 along with many other female disciples by Paul and likely present at Pentecost as well)…Similar to naming Paul as an apostle though he never knew Christ in his earthly life and neglecting the apostolic call and status of Mary Magdalene who also saw Christ risen as well as following him faithfully, Junia through mistranslation as Junias, and so on. And, as you know, this has been a key part of excluding women from ordained leadership in Christian communities at the priestly and/or episcopal levels as well as diminishing the Spirit-filled ministry of teaching and prophecy that lay Christians exercise by virtue of their baptism and confirmation in comparison to that of those ordained to equip the saints for ministry. Interestingly, though much church art perpetuates the mistaken exegesis of the Pentecost story—especially in Protestant churches (like the Lutheran one where I preached this very sermon this past Pentecost)—Catholic churches and art often include Mary with the 12 men due to their emphasis on her as well as the clear parallel Luke is drawing between the beginning of his Gospel where she conceives Jesus through the Holy Spirit and the beginning of Acts where the whole church is born through the Holy Spirit. And some, for instance a large and beautiful window in Sacred Heart Basilica on the University of Notre Dame campus, where I did my graduate theological work, show the more scriptural and empowering picture of a large and diverse group of female and male disciples. As an Old Catholic/Independent Catholic priest who grieved through her confirmation as an RC teenager fully aware of her call to ordained service and its denial through the lie that Jesus called and chose only men, I am passionate about empowering women and girls with the knowledge of their too often forgotten presence in Scripture and tradition, including this key moment in church history. Please consider modifying your front page to include this information, at least as a strong possibility rather than the certainty presently expressed that there were only 12 male disciples to receive the Holy Spirit. I am also posting it at my chapel blog (St. Junia the Apostle!) and I would be delighted if you linked to it, quoted from it, or otherwise used my words in whole or part with appropriate credit to share the Good News of women’s integral place in the ministry of Jesus, the early church, and the church through the ages to today. Thank you for your consideration. In the joy of the risen Christ and the given Spirit, Rev. Dr. Laura M. Grimes

We Are the Body of Christ

We Are the Body of Christ

[Sung] Birth from our bodies, as birth of Christ’s Spirit, bringing life to the world.

We are the body of Christ: birthing, feeding, touching, weeping;
We are the body of Christ: mending, bleeding, healing, dancing;
Glorify God in our bodies, dance with God through our lives.

These powerful words, which I first heard sung in college, were written by Colleen Fulmer as part of her thesis project for the Master of Theological Studies degree at the Franciscan School of Theology in Berkeley. Colleen speaks of the bittersweet experience of her graduation after several years of study with a talented group of colleagues. The men were ordained and began their lives of priestly service. The women, who had been through the same education and spiritual formation, and were often the most mature and gifted members of the group, were not. Colleen worked in lay ministry in the Roman Catholic church for many years, and ultimately answered the Spirit’s call to ordained ministry by becoming a United Methodist pastor. Her albums provide empowerment and inspiration to lay and ordained women of all denominations as we seek to know ourselves as truly in God’s image, and to share God’s love and justice with the world.

[Sung] Our breastmilk in nursing, as blood from Christ’s side, quenching thirst by grace.

We are the body of Christ: birthing, feeding, touching, weeping;
We are the body of Christ: mending, bleeding, healing, dancing;
Glorify God in our bodies, dance with God through our lives.

I’m guessing that I am the only Catholic priest on the planet to sing this song in a Corpus Christi homily today. You think? It probably sounds like more of Mother Laura’s radical feminist theology, and it is. But it is also deeply traditional, and absolutely in line with the theology and spirituality of the middle ages, the time that gave us the treasured feast we celebrate today: the Solemnity of the Body and Blood of Christ. This liturgical celebration grew directly out of the Eucharistic devotion of medieval women, especially Juliana of Mt. Cornillion, and was officially accepted due to the advocacy of male priests and theologians who respected her wisdom and holiness. In the Bible, Jesus speaks of himself as a loving mother hen protecting and sheltering us. And both male and female medieval mystics often wrote of Jesus as Mother, whose death on the cross was labor pains to give us life, and whose gift of his own real presence in the consecrated bread and wine is most closely resembled in human experience by a mother nursing her child. Knowing this tradition of our church gave me the strength to take up my vocation in the face of claims that I, and other women, cannot physically image Christ to his people. Because there are only a few people in this church who have had their body broken open and their blood poured out to give life to other human beings. And, no offense to Bishop Tom, Fr. Chris, or any of our other beloved brothers in Christ—unless we are lucky enough to have a living organ donor among us--I am thinking that they’re not men.

[sung] Tears from our eyes, as those shed by Christ, washing darkness away.
We are the body of Christ: birthing, feeding, touching, weeping;
We are the body of Christ: mending, bleeding, healing, dancing;
Glorify God in our bodies, dance with God through our lives.

This wonderful feastday we celebrate, like so many good things, also has a shameful history that we as Catholic Christians need to acknowledge and repent. Miri Rubin, a scholar at Cambridge, has a book called Corpus Christi which points out that at the same time as devotion to the Blessed Sacrament increased in the Middle Ages, violence and cruelty toward Jews skyrocketed, based on false rumors that they desecrated hosts and kidnapped and murdered Christian children. After the Reformation, processions such as we will celebrate at the close of mass were sometimes abused as a militant public taunt against our Protestant sisters and brothers for not believing “correct” Eucharistic theology. These sinful uses of Christ’s body and blood have their root in a blindness that confines it to the consecrated bread and wine alone, and ignores the two other crucial meanings of the Body of Christ. The first is the Christian community, everyone throughout time and space who is baptized in water or by desire through confessing faith in Christ. The second is the poor, rejected, and suffering people of the entire world, whatever their race, religion, country, or sexual orientation. Because Christ said in Matthew’s Gospel that he is present in those who hunger and thirst, who are imprisoned or naked. If we love and help them, we love and help him; if we persecute and bomb them, we persecute and bomb him. Our failure to speak and act for justice for the people God made, died for, and loves, is a sin against Christ’s body that makes God weep. Letting them waste away from AIDS when we have inexpensive medication available is no different than trampling the sacred host under our feet. Spilling their blood in an unjust war is no different than pouring the precious blood from this beautiful chalice into a sewer.

[sung] Bread from our hands, as loaves shared by Christ, feeding all those in need.
We are the body of Christ: birthing, feeding, touching, weeping;
We are the body of Christ: mending, bleeding, healing, dancing;
Glorify God in our bodies, dance with God through our lives.

Today’s scripture readings remind us of all the meanings of the Body of Christ which today’s feast calls us to honor. The Hebrew Bible reading from Genesis recalls the peaceful sacrifice of Melchizedek, king of Jerusalem, who honored God with bread and wine rather than the spilled blood of a slaughtered animal. The letter of St. Paul to the Corinthians retells the story of the Last Supper, when Jesus told us to bless and break and share the feast in living memory of him. And the Gospel reading shows Jesus blessing and breaking and sharing bread, along with fish, with a multitude of hungry people after he had healed their bodies and fed their souls with the Word of God. When he tells the disciples to give the people something to eat, they protest that it’s impossible, that there isn’t enough to share, that they just can’t do it. And that is how we so often feel in looking at the tremendous evil and suffering in our world: hunger, poverty, war; racism, sexism, homophobia. Our despair increases when we look beyond the human family to see the animals and plants and our sacred earth itself, which theologian Sally McFague calls the body of God, being threatened by pollution, deforestation, extinction of species, and global warming. It’s impossible, we think; there isn’t enough to share; we just can’t do it. And all those things are true. If all we have to rely on is our own wisdom and power and strength, it is impossible: there isn’t enough to share, and we just can’t do it. So thank God that, like the disciples, we don’t have to face the world’s suffering under our own wisdom and power and strength. Because through the weakness and foolishness of the God who chose to take on our frail flesh to consummate a loving union with humanity, we have dwelling within us and among us the very wisdom and power and strength of God’s Spirit. The Spirit is the one who comes upon the bread and wine to consecrate them and transform them into Christ’s body and blood, and who comes upon us to consecrate us and deepen our union with Christ and each other. She will open our eyes to Christ’s presence in all people, including ourselves, and in the world. She will move our hearts to share what we have and risk our comfort and security for the sake of justice. And she will give us strength to discern and follow through on the concrete actions we are each called to take to honor the Body of Christ –not just here in church, but, as Mother Teresa said, in the distressing disguise of the poorest of the poor. As we approach this altar and stretch out our hands to receive the blessed body and blood of our Lord, let’s rededicate ourselves as the people of God, the Body of Christ, to carrying on his saving work in the world he loves. “You, my sisters and brothers, my friends and disciples, you give them something to eat.”

Fire from Heaven

Elijah sermon from a couple of years ago.

In the name of the holy and blessed Trinity: Lover, Beloved and Spirit of Love.

Please be seated.

In today’s first reading, the prophet Elijah calls his disciple, Elisha, after hearing the still, small voice of God on the holy mountain. Last Sunday, my daughter Katie and I also met God on a mountain. We were spending a wonderful week in Portland, Oregon, and capped it by a very challenging and very rewarding achievement: hiking to the top of Multnomah Falls. For those who haven't been to the area, Multnomah Falls is a stunningly beautiful place--the second highest year round waterfall in the United States. It's only a mile and a quarter to the top, but what a mile and a quarter...practically straight up a cliff. Katie scampered happily up, though she was tired by the way down, but these middle aged lungs and knees had a much harder time on the ascent!

As I walked and rested my way up the eleven, count them, switchbacks, I got to thinking about today's Scripture readings about Elijah and Jesus and their disciples. And it occurred to me that discipleship is a lot like climbing a mountain. It can be very hard work; sometimes you wonder why you signed on; sometimes you wonder if you can go on any farther; sometimes you want to give up....And yet, when you have those mountain top experiences of seeing the glory of God's love in creation in a new way and taking grateful pride in your achievement, it's all worth it. And even on the path itself, facing the challenges and griefs as well as the joys together with God, and God's people, makes all the difference.

As Katie and I climbed Multnomah Falls, we were amazed by the spirit of community among the many people of different races and languages climbing with us--an example of healthy discipleship and a foretaste of God's reign in that lovely place. Faster moving people waited patiently for slower ones, and slower climbers moved aside to allow passing by the swift; small children, and sometimes small dogs, who got tired were lovingly picked up and carried; and encouraging words were shared with strangers and friends alike. As we look more deeply into today's lessons, I would encourage you to reflect on your own experiences of mountain climbing discipleship--literal or spiritual--and see how God is wanting to reveal God's loving presence to you more deeply at this time on our common journey.

Today's first reading from First Kings, when Elijah calls his disciple Elisha, is a followup to Elijah's conversation with God on Mt. Horeb. Elijah complains to God about being alone and persecuted in his prophetic work. So God tells him to anoint Elisha to be his friend and coworker, just as Jesus called disciples to help in his sacred work: Peter, Mary Magdalene, James and John and their mother Salome, and many others--some named in Scripture and some nameless followers like the ones Jesus speaks to in today's Gospel. We too, through our baptism, are called to be faithful friends and partners of Jesus in preaching the good news of God's reign, fighting evil, healing the wounded, and serving the poor. We each do this in our own unique way--in our families and friendships, in our professional work and that in our own homes, in our volunteer work in the community and here in our parish, in our prayer and reflection and care for ourselves and others. We can learn a lot from Jesus' first disciples--sometimes what we should do as modern disciples and sometimes, like today, what we shouldn't!

The first part of today's Gospel is found only in Luke, a Gentile who emphasized Jesus' reaching out to people who were outcasts and foreigners. Jesus and the disciples travel through Samaria, where the people follow another form of Judaism and worship in their own temple on Mt. Gerizim. The Samaritans are hated and considered heretics by Jews who worship in Jerusalem, and hate them in return. Luke tells us that the Samaritans refused hospitality to Jesus and his friends because they were on the way to Jerusalem. So James and John suggest to Jesus that they call down fire from heaven to immolate the villagers! Needless to say, Jesus is not in favor of this suggestion, and sharply rebukes them. In fairness to the sons of Zebedee, though, they did not come up with the "fire from heaven" idea out of nowhere. They were just following the example of one of the greatest prophets of the Old Testament...you guessed it...Elijah!

In this ninth chapter of his Gospel, Luke makes a point of comparing Jesus to Elijah, with three separate mentions. First, King Herod hears about Jesus' miracles, and the fact that the common people are speculating that he may be Elijah or John the Baptist returned from the dead. He wants to question Jesus--perhaps execute him, as he did John the Baptist--but Jesus slips from his grasp. Next, Jesus is praying--a common scene in Luke--and when his disciples join him asks them who the people say that he is. Elijah or John the Baptist, they say again, and when Peter identifies him correctly as the Messiah Jesus makes the first prediction of his passion and says that his disciples too must be prepared to face suffering for doing what is right. Finally, on the mountain of the Transfiguration, Peter and James and John behold Jesus in his glory and see Elijah himself--a symbol of prophecy--and Moses--a symbol of the Law--speaking to him. They hear the voice of God telling them to listen to Jesus--but they don't! For in the short verses between the Transfiguration story and today's Gospel Jesus says three things that they just don't get.

First, he predicts his passion again; they don't understand, and don't want to, so they don't ask him to clarify. Second, the disciples argue about who is the greatest, and Jesus shows them a little child as an example of humility and gentleness. Finally, they see a person casting out demons in Jesus' name. Instead of rejoicing in God's power and the liberation of those oppressed by evil, they jealously try to stop him because he is not in their group. Yet again, Jesus sighs and tries to show them a better way.

The disciples don't get it, perhaps, because they are so aware of the ways that Jesus is like Elijah that they don't get the ways that he is very different from Elijah. Both heal the sick and multiply food for the poor; both fearlessly speak truth to power and call people out for not following God's ways. But Elijah has no time for the love, forgiveness and humility that Jesus practices and preaches. In the passage just before this week's first reading, Elijah complains that Queen Jezebel is persecuting him for speaking God's Word. True enough. But he fails to mention what really ticked her off--his slaughter of 450 prophets of Baal. Later on, King Ahaziah is annoyed by Elijah's criticisms and sends a troop of fifty soldiers to bring him in for questioning. Elijah calls fire from heaven to burn up them and their captain, then another group of fifty soldiers and their captain! This is quite the contrast to Jesus coming quietly when arrested, and even healing the ear of the high priest's servant when Peter slices it off. A third group is spared the flames only when their captain pleads for their lives, and God speaks to Elijah telling him to knock off the violence and get to the palace. Some early manuscripts of Luke even highlight the comparison by having James and John suggest to Jesus that they burn up the Samaritans "as Elijah did."

In the second part of today's Gospel, we see that while Jesus is softer on his enemies than Elijah, he is a bit harder on his disciples. In today's first reading Elijah accepts Elisha's request to go home and bid farewell to his family before leaving on his mission. Jesus though, aware of how little time he has left, refuses the same request from his third prospective disciple. This is the one interchange missing from Mark and Matthew's parallel version of the story; perhaps it was even included here precisely to recall Elijah's call to Elisha, and the ways in which Jesus both resembles and does not resemble him. It sounds harsh, but reminds us to seek first the reign of God, to put Jesus before all other commitments, and to be willing to leave even good things if they conflict with his particular call in our lives. Similarly, Jesus warns his first prospective disciple that he, and those who follow him, have left the comforts of home to be always on the move for God.

Jesus' interaction with his second prospective disciple is the most confusing and off-putting, at least to me. "Lord, let me bury my father first." "Let the dead bury their own dead--you follow me." I have always pictured this as a person whose father has just died, who is asking for just a few hours to go to the funeral. How could Jesus be so heartless? As I was preparing this sermon, though, I found a commentary which made sense of it to me. It suggested that the person's father is alive and well, and that what they are saying is: "I'll follow you, Jesus, after my father dies--say, in ten or twenty years. And maybe I'll have a nice inheritance, so we can find some great hotels on the way."

If this commentator is correct, Jesus doesn't ask us to do the impossible, or the needlessly painful--though it sometimes feels like that in the midst of a real struggle or sacrifice. He just asks us to follow him without delay when he does call, and to be willing to leave behind anything--or anyone--who stops us from answering our call with fidelity and generosity and holiness. And any sacrifice that we make is balanced, hopefully healed and consoled, by the tremendous joy of knowing God's love through an intimate relationship with Jesus, and the love and companionship of his Body--our Christian brothers and sisters, and all who seek God in paths of goodwill.

I am guessing that each person in this room has lived this path of sacrificial and joyful discipleship in his or her own way--sometimes with more sacrifice, which should call forth more support from the community, and sometimes with more joy, which enables to give that support in our turn. I know that my husband and I have lived both in the many adventures of the twenty-one years since we pledged our love and common discipleship at God's altar, before God's people. In the joys and sorrows alike, I try to keep my eyes firmly fixed on Jesus and my heart open to his still, small voice and his true and loving presence in his holy people, his holy Word, and at his holy Table. As we all answer his call to receive and share that loving presence once more this week, let's open ourselves ever more deeply to the real fire from heaven--the Holy Spirit who fills our hearts with God's love and enables us to share that love with the whole world.

I am Hannah

Here's a creative homily for the Feast of the Holy Family, some years back.

Come in, little one, sit down. Have a cup of wine, and some of these cakes I baked this morning. I know, I know, you’re not my little granddaughter anymore—you’re a lovely young maiden preparing for your wedding. It seems like just yesterday that my miracle child stood under the marriage canopy—and now her firstborn is becoming a woman. Yes, it’s your mother I’m talking about. I know, your uncle Samuel is the one everyone talks about. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. Every child is a miracle. And your mother was the first one I got to see grow up. Samuel went away so young…

What was it like? You know the story--I must have told it to you children a hundred times. Everyone in Israel knows how God sent the prophet Samuel, the last of the judges, the kingmaker and kingbreaker—the wise women in the villages love to spin the tale, and the scribes at court have written it all down. What was it really like?…Well, it’s true that the scribes don’t know everything. And there were things I left out of your bedtime stories. All right, then, your wedding present from Grandmother Hannah. The whole story—it’s not all pretty, but it’s the truth. And, God forbid, should you have a like suffering, it may give you the strength to see it through.

There is no pain on earth like being a barren woman. Watching your sisters and friends give their husbands children, listening to endless hints from his parents, seeing the pity and the questions in the neighbors’ eyes. Does he even bother going in to her anymore? How long before he sends her back to her family and tries again with a real woman? Elkanah didn’t divorce me, I’ll give him that. Most men would have. He did love me—but he didn’t understand. “Why is your heart sad? Am I not more than you to than ten sons?” I wasn’t more to him than ten sons, or he never would have taken Peninnah as his second wife. Each year we’d make the trip to sacrifice at Shiloh, and a sword would pierce my heart when Elkanah gave the first portions to her and her sons and daughters. Then he’d try to console me by giving me a double portion, and Penninah would take it out on me later. I couldn’t blame her, really--it told everyone that she only mattered to him as a brood mare. I don’t know which of us was more humiliated.

The Lord had closed my womb—that’s how the scribes tell it. And that’s what I thought, then, too. So I prayed and begged, I cried and screamed, I asked what I was doing wrong, and finally I struck a bargain. After the yearly sacrifice, I slipped into the temple to make one last, desperate prayer. If God gave me a son I would offer him back, dedicate him to the Lord for life as a Nazirite. My eyes were closed and my lips moved silently, demanding an answer. “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” At first Eli the priest thought I was drunk—as if God couldn’t hear me, because he couldn’t! But then he joined his prayers to mine, without even asking what I sought, and peace finally descended on my heart. I went back to join in the feasting, and when my husband came in to me, I was sure that I had finally conceived.

Elkanah was ecstatic; Peninnah was jealous and insecure; and I spent the months of my pregnancy torn between fierce joy and terrible grief. Why had I made that foolish vow? I could keep the child till he was weaned—two or three years, four at most—and then he would go to live in the temple and I’d only see him once a year. What would Elkanah say when I told him? Maybe I’d have a girl, and I’d never have to--I hadn’t promised to offer up a daughter. But when my pains came I birthed a son. I saw the joy in Elkanah’s eyes on the day of Samuel’s naming and circumcision, and kept my vow in the silence of my heart. I nursed him myself--let the servant girls do the cleaning and cooking, or help Peninnah with her brood! I prayed with bittersweet gratitude as he drank from my breasts in the enfolding darkness of the night, or the bright sunlight of our busy mornings. “Speak, Lord, your handmaid is listening.” I wrestled with the Lord, dreading the day I would have to let Samuel leave the circle of my arms. And slowly I began to sense that this child had his own destiny to fulfill—that my long years of anguish had been preparation for something more important than another worker with the fields or the herds. If Samuel’s birth was as extraordinary as Isaac’s, or Jacob’s, maybe his life would be too.

I finally told Elkanah and Peninnah about my vow when the baby was a year old, and the time came for the trip to Shiloh. They were confused when I refused to go with the family, and shocked when I told them the reason. There would be time enough for sacrifice when Samuel was weaned—my home had become my temple, and for now I would worship with him there. Elkanah’s mouth dropped open, and his brow furrowed with anger. I found myself in a sudden panic. Would he annul my vow? The law gave him that power. It decreed that a man’s word to God was irrevocable, but a woman’s only as good as her father’s or husband’s whim. I had thought many times that that I would welcome that way out of my sacrifice—and I found to my surprise that my long struggle with the Holy One had transformed it to a freely chosen offering. It was an answering gift to the one whose motherly compassion I had come to know through my love for my child. I looked hard at Elkanah, daring him to forbid me, and before he could speak Penninah cut him off. “We have six children, and Hannah only one. If she can give him up, you can do no less.” Then she added, “Besides, you know what the priests say happens when you offer your first fruits to the Lord. Now that her womb has opened, wouldn’t you like it to stay that way?” Elkanah looked at each of us, then nodded slowly and said with quiet resignation, “Do what seems best to you. And may the Lord establish the word that has been spoken.”

Two more yearly festivals passed until the joyous, heartbreaking day when we all traveled together to Shiloh. Samuel was a solemn, beautiful child, wearing the linen garment I had woven for him. Elkanah slaughtered the sacrificial bull, and Eli looked to him for the ritual words dedicating Samuel to the service of God. I never loved my husband more than when he calmly returned the priest’s gaze and shook his head. Eli’s puzzled eyes searched our circle for another adult male. They lit upon Peninnah’s oldest son, standing between his mother and his shy young bride, but the young man followed his father’s example and remained silent. Finally the priest noticed that every face in our family looked expectantly at me, and his smile grew to match theirs as my voice rang out with triumph. “As you live, my lord, I was the woman who was standing here in your presence, praying to the Lord. For this child I prayed; and the Lord has granted me my petition which I made. Therefore I have lent him to the Lord; as long as he lives, he is lent to the Lord.”…

What was that, darling? Then I wasn’t sad anymore? Oh, yes, I was, many
times. Your mother and the other children were a tremendous comfort, but they didn’t replace seeing my firstborn grow up. I worried he would forget me, or his brothers and sisters would resent him, even as I was proud of all he did for our people, and the part I had played in it. In choosing Samuel God chose our whole family, and we all made our peace with that in a different way. All we could do was keep talking, and fighting, and listening to God--and to each other--and to God in each other. And that, little one, is the blessing I will always pray for you and the family you are about to create with your beloved. Speak, Lord, for your servants are listening.

Arise, Shine!

Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of our God has risen upon you...Nations shall come to your light, and kings to the brightness of your dawn.
Isaiah 60: 1-3http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

Blessings for Epiphany! Here is a sermon/reflection which was first posted on a great feminist theology blog in 2008.

It may come as no surprise that I have plenty of sharp theological disagreements with the late Pope John Paul II. However, I personally consider one of his greatest achievements to be adding the “Luminous Mysteries” to the traditional Joyful, Sorrowful, and Glorious Mysteries of the rosary.

This new set of scriptural meditation themes treats key episodes of Jesus’ adult life and ministry, previously neglected in the leap from the Finding in the Temple to the Agony in the Garden. The visit of the Magi celebrated on Epiphany is not one of the luminous mysteries, but two of them have traditionally been associated with it. All five fulfill and unfold the promise of Epiphany: the shining forth of God’s love in the world through Christ, for us, and through us. The Baptism of Jesus in the Jordan; his turning water into wine at the Wedding Feast at Cana; the Proclamation of the Reign of God; the Transfiguration; and the institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper. Each of these stories adds another facet to our understanding of the epiphany, the manifestation, of divine love in the world—and of the varying human responses to that profoundly challenging radiance.

One answer to God’s self-revelation in the newborn Christ comes from the Magi who endure arduous travel to a strange land to worship and offer gifts to the holy child. Another comes from Herod, massacring uncounted children in his determination to wipe out the one who threatened the power rooted in his corrupt bargain with the Roman invaders. We who hold power and privilege in this suffering, unjust world are always poised on the knife edge between the Magi and the Herod within as we face the growing demands for justice from the majority of the world, to whom it is denied. We too often take the path of Herod by engaging in violence of one sort or another to keep from handing over some of what we unjustly possess. And we often outsource the violence as he did to his troops, making it possible to lie to ourselves and others about the consequences of our choices.

Matthew’s story is familiar to us—probably too familiar, since we tend to read it through the lens of “We Three Kings” and the Nativity scenes that many churches and families have set up during this Christmas season. Caspar, Melchior, and Balthasar: three gold-crowned kings and their accompanying camels, lending an exotic touch to the more mundane sheep and shepherds, ox and donkey. But none of the details usually taken for granted is actually present in the scriptural text. The Greek word Magi, often translated “Wise Men,” more accurately means astrologers or astronomers, likely from Persia, who observed the star and calculated its trajectory. (I am writing this from my college best friend’s house; a brilliant teacher of high school science and math, she just remarked that her favorite part of this feast is God revealing Godself to people who paid close and reverent attention to nature and to numbers).

The identification as kings probably came from the themes of the competing kingship of Herod and the child Jesus in the passage, as well as from Isaiah 60, the prophetic background text from which today’s Hebrew Bible lesson is taken. There is no mention of how many Magi were on the trip. Western Christians hypothesized three to correspond with the gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh; but the Eastern Orthodox have traditionally assumed the popular scriptural number of twelve. And there is no reason to believe that all the Magi, any more than all the shepherds, were necessarily male, though Nativity scenes overwhelmingly make both assumptions. A moving portrayal of the whole world to which Christ came, shown in the racial diversity of the kings who represent the Gentiles in balance to the Israelite shepherds…until you notice that the world’s female population has only one representative.

A thin, blonde woman, garbed in immaculate blue to match her eyes, kneeling and gazing down worshipfully at the serene child in the manger. These artistic portrayals reflect misogynistic medieval visions—most of them, sadly, by female mystics—portraying the sacred and courageous labor of birth for every woman except Mary as a shameful punishment inherited from Eve and the locus of transmission of the sin of the world. The kneeling Barbie in the Nativity scene reflects those visions of Jesus painlessly teleporting out of his mother’s intact body, as he later materialized through locked doors after his resurrection. No more contrary picture could be found to the reality of birth, as anyone who has given birth or assisted another to do so will readily recall. An accurate portrayal would show the dark-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed, Jewish Mother of God lying sweaty and exhausted on the hay, her stomach still distended to appear four or five months pregnant and her loins dripping with precious blood. She would simultaneously delight in her child’s embrace and sigh with frustration as she missed her mother and tried to figure out how to wrestle her milk-swollen teenaged breast into his tiny squalling mouth.

Our seemingly harmless Nativity scenes obliterate the true identity of the woman of color whose love and courage made possible the Incarnation. And Christians, even those who pride ourselves on being progressive and committed to justice, likewise obliterate too often the shining reality of God’s image manifested in so much of the humanity that Jesus embraced. Men grudgingly share scraps of leadership in church and society with women. Whites continue our hegemonic assertion of normative humanity, verbally opposing injustice while enjoying its results and doing little to counter it. Straights sacrilegiously hog the rights, duties, and graces of both civil and sacramental marriage. The temporarily abled build an infrastructure which hurls roadblocks in the path of the disabled, then attribute these to physical or mental differences in the other rather than failure of creativity and courage in themselves. And we in the tiny percentage of the world that controls most of its wealth close our eyes to daily massacres of children through war, famine, and preventable disease which far outstrip Herod’s.

We who celebrate the luminous mysteries of Christ--the wise strangers who recognize his chosen status, the voice of God calling him beloved in the river and on the mountain, his proclaiming the overturning of the world’s structures and using his transforming power to begin that, and his self-gift in the humblest elements of his people’s ritual meal—are called to live those out in the world. To recognize the beauty and sacredness within ourselves and those who are different; to hear the voice of God naming all people as beloved; to overturn the unjust rule of the powers and principalities, beginning in ourselves; and to pour ourselves out for the world’s physical and spiritual hunger and thirst. And so our light will shine, and God’s glory will shine forth through and for us all.

Merry Christmas!

So nice to see a non-Docetic Nativity with Mary doing what new mamas actually do: snuggling with her baby and catching some sleep after the ordeal of labor and in between learning to breastfeed!

Inclusive Genealogy of Jesus

From the Divine Feminine Version of the New Testament's Good News According to the Tradition of Matthew, with as many mothers added as could be reconstructed.

This is the genealogy of Jesus Christ, the son of Bathsheba and David, the son of Sarah and Abraham.

2Sarah and Abraham became the parents of Isaac,
Rebekah and Isaac of Jacob,
Leah and Jacob of Judah and his sister and brothers,
3and Tamar and Judah of Perez and Zerah.
Perez became the father of Hezron,
Hezron of Ram,
4Ram of Amminadab,
Amminadab of Nahshon,
Nahshon of Salmon,
5and Rahab and Salmon became the parents of Boaz.
Ruth and Boaz became the parents of Obed.
Obed became the father of Jesse,
6and Jesse of King David.

Bathsheba and David became the parents of Solomon,
7Naamah and Solomon of Rehoboam,
and Maacah and Rehoboam of Abijah.
Abijah became the father of Asa,
8and Azubah and Asa became the parents of Jehoshaphat.
Jehoshaphat became the father of Joram,
And Athaliah and Joram became the ancestors of Uzziah.
9Jerusha and Uzziah became the parents of Jotham,
and Jotham became the father of Ahaz.
Abijah and Ahaz became the parents of Hezekiah,
10Hephzibah and Hezekiah of Manasseh,
Meshullmeth and Manasseh of Amon,
Jedidah and Amon of Josiah,
11and Zebidah and Josiah of Jechoniah and his sisters and
brothers, at the time of the exile toBabylon.

12After the exile to Babylon, Jechoniah became the father of
Shealtiel,
and Shealtiel became the grandfather of Zerubbabel.
13Zerubbabel became the father of Abiud,
Abiud of Eliakim,
Eliakim of Azor,
14Azor of Zadoc,
Zadoc of Achim,
Achim of Eliud,
15Eliud of Eleazar,
Eleazar of Matthan,
Matthan of Jacob,
16and Jacob became the father of Joseph, the husband of Mary,
the mother of Jesus, who is the Christ.

17So all the generations from Sarah and Abraham to Bathsheba and David are fourteen generations; from Bathsheba and David to the exile to Babylon fourteen generations; and from the carrying away to Babylon to the Christ, fourteen generations.