I’m looking for her.
I rounded the cobblestone arch of the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, Scotland and caught my breath at the sight of St. Giles Cathedral. Surprised by my tears, I whisked them away as I walked up the steps and slipped in the front door. I was overwhelmed with the ornate stonework, columns, arches, elaborate stained glass windows and massive pipe organ. Many people wandered about, but a solemn hush permeated the centuries-old building.
I roamed the corridors, pausing to meld together the stained-glass stories depicted before me, looking for you. I read the carefully etched names on the walls, looking for her. I stood in the aisles, waiting. I sat in the chairs, listening for me. I was enveloped in 12th-century man’s attempt to capture the attention of God and I saw no sign of me anywhere.
I looked for her. I listened for you. I wanted to see myself.
Twenty years ago, I studied European women in the Middle Ages who chose monastic lives to pursue the calling of God. Inspired by their tenacity and moved by their fervour I felt I’d come full circle, expecting to see glimpses of them in all medieval architecture. Women had walked the cobblestone streets outside the cathedral, had worshiped surrounded by these stone arches, some had written about their understanding of scripture, but I saw no evidence of them here. Instead, I was acutely aware that there was no place for me in the hierarchy and religious order of the Medieval church.
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I grew up in a church where women’s roles were relegated to teaching Sunday School, singing in the choir and playing the piano and organ. But from time to time, our church would hold Missions Sundays; part of the appeal of these special events for me was that many of these missionaries were independent women leaders. I was in awe of these women, often alone or in pairs working in foreign countries. They would come from all over the world and tell us their stories of following God by creating programs that addressed the needs of those in their communities and living out trust adventures. God always provided for their needs at the last possible moment. They witnessed lives and communities changed and participated in a cause bigger than themselves. They would tell us these stories from the floor below the platform where they were allowed to “share”. Yes, we noticed. God lead and directed them, and children, women and men followed their leadership. With bated breath, I listened as they clicked through each slide in their presentations, the hum of the projector amplified the excitement in my heart as I imagined what it would be like to live a life for God like these passionate, adventurous, strong, and courageous women. I was looking for her.
I spent my formative years looking for her: behind the church podium, running the board meeting, making the decisions, leading the people. I was looking for her, I was listening for you, I was finding myself.
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I read through the entire Old Testament in 10 weeks; combing those thin paper pages for her voice, desperately looking for your story and mine. Reading through Second Isaiah I heard the prophetic describing her brutalized, exposed suffering and her demand for change. I recognized her in you, sitting in my office chair pouring out your heart. The more I read, the more uncomfortable I became struggling to believe you could be there on the page of these ancient texts crying out for change and repentance. Could this be your voice (Isaiah 51 & 52)? I ignored our voice in my discomfort, my dear sister, friend, daughter, mother; I turned the page.
Later, I sat with tears streaming down my cheeks as I realized I had pushed you out of my office. I hear you now. I’m sorry. I hear your bold protest. I hear your prophetic lament. I hear your voice loud and strong and clear: rape, abuse, oppression, change. You have suffered unjustly and often silently. Who could speak to this victimization like the Holy Spirit infusing your pen. I hear you now. It is time for change and a return to Yahweh’s kingdom rule established in creation.
As I recognized the protest on the pages of Isaiah, written 2600 years ago, I learned of 700 women and children in a present-day religious tradition whose abuse and sexual oppression was unveiled. Tied to a patriarchal understanding of Christian gender roles this injustice finally had a voice, but I found myself afraid to write words of solidarity with these women. I was afraid to demand justice. I was afraid to call out against religious misogyny for fear of being misunderstood, labelled a radical feminist, or appearing opposed to Christianity and the faith I cherish. I can not keep quiet any longer. I choose to embrace the discomfort and fear like a woman in childbirth, I too cry out, gasp and pant and demand something different (Isaiah 42:14). The protest of these women is my own.
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Years of skimming past the names in scripture, “so and so begot so and so”, blurring before my eyes, I also skimmed over the outstanding female apostle slipped into Paul’s book of Romans, Junia (Romans 16:7).
Some call her modern resurface “lore” because Giles of Rome edited her name to that of a man, Junias, in the 13th century. Was it the same St Giles of the 14th-century Cathedral I had visited in Edinburgh? Was it the same Cathedral where I couldn’t find me; where she was erased; eradicated by 13th-century man? I later discovered the Cathedral was named for St. Giles, a 6th-century monk, not Giles the theologian of the 13th century who first suggested Junia was a man. Regardless, this error in translation is uncomfortable for us to face with modern eyes. Historically, prior to the 13th century, a time when women became more cloistered and limited, the early church would have recognized Junia as a woman. What if we sit in discomfort for a while and wonder at the outstanding woman apostle alongside Paul? What if we imagined this ambassador of the gospel travelling, teaching and leading people to follow Jesus? For a young girl growing up in the church, for a middle-aged woman still in love with the church, this changes everything to know Paul revered a woman apostle in this way. I find myself longing for more. I long to see myself represented in the scriptures I hold so precious.
I overlooked her. I overlooked you. I overlooked myself.
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I spent my life looking for her, listening for you. I longed for a mirror, a reflection of myself but I turned the page, turned off the light, and turned away. But no longer. I am turning on the light. Dismantling religious patriarchy is more surprise around dark corners than I anticipated. But I am ready.
I see you. I’m sorry. I too was looking through the lens of patriarchy. I needed to trust my heart as it guided me to you.
I see you in houses in the 1st century starting churches. I see you in crowds of disciples following Jesus. I see you worshiping in corners of cathedrals, behind gated separation and segregation. I see you in separate pews asking disruptive questions. I see you financing and supporting the gospel, teaching children and changing belief systems for households and generations. I see you in foreign lands changing the communities you live in in the name of Jesus. I hear your voice where I’ve been taught not to look for it. I see your name, outstanding apostle when it’s hidden from me in plain black and white print. I see God characterized and celebrated in female imagery. I see God reflected in you, my dear woman.
Why were there tears on my cheeks in St. Giles Cathedral? My tears were because I found myself still looking for you.
